***

He didn’t know where he was going. And he honestly couldn’t ruddy care. Just as long as he was away from fucking Malfoy. Just miles and hours and buggery oceans away from him. He wasn’t even paying attention as he slammed violently back down the halls, practically sprinting in his haste to just get away. He just wanted to forget. He squeezed his wet eyes shut tightly as he continued to thunder along. He felt the occasional impact as he slammed against the sporadic unsuspecting student and was also pretty sure he’d knocked a bunch of terrified-looking first years clean to the ground when he’d smashed passed. But he didn’t care. At that moment, he wouldn’t have cared if he ploughed down You-Know-Who himself, though he did open his eyes just to make sure…

But there was a fat load eyesight did when tears blinded his.

Blurry portraits and students rushed passed him like freaky jelly like objects as he continued to hurry. He could feel their many eyes following his every move, curious whispers following his path as he sensed the invisible points and raised eyebrows. He knew they weren’t blind. He knew they’d notice his red eyes, though the tears hadn’t fallen and he guessed that even the stupidest Slytherin around could decipher that look on his red face. He tried to focus on his path again, forcing himself to regain some composure although he soon realised that every one of those hazy shapes were a livid and pissed-off red. He stumbled clumsily up the stairs, having no idea how he’d actually managed to get to the top as he continued to quicken. His eyes began to prick irritably again as he swiped viciously at them with the back of his clenched hand.

No. He wouldn’t let this happen.

He gritted his teeth so painfully he was almost sure he could taste blood seeping out from his gums.

He wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t… he wouldn’t ever let Malfoy make him cry. He would never let the bastard have the satisfaction of breaking him.

FUCK OFF!!!! FUCK OFF!!!! FUCK OFF!!!! I’LL KILL YOU, YOU BASTARD! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD!!!!

He continued to thunder through Hogwarts, long after the voices had disappeared. Through his furious rage though, Ron still managed to wryly think that he should have threatened the voice with decapitation a long time ago. But now he was too busy walking to God knows where to concentrate on anything. He needed to exercise this anger out of him before he hurt someone. He needed to run.

And so he did.

Up those left hand stairs. Passed the Portrait leading into the Kitchens. Down the Charms corridor. By the statue of the one-eyed witch. Passed Sir Cadogan’s portrait (‘You dare to pass a noble knight with such hostility? Stand and fight, coward!). Left, right, up and down he went. Feeling nauseous, exhausted and still more pissed off than should have been allowed. He gulped in a ragged breath as he turned sharply into another corner, feeling the sweat trickling down his back, his entire body ablaze with both anger and physical exertion. In fact, he turned so fast and so inelegantly that he very nearly collided head on with Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, who both shrieked, dropped their books and leapt out of his way. Too breathless and aching to even manage a lame apology, he turned painfully into the next and very familiar Gryffindor corridor, his legs feeling like lead. Clutching an agonising stitch in his side, he finally slowed clumsily down in front of the all too recognisable portrait of the Fat Lady then put his other palm flat against the wall for support. Wheezing loudly to get his breath back then moving his hand to his frantically beating heart so he could lean his sweat-soaked back against the stone cold wall, Ron soon figured that all that running didn’t help at all. He still wanted to both shoot and screw Malfoy’s brains out. Bugger and piss and bollocks it all.

“Password?”

“Gobble…. Gobblede… Gobbledegook!” Ron managed between sharp breaths, still clutching his stitch and grimacing. The Fat Lady’s eyes widened as she eyed the state of the Gryffindor and she especially observed the sweaty, dishevelled appearance with utmost disapproval.

“Oh my! What on earth happened to you?”

“GOBBLEDE-FUCKING-GOOK!”

“Well, I never…!” The Fat Lady’s chins wobbled indignantly as she swung open so vehemently that the door hit Ron right on the nose and knocked him back several feet. Growling as he rubbed his injury and grumbled obscenities under his breathe, Ron stamped into the noisy common room in an even fouler mood.

Inside, Fred and George were feigning innocent looks and offering a silver tray full off entrées to a group of wary second years in the corner while Seamus had whispered God knows what in Ginny’s ear to cause the red-faced redhead to clip the saucy little Irishman around the ear and then slammed out the Portrait Hole, an observing Dean laughing hysterically all the while. But Ron ignored all this (and the people bursting into feather all around him) as he stormed his way over to the table at the back and the roaring fireplace. Maybe if he was lucky he’d fall in. Or maybe he’d try whatever Fred and George were trying to pimp onto those politely declining girls. In fact, Ron was so preoccupied with his thoughts on the greatest possible method (preferably nice and painless, he wasn’t a fan of pain…) that he didn’t even notice that Hermione was working flat out on the table right by the hearth. It was only when she started to mutter to herself about some problem that Ron jumped then turned to look at her.

“No, no, no… it’s the Decree of 1678 that states that ‘One must not eat their fellow wizard…’ not the Decree of 1687…”

Hermione was barely visible through one of the few gaps of her dangerously high piles of books. Sheets of parchment were scattered all over her desk and stationary of every type was strewn atop the tabletop. When she finally noted his presence and looked up at him, Hermione automatically obtained an extremely bothered look in her eye and a tight-lipped expression. Her hair was even bushier than usual with her running her hand through it in frustration and Ron noticed that her quill was quivering slightly with nerves in her hand. Damn. Ron had forgotten how close their mock O.W.L.s were. He hadn’t even finished class homework let alone started O.W.L. revision. Hermione, who looked agitated enough as it was, gave him a look of complete exasperation and then produced a huff that could have rivalled his mother’s as she took in his appearance. All she needed was the apron and the likeness would be uncanny.

