Ron stood on the edge of the grassy Quidditch pitch, squinting up into the sky, intently watching the scarlet-cloaked figures soaring back and forth on broomsticks, as he absently mulled over the advantages and flaws of the new strategy Harry was pioneering.
It was working pretty well, Ron mused, debating whether perhaps both Beaters should fly alongside the attacking Chaser instead of one staying back to guard the goalposts — the offensive approach instead of the defensive. He was so absorbed in the action that he was completely oblivious to the quiet, confident footsteps pacing closer and closer, finally drawing to a halt behind him.
"Well, well. If it isn't Weasel the Wallflower."
Draco's sneering voice cut through the chilly evening air, sharp and incisive like the bitter frost of the winter fast approaching. Malice twisted the tone of his words, and Ron tensed as he turned around, coming face to face with Malfoy; he could already feel the familiar tension and rage slowly building from within, long suffered and deeply harboured.
Draco smiled smugly. "Forgot your pom-poms, Weasley? Aren't you Potter's loyal little cheerleader?" He glanced cursorily over the Quidditch pitch, where the Gryffindors were practicing, his sharp grey eyes picking up Harry's figure silhouetted against the dusk sky immediately, battling the forceful gusts that threatened to whisk him off-course. "Looks like he needs some encouragement not to be blown away like speck in the wind."
"Back off, Malfoy." Ron snapped, although his voice lacked a certain viciousness and conviction. "The evening is cold and unpleasant enough as it is without you."
"Not too cold for you to venture all the way out here just to see your beloved Potter at practice," Draco observed slyly, catlike, although his voice was hard with a harsh emotion not unlike... jealousy. "So tell me, Weasley. What does he do for you? Does he give you some sordid little pleasure that keeps you coming back for more? Or is it because you're just so pathetic you have nothing better to do than curl up in Potter's shadow and lick his heels?"
"Shut your trap, Malfoy, or you'll regret it," Ron hissed through clenched teeth, his anger rising like a hot mercury within him.
Draco raised his chin, saying nothing, meeting Ron's gaze evenly; a tense silence strung itself briefly between them, their hostility freezing over.
When Draco spoke again, his voice was filled with disgust. "Not even the decency to deny it."
Ron was quivering with fury, his cheeks flushed almost to match his hair, his blue eyes vivid with angry sparks; he seemed to be concentrating too hard on not lashing out at Malfoy to muster an answer.
"You know something?" Draco shook his head, and continued, "You're not just blocked by Potter, you're completely eclipsed by him. Next to him you're nothing more than a red leaf on the ground under his feet." Draco regarded Ron contemptuously. "Potter may be much less than he's made out to be, but you—" Draco let his words suspend significantly in the air, "you're even nothing to start off with."
Ron had enough. With a snarl of fury, he made to lunge forward at Malfoy — but Draco smoothly stepped away before he did.
"Get out of my way, Weasley," Draco cut him off sharply; he picked up his broom and started forward, brushing roughly past Ron as he stalked off onto the pitch. "Go over there and stand by the sidelines — that's where you belong, anyway."
Draco tossed his blond hair arrogantly and walked away, still incredibly composed, coming off victorious once again in their sniping. Ron stood glaring after him, seething with unfulfilled rage, a retort not handy on the tip of his tongue, just when he needed it most.
Ron clenched his fists, anger and frustration simmering within him, and tried to force the volatile fury back where it had risen from, holding it down until one day he knew it would finally explode to the surface.
Damn Malfoy. He closed his eyes. Damn that little smug bastard for always saying such things, just to provoke him, to stoke his bitter wrath.
And damn himself for caring.
* * *
Weasley bothered him.
Draco frowned. Something about Weasley always emptied a rush of adrenaline into his veins, spoiling him for a fight, for a trade of insults, for anything that elicited a reaction from the flame-haired boy. No other person bothered Draco on so many levels: from the basic fly-buzzing-at-your-ear irritation, to the other dangerous end of the spectrum that entailed a much more complex sort of agitation. Of the 'hot and bothered' variety.
