The Corresponding Emotion

19 May, 9:34 am BST

Having finally had his fill of looking at the clouds below, the numerous buttons and switches on the panel above his head, and the dog-eared magazines in the seat pocket in front of him (which he found distinctly boring because the pictures didn't move or interact with you in any way), Ron could no longer ignore the presence of his seatmate. Malfoy was sitting back quietly in his seat, looking utterly relaxed with his eyes closed and his hands folded carefully over his jacket pocket. Every so often Ron thought he could hear Malfoy humming softly (sometimes "Weasley Is Our King," and sometimes not).

"Do you have to keep doing that?" Ron grumbled, trying to rearrange his legs and feet into a more comfortable position in their cramped space.

"Doing what?" Malfoy asked.

"That humming thing. Can't you just shut up for a bit or something?"

"No." He stretched lazily, looking very comfortable, and resumed humming, quite a bit louder this time.

Ron hunched up against the side of the window, pulling his jacket off and draping it over his head, trying to drown out Malfoy's humming.

It wasn't working.

"So, where's Potter, anyway?" Malfoy asked.

Ron pulled his jacket more firmly around him. "None of your business," he snapped.

Malfoy made a soft tsking noise. "Touchy, touchy, aren't we? I heard Potter's off doing some exhibition matches with the Cannons for the stupid Americans. Like Americans would know anything about Quidditch."

"It's Quodpot," Ron corrected.

"Ah, yes, the sport of champions," he replied in a bored voice. "Going to keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't stray?"

Ron bristled, poking his head out from under his jacket. "I'm not keeping an eye on him, I'm just meeting up with him."

"That's why you were arguing with that Muggle at the ticket counter, begging for a seat on the day flight instead of the night one?"

"I wasn't begging!"

"Mmm. Didn't sound like you were planning to meet up with him to me. In fact, I don't think he even knows you're coming."

Why was he even getting into this with Malfoy in the first place? "Shut up."

"I see your insults haven't improved with age."

"Neither has your face, ferret."

"You really ought to do something about that temper, Weasel," Malfoy said.

"Why the hell are you even on this plane, anyway?" Ron snapped, his curiosity and anger getting the better of him. "Don't tell me you're going to watch Harry play Quodpot?"

"If I were going to watch that stupid game, it would be for the Quodpot Girls, and not for The Boy Who Lived," Malfoy replied. "I have business in the States, not that it's any of your concern."

"Business?" What sort of business would Malfoy have in the States, especially since they weren't travelling to a large city like New York or Chicago? "Following in the family's footsteps?"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "I make my own business," he said. "My father invested heavily in a venture I found to be far too risky for a negligible profit. I chose to find my fortune elsewhere."

"They disowned you, in other words." Ron found he didn't feel have as smug as he thought he would about that fact.

"I prefer to think of it as anticipatory patrilineal rejection."

"Patriwhateal wha?"

"What, you want it monosyllabically?" Malfoy's cheeks were slightly pink. "I told them all to fuck off."

"Well whoo-hoo, goody for you," said Ron, wishing he had half of Hermione's gift of scathing sarcasm. He wadded his jacket into a ball and shoved it between his head and the edge of the window like a pillow. "Why don't you take your own advice and just fuck off for a while, okay? Or at least pretend to fuck off long enough for me to go to sleep." With that, he closed his eyes and tried to pretend Draco Malfoy didn't exist.

Ron had never been so glad to stand up in his life. He wasn't sure he'd be able to straighten his legs from their permanently squashed position, but the idea of getting far, far away from Draco Malfoy was enough incentive to get him moving quickly. Plus, he was starving. It might only be just after noon here, but Ron's internal clock was screaming for dinner and he had no idea where the hell he was or where Harry's hotel was or anything at all.

He was tired, hungry, and he just wanted to find Harry and straighten all this rubbish out so they could go home.

"Where are you staying, Weasley?" Malfoy asked, as they left the plane.

Ron's legs were a lot longer than Malfoy's, and he was walking faster, but somehow Malfoy was managing to keep up. He fished a slip of parchment with Harry's itinerary scribbled on it. Looking at Harry's messy scrawl made Ron's throat close up. "Uh... the Westin Charlotte, I think," he said, trying to walk faster to get away from Malfoy.

"Oooh, a Muggle hotel," Malfoy said, keeping up easily.

"So? Sometimes they stay in Muggle places on the tour, sometimes wizarding ones."

"Muggle hotels only take Muggle money, you know," said Malfoy.