“Oh, for goodness sake, Ron! Have you been fighting again?”

Fighting? Ron’s face scrunched with confusion as the severe colour on his face began to drain slightly. Fighting? When was he ever…? Oh. Yeah. That prick. He scowled. He’d forgotten how violent Malfoy had been with him. Ron raised a finger to his lip and winced bitterly, as not only did his lip sting but his fingertip returned with a vivid smear of blood. Hermione, as she very often did, continued irritably as she shook her bushy head in vexation.

“Honestly! How are you going to get anywhere in the Wizarding World if you don’t apply yourself? These exams are very important and can plan out your entire future. Look at Percy…”

Ron, who was far from in the mood for this, was about to grouchily tell her that if Percy was the result of what constant studying achieved, he’d rather go marry the cross-breed of a blast-ended skrewt and a spider when Hermione suddenly stopped. She went slightly pale as she dropped her quill, her eyes widening as she examined her friend’s face. Wow. She must have been worried. She just blotted the Transfiguration essay she’d spent the last two weeks writing.

“Ron, have… have you been crying?”

God Damn it. Bugger his eyes for watering all the bloody time! He was not going to cry. And there was no way he wasn’t going to cry in front of Hermione, of all people! But he had to speak. She was looking at him with wide, expectant eyes. He opened his mouth to say something but just a hoarse grunt escaped from his throat. What was he supposed to say? ‘No, Hermione, I haven’t been crying but I’m very pissed off because I just made out with Malfoy, who is pretty much living in the Shrieking Shack, and he turned me away before I could get the chance to shag him blind’? He suddenly felt very nauseated at the thought of it. God, he knew he could be thick at times but how could he have let this to happen?

He must have paled or gone green because Hermione actually stood up, permitting the ink on the nib of her quill to seep through the paper and into the tabletop underneath. “Oh Ron… what is it?”

But he wasn’t listening to her. He clutched his churning stomach and gulped down a bitter taste. He was going to puke. He was sure of it.

“I-I… I’ve gotto go…” How he managed to hoarsely say that without heaving all over Hermione, Ron never knew. He turned on his heel and ran cross the room with his hand over his mouth before Hermione could suggest a health book for him to read or for him to visit Madam Pomfrey. He sprinted up the stairs towards the Fifth Year boys’ dormitory, ignoring Canary Neville’s concerned chirrup of whether he was ‘Ok’ while Fred and George’s voices roared with laughter.

“Yeah! Ron tried one of the ‘Spew-Stimulating Starters’! Told you we put enough Flobberworm Mucus in it, George! Only 13 Sickles for a box of ten! Bargain!”

Ignoring the faint voices downstairs as he bolted his way up to the landing, Ron practically kicked the door off its hinges in his haste, and in doing so ended up painfully stubbing his big toe on the hard wood. Hopping about on one foot towards the bathroom, wincing and trying hard not to swear loudly in case the movement of his mouth induced him to throw up all over his roommates’ beds, Ron made faint whimpering muffled noises into his hand.

Bugger bugger bugger…!

Finally and clumsily reaching the bathroom by frantic and ridiculous-looking hopping, Ron gripped the edge of the sink with one hand, tore his other hand away from his mouth and then heaved so violently into the basin that you could have sworn that the Gryffindor was belching out slugs again. Which, mid retch, reminded him that that had been caused by that bastard Malfoy, too.

Ron groaned and shuddered convulsively as he felt the remaining strength in his body spewing out of him as much as the peas and roast potatoes he had for lunch; his limbs weak and suddenly weighing about a ton as a new wave of nausea suddenly took hold and he heaved even louder, his head drooping lifelessly over the sink like a limp puppet. Hermione had once told him that two thirds of the human body (both Muggle and Wizard) was made of water. As Ron’s fingertips tightened around the sides of the porcelain sink while he tiredly coughed and choked and retched loudly for several full minutes, the redhead honestly felt like he only had a glassful left in him. Emerging pale and sweaty and shakily wiping his mouth with the back of his suddenly monstrously heavy hand, Ron blinked his leaden eyelids up blearily at his reflection in the mirror above the sink.

He looked bloody awful. Clammy, pale, exhausted, bruised and bleeding.

Groaning as he averted his blue eyes, he used his remaining strength to turn on the cold-water tap and rinsed out his mouth; making the occasional gargling noises he’d always made whether he was five years old and naughtily using Mr Weasley’s muggle mouthwash without asking or fifteen years old and trying to wash Draco Malfoy out of his system. But not even vomiting his insides out could get the Slytherin git’s saccharine-like poisonous tang off his lips, burning inside his mouth like some venomous acid. And not even Ron’s absolutely fierce hatred for the little prick at that moment could stop him from licking it off his tingling lips with the tip of his tongue. Bugger the bastard for tasting so bloody good… And bugger himself for not being pickier about his tastes.

Tearing himself from the basin, the Gryffindor hobbled his way back out the bathroom and into the main dormitory. Pausing to lean against the doorframe for a second in his fatigue, Ron looked around the room as it faded in and out of black in his exhaustion. There was his bed, next to Harry’s. Nice, comfortable and a place where he could just curl up and disappear.

Nice.

Ron shuffled his feet and edged towards it, crawling onto his soft four-poster bed on his hands and knees then melodramatically collapsing flat onto it. He buried his face fiercely into his pillow.