There was something about Weasley that jumped right out at Draco and bowled him over — his devotion, blind and unequivocal. Draco could see how fiercely loyal he was — he'd heard stories about how Weasley had risked his life for his friends in their first year, in McGonagall's giant chess set; Draco also remembered how Weasley had tried to hex him in their second year for calling Granger a Mudblood, only that the spell had backfired. But his intention had still been clear enough.
And Potter. Draco had no qualms that Weasley would lay down his life for Potter.
Draco was disgusted by the thought, yet intrigued at the same time; that someone could care so much for another person, so strongly that he was willing to sacrifice anything for him.
And even in a stupid, tragic deathless love sort of way... it was special.
* * *
Ron frowned irritably as he re-read the potion instructions for the hundredth time, finding the random bickering voices around him doing absolutely nothing for his concentration.
"You're supposed to just blow it into the cauldron, I tell you," came Hermione's voice over the incessant murmur, in reply to a question that Harry asked but Ron didn't quite hear, although he guessed it was along the lines of 'what are we bloody supposed to do now?'. "That's fairly obvious, don't you think?"
Ron puzzled over his copy of the instructions. No, it wasn't fairly obvious. This was a complicated Inspiration Potion that was supposed to unstop mental blocks at crucial times, and the bright wizard who'd invented this potion had evidently been so inspired that he wrote the entire list of instructions in verse.
"Are you sure?" came Harry's voice, sounding dubious.
Ron had never been good at comprehending poetry, and neither were his Gryffindor friends. Harry hadn't been exposed to literature when he was growing up; Hermione was far too analytical and academic to appreciate poetry in its fullest sense, although she seemed to be pretty sure about what the instruction poem was trying to tell them now.
"Yes, you're just supposed to take a deep breath and puff the powder into the mixture." Hermione's voice had taken on an authoritative tone, but then again she was usually the authority when it came to lessons.
"Do you really think so?" came a calm voice from behind Ron, sounding amused. It wasn't Harry's.
Ron turned to find Malfoy standing behind him; the others were too absorbed in their little debate to notice. Ron groaned, and quelled the urge to toss a handful of powdered asphodel root at him to make him go away, but it would also make Malfoy go blind, as well.
"Can we take this outside the haven of Potions class?" Ron snapped crossly, not looking at Malfoy. "Because I'm really enjoying myself too much right now."
Draco observed the animated discussion between the other Gryffindors with disdainful interest. "Oh, you lot are the most dense people I've seen in my life. Not to mention literary idiots, too."
"Shall I just tell you to get lost, or let my fist do the talking?" Ron glared at Malfoy, in no mood for another confrontation, not when the existing mixture in his cauldron was turning a rather unattractive shade of green.
A strange emotion flickered across Draco's face; not quite anger, not quite hurt either. "Just trying to help, Weasley."
"Walking away helps. Boiling your head in a cauldron helps even more, in fact." Ron snatched up a ladle and stirred frantically, trying to dissolve a pus-like froth that was forming on the surface of the bubbling liquid. "But use your own cauldron, I don't want to have to clean up mine when you're done with yourself."
To Ron's surprise, Draco's face didn't contort in a scowl; instead, his lips actually curled upward in a secret smile.
"Not bad," Draco said quietly, "At least you're not taking it lying down this time."
"What?" Ron looked sharply at Draco, frowning. "What did you say?"
"Oh, nothing. By the way, Weasley, you're not supposed to blow the powder into the mixture."
"And by the way, Malfoy, I'm not listening to you." Ron turned and gave Draco his best glare. "What makes you think that I'm going to—"
But Ron was interrupted as Hermione blew the powder into her cauldron, upon which it promptly exploded. Jets of potion shot skywards in a spectacularly disgusting moss-green fountain, splattering poor Neville who was sitting directly in front of her and making him look like a stunted Swamp Thing.
