Chapter Six: Memories

Notes: Sorry that this has taken so long, but I wanted to get it right.

This is the last chapter (sniff), and I've had a great time doing this series so I'm sad to finish. I'll definitely write some more in this pairing eventually.

For now, though, hope y'all enjoy, and thanks to the fantastic reviewers.

There is now a piece of fanart for this fic (!!!!) by the wonderful Rabby. It should be found at:

http://www.geocities.com/orange_tii/ron.html

It's really fantastic, so go check it out!

NOTE: 1st Feb 03: There is now another piece of fanart (hee hee! Yay!) by the equally wonderful greenlizard. This can be found with her other amazing works at:

http://www.green-lizard.deviantart.com

~~***~~

The first time I allow myself to see him is in potions, I can't help it - his hair keeps registering in my peripheral vision. Our first potions lesson together since the…event. The class is strongly aware of that. I notice Potter is quite openly watching their cauldron and mine, and glancing up whenever I move.

Veiled and not so veiled glances accompany dark mutterings. Snape seems totally unaware, which must mean he is deliberately ignoring it, but it makes me wonder if this is something he is used too, something, maybe, that he has experienced himself?

The room is literally seething with hostility and suspicion, the air dark with anger. I don't know if they expect me to leap at Ron and start forcing cyanide into him, but I doubt they'd be surprised.

Not 'Ron' - Weasley. Or Weasel.

For once I am tending the potion diligently, waiting for the end of the lesson. I am not so stupid as to make my first insult in a room full of people out for my blood.

It's funny, really. How my feelings now compare to those I had last time I stood here - overly aware of him, hoping he would see me, hoping he wouldn't. For so much to have changed and yet so little! The Draco I used to be! How I wish I could recapture that…innocence, I suppose. That feeling that I was totally right in my actions, that freedom from responsibility.

Or at any rate to simply be aware of his every movement, not * react * to it as well.

The muttering and whispering grows, and when I go the front bench to collect ingredients almost half the class freezes and watches me with eagle eyes. I take the samphire back to my desk and start to chop it neatly, pleased with my own feeling of anger and hatred welling up against them. All of them, even Weasley must be in on this - this may be easier than I thought…

And that is a * good * thing, Draco.

A movement in front of me makes me look up and realise that a person is standing by my desk.

It's him.

I can see his eyes are tired, but they sparkle at me in shared confidence, and I know what he can see when looks at me that way. How he sees me. Between us there almost seems to be a picture in the air, a photograph of an embrace carried between our meeting eyes.

I feel my face - and other parts - heat and burn.

He smiles at me slightly and holds out a measuring cup.

'Could I please borrow some of that? There isn't much to go around.'

There is more than enough samphire. He has come over here to make a point.

He's defending me.

By standing here he's telling them that he doesn't distrust me, in front of all his friends he's stating that he doesn't believe I'd hurt him.

So I'd better prove him wrong…

I stare straight into his kind eyes, straight at the wonderful person who's just given me more care than I got all the Christmas holidays of my life put together, and I speak…

'You may be used to saying that in your slum of a house, Weasley, but try and remember I'm not a member of that bunch of unsuccessful genetic mutations you call a family. Maybe your Father can buy you a memory charm - oh no! Wait, he can't, can he?'

The poisonous words burn me as they leave my mouth, but my face is unmoved as ice

He blinks. For one second.

His blush rises dark deep red in his cheeks.

He glares at me. Hurt, anger - rage even - skit across his face. But his eyes are wide with disbelief and…blankness…

//blank eyes staring at me, staring straight at me//

So far, so good. We're back as we were, back to the old routine

But something changes.

He doesn't answer back or even try and attack me, just grits his teeth and walks to the front desk to get samphire there.

I don't understand why until I see him angrily scrubbing the back of his fist over his eyes…

The Gryffindors move from shocked silence to yells and outbursts that even Snape can't quieten for a while. Potter has to be forcibly restrained from attacking me. They say truly horrible things, and threaten me with everything they can think of.