Ron Weasley never was any good at dealing with rejection. He hadn’t been when his mother had said he was too young and irresponsible to go visit Charlie in Romania alone and he hadn’t been when he’d thrown a tantrum after both Fleur Delacour and Hermione had refused to go to the Yule Ball with him. He knew it was his temper and his lack of self-confidence that made everything ten times worse. Yeah, he noticed these things. He wasn’t stupid or anything, despite what people thought. He knew that if he wasn’t so damn insecure about himself he could deal with never being number one and never being chosen for anything above other people. He knew that if his best friends weren’t so damn perfect and talented he could take those little slights on his character. He knew that if he didn’t have those stupid freckles, that giant nose of his and his lanky, awkward frame he wouldn’t care that some relatives had to ask his name. And he knew if he didn’t have to buy everything second-hand and have to wear ugly, mouldy maroon dress robes he could deal with being the complete nonentity he was…

But what was he thinking? Of all the people in the world… Malfoy!? How could he be attracted to Malfoy!? He groaned as he shifted his face deeper into the squashy padding. How could his body betray him like that? Switching from ‘Punch Mode’ to ‘Shag him now Mode’ without even bloody telling him first? How could he have left himself completely open like that? How could he have been so stupid to let the Slytherin git see his weakness? Damn, the prick was his weakness! And of course Malfoy was going to take ruddy advantage of having ‘The Weasel’ lying at his feet…! The Slytherin bastard had probably planned it all just to humiliate him. Making him fall for his impeccable looks, his utterly infuriatingly sexy smirk… Gah! It was just another Malfoy jibe at the insignificant little poor boy to make him like feel even more of the rejected nobody he was…

But who the heck was Malfoy trying to kid? Him? Not gay?! Ron snorted contemptuously. It was so fucking obvious! The way he dressed and that camp walk of his… And he flicked his head more than any girl that Ron had seen! And bugger that slimy little git for trying to make Ron all grossed out about his own sexuality! It wasn’t like this was easy for him either. He still wasn’t even sure what was going on. He couldn’t be gay. He liked girls. He had liked Fleur, he had a childish crush on Hermione and, like all straight men, he drooled openly over Veela. But none of them, not even Hermione, could make him feel what Malfoy did with one look.

Ron shuddered when he thought about the reactions of others to his new discovery. What would his family say (after they came to)? What would Harry and Hermione say? Ron groaned. Oh, he knew exactly what Hermione’d say. She had already read to him all about those horrible tests they preformed on homosexual Wizards during You-Know-Who’s time and about the mass persecution on these ‘Undesirable’ citizens of the magical community. Not only did it make Ron so angry that people could be so vindictive but it also set off Hermione on setting up L.E.E.C.H (for the Liberation and Emancipation Enabling Closet Homosexuals). Ron remembered how much she began to badger everyone about being open-minded and for them not to be ashamed about expressing their true feelings for one another. She drove Harry up the wall by telling him that he shouldn’t let his fame stop him from ‘coming out’ and he was practically crying with exasperation for her to leave him alone and pick on someone else. This only encouraged her further to think that Harry was in terrible denial and to jot down his details into a file. Ron grunted bitterly. If she’d only known that she was picking on the wrong best friend. He cringed to think of the field day she’d have if she found out that not only was he attracted to a guy, but that one guy was Malfoy… (‘I knew it! I knew that violent hate foundation was always uncontrolled lust! And now you can set a perfect example for a happy gay couple! …Well, granted that it’s Malfoy… Wait here for a minute, I need to check this out in the library…’)

“Ron… are you alright?”

Harry. Ron didn’t hear him come in. He squashed his face deeper into the pillow, hoping against hope that he would suffocate before Harry ever knew the truth and wishing that his closest friend would suddenly just Disapparate out the room (“How many times do I have to tell you, Ron?! You can’t Disapparate inside Hogwarts!”)

Whatever.

He could here a nervous pawing of a foot on the floor as his best friend continued. “Err… it’s just that ‘Mione was worried about you. She said you were ill and uh… that you looked upset…” Harry finished off his sentence very uncomfortably. Considering that he could still hear the nervous pawing on the ground, Ron supposed Harry hadn’t disappeared.

Damn. Dreams really didn’t come true.

All the redhead wanted to do was withdraw into a hole in the ground but he bitterly guessed that that wouldn’t happen either. Couldn’t anything go his way today? There was a very pregnant pause before the tentative voice spoke again. “Ron…?”

Damn, why couldn’t Harry just go away? Couldn’t he see that he didn’t want to talk? Couldn’t he see that he’d never been more ashamed, more mortified and more confused in his whole entire life? Ron squeezed his eyes so tightly that he could see greenish patterns dancing on the inside of his eyelids.

“Harry, just… just leave me alone for a minute, ok…?” Ron stammered, trying to keep his muffled voice from breaking. He could practically see the look of puzzled concern on his best mate’s face, as well as a good mixture of hurt. He usually hated hurting his friends and turning them away but Ron just wasn’t in the mood for a sympathetic ear. He wanted a punching bag. And he didn’t want it to be Harry.

There was another pause, in which Ron was sure Harry was thinking about what to say. Ron smiled dryly when he realised that Harry was as uncomfortable with Ron’s tears as Ron was with his. After a while, Harry had finally decided on articulating;

“Are… are you going to be Ok?”

Ron lifted up his red face from his pillow and turned it slightly to look at Harry, whose eyes were looking very bright and very concerned behind his glasses. Ron tried to manage a weak smile and a carefree shaking of his head.

“Blimey, Harry. You’re acting like I’m dying or something! Just had one of Fred and George’s weird ‘exotic drinks’ and figured never to accept anything from them again…” Ron strained to keep the painfully cheery smile on his face, which Harry slowly returned in relief. The redhead tried to shrug nonchalantly, though, despite himself, his voice broke slightly again. “Don’t ever drink snake bile, Harry. It… it makes you puke your guts out.”

It was after he’d taken a second shower and was sitting hours later in his room when Draco Malfoy came to a reasonable conclusion.