"Damn!" Ron swore, scrambling backwards to a safe distance along with everyone else, and inadvertently backing straight into Malfoy. "Argh!... get out of the way, Malfoy..."
Snape swooped down like an angry hawk, crowing furiously at poor Hermione and even poorer Neville —though Hermione was in utter disgrace, at least she was dry and unscathed, although she looked even more humiliated than splattered Neville by her violently failed potion.
Ron glanced at her with sympathy — then looking sideways, found Malfoy still standing next to him, very close to him in fact. Malfoy's shoulder was touching his arm, nudging up against him with a mild, almost negligible pressure.
Malfoy shook his head in a mockingly rueful way. "See what I mean? You can't blow the powder into the potion." He gave Ron his best I-told-you-so sidelong look.
Ron found that he was still holding the parchment with the instructions in his hand; he consulted it again. "Well, that's what it says here... well, sort of... doesn't it? Seems that way to me."
"No." Draco looked annoyed, and snatched the parchment out of Ron's hand, jabbing his forefinger at a particular line in the verse. "See here — it says 'Silver breath, and golden dust.' It doesn't mean you breathe on the dust." Draco rolled his eyes. "This is just typical Gryffindor pig-headedness. What it means is, to say the words of the spell as you sprinkle the powder into the potion — 'breath' being used metaphorically, of course."
"What?" Ron blinked, and looked sceptical. "That's a load of crap. I don't believe it."
"Oh, well I'm sure Granger's idea works fine too." Draco shot Ron a pointed look, made a soft irritated noise and then stepped up to Ron's cauldron. He picked up the packet of white asphodel powder and emptied the entire contents into the potion, muttering the Inspiration Spell under his breath, which he apparently knew by heart.
Ron couldn't suppress a gasp; he backtracked further and braced himself for an almighty explosion, already having seen the fireworks that resulted earlier from a mere puff of powder. He held his breath in fearful anticipation — but nothing happened. The potion merely bubbled some more, and turned a more pleasant shade of verdant green, like wild ferns and summer grass.
Ron looked at Draco, positively astonished, his lips parted in amazement. Words failed him for a moment, before he finally managed, "It— it worked?" He paused, peeping cautiously into his cauldron. "It actually worked."
Draco gave a satisfied smile as the potion simmered down, turning from light green to the characteristic shade of pale amber. "Read between the lines, Weasley. It's all there, if you'd just look hard enough."
Ron still eyed his cauldron with a mixture of suspicion and disbelief. "I can't believe you just did that," he said softly, in a wondering tone.
"Neither can I, actually." Draco grinned wryly. "I suppose you can just chalk it up to selfish interests, given that I was standing two feet away from you and have no intention of ending up like Longbottom, slime-wise."
"How did you know what the poem meant?" Ron asked, genuinely curious, looking at Draco with an interest he didn't remember ever showing, a mixture of lingering astonishment and grudging admiration in his voice.
Draco looked calmly at him. "You'd know it too, if you didn't spend your time listening to your Gryffindor friends bungle the interpretation so badly." He paused, meeting Ron's eyes evenly. "Start thinking for yourself, Weasley. You'll be surprised at what you'll learn this way."
Before Ron could ask Malfoy what exactly he was trying to imply, Seamus Finnigan came bounding up, looking into Ron's cauldron with delighted fascination. "Wow! You actually got it to work?" He peered excitedly at Ron's Inspiration Potion, now ready for submission. "How in the world did you do it?"
Seamus looked up at Ron, and noticed Draco for the first time; from the way they were standing, it almost looked as if Ron and Malfoy were having a conversation. "What are you looking at, Malfoy?"
Draco looked serenely at Seamus. "Not what, Finnigan," he smiled vaguely, "Who."