All those insults. * Those * insults. The ones that have visited me all winter in heated half-formed dreams and clawings at the bed-sheets for something I can't reach.

I can't see the raging class. Only that picture of his face collapsing from hope and kindness to anger and hurt. Collapsing as surely as if I'd physically struck a blow.

He'll learn, now, to hate me and leave me alone. That is all I ask of Ron.

* Weasley *.

Oh shut the fuck up.

~~***~~

I always thought that the worst sensation was feeling that your enemies might beat you. The awful fear that they have one-up on you and that you don't have a counter-plan.

I was wrong. The worst is when you are ahead of them by all your own standards, and it doesn't feel good, it feels like you are the lowest bastard imaginable, and your insides hurt, your head aches and the voices in your mind never let you rest.

Did my Father * ever * have a conscience, or did he find a way to ignore this feeling?

The worst is that I actually know that this is right. This is how it has to be, any other course of action would only lead to worse heartache for all concerned.

But I have no one to tell that to. No one at all. I have absolutely no one but my demons and my memories.

And this is how I'm fixing it to stay.

I see him for several lessons a week, one way or another. I have no idea what they say behind my back but I do know that Potter and Granger are simply studiously ignoring me. Ron sometimes glances my way when he thinks I'm not looking, but his expression is unreadable.

I didn't realise until now how much I looked forward to seeing him every day when he was in the Infirmary. How much I centred my day around his pleasant conversation. How much time I must have spent quietly thinking about him. I never noticed how my feelings for him were developing, but now I feel like an idiot not to have realised.

When I bump into them in the hallways, I say the crudest, nastiest things I can think of about mudbloods, paupers and orphans. I think I actually shock Crabbe and Goyle now, and even the worst of the Slytherins are starting to avoid me.

I don't care. Everything's foul and horrible and sooner we all realise it and get on with it the better. Soon Ron will get used to it too, and go back to insulting me as he always has. He will hate me deeply, and his friends will love him for it.

~~***~~

In the January evenings most students choose to go to bed early, leaving the last of the fire and curling into the warm haven of the eiderdowns. Therefore Ron Weasley knows as he slips downstairs that he will have the common room to himself.

He has no need to cry. That he has already done, and as little as possible. Draco has had enough from him without that - no, the time in the lesson was a special case. To have the one he was helping turn around and spit in his face…it would have shocked anyone.

Draco certainly seemed to have turned around the second 1800 and end up back where he started, trying to be the most vicious and cruel person imaginable. Ron still shudders at some of the names Draco has called him.

But the key word here was 'trying'. Ron frowns and gets out of the armchair he'd sunk into.

Ron knows Draco Malfoy the bastard. Ron has had to cope with that person for almost all his school life. This wasn't him. This was someone trying very hard to be a bastard - someone who had obviously thought about what he was going to say, someone who had given up all semblance of 'logical' opinion simply to insult and wound as much as possible. Someone who was living the cliché and becoming a parody of themselves.

And once Ron had stopped simply reacting and starting thinking about it all he'd realised that.

Ron Weasley moves to the window and shivers in the chill air. There could, of course, be any number of reasons for Draco behaving this way, and he would be stupid to imagine the leopard could change its spots…

There had been no change, only a brief period of self-delusion that Draco had exploited thoroughly.

He clasps his arms around himself to try and exclude the cold, and the horrible sensation of vulnerability he always feels when he thinks about Draco, the awful feeling when someone has seen you do something embarrassing, except amplified ten thousand times because Draco has seen him at his most vulnerable and open and…………… he will * not * think of that.

But if Draco was just using him, why did he do _ that _? And why hasn't he put around some story about it already in case Ron tells the truth?

About them, about what they did, what Draco did…

And like every time he remembers he feels the warmth again - the body heat most graphically, but also the way he felt about Draco just * then *. The wonderful warm feeling he tried to communicate afterwards as he pulled Draco's sticky mouth to his own, and then as he held him close while he slept, only drifting off himself after an hour.

He knew, somehow, that Draco needed very badly to be held.