He was an idiot. He was the biggest fucking idiot that ever was born.

He had Ron Weasley, the one thing… err, the one arse that he wanted the most in the world, lying on that very bed out of his own free will and ready for a good amount of wall shaking and name screaming… and because of his stupidity that tight, fit arse was back in the castle, probably being groped by that mudblood bitch. Draco growled at the image.

He may have rejected him but he was still his property. Weasley was his, and only his to grope. And by God, he wanted to grope him right now. He wanted to clasp and mark and bite and hear those aggressive groans for more. He wanted to kiss those pouty, pissed off lips while they told him how much they hated him and how gorgeous they thought he was...

Fuck it.

How could he have honestly pushed away someone who not only looked too good to be real but agreed that Draco was God’s gift? How could he have been so dense that he put Crabbe and Goyle to shame? Now he was left all alone in the bloody Shrieking Shack with his usually cool feelings in complete disarray and left so painfully turned on that he was afraid to look down. He squeezed his grey eyes shut. Jesus, how could anyone have such an affect on him? How could a ghastly Gryffindor make him, a Malfoy, lose control like that? And it wasn’t the first time he’d done it either. Everything about Measly Weasley stirred something within him that it shouldn’t.

Fucking Weasley.

You wish you were though, don’t you? An annoying little voice somewhere at the back of his head hissed.

But Draco stopped listening. He snapped open his suddenly vividly pale and bright eyes with a look of unexpected realisation on his face. Wait a shit-showering minute…

He wanted Weasley, and he wanted him right now. And he always got what he wanted. This wasn’t about gay, straight or bi… He wasn’t anything (and he definitely wasn’t gay). He was just Draco, which was more than fucking good enough. And Draco was desperately, excruciatingly horny.

Weasley was just a place to plant it. Weasley was just a hole; no gender, no feelings, no anything. It was just sex. Mindless sex. And the Slytherin needed to get laid.

So why was he still standing there and being a schizophrenic? And where the fuck was his invisibility cloak?

But… but he’s a boy… His mind spluttered in shocked disapproval as Draco slammed open his trunk and rummaged frenziedly like a mole on Prozac until he finally found what he was looking for. He threw the silvery, fluid-like cloak impatiently around his shoulders as he shivered with anticipation. The more the Slytherin thought about the end of his journey, the more excited he got. Weasley… bed… fondling…

And as for him being a boy…

No he’s not. Draco answered crisply, glimpsing momentarily at the mirror over the fireplace to check his appearance. God, he was a sexy git, in spite of just his head floating in mid air. There was no way Weasley could refuse him, even if he was still pissed about that afternoon. Draco smirked. And please, even if Weasley did refuse, it was hardly like the Slytherin was going to heed the rejection and back off. Once he’d made up his mind nothing could stop him, especially not ‘Poor Gryffindor Boy’ Weasley.

Fumbling through his robe pockets in uncharacteristic eagerness for his wand, Draco finally found it in his inside pocket and hastily muttered “Lumos…” to light the end. The thin beam looked like a laser as his every excitable move in the darkened room caused it to jump and flicker. In fact, the resemblance to cheesy Muggle disco effects was especially bad as the Slytherin’s hand shook with every giddy step he took down the stairs to the living room. Damn, in his current mood, Draco would even go so far as to hum merrily and skip gaily out the Whomping Willow …

Wait... No. Not gaily. Never gaily. He didn’t do anything gaily. He was the very image of masculinity and sophistication. The Slytherin caught himself mid-pirouette and walked out the front door with his head held high and strutting so stiffly in an effort of manliness that he felt as though he’d broken his hip bone with the added exertion.

Oh, he was going to get that sexy motherfucker for making him skip like a girl. And again he thought, Fucking Weasley…

Draco smirked cruelly.

And that was all the Slytherin was thinking about. He didn’t care that he was breaking every rule that Dumbledore had set up for him and specifically told him to follow for his own safety. He didn’t care that someone could easily bump into him or that he might lose his footing, his invisibility cloak falling off in the process... He didn’t care about any of these things as he practically ran through the tunnel, out the psycho Willow, across the lawns, passed the lake and through the entrance doors. Draco Malfoy was horny, and nothing could beat that. And even as he reminisced slightly while walking quietly down the empty, torch-lit and shadowy halls of Hogwarts, the Slytherin still only had his libido on his mind.

So now… where the fuck was the Gryffindor tower…? Or, even more appropriate, Weasley’s bed? Draco smiled with the explicit images at the very thought of it and his eager footsteps quickened towards the Great Hall. Alright, he could think straight, even with his arousal practically crippling him. The Gryffindors always came from that direction so if he just crossed the hall to there he would find… Aha. A staircase. And Weasley never looked flushed when he arrived for his Charms class so it couldn’t be too far from here… Right, the Slytherin recognised this passageway. He’d followed the redhead without even knowing and ended up here on a number of occasions. So, that meant that the Gryffindor corridor should have been somewhere along here… Wow. He really was so good that he even sometimes astonished himself. Who would have known that stalking Weasley would have been so helpful? So left, around the corner… right, up those steps, ahead, about to turn to the left fork and…

“Can’t you just let me in? Please…?” the echo of a pleading, teary voice sounded from what he supposed was the Gryffindor corridor – the right fork. He stepped back to peer through the right hallway. Damn those stupid torches, he couldn’t see who it was… but they sounded teary. No one but a Gryffindor could be that pathetic (wait, scrap that. Hufflepuffs were just fucking wimps). But Shit. There were people still awake. And he suddenly remembered that he couldn’t be seen. Not even Weasley was worth getting caught and being sent gift-wrapped back to Lucius as a virginal sacrifice or something (like he’d be a good one anyway!). Draco, panicking slightly, pulled the cloak tighter about himself and quietly snuck around the corner. He bit his lip, squeezing his eyes tightly as he tentatively continued to creep against the walls and towards the cowardly owner of the voice. Fuck it. Who the heck was making him creep around like a burglar at this time of night? And why the heck couldn’t they get in?

