Disclaimer: I don't own any Harry Potter characters. I asked JKR how much she wanted for Ron and Draco, and she gave me a reeeeally large number. Therefore, don't sue me, because I'm broke from trying to save up.

Summary: …just READ IT

Pairing: Ron/Draco

Rating: R

Spoilers: None

Author's Note/Warning: The Slash is coming. Oh, yes. Also a little " 'tween time" insert, featuring Harry and Pansy. And yes, this story features Smart!Crabbe and Goyle and Crazy!Harry. Or so everyone thinks.

THE DAILY PROPHET

Chapter 6: Who's Who?

"What did you do to me?!"

Gregory Goyle's head snapped up from the magazine he was reading on his bed at the sound of the shrill voice coming from the doorway of the Slytherin 7th years dormitory. Confused, he turned in the direction of the disturbance. "What happened to you? You look like sh-"

"What did you do?" Draco was slamming into the dormitory, and chucked the book under his arm in Goyle's general direction. It hit the wall with a thud and fell in the space between his and Crabbe's bed. "What the hell did you do to my mind?"

"Calm down," Goyle said, standing and walking cautiously toward his acquaintance, who looked as if he had just been through a thousand-bludger bonanza. His usually immaculate hair was sticking up in odd angles, his eyes were wild, and he had scratches all over his face and hands. Goyle took a closer look at Draco's closed left fist-and was very shocked to see something bright orange sticking out. "Why do you-is that hair?"

Draco simply advanced on the burly boy, face contorting in pain as he walked forward. "It's Weasley's hair."

Goyle's eyes widened, and he drew a sharp intake of breath. "Shit, Draco, you didn't….you didn't kill him…d-d-did you?"

"Of course I didn't kill him," the blond snapped, his eyes reverting back to their usual narrow, calculating look as he sat on his own bed. "This has been a strange….What did we do after Potions?"

"What are you on about? You look horrible, Draco, you sure you don't want to lie down?"

"Just tell me what we did after Potions, you idiot!"

Goyle frowned, but answered matter-of-factly. "We played chess, then we went to dinner, then back here, then you said you had to meet Weasley at the greenhouse and you got dressed. Then you left, and now you're back, acting like you're two sickles short of a Galleon." He sat back down on his bed. "Now do you mind explaining why you were ready to knock my head off with a book?"

"Where's Crabbe?"

"He went for a walk, he'll be back soon. Stop changing the subject, would you? Why do you have Weasley's hair?"

Draco glared at his cohort in annoyance. "I was going to make a Polyjuice Potion," he drawled sarcastically, sighing. "I don't know. Something very strange and unsettling is happening, and I'm not sure what to make of it."

"Well…?"

"Oh, fine." Goyle was relieved that Draco finally seemed as if he'd tell him what was going on, it was visible in his chubby face. The smaller Slytherin fell back onto his bed. "I don't remember anything after our chess game this afternoon. In fact, I don't even remember our chess game ending. Or coming back here. Or meeting Weasley." He yawned. "I remember our playing chess, I remember….anyway, the next thing I remember is a sharp pain in my…"

"Your..?" Goyle was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes wide.

"Weasley had kicked me below the belt," Draco said flatly. "I just remember being in incredible pain, and all of a sudden he's yelling at me and screaming that I've torn his hair out. "

"Draco," Goyle said seriously, "I don't understand. I don't understand how you can't remember, I mean, we talked all afternoon and even when you were getting ready to go meet Weasley. You were saying how it was all a waste of time and how you'd rather eat a live flobberworm than work with him again."

"Well, as true as that is, I have no memory of that," came the muttered reply. Draco yawned and rolled so that he was facing the dormitory wall. "I am exhausted….don't know…why…" He was soon fast asleep; Goyle could tell by his slow and steady breathing.

With a pensive look, Goyle brought the blanket up around his friend, extinguished the lights, and slipped out of the dormitory. He was in the common room only two minutes when Vincent Crabbe came through the portrait hole, red-faced and panting. "Oi, over here!" Goyle yelled, motioning for his friend to join him in the dimmest corner of the room.

"What's up?" Crabbe sat in a plush armchair, slung his bag down, and caught his breath. "Did it work?"

"Of course it didn't work, you dolt," Goyle snapped. "What did you do? I thought you were making a potion to make Draco more suggestible to…er..things. He went completely crazy!"