And even now, when he sees Draco pouring out poison from his lips to him and his friends, he still knows that.

So why……?

The temptation to just give up is strong, but something in him isn't satisfied. Draco Malfoy is in under his skin, has been - he realises - for a lot longer than he thought.

Ron sits down with his head in his hands and sighs. Looks like he's going give another night's sleep over to Draco…

~~***~~

If hating yourself wears off in time, it's a very, very long time.

I feel like a chrysalis after the butterfly has flown, an empty shell holding to the shape of the worm. I'm haunted by nightmares so sweet I can't bear to wake up and in the day I try and work it off by being as cruel as possible.

It's getting easier, now. I feel so angry and cold inside that it's hardly difficult to hurt and injure others. I know the third years take special precautions to avoid meeting me, and that I've reduced Neville to tears on six separate occasions. And all this knowledge does is make me colder and meaner inside until I feel like I've been shot full of ice.

But the venom comes more and more naturally.

I file into the Herbology lesson with the others already planning what useful remarks I can throw at people - Seamus' haircut springs to mind, he honestly does look like something fungal just decided to live on his head. They're all wary of me - Potter tries to steer Ron into the furthest corner from me, and usually he agrees, but not today.

Today he takes up a place exactly opposite me and crosses his arms expectantly.

So what? I can deal with that.

Throughout the lesson I let loose a barrage of well-picked insults, but he remains unmoved, only raising an eyebrow occasionally at some of the worst.

His eyes almost laugh at me and I feel the anger rising. I want to hit him, I want to shake him, I feel the heat rush through my face, I feel…

…I feel that same fantastic feeling I always did around him. Only he in this entire school can play me at this and only he could make the horrible cold melt into passion and feeling and *life *…

I breathe quickly and glance up to meet his eyes. His eyes stare back, warm and deep, and I feel an involuntary thrill at how dilated and heavy they are, looking at me…looking at * me *… The air is too warm even for a greenhouse and I cannot seem to find any oxygen in it….

…I can feel the very beginnings of movement as my cheek muscles begin to pull back into a smile…

'Ron! Is he bothering you?'

I slouch back, drop my eyes and try to compose myself.

Shit.

That was * way * too close, Malfoy.

Inwardly cursing, I keep on potting whatever herb or vegetable we're learning about today and wish that my hands would stop shaking. In a few minutes the lesson will end, and I can simply go back to avoiding him. Everything will be fine if I just get through these few minutes…

After an interminable time Professor Sprout dismisses us. I make my way swiftly from the greenhouse, but instead of going straight to Slytherin tower I find myself heading for the Quidditch pitch. I want to run the whole way until my lungs burn and my legs collapse and all I can think of is breathing - but I don't, I can't. I can't let anything go now; it's all piled so high inside me that if I give one little bit I'm going to be drowned.

I let myself sit down at the bottom of the Ravenclaw tiers for a moment, and I can't help but rest my head in my hands and wish with all my might that * anything * other revenge scheme had occurred to me that day before that potions lesson. If I'd never given him that potion I could have avoided * all * of this.

But then he never would have looked at me like I was the most desirable thing in the world.

He never would have held me so tenderly.

*Him * Ron Weasley - chess champion, loyal friend, staunch Gryffindor. The one who's hit me and held me and fought and fucked me and called me Draco in a voice I didn't know he had. The one who's driven me mad for six years and seems likely to do so for the rest of my life…

…the one who's just appeared by the opposite tier and is coming towards you….

I get up quickly and make to leave, but he breaks into a run and blocks my path.

'Get out of the way, Weasley'

'Fuck you'

He speaks angrily but controls his voice; he is balancing on his feet like a fighter. I move again.

'I have to go'

'Fuck you, Draco, what is your problem? Why the hell are you acting like this?'

'Like what?'

'Like a twat who's small minded enough to get off on petty insults and making people cry. What happened to the guy who visited me all those times?'