Seamus blinked, nonplussed; Draco cast a brief, meaningful glance at Ron, their gaze connecting on a level Ron never imagined could be achieved, not with Malfoy. Then with a knowing look and coy half-smile, Draco turned and walked away, back to the Slytherin's side of the classroom.
Ron couldn't help staring after him, bewildered yet strangely titillated by the entire encounter. What—what was that all about? Malfoy, being civil? Malfoy, who just helped him with his potion instead of detonating it in his face? Malfoy, who just redefined those three simple words "not what, who" in that enigmatically suggestive way which sent a warm shiver up his spine?
"What did Malfoy want?" Seamus gave Ron an odd look, although not quite as odd as the expression on Ron's face. "Was he trying to make trouble again?"
"No, it was nothing important," Ron lied, and hastened to change the subject. "So d'you want to know how to fix the potion?"
At the end of the lesson, when Snape went around grading the very varied results of the day's practical session, Ron had the highest marks among all the Gryffindors for an almost perfectly concocted Inspiration Potion.
And although Ron hadn't drunk a sip of it, as he left the Potions classroom, that was exactly how he felt — inspired.
* * *
"Hey, Ron... coming to watch Quidditch practice?"
Ron looked up from arranging his Chocolate Frog collectors' cards as Harry came to him. "Hmm?" he hesitated, then shook his head. "No, uh, I don't think so. I'm feeling rather under the weather today."
Harry gave him a concerned look, then shrugged. "All right then. You sure you don't want to get some medicine for that?"
Ron shook his head. "No, it's fine. Have a good practice, though."
After Harry left, Ron sat on his bed, wondering why he hadn't agreed to go along to watch the practice. Perhaps he was tired of it, tired of just standing by the sidelines all the time, watching the action take place but never having an active part in it.
Hopping off his bed, Ron decided to send off an owl to his mum, which was already a week overdue. His mother liked each of her children to send at least an owl a month to keep her updated on how things were with them, upon which she would send some chocolates and food with the return owl. Ron's stash of goodies had run low, alerting him that it was high time to owl his mum again.
Shrugging on his cloak, Ron left the Gryffindor common room and headed out of the main school building toward the Owlery. Pigwidgeon had been banished from the boys' dormitory because he twittered and chirped incessantly, irritating the hell out of everyone, Ron included. Pig tended not to be so rambunctious in the company of the other owls, so Ron figured it was best for him as well.
After sending Pig off with the letter, Ron turned back to head out of the Owlery, and promptly came face to face with Malfoy, who'd just walked in through the doorway.
"Weasley." For once, Malfoy's tone of voice was even, devoid of any particular emotion; no contempt, no disgust.
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Ron eyed him curiously.
"What do you think? This is an Owlery, Weasley, not a carnival." Draco raised an eyebrow questioningly. "You're not going to watch Potter at Quidditch practice?"
Ron willed himself to stay calm. "No."
"Finally found something better to do, I see." Malfoy's expression was inscrutable, his tone betraying nothing.
"If you're referring to talking with you, I'm not so sure that counts."
"And you're getting slightly better at the comebacks, too," Draco observed neutrally. "All you used to do was just start yelling 'you bastard' and trying to hit me in the eye. Not quite as effective, I might say, it sometimes made you look rather ridiculous."
"Well, thank you for pointing that out," Ron gritted his teeth.
"And you're welcome for the help with the potion today."
Ron realised that he never did thank Malfoy for the very useful tip — without that he'd probably have ended up like Hermione had. And he secretly needed the good grade today to pull up his Potions average for the term.
"That was rather clever," Ron acknowledged grudgingly, "deciphering that line of the instructions."
"Deciphering?" Draco frowned. "It's not a code, you know. It's verse. Poetry. It's about understanding what it means, not solving a puzzle."
"Whatever." Ron shrugged. "Potions is hard enough without needing to take cryptic little poems apart."
A brief silence passed between them. Finally, Draco spoke up, quietly.
