playing the game, living the lie

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chapter 2: a little bit of gossip... (conversations part 1)
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Ron made his way up the stairwell to the dorms, caught between haste and hesitancy. On one hand, he wanted to find out what was wrong, and get this over with as quickly as possible; on the other, he wanted no part of it. After all, once he got sucked into the web of Harry’s despondency, he feared he might never be able to get out. Sure, Harry was his friend, his best friend, but they’d drifted apart since Harry had gotten more and more sullen as fifth year went on &emdash; and then there was the whole business of last summer, which was still too touchy for anyone to broach. In the end, Ron had invited Hermione back to his place for the holidays, and well, one thing had appropriately (and very satisfactorily, in his mind at least) lead to another. And then he and ‘Mione had been rather too busy with one another to get to the bottom of Harry’s dark mood, although they’d certainly noticed it hadn’t relented. It’s three weeks into Sixth Year, Ron thought glumly. If he keeps acting like this the entire Tower will be depressed by the end of term.

He found the male dorm seemingly deserted; a series of four-poster beds (including his own), many with the curtains closed. Harry’s own bed was like that, and Ron sighed inwardly, shuffling up to it. He’s blocking everyone out, or at least trying to. "Harry?" he called, to no response. I wonder why I bother. But he had to, really, because no-one else would. And if he goes all suicidal before Voldemort gets put down one last time, it’ll be nasty for all of us.

Once more upon the breach, dear friend...and Ron poked his head between the curtains, to see a sullen Harry staring down at his mattress, his legs curled up underneath his chin. "Harry?" he asked again, and finding no response, he climbed onto the bed, looking squarely at the other boy. "Look," the redhead began before trailing off. What do I say?, he wondered frantically, suddenly aware of the distance that had sprung up between them. He continued somewhat cautiously, treading through new ground. "Obviously things haven’t been good for you...for a while. You’ve been moody for the better part of a year now, and ‘Mione and I can’t bear to see you tear yourself apart any longer. Please, Harry, just tell me what’s wrong, eh?"

After a heavy pause, Harry raised his eyes to look at him. "I can’t explain it, really," he said, clearly frustrated by his own inability to put his emotions into words. "I just feel...on edge. And useless. In a sense." He groaned, and Ron was tempted to join him. "Largely though, it’s Malfoy."

Right. Malfoy. He certainly hadn’t expected Harry to stay that. He blushed and fumbled for words, trying to suppress the images that unwillingly entered his mind at the prospect. "Um...when you say ‘Malfoy’, do you mean....?"

Ron was greatly relieved when Harry face immediately turned sour, his nose wrinkled as if he had smelt something horrid. He immediately reached behind him and biffed the redhead with a pillow. "Ugh. That is just so...ugh. I cannot believe you said that &emdash; I won’t be able to sleep for weeks now!" He continued hitting Ron with a pillow, until Ron was forced to biff him back with the other one. Before long, they were lying on their backs and laughing like old friends, which upon reflection Ron realised they were.

He nudged the exhausted raven-haired teen with a foot. "What did you mean when you said Malfoy then?"

Harry gave a half-shrug, and then decided it would be better not to evade the question any further. "He’s just acts like a prat when he doesn’t have to. I mean, I know he’s probably doing it so he doesn’t get himself killed, but he doesn’t have to be so..."

"Gittish?" Ron proffered, now sitting up. He was curious to see where this was going.

Harry nodded, the soft light glinting off his glasses. "Exactly. And that’s what gets to me. He could go to Dumbledore for help, anyone really. But no. He has to be so proud, so proper. Such a good little Death Eater’s son!" He scowled and let out a pent up sigh of frustration.

Ron edged towards the side of the bed, shaking his head. "And that’s the difference ‘tween you and me, Harry. If people want to be idiots, I just let ‘em. You, on the other hand, insist on saving everyone."

Harry almost rose of the bed with an indignant cry. "I do not!"

Ron rolled his eyes. "You’re trying to save Malfoy, aren’t you?", he asked, somewhat patronising.

Harry looked at the duvet. Smoothed it, absent-mindedly. "That’s different."

