playing the game, living the lie

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chapter 3: ...goes a long long way (conversations part 2)
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Ron didn’t care where he was going, and he certainly didn’t know. He was too angry for words and too jealous for thought. Harry and Malfoy were the two most shaggable guys at Hogwarts were they? I wonder if I even appear on the Top Ten, he mused, bitterly. Probably not. I’m the friendly, lanky type. I’m not one to inspire passion, or really to inspire anything, for that matter. Just good, ol’ dependable Ron.

Stuff it.

And it was too much, and he just couldn’t think, and before he knew it were there was someone in the way and it wasn’t enough time, and Ron was down like a ninepin in a flutter of robes, rubbing his head and muttering curse words. He looked up to yell at the person who’d gotten in his way (cause it couldn’t have been his fault, of course not), only to find they were just about to do the same thing to him.

Before realising who their opponent was, and the open mouth closed, forming a self-satisfied smirk.

Ron’s heart sank so low he could swear it was somewhere in his left foot. No, this couldn’t be happening. No no no no no no, he mind repeated endlessly, incoherent. The day just couldn’t get any worse, and he hadn’t even had breakfast yet. And it was incredibly ironic, that after the events of the past 24 hours, it would be he who would run, headlong, into Draco bloody Malfoy.

The silver-blonde continued smirking, idly running a hand through his silky locks as if to straighten them, but inwardly it gave him breathing space to plan his next step. Well well well...if it isn’t the Weasel? Hatred spun through Draco’s veins, hatred shot with jealousy. Ron would get to see a side of Harry he never could, never would, and he didn’t even seem to care sometimes, how precious that was. The runt obviously deserved everything he got. "Can’t see where you’re going, Weasley?" he taunted. "And no apologies either. My, my. That family of yours certainly didn’t waste its time pounding the social graces into you, did it?"

Ron muttered something that suspiciously sounded like ‘fuck off’ under his breath before raising his eyes to meet Draco’s. "Don’t mess with me, Malfoy. It’s been a bad enough day so far, I don’t need you to make it a complete waste."

Draco mock-pouted in response, trying to straighten his robes. "Oh, poor Ronniekins is having girlfriend troubles, is he? I noticed you were clomping away from the Prefect’s room," he added with an insolent smile, as if even noticing such things was below him.

"Stalking me are you?" Ron shot back, an eyebrow raised. "Besides, what happens between me and ‘Mione is none of your business. Go bother a Hufflepuff or something," he added, absently, brushing himself off, making leave to go.

"You might not want to leave Weasley, well not unless you can borrow Potter’s glasses," Malfoy called to his back. "They might help you see better. Stop you from being a traffic hazard and all."

Ron turned round, his face set in a scowl. It was too early, and Malfoy was too much. "Would you prefer it if I was wearing Harry’s glasses, Draco?" he spat, stomping back to the other sixth year. "Maybe I should dye my hair and wear emerald contact lenses, huh? That way, next time we bump into each other, you can get your rocks off at the same time."

Draco didn’t cower or back down, if anything he went livid, his lips thin, eyes wide with anger, glaring at Ron for everything he was worth. He moved a few steps towards the other boy, as if daring him to move. "What did you say, Weasley?", he asked in a quiet whisper, his voice loaded with menace.

Inwardly, Draco was seething for a variety of reasons, and partly terrified as well. Angry because he’d pushed Ron too far, angry because it appeared he’d been too bloody obvious, and terrified because from what the redhead was saying, people knew. Merlin, he could imagine it now. People giggling when he approached, pointing him out in the corridors, in classrooms; the laughing stock of Hogwarts. And Harry? Oh, he could picture it now. Harry making his way across the Great Hall to the deserted table where Draco sat, cause no-one else would sit with him, and every damn thing about him just made Draco want to do things that would disgust him if he didn’t need him so much. He’d sit down, easily, and mention in passing that he’d heard the rumours.

And I’d turn to him then, my face lifting in hope, thinking that maybe, just maybe he’ll reach out and hold me, his fingers running though my hair, laying gentle kisses on my face...Except no. Draco knew that Fate could never be so kind. Harry would most likely smile condescendingly, and tell Draco that he was beneath him ; or worse still, it wasn’t anything personal, but he just didn’t like boys, and his emerald eyes would be laughing at him, laughing all the while, and he’d go back to friends, taking the one bit of light and hope that Draco had left with him.