"What? I made the potion exactly as it said in the text!" Crabbe reached into his bag and extracted the text to which he referred, a battered old book that looked older than Hogwarts itself, and flipped to the pages he had marked with a scrap of parchment. "Oh. I forgot the boomslang skin."

"Crabbe, you idiot!" Goyle rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "All right. So that didn't work, and if we're lucky, Draco won't die for your stupid mistake. But what are we going to do now?"

"Why should we do anything?" Crabbe put his book away and leaned back into his chair lazily. "I say we just leave Draco to his own devices. He'll get it eventually."

But Goyle didn't believe that. He sat in silence for a few minutes more, then he and his friend made their way to the dormitory. Crabbe fell into bed automatically, snoring loudly within three minutes. Goyle, mind still whirring, stood over the sleeping Malfoy once more, racking his brain for a solution.

Inspiration came in the form of several strands of bright red hair, which Draco Malfoy still held clenched in his fist. Goyle smiled to himself, quickly plucking a single strand from the collection and silently thanking Draco for the idea brewing in his mind.

Why do you have Weasley's hair?

I was going to make a Polyjuice Potion.

Perfect.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"So, Ron," Hermione said from behind her stack of books at their table in the library on Sunday morning, "You never talk about your feeding sessions with Malfoy anymore. Have they become…dare I say it…pleasant?" She smirked, knowing full well that Ron would rather eat Bubotuber pus than work with Malfoy.

"Try mundane," Ron said sleepily, flipping through an old battered library copy of Those Wacky Werewolves and yawning. "He's become a total bore. He doesn't even talk, he just sits there and feeds Fuzzy, and after an hour or so, just leaves and comes back to the castle."

"At least he's doing his work," she replied thoughtfully, bringing her elbow up on the table and propping her chin on her upturned palm. She was incredibly glad that Harry was her partner, although their last meeting had resulted in Harry trying to barbecue their Flouzle, Chester, as he wanted to see if it would 'taste like chicken'. "So what was it that happened the other night, again?"

"I told you. He flipped and tried to kill me. Just your average, run of the mill Wednesday night between Malfoys and Weasleys." He looked up at her and snorted. "I know it's stupid, but I wish he'd act like a prat again."

"He's probably just troubled about what happened the other night. Maybe he's embarrassed."

"Embarrassed?! Malfoy?" Ron fumed, closing his book and pulling Take the Money and Run: A History of Gringotts Security through the Ages off Hermione's stack. "Yeah. Right. And Harry is dating Pansy Parkinson."

Hermione and Ron both burst into laughter, earning them a glare from Miss Pince, the librarian. "Sorry," Hermione murmured to the stern woman, still smiling. "Seriously, though, Ron," she said more softly, turning back to her friend, "as much as Malfoy hates you, I doubt he'd physically attack you like that unless something was really wrong. Think about it. He's always had Crabbe and Goyle to back him up. And you're a foot taller than him, nearly! There's no way he'd attack you in his right mind."

Ron mumbled something about siding with the enemy, and Hermione glowered at him. He shifted in his seat. "Sorry, Hermione. But you're right, he's acting very strange. And he says he didn't remember attacking me…but Malfoy's lied before."

"Have you tried asking him anything more since Wednesay?"

"Were you listening when I said Malfoy doesn't talk? He doesn't. Talk, that is. I talk for the both of us. And the entire time, I have to make sure he's not coming up behind me with pruning shears or something. He just sits in a little corner, feeds Fuzzy, and I can tell, he's plotting my demise every single second of the time."

"Oh, Ron," Hermione sighed, sounding exactly as she had for seven years whenever she felt Ron was being too hasty in judging situations. "I don't know…maybe it has something to do with You-Know-Who…"

"Do you think he's trying to control Malfoy or something? Maybe get him to do his dastardly evil deeds?" Ron looked extremely overjoyed at the possibility that Draco Malfoy could be the Dark Lord's puppet, and Hermione frowned again.

"No, that's not what I'm saying," she snapped, lowering her voice to a hiss. "I'm only saying that there's a possibility that Lucius Malfoy could be responsible for his son's behaviour. Who knows what goes on with the Malfoys when we're not looking."

