Ron couldn’t think of eating anymore. Amazingly, food was the last thing on the Gryffindor’s mind. Ron sat on the stairs for nearly an hour before he heard Mrs. Norris bounding the length of the stairs to rat him out. Now the distraught redhead lay silently in his bed contemplating the night gone by.

Malfoy wasn’t gay. Ron had secretly always known that, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Come to think of it, Ron wasn’t gay either, he was just… leaving his options open. But the pale Slytherin was so bloody hot. What was Ron thinking? He gave a hopeless turn in his bed and grumbled into his pillow. Why did he have to be so stupid? But still, at least he did get to kiss Malfoy. For half a brief, shinning moment it almost seemed that his hopes were coming true. But, god, he was so stupid.

***

~~~Draco~~~

Weasley permeated his mind. Everything about the night was re-played in his mind a million times over. The queer look in Weasley’s eyes, the quickening of breath, the hesitant lips moving forward to lightly brush his own. This was a fucking nightmare. What was the Weasel thinking? Maybe he hadn’t handled the situation correctly. Blowing up at the boy was probably a sick turn on for that red-haired freak. Oh, god, Weasley turned on. The thought wanted to make the paler-than usual Slytherin wretch.

What gave Weasley the impression that Draco was… a homo? Malfoys weren’t homos. Didn’t he know? Weasley was stupider than Draco could have ever imagined. What if the Weasley freak told someone about what happened? God forbid that he have to explain the situation to Crabbe and Goyle.

But, still, why did Weasley think Draco was gay? Why?! The idea was absurd. Draco scoffed into the air. ‘Bastard. When Father hears about this, well,, let’s just say Weasley will wish he had never been born.’ Wait, could he even tell his father? He could picture the conversation.

"Father. Weasley tried to kiss me!"

"What would give him the idea to?" His father would drawl lazily.

"I, I don’t know."

"No son of mine will be a queer," his father would reply in a disturbingly calm voice.

"I’m not. It’s just those Weasleys…"

"Get my wand."

And that would be the end of the conversation. No, no, Draco wouldn’t tell his father what happened. And it wasn’t as though Draco didn’t deserve the punishments. He fully understood why his Father did it. It was for the Dark Lord. Everything Father did was for the Dark Lord, and nothing pleased Draco’s father more than Draco’s willingness to join the Death Eaters. In fact, Draco was excited about it himself. His whole life he’d heard about the great things the Death Eaters had done. The thought of joining had always pleased him.

‘That’ll show Weasel I’m not a flaming homo,’ Draco thought as he smiled cruelly into the darkness of the Slytherin common room.

The next morning, Draco woke to a large black eagle owl tapping at his window. Immediately he recognized it as his father’s and rushed to lift open the window. The owl dropped a letter into Draco’s hands and swooped back out into the gray morning. Quickly Draco tore open the letter and read:

Draco,

You have been accepted into the Death Eaters. Your initiation will be October thirty-first at 9:00 PM. I’ve been told to let you know that no one is to know about this meeting, or your acceptance into the Death Eaters. Of course I’m sure you’ve learned that well enough from me. I’m proud of you, son, and I will see you on the thirty-first.

Sincerely,

Lucius Malfoy

Draco looked down at the impeccable script and read "I’m proud of you," a dozen more times. After the initial shock of the statement Draco whipped out his wand and pointed it at the slip of parchment. "Incendio!" The letter burst into flames as Draco threw it on the ground. Once the flames had been properly stomped out, he looked at the gray room. Crabbe and Goyle lay in their respective beds, snoring loudly, oblivious to the world around them.

Draco sighed as he glanced at his two "friends" and decided to go down to breakfast. It was still fairly early, and he prayed that Weasley hadn’t gone down to breakfast early. He silently slipped on his black robes before exiting the dungeon-like room. He walked down the long corridors of Hogwarts Castle, thinking again of the letter. In nearly three weeks he was going to receive the Dark Mark. His father would most likely give it to him, as he loved to give the Dark Mark to all new recruits. The process involved some sort of ceremony, which resulted in the excruciatingly painful process of having the Dark Mark, burned into one’s flesh.

His father would be proud though. Draco wouldn’t cry either. He’d show that he was a true Malfoy, he wasn’t weak.

Draco blew threw the doors of the Great Hall.

"Watch it!" came an annoyed voice as Draco smashed past. The pale Slytherin made an immediate halt and turned around to glare at the unintentional, but no less welcome, victim and started. "Weasley!" Draco said with wide eyes. ‘Shit, that was smooth.’ The Slytherin attempted to compose himself, but figured he’d already lost face. "What do you think you’re doing?" he whispered in an annoyed growl.

"I, I," stuttered the now highly embarrassed redhead. His pink lips parted in panic as he debated what to do. "I…I," then as though realizing the appropriate response, he spit out, "get out of my way, Malfoy."

Draco taking the cue, replied in kind. "Out of my way Weasel." ‘Short and sweet,’ he thought to himself as he walked to the Slytherin table. He walked quickly to the table thinking of all the wonderfully murderous things he’d do to the red-haired Weasel once he was a Death Eater.

Draco buttered his toast viciously as he watched the Gryffindor table with fury. Weasley was just sitting there, as though nothing had happened. What was that homo’s problem? And how could he be a homo? He was infamous for slobbering all over that veela girl last year, and he was more than likely fucking the Mudblood. He crammed the heavily buttered toast into his mouth, and chewed furiously, keeping his gaze planted at the Gryffindor table. Why did all these Gryffindors always have to get up so early? It was a bloody Saturday, sleep in! He stared in disgust at the now nearly full table. Ron sat between to the Mudblood and Longbottom.

Ron even looked happy. He sat there laughing hysterically at Longbottom, but really, who could blame him? But how could the carrot-toped git forget his ever-increasing love for a certain beautiful Slytherin? It was obvious the Gryffindor was obsessed with Draco. It was blatantly obvious the more he thought about it. Fuck, what was Weasley laughing at?

***