“Certainly not!” a sleepy but firm voice answered back from a tasteless painting of an obese pink woman as the Slytherin crept closer still. He wrinkled his invisible nose at it in disgust; he loathed pink. “I am not permitted to let anyone in the Gryffindor Tower without the password…” With a shuffle of his feet, the Slytherin peered and noticed her huge bosom rising importantly as she looked in tired, tart disapproval at… oh, why the heck didn’t he guess?

“But I forgot the password…!” said Neville Longbottom desperately as the Fat Lady’s eyelids drooped and her chin fell onto her chest for about a second before she roused herself up again. Draco, in all his invisible observance, smirked delightedly.

No, he still hadn’t forgiven that little retort in their first year. Draco hardly forgave anything. And no, it wasn’t petty. It was the build up of a super arch-villain to Potter and… Ah, shit. Maybe if he said it repeatedly he would remember. Good side, Good side. Good side. Good Side…

It was just when the fat, useless little prat looked like he was going to cry, when it seemed as though he would have to spend the night outside and also when Draco’s head began to hurt with his mad chanting, that a gleeful cackle suddenly pierced through the trouble-filled air. Peeves had floated up from the lower floor through the stone ground and, with one look, Longbottom froze as still as a statue, looking up at the floating Peeves in front of him with a look of abject terror on his round face. Peeves’s wicked face leered down at the cowering boy with a look of a cat cornering a fugitive canary. And a giant snore told him the Fat Lady had gone back to sleep again.

Pressing himself against the wall to avoid impact, Draco tried not to revel in Longbottom’s misery, especially seeing that he was still trying to fantasise about all the lewd and perverse things he was going to do to Weasley… but it was about as hard as he was. And although a giant part of him (yes, that part) was hoping that the idiot would just remember the fucking password and let him in to molest his redhead, he couldn’t stop his naturally cruel self from grinning as evilly as the poltergeist.

“Good evening, Fat-bottom,” said Peeves pleasantly, his eyes gleaming maliciously. Longbottom, who knew not to trust the façade, smiled in pained nervousness.

“Err… hello Peeves…” he squeaked cautiously. Draco watched as though a Muggle enraptured by a television show.

“Forgotten the password?” Peeves asked in a silkily sweet voice that was carrying his ever-present playful tone. “Want Peevesy to whisper it in your ear?” From the look on his wicked face, the poltergeist looked as though he would scream a very rude word in Longbottom’s ear instead, and the podgy Gryffindor looked as though he would rather propose to Snape on bended knee than have Peeves anywhere near him. Well. Not as stupid as Draco thought he was…

“Uh… it’s Ok, really…!” a pale Longbottom yelped hurriedly, stepping clumsily rearward until his back hit against the Fat Lady’s picture and Draco heard an indignant, muffled cry from the portrait. Peeves wasn’t listening, though, as he continued.

“I should, you know. After all, is my duty to help a student in need, it is…” Peeves feigned saintliness but it was hardly believable when his eyes glittered like that… And as much as the Slytherin enjoyed seeing any Gryffindor in pain (especially Weasley), he was starting to get impatient. Why didn’t that stupid poltergeist just give Longbottom a wedgie then go? He needed to plant it in Weasley and he needed to do it now.

It seemed as though Longbottom’s clumsiness finally roused the Fat Lady and, rubbing her eyes heatedly, she was about to scold the boy when she spotted Peeves. She blinked, blinked again… then went red in the face, looking absolutely outraged by his audacity to be in her presence.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing here? You’ve been banned from this corridor!” If possible, Peeves’s smile grew even nastier. Draco held his breath, and tried not to hold other areas, as he prayed that someone would soon just open the door. Damn, he was about to rip the portrait from the fucking wall with his bare hands if they didn’t hurry soon…!

The Fat Lady’s arrival in the conversation didn’t perturb the poltergeist; in fact, it seemed to give him more ammunition.

“Oh, look, it’s the Fat Lady…!” the mischievous spirit screeched loudly, making both Longbottom and Draco wince, though the latter was permanently wincing in his critical condition. As Draco gritted his teeth, Peeves began to perform a number of tricky flips and cartwheels then mooned them all for his grand gymnastics finale. And, to the Slytherin’s great infuriation, he didn’t finish there. “Be better if they said the Ginormous lady…! Or the Flabby, Scabby Crabby Lady…!” Peeves began to look at the two visible occupants, from one to the other in pure malice, thoroughly enjoying the mayhem he was causing. “Nice couple you two make, you do… Peevesy’s made a song, just for you…! Fat Bottom and Lady sitting in a tree… then it breaks! Wheeeeeeeeeeee!”

Right. This was getting fucking ridiculous. Draco was just about to barge passed them all, suddenly not caring about Lucius, DeathEater’s, trees or anything but violently screwing Weasley’s brains out when a look of realisation dawned on Longbottom’s round face and he suddenly cried out,

“Gobbledegook!”

“Finally!” the Fat Lady cried out in relief and the door swung open. Peeves looking thoroughly put out by Longbottom’s hasty exit, shrugged and drifted away through the opposite wall singing,

“What a Fat Bottom, Longbottom, has gotten…”

It seemed that the Fat Lady was no fun by herself and even Draco had heard about what McGonagall said would happen to Peeves if he dared enter the tower again. If the Slytherin could have whooped, he would have but his impression of a penguin was doing him fine as he painfully followed an eager-to-get-inside Longbottom into the common room. Ordinarily, Draco would have looked around the place, slagged off the Gryffindor’s for having more space and warmth than the Slytherins because of their fucking Muggle-loving but now he was too busy following Longbottom as quietly as he could up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory to think up complex name calling.