The redhead just looked at him, and opened the bed-curtains. He turned for a moment, and looked back. "I’m going to bed. I just hope I know what you’re doing," he said, almost too quietly for Harry to hear, something akin to pity in his eyes, and left.

Harry was tempted to throw a pillow after the other boy, although he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. Condescending git, he thought, angrily. And the way Ron looked at me! As if I were a basket case, or some kind of social worker. He didn’t know if they had magical social workers yet, but if they did, then that’s what Ron was looking at him like.

He didn’t quite know why he was concerned for Draco; probably because someone had to be, he mused &emdash; he certainly wasn’t looking after himself. Or maybe he was. Maybe that was what this was all about &emdash; doing what he was told to do; being the perfect Slytherin. But he still didn’t deserve to be put on the altar like some kind of sacrificial lamb to Voldemort, and no-one deserved Lucius Malfoy as a father.

But he certainly didn’t blame Ron for his feelings; he knew Ron preferred his world in black and white, and sometimes Harry envied him that freedom. It would certainly make my life a lot easier, he thought, taking off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose, intent on relieving his sudden headache. First real talk we have in months, and I fuck it up. Way to go there, Potter. Ugh. His self-critic was calling him Potter? Next thing he knew it’d be smirking and drawling insolently at him. And the last thing he needed was an avatar of Draco taking up residence in his head.

He chuckled silently to himself as he padded down to the now empty commons. Hermione must have gone to bed herself, he realised, absently. Or decided to study. The amused grin on his face spread further as he turned back to Ron’s suggestion. Me and Malfoy? That’s...that’s insane, he told himself firmly.

But you have to admit, it does kind of make sense, a part of him argued. Harry was rather uncomfortable with a part of his consciousness (or should that be sub-consciousness?) arguing such things, but he was somewhat loathe to suppress a part of his own psyche, so he let it argue with him. Sinking down into a leather chair and crossing his arms, his chin was jutting out without him realising it.

Do go on - please. Tell me why the idea of a relationship between Malfoy and I ‘makes sense.’

Look at him. He’s lonely. He’s a selfish, twisted little shit who’s never had anyone in his life who’s ever treated him with an ounce of decency.

So?

Do you really think you being friends will be enough to save him? He’s so proud even you could take lessons.

Hey! Harry thought his subconscious deserved a decent kick for that one. Glowering privately to himself, he continued. You’re not convincing me here.

Name the one person who doesn’t buy into that ‘Boy Who Lived’ crap. Who might actually be able to see the real you.

Draco Malfoy, of course, he answered automatically.

He could almost hear Draco’s voice in the back of his head, that subconscious part of himself taking on an all-too familiar identity. Now you’re getting it, Potter. I’m the only one you might trust and you’re the only one I might trust. Isn’t it ironic?

"Right," he announced to the empty room. "I’m not believing this, and I’m not having a conversation with someone who isn’t here." Especially not the Draco Malfoy in my head, for Merlin’s sake.

As he trudged upstairs, a stray thought crossed his mind. You have to admit, he is the most shaggable guy in Hogwarts.

Okay. That did not happen. That was me non-thinking, having a non-thought that was not about Draco bloody Malfoy. Right?

Right. And with that, Harry chucked off his robes, and crawled into bed. Deliberately non-thinking.

And a few beds away, two teenagers were sitting up, their expressions wide. They’d been reading some new Quidditch magazines, but the moment the conversation between Harry and Ron had started they’d become stock still and listened, the same intent expressions mirrored on their faces.

Now that it was over, Seamus turned to his best friend and absently ran his fingers through his sandy-coloured hair. A subdued "fuck" was all he could manage to say, and his Irish lilt made even that sound musical. Dean Thomas didn’t say a word.

* * *

The following morning Ron rose, and dressing hurriedly, made his way through the corridors. He had to duck and dive repeatedly through the oncoming crowd, hoards of students making their way to the Great Hall for breakfast. He’d eat later. He had more important things to do.

Like make-up with my girlfriend, he thought wryly. Although that’s not strictly true. We didn’t fight or anything. She just wants to know about Harry before she’ll let the floodgates down again.