"No shit, genius," Ron spat, but in truth he hadn't really thought about that. He only had a little bit of Muggle money, because he hadn't wanted to empty his Gringotts vault. Harry had wanted them to share vaults, but Ron had insisted on separate ones out of pride. He didn't want Harry's money, he just wanted Harry, so why share a vault? Not that it would matter here in a little bit; he'd find Harry and they'd fix all this and it would all be all right. "How do you know so much stuff about Muggles anyway?" he asked, hoping to annoy Malfoy enough to get rid of him.

"Oh, just business things," Malfoy said airily. "Look, this is Customs. You ever been through Customs before?"

Ron jerked his rucksack higher up on his shoulder. "I've never been out of the country before, Malfoy, but I'm not a total idiot."

"Sure you aren't. Anyway, they'll probably just let you go right through, unless they think you're some kind of refugee. Considering the way you look, I wouldn't blame them for thinking it."

"Shut up!" Merlin's beard, was there any way to get rid of Malfoy?

"Go on through. I'll even give you a ride to your hotel, if you ask nicely." And then Malfoy disappeared into the crowd before Ron could tell him to sod off or even ask him how he knew where his hotel was or how the sod he knew how to drive a Muggle car.

After scrounging up a taxi with the last bit of Muggle money he had in his pocket, Ron looked anxiously around the lobby of the hotel. He probably could have put the whole Burrow into the lobby with room left over, he thought, walking up to a gleaming marble reception desk along the far wall.

"Welcome to the Westin Hotel, sir," said the smartly attired woman behind the desk, with the slightest emphasis on the word sir that made Ron extremely self-conscious of his faded corduroy trousers and wrinkled shirt. "How may I assist you?"

"Er," said Ron, shifting his bag to his other shoulder. "I... er, I'm looking for Harry Potter's room. Can you tell me where he is?"

The woman blinked. "There is a courtesy phone over there," she said, pointing to a small table nearby.

"Well, I don't know his room number," Ron stammered. "He forgot to tell me before he left. Look, can you just ring his room for me? He won't mind, I know he won't."

"I'm sorry sir, but I am required to vigorously safeguard the privacy of our guests."

"But he's my, er, I mean we – he –" Ron couldn't bring himself to say he's my boyfriend, because he might not be, anymore, exactly. "– we live together!"

She raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow, but said nothing.

"Just ring his room, okay? I'm tired, and hungry, and I've been on a plane all bloody day, and I just want to see Harry!"

When it was obvious that she wasn't going to change her mind, Ron stomped over and flopped down on one of the artfully arranged sofas close to the elevator. Harry had to come out sometime, and Ron was going to catch him when he did and straighten this out once and for all.

Ron was starving. Where the hell was Harry? They didn't have a game today, according to his itinerary, so where was he? Ron's stomach grumbled, and he sank lower on the sofa. The last thing he'd eaten was some kind of chocolate biscuit on the plane, and that seemed like at least a week ago. The first thing he'd do when he saw Harry would be to get some dinner.

"Hello." A tall, thin, nondescript looking man sat down on the other end of the sofa opposite Ron. His voice and face were oddly familiar, but Ron couldn't place him at all. The way he looked at Ron was incredibly creepy, though, and Ron slid as far to the end of the sofa as he possibly could.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

"Yes," Ron said shortly. He turned his back on the man, pretending to be interested in the strange looking potted plant sitting on the side table.

"That's too bad," said the man, and Ron could feel him sliding closer on the sofa. "Someone like yourself, sitting here looking so sad? And I ask myself... why should someone be sitting here, looking so sad?"

Ron was steadily growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute. The way he kept inching closer, coupled with his accent that sounded more English than American and his bizarrely familiar face was giving Ron a very bad feeling that he didn't know how to squash.

"I'm fine, thanks," said Ron, getting up to move away to the other side of the lobby, when he caught a full view of the couple stepping out of the elevator.

It was Harry.

With his new girlfriend.

The man on the sofa let out a low whistle, but Ron barely heard it for the blood pounding in his ears. Harry's arm was draped familiarly around the brunette's waist, pulling her close to him as they stepped out into the lobby, and his hand was definitely way too close to her arse for Ron's comfort. And where the sod were his glasses? He wasn't wearing them, and he looked so different without them. Lighter, somehow. Even worse was the adoring way Harry looked down at her as he tightened his arm around her waist – he looked happy.

Very happy.

Jet lag, hunger, and the shock of seeing Harry with this strange girl was too much for Ron, and he barely had time to realise that his vision was going fuzzy around the edges before he slumped to the floor in a dead faint.