And follow the chubby boy he did. Up the stairs, landing… more stairs… another landing… left… Fuck! Were they trying to draw out this torture just to make him suffer? He wanted to growl at Longbottom to hurry up, he wanted to push him fiercely and tell him to lead him at that very second to his Adonis’s bed… but he had to be conspicuous. If Longbottom felt an invisible push, he’d eventually put two and two together, no matter how long it took the thick shit. So Draco did the thing he hated most to do; he waited. He waited until they reached another landing, a small flight of stairs (shitting lucky Gryffindors! They’ve got velvet and bloody mahogany…) and then until Longbottom finally pushed open a door, which the blond caught with a flash reading, ‘Fifth Years’. The Slytherin had to do a nimble side step to get into the pitch-black room before the fat pipsqueak could lock him out and also to stop himself hitting Longbottom in the process. He was sure that anyone else would have heard his muffled footsteps and thanked God he’d run into Longbottom. If it were Potter… Draco sneered. He would rather screw the boy than ever admit that Snitch Boy could catch him out (and that was saying something).

Jesus… all this hassle just for a fuck. All this for a fuck with Weasley. Damn, all this for a fucking Weasley…!

No, he reminded himself. All this for a hole.

Draco lifted his head and scanned his eyes through the black . On impulse his fingers wrapped around his wand but doing ‘Lumos’ here would only cause suspicion. Stupid Gryffindors. He’d have to bloody feel his way around and use the sparse light from the moon to guide his way. The Slytherin could hear Longbottom looking through his trunk and deciding that he’d rather not see him strip into his teddy bear pyjamas, he walked quietly forward, feeling suddenly very aware of his surroundings. Jesus. Not only had he snuck into the school illegally but he was in the Gryffindor boys’ dorms. What if someone caught him? What if Longbottom, being the oaf he was, walked into him? What if Potter got him in trouble? How the fuck would he explain himself out of it? And what the heck would Dumbledore say…? However, all his thoughts soon disappeared to God knows where when he followed the moon rays to a pillow.

A pillow containing the resting red head of Ronald Weasley, sexy bastard and sleeping beauty in his own right.

Draco stood silently next to the Gryffindor’s bed, looking down at him like the redhead was some wondrous, glowing beacon. The moonlight was playing on his features, making his face glow silver as his adorable lips curled to a little frown in his sleep, those incredible eyes of his tightly closed as he rested his freckled cheek on the flat back of his hand. He looked so pure. So innocent. So cliché with him lying right underneath the beams of the moon. Draco grinned. He also looked very corruptible.

With a naughty smile on his lips, the Slytherin closed himself into the bed by drawing his side of the curtains, dropped his cloak to the floor, then he raised his wand and whispered “Sealus Silencio”. With a perverse lick of his lips, Draco was about to promptly jump on top of his sleeping Weasley when he looked down and froze.

Weasley was awake and staring up at him with those wide and shocked eyes. He looked paler in the silvery light, his mouth dropped open slightly in his surprise. He lifted the sheets up to his chin almost protectively, his expression slowly changing from surprise, to slight apprehension and lastly, to outrage. Then, he abruptly sat up and dropped his sheets from his chin in a very angry fashion. Draco tried not to groan. Great, he just had to sleep topless, didn’t he? And the hoary light just had to catch his stomach muscles in the most flattering and perfect way, didn’t it? The redhead was shaking his glorious, almost haloed, head in his shocked ire as Draco tried not to stare too eagerly.

“What the… what the heck are you doing here, Malfoy?” The question sounded more like surprised indignation at the Slytherin’s standing beside his bed and invading his privacy than anything else. Humph, and all this time Weasley was trying act as though he wasn’t a poof! With his bright eyes and his voice so sexy when he was turned on…

Draco had to tell himself to stop acting like such a pillow biting, love sick Puffskein before he continued. He came here for a fuck, and he was going to get one, willing Weasley or not. Forcing his perfected and irresistible smirk, in one fluid movement the Slytherin had clambered onto the bed, on top of Weasley and into his favourite position; the straddle. And with a further smirk, he noticed that Weasley didn’t seem to mind at all. Damn, the boy looked like he’d frozen in his sitting position, his mouth still open in shock. Smiling wickedly, Draco lowered his blond head to kiss and nip at the curve of the redhead’s throat, trailing his tongue down to his shoulder, which he promptly bit as he ran his flat palms down his warm chest. And to his great delight, he could feel Weasley shuddering against him.

It was only as Draco’s hands began to slide inside the heat of the Gryffindor’s pyjama bottoms when Weasley finally broke out of his trance.

“Malfoy, get… get the hell off me…!” he squeaked, though the Slytherin noted, he was still doing nothing to push his ravenous self off. Ignoring his protests, Draco’s hands plunged even lower as he began to lick on his freckled collarbone, causing the redhead to whimper and groan loudly. Oh yes, he had him. He’d won him. He’d submitted. Yielded. Succumbed to him. He’d surrendered and the Slytherin was going in for a brutal conquer…

However, it was during his little self-righteous speech and his effort to look for words of victory that he felt two hands on his chest, pushing him away. Weasley was fucking pushing him, Draco Malfoy, away! The Slytherin shook his head. Oh no he fucking didn’t. Not when it had taken him so long to get here. Draco grabbed the struggling wrists trying to shove him backwards and dug his impeccable fingernails into them as deeply as he could, latching on with leech like aggression, as his redhead growled in pain. Weasley, still struggling with all his might, was looking him directly in the eye with rage; it looked like they were doing some morbid type of ballroom dance “I said sodding no, Malfoy! Geroff me!”