"You heard me, Malfoy." Simple. An opening gambit, designed to gauge the strength of one’s opponent. Draco thought bitterly that despite all appearances to the contrary, Ron would have made a good chess player. Perhaps even one Draco himself would have enjoyed playing against.

Right then. If Weasley wanted to play a game, he could fuck minds with the best of him; he’d been raised by one of the best, after all. "I’m surprised you’re asking me that, Weasel. I used to think you and Potter would be getting quite ‘familiar’ with each other, before you started dating that Mudblood bitch. Or was that only because Potter doesn’t swing both ways?" he surmised, the smirk so predatory you could see his teeth, directing his own fears out as his opponent, for him to confirm or deny them as necessary. He didn’t really think Granger was a bitch, and despite any prejudice he may have been brought up with against Mudbloods, it was fairly obvious to Draco who was the smartest and most mature in their year, and so the bias seemed rather silly. But it was part of his reputation, and if he dared change now, who would speak out? Who would even let him?

Ron growled, and Draco’s eyes narrowed in pleasure. It had achieved the intended effect: get the redhead off balance, and hopefully, off the subject. From Ron’s reaction, Draco had guessed that his...attitude towards Harry had not become public knowledge, but if Ron was making quips like that, there was no telling who might be suspicious. "I told you, leave Hermione out of this!", he near shouted, hands up, pushing the lithe Slytherin down the corridor. "She even thinks you’re good looking," he confessed, babbling, a look of deep disgust on his face. "It’s horrible. And she thinks you and Harry would make a good couple." He paused, and looked up at the ceiling, as if looking for answers.

"A good couple!", he bellowed, clearly fraught, his steely gaze turning back to Draco, and Draco backed away, somewhat scared. "Apparently everyone thinks so, Malfoy. How does that feel? To have everyone comment on your prospective love life, and with none other than Harry himself in mind? Cause, y’know, as much as the idea revolts me, the fact you wouldn’t exactly enjoy it either gives me some comfort."

Draco just curled his lips, trying to hide the raging fear within. People talked about him? People thought he and Harry would be a good couple? Oh, Merlin. Next thing I know Goyle and Crabbe will be giving me pointers on how to bag him! "Oh, don’t worry Ron-boy. I’m sure when Potter realises I’d be the best damn fuck he’d ever had, he’ll come round. As for anyone else, well, I can’t say I give a damn about their opinions. Although it’s nice to see that Granger has some taste, even if she is a) a Mudblood and b) dirtying herself with you." He forced a shit-eating grin to his face, a swagger he didn’t feel. "Maybe I’ll give her a ‘test run’ someday, eh?"

Before he knew it, Ron’s fist was flying out, knocking Draco to the floor with a cry. He could taste the metallic scent of blood in his mouth, and gingerly felt his jaw, too astonished to respond.

Ron stood over him, curling the fingers on his right fist, hair flaming, the whole ‘avenging angel’ thing making its presence known yet again. "You know what Draco, pet?" he spat at the huddled teen. "Harry doesn’t like you. Harry’s never going to like you. He cares about you for Merlin knows what reason, but only cause he wants to help you." He made the word sound like a curse, which Draco realised it probably was. "You’re nothing to him but a broken puppet, Malfoy. A charity case. Something he can take care of to make himself feel worthy." He stopped for a moment, chest heaving, to get his breath back. "You know what else? You’re beneath him. Think about that, why don’t you." With that, he turned on his heel and was gone down the corridor.

Draco sat on his haunches, his jaw already swelling, but his expression was stunned, a mixture of fear and astonishment, like a deer caught in a Lumos spell. He’d known that Weasley was capable of anger, but that sheer rage surprised him. Someone’s got a complex, a voice whispered in his mind, and he would have laughed, if not for the sheer surrealism of the situation, and because Malfoy’s do not laugh.

The silver-blonde was torn between rage and an illicit pleasure at Harry’s feelings. ‘Charity case?’ He wants to ‘take care of’ me?! He snorted inwardly, determined to show Potter than he would never need anyone to care of him, that he was not weak; while another part of him murmured that it would be so good, so nice, to just let go for once, and sink into strong arms and a gentle voice that could soothe all his hidden scars.

But it was all too much, and those words again, those words: you’re beneath him you’re beneath him you’re beneath him and it was all the same, even if it wasn’t direct. But it was true; he could never erase one hundred generations of his family’s legacy, never be good enough, not for anyone and certainly not for Harry.