Others might have mentioned the fact that Ron was ‘whipped’ when it came to his girlfriend, but it reassured him that compared to his unique brand of disorganised chaos someone actually knew what they were doing, and could usually get him ordered as well, when he needed it. Which was a lot, admittedly. He spotted her in the crowds, her now-straight hair (the frizzy-ness had grown out over summer, mostly and she used straightening spells on what was left) pushed back with a few hairpins. Occasionally she let it run free, especially on their dates, but not now. Now she was all Miss Gryffindor Prefect, businesslike and ready for anything.

"Hermione!" he called out, attracting the interest of at least half the corridor and the titters of the other half.

Turning, she smiled warmly, and nodded at him, the emotion somewhat disturbing her ‘organised semi-fascist’ look. "Hullo, Ron. Walk with me?"

"Of course" he replied, and they fell into an easy and familiar pattern. Hermione somewhat overloaded with books, and Ron playing knight errant, making sure she didn’t walk into anything &emdash; and that anything didn’t walk into her. They’d been doing it since second year, really.

They walked in comfortable silence, and eventually reached the little alcove set aside for Prefects. It was barely a room, and they all still had their allotted dorm space, but this was a place for them to meet, and do...official stuff. Whatever prefects did, Ron supposed, although he was somewhat fuzzy on the details. Hermione put her books down on the small desk and briefly rifled through the small pile of parchments that awaited her; notification of Gryffindor students with detentions and the like. Sighing deeply, she sorted them, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear every now and then.

Ron shifted from foot to foot anxiously in front of the desk, trying to beat the unconscious impression he had done something wrong, and was being sent to teacher as a result. After all, most students weren’t allowed here unless they had done something wrong and had to see their respective prefect.

He was an exception of course, being Prefect’s Boyfriend, he had a kind of special status to allow him to drop by, at least when Hermione was around. The other Prefects didn’t give him much hassle; well, except for Malfoy, and he wasn’t around much. Didn’t like slumming it with the other Houses, he said.

She looked up at him, mid-sort, and flashed him a quick grin. "Sorry Ron," she said, her finger absently tapping on a piece of parchment. "I need to deal with one little thing. Can you wait for a few more minutes?" she asked, gesturing at the sit behind him.

"Sure," he replied noncommittally, and sat down, twiddling his thumbs. It hurt him, certainly, that Hermione tossed him aside for paperwork, but Harry was the first to abandon him, being all Mr. Dark-and-Moody-Billowy-Coat-of-Pain. At least Hermione made some small gap in her life for him. He was eating the scraps that fate sent him, certainly, but it could be worse. I could be obsessing about Malfoy, he thought and shuddered. Harry would be just the kind of overly-nice person that a tosser like Malfoy would take advantage of &emdash; and not in that way either. That way gave him palpitations and made him want to hurl violently in several directions at once.

Thank Merlin Harry had felt the same way, or I might have had to brain him or something, mused the 6^th year. Have him committed even. That would make sense. Only insane people could like Malfoys. Maybe they ship ‘em directly from St. Mungos’ to the chapel for the wedding.

"Ron?" Ron suddenly realised that Hermione was speaking to him; he’d been too lost in thought to notice. His head snapped up, and he looked at the girl sitting across the desk from him. She’d grown up in many ways, and lost none of her organisational fervour or businesslike approach; but sometimes, like now, she could smile sweetly at him and Ron could swear they were both 12 again. "Sleep well?"

"Yes, thanks. I skipped breakfast, but then I thought you’d want to hear what Harry said."

An eyebrow was raised. "He actually talked to you? He hasn’t done that in a while."

Ron chuckled softly. "Yeah. Nearly had a coronary, I can tell you."

She looked at him, her hands resting on the desk. "What did he say?" she asked, simply.

Ron shifted in his seat, somewhat uncomfortable. "He’s obsessing over Malfoy," he said finally, with a hint of resignation. "He cares about the fact that the prat’s a snobby little dark arts-using shit."

Hermione rolled her eyes expressively, but made no verbal response.

"What?" Ron asked, unsettled that his girlfriend knew more about his best friend than he did.