"Who cares what goes on when we're not looking? You can bet your last sugar quill that it's going to be evil, no matter what it is! That whole family lives in the Dark Lord's pocket, there's no doubt in my mind." Ron leaned back in his chair and propped his arms behind his head, closing his eyes.

"I'm sure that's the truth," Hermione said solemnly, then noticed the thing that had made her ask Ron to escort her to the library to begin with sticking out of her Potions text. "Oh! I very nearly forgot! I didn't know if you'd seen this yet, it was in this morning's Daily Prophet!" She yanked the bit of parchment out of her book and thrust it under Ron's nose. He took it promptly and his eyes widened at the small photo of himself that caught his attention—it wasn't the photo he'd sent of himself at all. He'd made sure to have Colin Creevey take a picture of him in his Quidditch attire, standing on the pitch. The picture featured at the top of what he supposed was his profile, was a picture of him wearing slinky black robes and winking charmingly at the camera. A picture he had no recollection of posing for.

"It's—it's not me!" he rasped, staring down in horror at himself. Picture Ron was now blowing kisses up at Real Ron and smiling so widely that every single tooth was showing. "It looks like…Lockhart!"

"I think it's a wonderful picture, Ron," Hermione said sincerely. "The profile they did on you was even better."

"But my freckles—I have freckles, what've they done with them?!"

"Just read it, Ron!"

Feeling nauseous at the prospect of reading the profile, but knowing he needed to before the teasing began, Ron let his eyes wander farther down on the clipping.

"This month's Up And Coming Wizard is none other than Ronald Weasley, son of Arthur Weasley, the Minister for Magic. Ronald has graciously agreed to answer some of the questions you—the readers—had for him.

Name: Ronald Weasley, Ron for short.

Age: 17

Hair Colour: Red

Eye Colour: Blue

What's it like being Harry Potter's best friend?

I suppose it's like being anyone's best friend. We have fun together, Harry's a great bloke.

Do you play Quidditch?

I'm one of the Gryffindor House Beaters.

Any special witches or wizards in your life?

No, I don't think so…

"Well, so far it's not too bad," Ron sighed in relief, then continued to read. Hermione looked down at her books again just in time to hear Ron's loud gasp.

"What? What is it?"

"This—they made this up! I didn't tell them this!" He glared at the paper, as if wishing it to disintegrate on the spot.

"Tell them what? Ron, what is it?" Hermione leaned across the table and grabbed his hand to bring the article to her side.

"If you could spend five minutes as anyone else in the wizarding world, who would you choose and why? " Ron read aloud, his face darkening with red colour. "Do you know what they have here?????! 'Probably Draco Malfoy. We'd all like to stay at Malfoy Manor, wouldn't we? That'd be the life.' What rubbish! As if I'd like to smarm around and get dark marks and stare at my hair in the mirror all day, avoiding sunlight!"

"Miss Granger, Mister Weasley," Miss Pince's irritated, whispered voice came from behind them. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave here if you can't keep it down this morning."

"We're sorry," Hermione said meekly, still thunderstruck. She waited until Miss Pince left before attempting to speak to Ron again. "I must not have seen that," she said, as Ron made a sound like an angry cat. "They can't just print that sort of thing if it isn't true!"

"Hermione, it's the Daily Prophet! Remember Rita Skeeter?!" Ron jumped out of his seat and started to shake in anger. "My whole family is going to see this! All my friends! MALFOY!"

"Ron, calm down! Ron—"

Miss Pince was over in a flash. "That is it. I suggest you go otherwise for your studies today, Mister Weasley," she said in a tight voice. "Now."

Ron grabbed his bookbag and ran out, not bothering to say goodbye to Hermione. No, he had to figure out how to fix this. "See?" he shouted to himself as he tore through the empty corridors of the school. "THIS is why I didn't want to do the article! Stupid, stupid, stupid---" He stopped yelling when he felt his foot catch something, and he hurtled forward, landing splayed on the ground. He muttered a few expletives and brought himself up on all fours, picking up fallen papers and books. He suddenly felt something on his back, like a person sitting, and his eyes grew wide. What? Someone was using him as a bench?! The weight on his back shifted, and he felt something tickling his neck.

"Weasley," he heard drawled out from just above the back of his head. "Why ever didn't you tell me you wanted to stay at my house? If I had known, I'd have invited you long ago."

Malfoy.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Thanks to my girls. You know who you are.