~~~Ron~~~

"No way, Neville. You have to do it," Ron managed to say between hysterical bouts of laughter.

"Yep. You lost the bet, Neville," Seamus Finnigan said as he nodded his agreement.

Neville looked at the sea of gleaming Gryffindor faces and sighed. "Okay," he said as he looked down into his cereal bowl. "But do I have to do it right… here?"

"Yes, of course. Don’t worry, Longbottom, I’m sure hardly anyone will notice," Fred said as he grinned widely at the chubby boy.

Neville gave a final sigh and heaved himself up from the table.

"I’m a little tea pot," Neville sang quietly as the entire Gryffindor table burst into hysterics.

"No! Louder, Longbottom, can’t hear you down here!" Lee Jordan shouted from the end of the table.

"I’M A LITTLE TEA POT," Neville yelled. "Short and stout. Here is my handle," he waddled to and fro as he placed his hand on his hip, demonstrating the handle. "And here is my spout," he lifted his right arm up. "When I get all steamed up then I shout, 'tip me over,'" here he leaned a little to the side. "'And pour me out!'" The Gryffindor table roared with a shower of laughter and applause.

"Encore!" yelled a few Ravenclaws.

"Bravecimo!" screamed Fred and George. Neville sat back down, his face an awful shade of crimson. Ron sat next to him, tears of laughter streamed down his face as he slammed his fist repeatedly on the table. Even Hermione was laughing as Harry rolled around on the floor, practically turning blue with laughter.

"Great, Neville, just great," Ron finally said after he’d calmed a bit. He smacked Neville on the back and began shoveling bacon down his throat. That was exactly what Ron needed, to just forget about his troubles and laugh. Even Malfoy couldn’t ruin this. Oh, Malfoy. Nope, he wasn’t going to look at the Slytherin table, it wasn’t worth it. He didn’t care if the silver-haired boy was dancing naked on the table top.

There was no way he was going to look.

Ron looked up from his cereal to meet the Slytherin’s intense gaze. Ron’s eyes widened as the Slytherin glared back.

"What’s Malfoy gawking at?" Harry asked leaning across Hermione. "He’s been glaring at you since we came down to breakfast."

"Oh, huh, ya. That’s weird," Ron said, looking down into his cereal again. Boy, those corn flakes sure were exciting.

Hermione gave him an odd squint, but said nothing.

***

~~~Draco~~~

Draco Malfoy sat couched in his bed. There were things to be learned, no doubt, but something else was contaminating his mind. That fucking Weasel. He felt like justice wasn’t being served. There needed to be a punishment for the boy. But who was there to tell? Telling Father was out of the question. Dumbledore? No. Punishment for a member of the Dream Team was a foreign concept. Maybe Snape.

No. There was really only one thing to do. Become a Death Eater. His father had sent him several spellbooks that were "required reading." Draco had been studying furiously; he wasn’t going to disappoint his father. Books lay in scattered torrents across his bed. Along Crabbe's and Goyle’s beds there was also a plethora of books, however none of them had been opened. Their fathers, too, were pressuring them into joining. That meant all three would be initiated on the thirty-first. Draco was in dire need of standing out, making some sort of impression on the Dark Lord, or even his father.

Somewhere still buried inside his mind were all these thoughts of Weasley. No matter how much he studied Weasley was still gnawing at his brain. The Slytherin was beginning to panic. What did this all mean? Was he, Draco Malfoy, a fag? Of course fucking not. He didn’t giggle, or bat his eyelashes, he didn’t check out guys in the bathrooms; he wasn’t gay. It wasn't like he thought about the redheaded boy touching him, or grabbing him. Draco swallowed hard. It wasn't like he thought back to their first year when the two had a major fight. Weasley’s long legs wrapped over Draco’s body. Their bodies and faces close, their breath coming out in pants, Weasley’s freckled and madly reddened face. Oh, fuck.

He wasn’t a fag. He wasn’t a fag. Why was this affecting him? Why? There could be nothing worse than this. He’d rather die a thousand deaths than be a homo. Draco sat seething in his bed. How dare a Weasley make a Malfoy squirm? It was absurd. Draco had to prove himself. He bolted upright and grabbed a book entitled "Introduction to Destruction: a Beginners Guide." He’d show them, he’d prove to everyone that he was a worthy son, an evil git, a Malfoy, and most importantly not a fucking homo.

***********************************