Information

The first time Ron hears from him, he's at the bar at the Leaky Cauldron, staring into his Firewhisky and not really paying attention when someone sits down beside him and hisses, "Don't look up." Ron recognises the voice immediately, and recognises also something in the tone that's truthful and determined, so he doesn't look up, keeping his eyes focused on the surface of the drink.

"I have information," Malfoy says under his breath, then nods to Tom for a drink.

Ron snorts, taking a swallow of his Firewhisky. "And?"

"Well, do you want it or not?" Malfoy hisses.

"If you've really got information, you know who to take it to," says Ron.

There's a clink of glass against the scarred wood of the bar. "I'm not going to the old man," says Malfoy.

Ron rolls his eyes and puts his glass down. The temptation to grab Malfoy by the collar and just shake it out of him is very strong, but he manages to keep looking at the bar. "Quit fucking wasting my time, Malfoy. I haven't got time for your stupid games. Either go to him with your 'information' or just fuck right off."

"Fuck you, then," says Malfoy, tossing a few coins on the bar and stalking off.

A week later Ron is in Quality Quidditch supplies to get a pair of tail-twig trimmers when he feels the hard tip of a wand poking into his back and the words, "Are you going to listen to me now, Weasley?" hissed into his ear. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle and his fingers curl around the handle of his own wand, but he doesn't move, instead pretending to decide between two different sizes of trimmers.

"You're a pesky little shit," Ron says, not flinching when Malfoy digs the wand tip deeper into his back.

"And you're a stubborn ass, Weasley," Malfoy spits. "If you don't listen to what I've got to say, you'll regret it. Or rather, that bushy-headed know it all you call a friend will. I don't know, maybe you'll be glad to be rid of her?"

Ron spins around fully intending to rip Malfoy's throat out for that but before he can get his hands around his throat, Malfoy is gone.

Ron mentions none of this to either Harry or Hermione, nor anyone else in the Order, for that matter. Harry has enough to worry about, and Hermione would go on a rampage - not because Malfoy threatened her, but because Ron didn't try to get whatever information it was out of him. Surely the son of one of You-Know-Who's (he still couldn't bring himself to say the name) most loyal supporters, and a rising star in his own right, would have something worth listening to? Even false information would be better than what they have at this point - absolutely nothing. He begins looking for Malfoy everywhere he goes, half expecting to feel Malfoy's wand at his back or his breath on his neck at any minute. He's disappointed when he doesn't hear from Malfoy again for two weeks, and he begins to wonder if he will again or if he's fucked up royally by not listening.

He's about given up hope that he'll ever run into Malfoy again and he's almost put it out of his mind by the time he, Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and Luna go off to the first Cannons game of the season. Hermione brings a stack of books and shoots them venomous 'I-can't-believe-we're-wasting-our-time-here' looks in their direction, Luna wears a bright orange hat that shoots miniature cannonballs into the air whenever she taps it with her wand, and he and Harry and Ginny shout themselves hoarse over the possibility that the Cannons just might win one this time.

It's good to forget about the war for a few hours.

Ron has a few too many Butterbeer Fizzes, as it's hot out and he's thirsty, and before the Cannons can even score he needs to climb over everyone - of course he's smack in the middle of the row - to get out and go down to the loo. The noise from the crowd is muted down there, and as Ron zips his trousers back up he thinks it's almost creepy how it seems so far removed from everything else up in the stands.

"Weasley."

Ron jumps. Malfoy is leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest and looking thoroughly bored. "What the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?"

"Obviously I have nothing better to do than watch you take a piss," he says. "What do you think I'm doing here?"

"God, you're disgusting," says Ron, going to the sink. He reaches for a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall to dry his hands - but there's something written on it.

An address, a date, and a time.

"I'd read that carefully if I were you, Weasley," said Malfoy. "It'll disappear if it gets wet."

Ron commits it to memory before wiping his hands dry. The ink melts as soon as his wet hands touch it, leaving only a soggy mess of brown paper. When he looks up to toss it into the bin, Malfoy is gone.

He shows up at the appointed place at the right time. He takes a long time getting there, and probably more detours than were strictly necessary, but while he thinks that Malfoy might actually be telling the truth, he isn't entirely convinced it isn't a trap. It's a small flat, a bit worn around the edges, and Ron wonders how Malfoy ended up somewhere like this. It doesn't seem his style, really.

"You're late," says Malfoy.

"So?" says Ron. "Let's get on with it, I've work to do."

Malfoy's lip curls slightly. "You're really ungracious, considering what I'm about to tell you. You could show a little appreciation, you know."

"You're pretty 'ungracious' yourself, considering I'm not hauling you off to the Ministry to cash in on that prize on your head," Ron snaps back. "You haven't told me yet one single thing that makes me believe you, nor one good reason why I shouldn't take you in right now."

"You haven't shut your mouth long enough for me to have a chance," says Malfoy.

Ron considers the tiny bit of truth there but doesn't acknowledge it out loud.

"Plus," Malfoy continues with a smirk, "you couldn't take me in if you tried."

Ron bristles. "Oh yeah?"

"Yes."

"Fuck you, Malfoy," Ron says, advancing on him.

Malfoy pulls his wand. "Do it and you won't find out what you want to know. Granger will be very disappointed, I think..."

It's only the mention of Hermione that makes Ron relent. "Then stop flapping your yap and spill already," he grumbles, feeling his face grow hot.