'He woke up and stopped pissing around with people beneath him'

'Beneath him? That's good coming from you…'

He stares me straight in the face and half spits the words at me. I almost rush at him, but then collect myself and try to think clearly. We are circling round each other - tensely - like fighters before a showdown, but locked into the movement and each other's gaze.

'Don't talk about…that. It's over now - history.' Not my best line, but I'm under pressure.

'And what gives you the right to decide that? Did it ever occur to you that I might want a reason? That I might deserve to know why you are acting in a way that obviously is hurting you as much as anyone else?'

His tone shifts from violent to soft, so quickly I'm unprepared for it…

'That I might not * want * it to be over?'

Oh god.

'Yeah right' I throw his kindness back to him for what seems like the nth time. 'Welcome to the real world Weasley! You hate me - your friends hate me. Why not go ask some of them now? I'm sure they'll enlighten you as to the established opinion of me'

'My friends hate you with good reason, but give them a good reason not to and they won't - they're decent people you know', he looks down and sighs, 'But that isn't what I asked you, is it?'

He tenacious, I'll give him that. And far more perceptive than I realised.

He looks me straight in the eye and continues.

'I'm not going away, Draco. You can't trick me into thinking that the way you're behaving right now is how you want to be.' He grabs my shoulders '* Why * are you doing this?'

We're nose to nose, and I can feel the heat radiating off him. He's really fired up about this, and his grasp is like iron. I want to kill him and kiss him and all the thoughts in my head have drained away into my crotch.

'You're shit in bed' I somehow manage to say

'Then why is * this * here?' he grins and pulls me to him, rubbing our hips together. I want to shake with pleasure, but I don't and I keep my arms rigidly by my side. My nails are digging painfully into my hands and I think I've drawn blood. I bite my lip and squeeze shut my eyes in a desperate attempt not to feel anything, not to care, not to want any of this.

He pulls back far too soon, disappointed by my lack of response.

'I'm think I'm falling for you, Draco Malfoy'

I look up, startled, I didn't expect * that *. He's looking at the ground, obviously a little embarrassed. He glances up, suddenly angry.

'And you can throw it in my face if you want to. Shit, you've done nothing else, but I felt you deserved to know. And I wanted to let you know that I am quite capable of making my own decisions about relationships and everything else, and that I don't need or want you to protect me.'

So perceptive, so clever. I've done everything I can think of to hurt him, and he's still here, telling me…

Telling me he loves me.

Standing there in the open, where anyone might hear and fixing me with clear, honest eyes and telling me * he * feels how I've known so long I felt for him. That he isn't going to leave, that he's seen the worst I can do and still believes in me.

Hurt him, wound him, reject him, embarrass him, laugh at him, scorn him…

'It wouldn't work.' Is what I finally say.

'Why the hell not?'

'Because within two weeks you'd…you'd really see me and you'd hate me' Why the hell am I telling him all this? Fuck, I've completely blown whatever cover I've managed to build.

'Draco, have you heard a word I've said? Look, you've been a total asshole these past few weeks, but I don't care because I know that isn't you. I know you can be different'

He grabs me again and makes me meet his eyes.

I look at him, at his hopeful face and full lips. I realise that he actually needs this, wants this. That this isn't about helping the poor little rich guy, or the sex, or pride or anything other than the glorious chance of two people finding each other and going through hell or high water to keep hold of that.

I open my mouth.

'Bitch' I say, clearly and distinctly.

And it is the last intelligible sound I make for the next half-hour.

~~***~~

It is the final Quidditch match of the year. Slytherin vs. Gryffindor.

The crowd is wild, and the noise levels almost in need of dampening.

The new Slytherin seeker, who took over from Draco Malfoy to much surprise, is good.

This may be one of the closest fought matches in school history.

But two pupils, at least, will never know this.

They are beneath the awning of the Ravenclaw tier, oblivious to cheers, boos, and the noise of the commentator.

Flushed and blissful, they seem to have found the best form of inter-house activity.

And it would be entirely accurate to say that, regardless of the outcome of the match, they will be grinning together for the rest of the day.

And quite possibly the rest of their lives.

~~***~~

Finis