"You still haven't told me why you aren't watching the Quidditch practice today." He paused, then added sarcastically, "Potter suddenly doesn't quite hold as much allure as he did before?"
"Just didn't feel like it, that's all." Ron answered shortly. He recalled what Draco had said, about him always playing sidekick to Harry, and how he had been secretly affected by its slanted truth, and he felt guilty and justified at the same time.
Draco shrewdly noticed the confused play of emotions flitting across Ron's face; the other boy was never capable of masking his emotions well. He could tell at a glance whether Ron was angry, upset, or hurt, and he had evoked all these reactions in Ron on so many occasions before, but now the emotion that rippled across his face was completely different, and entirely new — and amidst the uncertainty came a tentative wondering, a dawning understanding.
Draco reached out his hand, his fingers closing around Ron's wrist, pulling him gently away from the darkened corner by the side of the doorway, toward a spot where rays of early evening light filtered in through a window overhead as dusk broke across the primrose sky.
Ron didn't resist, letting Draco lead him a few steps forward. Pale daylight fell obliquely across Ron's features, colouring his hair a vivid red, streaking it golden as the rays caught different angles. Ron blinked as his eyes adjusted to the increased illumination; he tilted his head slightly, looking expectantly at Draco, who stood very close to him, a rare sincerity burning in his grey eyes.
"Don't stand in the shadows, Weasley," Draco said softly, a small smile curling the sides of his mouth; he raised his hand, letting his fingers stroke in feathery touches across the side of Ron's face, eliciting a flush of colour on his freckled cheek. "The light suits you so much better."
Ron stared at Draco as his quiet words melted through the hostility and even deeper, dredging up an unnamed emotion suppressed under the guise of hatred, all the while too unimaginable to hope for and therefore denied. Brief confusion and surprise swirled circles in his mind before instinct finally took over, and the next thing he knew he had seized Draco by the shoulders, leaned down, and kissed him hard on the lips.
Suddenly everything scattered into place, an unearthly yet heartfelt rightness to it, as Draco's lips warmed against his, and Draco was kissing him back, immersing himself into the kiss as eagerly as Ron. Ron pushed him backwards, nudging him up against the flagstone wall of the Owlery, his hand moving to hold the back of Draco's head, his fingers tangling in Draco's silky blond hair.
Draco closed his eyes, his mouth opening under Ron's, his tongue running over Ron's lower lip, making the other boy shudder. He felt the cold stone wall press against his back, and Ron's body aligning against his own, Ron's heartbeat at counterpoint to his own.
And it felt right, kissing his enemy, yielding to the touch of a boy he despised, or at least thought he did. Didn't feel that way at the moment, though. Despise was a forgotten term as Draco's hands moved to rest on Ron's shoulder blades, pulling him even closer, deeper into the kiss.
They were both too engrossed in each other to hear the shuffle of footsteps approaching, which drew to a dead halt and terminated in a very loud gasp, "Arrrghhh!"
Ron and Draco both broke apart, breathless, and whirled around to find Neville standing frozen in shock in the doorway, a letter clasped in his hand.
"Oh my god! uh— I'm, uh, sorry," Neville stuttered, looking extremely flustered, his eyes wide as saucers as he stared at Ron and Draco. He retreated hastily, almost tripping and falling backward. "I was just, er, looking for, um, Ron — was I interrupting?"
"Only in the literal sense," Draco replied dryly, easily stepping back, putting a respectable distance
between him and Ron again.
Neville was still gawking at them in utter disbelief. "Ron?" he started hesitantly, giving Ron a horrified pleading look, " Are you— feeling all right? Because that's... that's Malfoy."
"Oh, I love it the way you talk as if I'm not here," Draco glared venomously at Neville. "It's a very polite skill that might hopefully get you killed someday. Anyway," Draco's lips curled in a knowing, devious smile, "don't tell me only you and Percy are allowed to make out in here? It's public property, you know."