"Fuck you," he spat, to both Ron and his inner voice, his tone clotted with blood. "I’ll get what I deserve, same as us all, and if it turns out to be Harry, I’ll dance on your sodding grave and get him to join me, Weasley. We’ll have a good rough and tumble while you’re rotting in the earth."

With a freshly hardened heart, Draco gathered his robes around and him, and tried to stagger off gracefully, intent on retreating back to his dorm to heal the wounds that could be healed. The ones on the inside however, would remain with him, and he shoved them down, brutally, deep inside, along with his tears.

A Malfoy did not cry.

* * *

Ron stormed into the Great Hall, just in time to catch the late session of breakfast. He picked up a plate of breakfast, seemingly unconcerned as to what it actually held, and swept passed most Gryffindors to sit on the end of the table, where it was mostly deserted. Seamus and Dean looked at each other, eyes wide, and picked up their plates of sausages and scrambled eggs, and went to sit next to the redhead, Dean with a piece of toast still wedged in his mouth.

They were taking Muggle Studies this year, and part of the requirements was to live like a Muggle a day a week; so Dean and Seamus had by stage in the year, managed to cook somewhat decently. Well, that is to say Dean had learned to cook really well, Seamus something shocking, and therefore Dean generally cooked for the two of them.

They scrambled over chairs, settling their plates on the table, Seamus grabbing a chair and turning it round, so he could straddle it and rest his arms on the back. Dean tried not to imagine what it would feel like to be the chair and ended up swallowing a mouthful of scrambled egg the wrong way. Once his coughing fit had died down, the unlikely pair turned their attention back to the clearly high-strung Gryffindor.

"So..." began Seamus, while Dean crunched down on the toast.

"...What’s the problem?" he finished, barely managing to get the words out.

"Nothing," grumped Ron, busy pushing the food on his plate around with his spoon. Great. He’d lost his temper with Malfoy, and now the suppressing and clueless pair were on his case. All he needed was Harry to saunter in and tell him that he’d be in denial all along, and yes, he did want to play tonsil hockey with a certain Slytherin, thankyou very much. Ack.

Seamus and Dean shared a glance. Oh God. Please, anything but them sharing glances. They’ll be looking at one another with ill concealed longing next. Ron shuddered, and hoped they hadn’t notice, for fear he’d have to deal with their concern. He decided honesty might actually silence them for once. "I ran into Malfoy on the way, and lost my temper, alright?" Taking up his plate Ron left the Hall, sweeping out as quickly as he came. Leaving two wide eyed sixth years in his wake.

"Uh," Dean fumbled, "what do you think about was about?"

Seamus shrugged, and eat a piece of sausage smeared with egg, chewing on it before he deigned to give his answer. "Probably had somethin’ t’do with what we ‘eard last night."

Dean nodded, awkwardly, taking another bite of his toast, his tongue briefly appearance to lick any stray crumbs into his mouth, and Seamus didn’t think about how soft those lips would be if he kissed them, or anything of the sort. "So, what did we hear last night, Shame?", getting straight to the point, although he still used his own nickname for his best friend.

"Ron and Harry talking ‘bout Malfoy," the other boy replied easily. "And basically avoiding the subject while they did it too," he snorted. A glint came to Seamus’ eye, and Dean shifted in his seat anxiously. There was a plan a’ brewin’. The Irish wizard leaned forward in his seat eagerly, cupping his hands together. "Dean, what would’ya say if we gave Harry and Malfoy a friendly push, eh? After all, everyone can tell they’re meant to be together ; it wouldn’t hurt, surely?"

"No." The word was out of Dean’s mouth even before he was aware he’d spoken it. "No no no no no. I admit, there’s emotion there, certainly, and love’s a given. But there’s also jealousy and hatred and all other kinds of nasties that neither man nor wizard should disturb, Seamus. It would definitely be A. Bad. Thing," he finished, enunciating his words.

The Hall had fallen silent, and both looked up to see why.

Draco Malfoy, blooded and bruised, and yet somehow all the more imperial because of it, his robes wrapped almost like a toga, had strode into the room. The crowd watched, almost spellbound, as he strode to the Slytherin table, and quickly, almost sourly, summoned his breakfast.

He’d meant initially to go to his dorm, but then something in him had snapped, and be buggered if he was going to let Weasley stop him from showing his face. So what if he had a small bruise? Nobody gave a toss anyway. The Hufflepuffs would probably cheer, damn them. Sticking his courage to the sticking place, he gathered what presence he had around him, and strode into the Hall as if he owned it. Looking casually at the reactions of his fellow students, he surmised it seemed to have worked.

