Disclaimer: These are stupid. I don't own them. Oooooh, there's a shock. Property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers.

Summary: The breakup.

Pairing: Ron/Draco; Ron/Harry (only implied, not shown)

Rating: R

Spoilers: None

Author's Note/Warning: People, this is Slash. M/M slash. If two guys together squicks you, turn back NOW. This is a short response to all the fluffiness and happy-ever-after I see starting to crop up in Ron/Draco fics. In other words, the flip side. I don't mind it, but I don't think that it's always going to be a fairy tale ending. I'm kind of hanging my head over this fic…it's not like my usual stuff. At all. I'm not proud of it.

The Flip Side

By: LuMaria

"You say you're in love with Potter?"

Sad blue eyes are looking everywhere but me, and I can't help feeling we've had this conversation before; perhaps it was the many times I'd doubted and second-guessed myself and this entire relationship that makes me feel this way. He lets out his breath before speaking. "Yes. I am."

"No, you're not." I bite back a mean chuckle when his head snaps up, his copper hair wild from repeated raking by his hand, his eyes suddenly wide.

"Yes, I am," he repeats, bewilderment showing in his features. "I'm sorry, Draco."

"Don't apologize," I manage to spit out, realization finally starting to sink in. "It happens to the best of us. Granger, two other Weasleys, and Finnigan have all fallen for Potter. It practically runs in your family." He still looks apologetic, and I start to feel a surge of the old hatred I once felt for him before I lost my mind and let him take over my heart. "I'd expect it from you."

"Draco, please," he says, holding his hands out imploringly and speaking in a soft voice, as if talking to a small child who has just been told they can't have a Mars bar. "I just thought it wouldn't be fair to lead you to keep believing otherwise."

"Lead me to…" I stare at him, feeling my face grow hot, and my vision is starting to be clouded from anger. "Fuck you! Lead me to believe?? We've been together for THREE fucking years! It's a bit late to worry about leading me to believe otherwise!!"

He says nothing to me, simply brushes past as he heads to our bedroom and starts opening drawers. I go in that direction as well, standing in the doorway, watching him pack his clothing. Brand new shirts, designer trousers, they're all disappearing into his small suitcase.

"No!" I find myself shouting, running into the room and ripping a brown jumper from his pale, freckled hands.

"Draco, you're making this harder—"

"Good!" I yell, starting to take all the clothes out. "If you're going to go slumming back to Potter, you don't take any of this. I bought you this shit, I paid for everything including that set of robes you're wearing right now. If you leave, you leave with what you have—nothing!" I run to my drawers and retrieve an old, battered Chudley Cannons T-shirt and hold it up. "THIS is all you came to me with. THIS is what you're leaving with."

I am very satisfied to see that he looks as if he's about to cry, something I've only seen him do once—when his mother died. "You're a bastard," he says slowly and quietly.

"Oh, please. Potter's rich. He can afford anything you want, and he'll buy it for you. He must've been so pleased that whatever plan he used to get you away from me finally worked. I'll bet he's celebrating in true Gryffindor style right now!"

"Harry isn't like that," he spits out fiercely. "Harry isn't like you. He doesn't scheme to get what he wants."

"Like I schemed to get you?" I sneer, advancing on him and staring up into his face. "Remember, Weasley, it was you who came after me. It's you who took initiative and shagged me right in your own common room, thus starting this whole thing. You're the schemer. You're the whore," I say, knowing it's uncharacteristic of me to call anyone such a thing, but I'm far too gone and angry to care.

His face contorts as if he's just eaten very sour candy, and he works with the fastenings of his robes quickly, shedding them and his current T-shirt and pulling the Chudley Cannons shirt over his head roughly. "I should've known better than to tell you face to face, I knew you would be unreasonable."

"Unreasonable? UNREASONABLE?" I reach my arm up and yank the back of his hair, making him wince in pain. "You have a warped definition of unreasonable, Ron." I push him with all my might until he falls flat on the bed behind him, then I pounce. "I can show you unreasonable, if you'd like."

"Get off," I hear him hiss faintly. "I mean it, Draco. Off. Now."

"No. It's time for me to have my say," I growl, straddling his hips, then leaning down to bite his bottom lip harshly. I taste blood within seconds as I begin to ravish his mouth thoroughly with my own. I pin his arms (not that it's much effort, as he doesn't seem to be fighting) and move my lips to the hollow of his throat, where each of my kisses leaves a smudge of his own blood to mar the pale skin. I release his arms and move my own hands down his chest and push the shirt up, and, after some fumbling, the pants down. "Mine," I whisper without thinking, moving down his body and pulling his boxers down greedily, happy to see his body has responded somwhat. I wrap my hand around his arousal and look up into his face as I prepare to put my lips to good use.

"Go ahead," he says, his eyes and voice devoid of emotion, his hands resting upon his chest, and not in my hair, where I personally feel they should be. My mouth goes dry suddenly, and I take my hands off of him, backing off of the bed and stumbling backwards until I feel the wall at my back.

"Fuck," I say in surprise as he lifts himself from the bed and pulls his clothing back on correctly. "Fuck."

He throws toothpaste, aftershave, and a razor into his little suitcase, then makes his way over to me where I'm standing against the wall, clawing at it to try and keep my balance. "I'm sorry," he says again, and my eyes wander to the red patches on his neck. I can't look in his eyes, not after this, not after..Potter and this.

"Just get the hell out of here," I say, feeling as if my chest is going to explode. "You've made your choice, now go." I can see him out of the corner of my eye, nodding and heading toward the doorway. "Hey," I call after him, my eyes on the dark green carpeting. "Get your clothes off of the bed, I'd rather not have to look at the dreadful things once you're gone."

He hurriedly throws all the new trousers and designer shirts into his case and leaves quickly. It's almost an hour and a bottle of Ogden's Olde Firewhisky later before I allow myself to cry.