He thrashed about with such effort that Draco, knowing he couldn’t hold him off for long, summoned his wand and cast the “Bindus” spell so swiftly that Weasley’s face contorted in terror, not understanding what was going on. Thin, snake-like cords shot out the end of the Slytherin’s wand and wrapped themselves so tightly around the Gryffindor that the redhead fell back down flat on the bed, muscles straining for freedom as he bellowed for help and struggled his little heart out. Well, thank fuck for that silencing spell.

It was almost like he was an observer just watching the scene, because before the blond even knew he was doing it, he’d flipped the boy onto his stomach with super human strength, muting out Weasley’s desperate cries and struggles for him to stop. He pinned down the writhing redhead’s shoulder blades fiercely with his elbow, digging bruisingly into Weasley’s back as he was kissing, licking, biting and drawing blood frenziedly down his spine, pulling desperately at the Gryffindor’s pyjama bottoms with his remaining free hand… Damn. The bloody binding cords were in his way. If he could just get them off long enough to rip Weasley’s trousers off he could…

Shit.

He stopped suddenly, his whirly blaze of lust slowly ebbing away as realisation sunk in. He could feel Weasley shuddering underneath his legs, but not with aggression. Fuck, his entire body was shivering and his breath was coming in sharp, almost sobbing pants. It was as though someone had suddenly flicked a switch to ‘reality’ inside the Slytherin’s head and removed that blur of desire. Draco shakily dislodged himself from on top of the trembling Gryffindor and almost clumsily slid off the bed. Jesus, what the fuck was wrong with him? Weasley kicking and thrashing was about as sexy a thing as he’d ever seen but… shit. What exactly was he going to do? Rape him or something? Did he want to go to Azkaban?! He stood there for a while, not knowing what to do as Weasley’s slowing pants rang through his ears. With a quivering voice, and realisation tasting heavy and bitter, Draco lifted his wand with a shaking hand and croaked.

“Swivelus Orbitus.”

Weasley’s bound and tied body immediately turned around onto his back with a soft thump. The blond boy was still holding his wand aloft in his trembling hand as their eyes locked. The redhead had alarm etched in every line of his ghost-like face. He seemed to have stopped breathing, his wide eyes looking up at Draco in absolute shock as the Slytherin watched the rope burns flake, sear and mark his tender wrists and torso. He’d have to cast those ropes away. He didn’t want to hurt him or anything... Draco groaned as soon as he thought that.

God, what was Weasley fucking doing to him? He always wanted to hurt him!

The Slytherin stepped forwards to conjure away the binds but Weasley slammed back against the headboard, too busy watching Draco with wide eyes as he attempted to put as much space between them as possible.

Fuck it. The Slytherin’d really blown it. He was definitely the biggest fucking idiot in the world. Weasley wouldn’t ever let him bugger him now. Jesus, the boy wouldn’t let him anywhere near him again. He’d never get to feel that taut body against his again or his favourite part of Weasley banging him viciously against a wall or a bed or…

Why the fuck was Weasley looking at him like that?

Draco blinked to make sure he’d seen it but, after the fifth blink, there was no disguising it. There was a gradual stunned smile appearing on the redhead’s dazed, pale face as his wide, glittering eyes looked up at Draco in astonishment.

“Blimey, Malfoy…”

What on earth…? It took Draco a second to register that look, and when he did, the Slytherin did a double take. No. Fucking. Way. The violent little prick enjoyed it! Weasley was gasping not with fear but lust! Draco wasn’t sure whether to smirk with triumph or pass out in relief. Wait, Malfoy’s didn’t pass out. Well, he’d go for the former then.

And so what if he was still slightly dazed himself? You just didn’t turn away a turned on Weasley.

Unable to control himself, the Slytherin crawled sensuously back onto the bed on his hands and knees, a palm on either side of Weasley’s head and a kneecap on either side of the redhead’s hips as the excited looking Gryffindor looked up at him optimistically. Bending his silver head down, he could feel Weasley’s breath tickling his lips, the redhead’s hooded eyes now practically black with desire as they looked deeply into his. Draco grinned down at him.

“Liked that, Weasley?” he purred demurely, lowering his knees and his lower body teasingly on top of the Gryffindor’s, causing friction on his way. He loved it when Weasley’s breath went all ragged like that. The redhead could only nod eagerly as he arched forward to Draco’s talented hips. Damn, he was a frisky little slut, wasn’t he? Draco grinned again. And he was his. He didn’t belong to anyone else but him. He owned every freckle, every endearing pout, every curve…

Ronald Weasley was all his.

Leaning down, the Slytherin caught his soft, full lips with his own, hearing a little whimper of pleasure escaping from his redhead’s throat as Draco breathed deeply into the kiss. Swiping the tip of his tongue lightly over Weasley’s bottom lip to indulge in his taste, the blond boy fiercely pulled the Gryffindor’s warm, still-bound body tightly and snugly to his own. Draco closed his eyes, groaning softly as Weasley began to initiate the deft kissing by nibbling almost shyly at his lips then sighed as he nuzzled his nose and eyelashes against the Malfoy’s cheek. The Slytherin knew it was a faggoty thing to say but he could honestly die happily this way…

“Malfoy! What the hell are you…? Jesus! Get the hell off of him!”

Ah, fuck it.