Neville blanched, and his jaw dropped; he looked as if he had just choked on a jar full of Cockroach Clusters (including the container). "Wh-what?"
"Don't bother denying it, Longbottom, I saw you two before." Draco rolled his eyes impatiently, looking at Neville as if he was nothing more than a trembling little toad on the ground, which wasn't far from the truth at that moment. "Oh, just go away and leave us alone."
Neville didn't need to be told twice. He let out a terrified squeak, turned on his heel and bolted.
Ron stared after Neville for a moment, then turned back to Draco. "Oh my god."
Draco sighed wearily — it was time for the guilt trip. "Yes, oh my god, what did we just do?"
"No, oh my god, my brother is having it on with Neville." Ron looked distinctly traumatised, and he leaned back against the cold flagstone wall behind him. He looked at Draco. "Really? About Neville and Percy, I mean."
Draco nodded. "Since our second year, I think. Saw them here on several occasions, although they were rather too... occupied to notice me."
Ron shook his head disbelievingly. "I thought that Percy kept coming down to the Owlery to see Hermes."
"Oh, is that Longbottom's Roman name?"
"No!" Ron almost laughed, but he was still too much in shock. "That's Percy's owl. I thought he kept coming here to take care of it. At least that's what he told us."
"Well, truth is that he was coming here to take care of a very porky, dumb owl named Longbottom."
"Eww." Ron covered his eyes with his palms — it somehow added to dramatic effect. "I could have done without knowing that. Don't tell me about any of my other brothers doing anything else here, because I really don't want to know about it."
"No," Draco grinned. "I've only ever come across you and Percy, that's all."
"That's a relief." Ron looked over at Draco, trying to put the image of Percy doing anything remotely physical with Neville out his head. "So what were we saying before?— oh! um, right." Ron looked sheepish.
"Want to continue the conversation?" Draco proposed boldly, a lilting smile on his face, tilting his head such that the sunlight bleached his hair pale silver, and came closer to Ron again, his tongue flickering out to moisten his own lips.
The words "god, Malfoy you're such a tease" were about the only objection Ron offered as he strode forward and pressed his mouth onto Draco's again, his manner more forceful than before. Draco more than matched his enthusiasm, his hands sliding to link around Ron's neck, the quickened rise and fall of Ron's chest a comfortable rhythm against his body.
Ron's fingers undid the clasp of Draco's cloak, pushing it off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, then lowering Draco down onto it. Draco didn't resist, laying back down gracefully and tilting his head backwards, exposing more of his slender neck, and Ron wasted no time in exploring it. He trailed his mouth lightly over the tender skin of Draco's neck, feeling Draco's body arch appreciatively under him; Ron vaguely remembered the many times he had dearly wanted to go for Malfoy's throat, although this had definitely not been what he had in mind.
"Weasley." Draco's voice was soft, mingled with a contented sigh. Ron either didn't hear or ignored him, continuing his work on Draco's neck, with quite a nice pattern of bites and marks to show for all his efforts.
"Ron." Draco's voice was louder this time, more insistent. "Wait."
"What?" came Ron's muffled, impatient voice.
"Are we going to do it here?"
"What? I don't know. I don't have an agenda written out. What kind of question is that?"
"Well, let's not." Draco's voice was still breathless. "Not here, at least."
"Why?"
"The owls are watching us, Weasley! Do you want to put up an owl performance? Because from the looks of it, it's quite a sell-out."
Ron twisted around, and looked up around the Owlery, the view that Draco had lying on his back. True enough, all the owls were looking down at them with wide round eyes and a general expression of polite curiosity.
Ron burst out laughing. The situation was so amusing, all of a sudden. "I always thought you were an exhibitionist, Malfoy."
Draco looked aggrieved. "Not for owls, for crying out loud. Okay, now I have a serious problem with this." He tried to sit up, but failed because Ron was lying on top of him. "Get off, Weasley. Look we cannot do it here, I'll never be able to look Camelot in the eye after this."