After a pause, Malfoy lowers his wand. "They're planning an attack on the Mud- " he catches himself, looking oddly uncomfortable, "- Muggleborns. A virus like some common Muggle flu, but worse. Anyone who is less than half pureblood wizard won't be able to resist it. It'll strip the magic out of every Muggleborn witch and wizard in Britain and before long all of Europe, I expect."

"Strip their magic?" Ron yelps. "You're fucking kidding me!"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" says Malfoy exasperatedly. "Shut up and don't interrupt me again."

Ron shuts up.

"Don't worry, your precious Potter is immune; he's half pureblood, and that's enough to keep him alive," Malfoy says, with a touch of bitterness creeping into his voice. "It's that swot Granger you ought to be concerned about. Two weeks after they let this thing loose she won't be able to manage so much as a Wingardium Leviosa. And it's permanent, Weasley. Completely irreversable. There won't be a bit of magic left in them anywhere."

Ron narrows his eyes. "Since when do you care about what happens to Muggleborns?" he asks. "You hate Muggleborns, especially Hermione." He thinks back to the time he and Harry sat in the Slytherin common room Polyjuiced as Crabbe and Goyle and listened to Malfoy say he hoped the basilisk would take her next.

"Zabini," Malfoy says quietly.

"What?" asks Ron, frowning.

Malfoy looks away, and his voice is so quiet Ron has to lean closer to hear him. "When their magic is gone... it's going to kill them. Not right away; they'll be perfectly physically healthy, just like any ordinary Muggle. But knowing they can never do magic again, that they can't be part of our world anymore, sooner or later they'll crack." He takes a deep breath, and adds almost without thinking, "I saw it."

Ron doesn't understand what that has to do with Blaise Zabini, but he says nothing, just watches Malfoy as he crosses his arms over his chest and continues talking.

"Zabini was one of the few people who was actually my friend because he wanted to be and not because our fathers wanted us to be. He and Pansy Parkinson... we were a bit like you and Potter and Granger, except that Pansy is far better looking than Granger," he adds off handedly. "At any rate, somehow he managed to hide from us the fact that he wasn't pureblood after all. His father was halfblood and his mother was Muggleborn."

"How did you find that out?" Ron asks, but he has a feeling he knows where this is going, and he feels an unexpected sympathy for Malfoy. It feels strange, like a shoe that's half a size too small.

"The Dark Lord finds out everything," says Malfoy with a slight shrug. "And when it was time to test this virus, it didn't matter how many years of loyal service had Blaise put in - he was nothing more than a convenient test subject for Him. My father told Blaise he should be glad he had the opportunity to be allowed to serve the Dark Lord in such a valuable way, considering the 'stain on his blood' that he'd tried to hide from everyone."

Malfoy's voice catches a bit, and Ron thinks he should probably look away, give Malfoy a bit of privacy, but he can't. He's fascinated by the fact that Malfoy actually seems to have feelings like a normal human being. He's never considered this before.

"Blaise tried to take it like a soldier doing his duty for the cause. But he was raised as a wizard his whole life and he didn't have a clue how to do things as a Muggle. Pansy and I, we tried to do whatever we could for him but we know less about Muggles and Muggle ways than he did, and it just didn't work. He couldn't handle it. Everyone around him was doing magic just like they always had, and all he could do was stand around and watch."

Ron swears quietly under his breath. He pictures this happening to Harry or Hermione and it makes his stomach churn, and it's crystal clear to him now why Malfoy is telling him about the virus.

Malfoy tries to make his voice sound cold and clinical but it isn't really working. "He came over to the Manor one night, to stay with me, and we were up till late talking and then... the next morning ... he'd hung himself with my old school ties."

Ron doesn't know what to say to that.

Then Malfoy looks up, and his grey eyes are narrow and determined and his voice is back to almost normal. "So, fuck him, you know? If that's how he treats his loyal followers - because believe me, Blaise was as loyal to the Dark Lord as any of us - then I don't want to be a part of that."

"Why didn't you go to Dumbledore about this?" Ron can't help but ask. "I mean, if you're telling me, why didn't you just tell him?"

"Because despite the blind faith you Gryffindors put in him, I'm not so impressed," says Malfoy. "I mean, he did leave the Saviour of the Wizarding World locked up with Muggles for half his life, which wasn't so pleasant from what I hear. And if he doesn't really help his Golden Boy, I doubt he'll have much interest in my information."

"So why come to me?" Ron asks.

"You really are thick, aren't you, Weasley?" Malfoy sounds almost exasperated. "One of my best friends in the whole fucking world is dead. Every idiot on the planet knows how tight you and Potter and Granger are - you're practically joined at the hip, if not involved in some sort of sordid menage a trois - and if anyone knows what it's like to defend a friend, then it would be you. It's one of the very few tolerable things about you, truth be told."

"Oh," says Ron, not quite sure what Malfoy is getting at but it seems to be something he doesn't quite want to think about.

Malfoy pulls a thick wad of parchment from inside his robes. "Here are the plans for how they plan to release the virus," he says in a businesslike voice. "How they plan to introduce the virus into the atmosphere, with dates, times, locations, and symptoms of infection. You have to stop them before it gets out, understand? There is no cure, so don't go trying to be all gallant and heroic and waste time trying to find one. Just stop them before they can let the virus out."

Ron takes the parchment, and his fingers brush Malfoy's in the process. He opens it and skims through, impressed with Malfoy's accuracy and detail. He's interrupted in his reading by Malfoy's hand on his arm.

"I told Blaise I would make them pay," he says. "They won't get away with what they did to him. If it's the last thing I do, He'll pay for turning on us like this."

Slowly, Ron nods, and covers Malfoy's hand with his. "Yeah," he says. "He will."