“Fuck off, Potter…” Draco snarled as Ron, to his annoyance, withdrew his lips in horror. Turning his head to face the voice, he saw Potter’s messy black head sticking through his side of the curtains. Draco growled at him, never wishing more in all his life that Voldemort had just killed him. He was not giving this up, not now that he was so close and had made so much effort. “Just get permanently lost somewhere.”

Potter pulled out his wand with such swiftness that Draco paled. However, instead of cursing him, the four-eyed prat waved it into the air and said, “Impetimenta Silencio.”

Oh yeah, the silencing charm. Potter didn’t hear a word of his slander. If he weren’t Draco Malfoy, he would have felt really very stupid. However, before he could repeat his sneer, Potter answered coldly back.

“Make me, Malfoy.” Oh, so he could lip-read. Talented fucking Potter. Could he still do that once Draco punched him so hard that the glass in his spectacles lodged into his eyes? Ron, still underneath Draco’s body, pushed the Slytherin off him with a bang of his shoulder and sat up as best as he could in his condition, looking at his best friend with a pleading look. If Draco wasn’t so pissed off with Weasley for pushing him off him then he would have laughed at how comical the redhead looked; all tied up, pale, nervous and looking so utterly like a bondage freak.

“Please, Harry, you’ll wake everyone up!” he hissed desperately. Damn, even the way he did that was adorable. Potter’s look of disgust completely changed once he looked at Weasley. Draco bared teeth. Fucking Potter. If he even thought about touching his Weasley in that way he’d grab a fistful of that hair of his and…

“Ron…” Potter said weakly as he threw his friend a helpless look, looking extremely grossed out and worried. The cheek of the bastard. He should have felt privileged to see two very hot looking guys making out. Draco was sure that there were thousands of people out there who would kill to be in Potter’s position. Or better, Ron’s. “This is Malfoy…” Yes, and he’s privileged, you Scar-Headed shit.

“Harry, don’t you think I know that?” Weasley asked, blushing again in that sexy way he had. Draco couldn’t stop himself from shifting closer to the redhead and sliding a hand up his thigh, to Potter’s disgusted horror. He smirked evilly as Weasley embarrassedly though tersely continued, looking slightly peeved at his friend. “I don’t go around snogging random people.”

“He’d be dead if he did,” Draco added truthfully, giving Potter a very warning look. The Boy Who Lived returned the look with just as much hate as he slowly shook his head.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep your word. Why should I have even trusted a Malfoy?”

What the heck was he…? Oh yeah. The deal. Draco smirked again. Please, making a deal with him was like selling your soul to the devil – you never get what you bargained for. However, at Potter’s words, Weasley paled. He looked from one to the other as though suddenly seeing something that wasn’t there. The Slytherin could see the accusing, suspicious look he was giving him and before long, Weasley ears went pink and he had clenched his teeth. Now, why did the Slytherin find it oddly satisfying that Weasley was jealous over him?

“Malfoy…?” The Weasel seemed to find it very difficult to speak. Draco wanted to chortle. Why the fuck should he admit the truth when this was great violent ammunition for their next tryst? Even though the thought of him and Potter grossed him out… He tried to shrug nonchalantly, all the while watching Weasley with lusty eyes that he hoped said ‘Come on, teach me never to stray again…’

“I made a deal with Potter, too. What can I say? I get around. Now, if you’d kindly fuck off, Scarface, I’d like to screw Weasley in peace.” Not even Draco could miss that look of almost childish excitement in Weasley’s eye as he said this. He also couldn’t miss the look of suddenly stubborn determination in Potter’s.

“I won’t let you.” Draco blinked, as did Weasley. For a moment, the Slytherin thought that they were both ready to pound him furiously.

“Excuse me?” Draco drawled coldly as Weasley just spluttered incoherently. “I’d like to see you fucking stop me.” Potter crossed his arms, pursing his lips like a spoilt child.

“You’ll only hurt him.” Yes, and Draco liked the look on Weasley’s face while he was hurting him…

The Slytherin raised a slender brow then turned to Weasley. Damn, how could he have never noticed that he had the most welcoming bedroom eyes ever? With a flirtatious smile at him, Draco turned as calmly as he could back to Potter.

“He doesn’t seem to mind.” The Boy-Who-Lived-Too-Long rolled his eyes.

“I mean mentally, you pervert. You’re only going to use him then dump him broken-hearted somewhere.” At these words, Weasley fell dramatically onto his bed with his face in his pillow, groaning in utmost humiliation. Hmmmm… Nice view of his rear…

“Oh... Harry, please shut up and go back to bed…” his muffled voice begged.

“Ron!” Weasley lifted up his head, his face pained as he looked beseechingly at his best friend. Draco growled as the words ‘best friend’ entered his head. No fucking way was he going to let that one remain in tact…

“I’ll talk to you in the morning, please Harry...” Weasley pleaded, eyes wide. God, not even a straight man could resist that look. After all, Draco couldn’t. Potter opened his mouth to say something but lost the urge and scowled. He looked irksomely from one to the other, and Draco could tell it was killing him not to say anything. Yes, die Potter… die…

“First thing in the morning,” Snitch Boy muttered then turned around and stomped back to bed. However, just as the Slytherin grinned devilishly at his Weasel, manoeuvred himself so he was lying on top of him and began to lick at the shell of his ear, a voice suddenly squeaked.

“Um, Ron. Why… why is Malfoy in your bed?”

Oh, for fucks sake. What was this, a show? Draco spun his head around to glare piercingly at the chubby boy who was watching them from behind in awe. At his one glance, Neville squeaked and ducked back under his covers. Great, now Longbottom had seen him. Draco groaned as he turned back to his Weasley. Shit and fuck it all. Dumbledore was going to kill him.