She sighed, and rubbed her forehead. "I’m not going to get involved with the whole mess. If Harry wants to suppress or justify the way he feels, that’s fine. I just wish they’d snog already," she finished, turning back to her pile of ‘to do’ parchments.

Ron was clearly shocked. "But- You can’t be serious!" His eyes were wild, and his voice was squealing. "Harry told me it was just, y’know...him being all martyr-like. You know how he is," he implored, desperately seeking an answer that did not involve the idea of Harry and (ick) Malfoy doing the kinds of things that, well, Malfoys’ shouldn’t be allowed to do.

Hermione looked at him as if he were the one at St. Mungo’s. "I know full well the way Harry’s like," she said, somewhat darkly. "I also know that he and Malfoy look at each other like something out of a Jane Austen novel." She shuddered inwardly. More like Emily Bronte, come to think of it, she considered, and tried not to rewrite ‘Wuthering Heights’ in her mind with Harry and Draco as the two leads. The temptation to laugh herself silly loomed large.

Ron blinked. "Jaynoosten?"

Hermione scowled. She’d really have to introduce Ron to some Muggle literature. It was a shame he wasn’t taking Muggle Studies; ‘Wuthering Heights’ was on the syllabus this year, along with a selection of Chaucer, ‘A Tale of Two Cities’, ‘The Crucible’, and ‘Romeo & Juliet’. She winced inwardly at that one; not a good omen, considering the way things could turn out. It could be worse, she realised; this could end up like ‘Hamlet’. Fun. "Never mind. But you’ve got to admit there are feelings there."

Ron jutted his chin out. "I admit nothing," he declared, clearly being defensive, and typically Ron.

"Fine then," she snapped, before reining her temper back in. She turned to the small bench behind her, where a plate of hot toast had been left by the house elves. "Toast?" she asked, busy buttering a piece for herself. Ron shook his head, and thanked her, so she turned back to the problem at hand.

"Look, Harry’s all self-doubting and depressive, right? And Draco’s been Mr. ‘Hello, I have intimacy issues’ for the past six years. Draco needs someone he can trust above all else and Harry needs someone who needs him. Their neuroses would fit together like a jigsaw puzzle, and they’d be quite good for each other." She shook her head. "I can’t believe you haven’t heard the gossip. People have been laying bets on when they’d finally get together since fifth year."

Ron made a sick face. "Harry’d be better with someone like Seamus."

Hermione didn’t look up to reply, now getting quite friendly with the jam. "Seamus and Dean are our next couple on our ‘blissfully unaware’ list."

"Seamus? And Dean?" He was out of his seat before he knew it, disbelieving.

With an exasperated sigh, she faced him once again. "You really don’t know how to read people, do you Ron?" After all, it took him until last holidays to realise she was a) a girl and b) she liked him...no wonder he hadn’t recognised anything else.

Ron blinked, and sat back down, slowly. "I...guess not." At least Seamus and Dean make sense. They’re good friends already...Dean seems to look at Seamus a lot, Ron recalled vaguely. Ron wondered briefly exactly what else had been going on in front of his face, all the years he’d been at Hogwarts. I don’t even want to think about what the twins or Percy have been up to...He cleared his throat, and continued. "But Harry and Malfoy?"

Hermione nodded. "Look at them one day in class. Or at breakfast. Or during Quidditch. It’s pissed off a lot of the girls I can tell you, knowing that the two most shaggable guys in Hogwarts only have eyes for one another. Some of the boys aren’t too happy about it as well," she added, offhandedly, but Ron didn’t really want her to continue.

"The two most shaggable guys in Hogwarts?" he accused, eyes blazing almost as much as his hair, rising from his chair like an avenging angel. "I’m so glad you’ve taken the time to rate them." Before Hermione could say anything, Ron stalked off like a tiger, all fluid grace and movement. There was little sign of the lanky boy she’d known.

Determined to make the best of what was rapidly descending into a horrid day, Hermione picked up the bit of toast from where she’d left in on her plate and took a large bite. Swallowing with some difficulty, her expression clearly not impressed, she dumped it back on the plate and wiped her hands on the napkin.

"Fuck," she declared, "it’s cold."