Settling himself, he looked up, and froze, caught between sitting down and standing up.

The Boy Who Lived had just entered the Great Hall.

Draco could feel it, the current of anticipation and anxiety that ran through the Hall like an unspoken whisper, and bitterly grinned inside, wondering why he had never felt it before. I’ve become the romantic lead in the school’s own psychodrama, he mused whimsically, his inner voice dripping with sarcasm; short, blonde and devilishly handsome. How they must hang on my every word.

On our every word. Just to see what happens next.

Because Draco could see from the uncertainty on Harry’s face, that Harry could feel it too, even if he wasn’t sure what it was. Or was that merely there because of his condition. Wishful thinking, Draco, he told himself. Remember what happened to the cat.

For his part, Harry had awoken from bed, and blearily sauntered off to breakfast, his inner dialogue from the past night still haunting him, the memory of that familiar drawl like the Cheshire Cat’s grin, the last thing to leave. He’d come across Ron in the corridors, who been holding a plate of bacon and toast as if it was a sacrament. He’d taken one look at Harry, mumbled, "you’re too good for him," and ambled off down a corridor, leaving Harry blinking and rather confused.

Now the entire Hall seemed to look at him as if expecting...Harry wasn’t quite sure what. It wasn’t the familiar ‘c’mon Harry, save the world’ he felt from his fellow students ; this was pent up, anxious, and straining for release, waiting for him to do something, wanting him to do something...and Draco ; Malfoy, he reminded himself, Malfoy ; was looking at him as if he had just crawled out of a open grave, seemingly unconcerned by the split lip he wore like a badge of honour, or the graze to his jaw. Seamus and Dean, he noticed were looking at him as if expecting divine wisdom; heck, even the staff were staring at him, and trying to look as though they weren’t.

He pushed aside the vibe; he could deal with that later. "Malfoy," he called across the room, feeling it swell in anticipation, "you alright there?"

Nodding somewhat curtly back at Harry, he let a smirk come across his face, although Merlin knew where he’d dredged the feeling from ; he certainly didn’t feel it. "I’m just peachy, Potter. How bout you?", he replied, his voice dripping with jaded revulsion, from even having to talk to him.

Harry stared, wondering if he could ever shift this self satisfied crock of shit into anything remotely approaching civility. Draco met his gaze, and emerald stared into stormy grey.

The Hall collectively sucked in a breath, and held it.

After what seemed like an eternity, Harry turned from that gaze, disturbed by what it contained, and frightened by the murmurs in the back of his own mind that rose to meet it.

The moment Harry glanced away, Draco could feel himself returning to himself, no longer falling into those bewitching emerald eyes. He felt the groundswell break, as if suddenly disinterested, like they had seen it all before. People went back to chatting amongst themselves, eating, arguing over breakfast or classes or quidditch, the old and familiar.

Harry felt it too, like a kind of angry ease falling over the crowd, as if their entertainment had been spoiled, but they’d expected it nonetheless. And for the life of him, Harry couldn’t understand why.

Somewhat more at ease now, Draco composed himself, falling back into old patterns. What did they expect?, he wondered irritably, Harry and I to run to each other, meet in the middle of the Hall, and confess our undying love before the violins started playing over the snog to end all snogs? Bloody hell.

Both of them went back to simple, ordinary tasks. Draco ate, and sneered, and was flanked by the hulking masses of Crabbe and Goyle soon enough. Harry chatted to Seamus and Dean, although they didn’t really discuss anything in particular. Hermione came in after a little bit, ostensibly to look for Ron, but also to take some Gryffindors aside and give them one of Hermione’s patented Stern Talking-tos. Harry brightened up somewhat when he saw her, and they talked amiably, Hermione even laughing at Harry’s jokes, albeit somewhat forced. Hermione was too busy running through her list of tasks in her head to notice the unreadable look Draco gave the both of them, but Harry did ; even if he didn’t know what it meant, it sent a shiver up his spine; Malfoy’s eyes were too dark and stormy, and he was perturbed by their mystery, their longing, both drawn to and repulsed by the boy’s status as the Other.

Both protagonists were completely unaware that the other was thinking the exact same thing: when can we stop playing this damn game?, although both of them, if asked, were not have been able to explain what they meant.