"Who's Camelot?" Ron asked immediately.
"My owl, Weasley. Camelot is my owl. And I can see him from here, he's perched on the third row over there and he's looking at us." Draco resolutely pushed Ron off him, and struggled into a sitting position. "No, doing it in the Owlery is a bad idea. Not with a hundred unblinking owls staring at me throughout. Hell, how your brother and Longbottom can ever get it on here is beyond me."
Now it was Ron's turn. "Okay, can we not talk about that?" he snapped peevishly. "About my brother and Neville? Because I'm trying my best at the moment not to go there mentally, so if you can't help distract me at least don't start talking about it."
Ron got to his feet, and automatically reached out a hand to help Draco, and he took it; Ron pulled him up. Draco cast another uneasy glance at the flock of owls now gathered not so high above them, and he took Ron by the hand and led him out of the Owlery into the open.
Draco turned to Ron. "You don't want this, Weasley."
"Really?" Ron was getting annoyed. "Since when do you know better than I do about what I really want?"
"Because you're rash, Weasley. And right now you're horny."
"I'm seventeen. So what's your point?" Ron looked hard at Draco. "Don't tell me you don't want this, Malfoy, because that certainly wasn't the impression I was getting just now."
Draco paused, abruptly looking thoughtful. "You may want this," he finally said slowly, looking evenly at Ron, "But you don't want me. And after everything is over you're just going to hate me even more for it."
"Is that the way you feel about this, then?" Ron asked sharply.
Draco pondered for a moment. "I don't know," he answered simply, truthfully.
Ron closed his eyes. This was the fork in the path. He could just turn and walk away; or he could stay.
Ron took a deep breath, as if working himself up to say what he wanted to. "Neither do I, Draco. But we're never going to find out if we don't try, will we?"
Draco looked mildly surprised; Ron had actually called him by his first name. He seemed to think about it for a moment, before he quietly asked, "You still don't like me, do you?"
Ron considered. "Well, I dislike you a little less than before."
Draco tilted his head contemplatively. "But you like me enough to want to sleep with me."
Ron laughed, and the tension between them broke. "Yes, I suppose you could say that. Since I've kissed you and all."
Draco finally smiled. "That'll do, for now." His grin broadened. "But after I've had my way with you, you'll be wanting to get my name tattooed all over your body, let me warn you in advance."
"Ha ha, really now."
Draco arched an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"
Ron grinned. "You bet it is."
"All right then. Just to let you know, you can get quite a good deal for a tattoo job at this place near Knockturn Alley — they even throw in a pierced nipple for an extra five Galleons. I'll sponsor the nipple ring, if you like."
"You're an awful lot of talk, considering the only thing you've done so far is kiss me."
"That's going to change really soon." Draco said confidently. He consulted his watch. "Midnight, Astronomy Tower, disused store room on the fifth floor. How about it?"
"All right, I'll be there." Ron looked up at the sky; twilight was swiftly falling. "I have to go now."
Ron gave Draco a quick smile, and made to leave — Draco suddenly reached out and caught his wrist. "Ron, wait."
Ron looked back in surprise. "What?"
Draco just looked at him for a moment, his grey eyes lightening to the colour of tarnished silver in the fading sunlight. Then he took a step forward, and kissed Ron firmly on the lips; it wasn't passionate like earlier on, but with its own unique intensity.
Ron blinked when Draco pulled back. He hadn't expected that at all, and he didn't quite know what to say. The kiss was... different, from the way they had kissed before. More sincere. More tender.
"I'll see you tonight." Draco turned, and with a last backward glance, walked away.
Ron watched him leave, and the dawn of evening tossed shadows of grey across the landscape, bringing out the light colour of Draco's hair as the other boy walked back toward the school building.
Shadows in the light. Light between the shadows.
It didn't make sense. But it felt right.
And really, Ron reflected pensively, that's all that mattered.
- fin -