Detention

"Look, I gotta run. Filch's detention starts in five minutes. I'm polishing all the stupid trophies in the Great Hall, again. Ugh. This is going to take forever. Don't expect me back for at least four hours."

"OK. I've got Quidditch practice anyway. Have fun."

"Oh, I will. Don't worry."

* * * * *

"I'm leaving. Filch actually gave me detention. Can you believe that? The corridor was so crowded; it isn't like he can prove I hexed that Hufflepuff. I've got to polish all the trophies in the Great Hall – by hand, of all things – but I'm going to use magic anyway, so I shouldn't be too long. An hour or so. Got it?"

"Um, yeah. But how are we going to do our homework?"

"Honestly, can't you do anything by yourselves? I can't be expected to do everything for you. Find someone else to copy off. I've got to go."

* * * * *

"What is he doing here?"

These were the first words out of both Ron's and Draco's mouths as they simultaneously entered the Great Hall, Ron from the left and Draco from the right.

Filch grinned evilly at them. "You both have detention and you're gonna serve it together. Here're your rags. Get to work." And he left, cackling sadistically.

Both boys set to work silently, pointedly not looking at each other. Ron started on the left wall, putting all his effort into polishing; he was obviously used to this sort of work. Draco started on the right, polishing much slower, careful not to touch anything except with his fingertips; it was clear he considered this sort of thing beneath him.

After a very tense hour, during which the only sounds were the swish of their rags and the clink of trophies being put back on the shelves, Draco reached into his robes and pulled out his wand. Crouching over, so as to block Ron from seeing it, he muttered a cleaning spell.

Ron, however, heard, and said loudly, "Try it and I'll tell, Malfoy."

"Oh, going to squeal to the teacher, Weasley? Now that's what I call Gryffindor behaviour."

"Shut up, Malfoy. Just do it by hand, or else we'll both get trouble." Ron started walking across the room, prepared to take Malfoy's wand.

"You might get in trouble, but I won't. I'm clever enough not to get caught."

"And you wound up in detention how?"

Draco sneered. "Sod off, Weasley. You might be stupid enough to actually do the detention, but thank Merlin I'm not."

"Oh, yes. Of course. How stupid of me to actually think of working."

"Exactly. How stupid of you."

"Oh, sod off, Malfoy. You wouldn't understand."

"Though it pains me to say this, you're probably right. I have no life experiences which would enable me to empathise with the plight of a poverty-stricken carrot-head. And I am glad of it."

Ron's ears flushed scarlet. "You say one more thing, Malfoy, and I'm warning you, I'll –"

"You'll what? Try to curse me and wind up puking slugs for the next several hours? Go ahead; I could use the amusement."

Ron, going even redder, swung at Draco, but in his anger, he lost all ability to aim and missed by several inches.

Draco ducked anyway, but when he realised Ron had come nowhere close he straightened, a malicious gleam in his eye. "I say, Weasley, that was impressive. Do you always fight like that? Of course, you can hardly call that fighting –"

Ron swung again, and this time he didn't miss. His right fist connected soundly with Draco's left eye, causing Draco's head to rock back rather violently.

Ron withdrew his hand reflexively, still clenched in a fist. Carefully, he flexed it, wincing as he did so. His knuckles were already turning red and would clearly be bruised for several days.

Draco's hand was covering his eye, and his other eye was fastened on Ron, filled with disbelief and anger.

"Did you just hit me, Weasley? Oh, you are going to be sorry you did that."

And Draco came barrelling at Ron, right hand clasped in a fist, the left one still covering his eye. Ron quickly stepped aside, leaving Draco with nothing to take the brunt of his force, and he toppled over onto the ground.

Ron was laughing so hard he had to grab the wall for support. Tears streamed from his eyes as Draco, still on the ground, tried to contend with both a black eye and a bloody nose.

"You stupid little – I'm gonna kill you – Wait 'til the teachers hear about this –" he muttered. Then, without warning, Draco sprung up and punched Ron in the stomach.

Ron, caught in the middle of a laughing fit, stumbled and fell over, slamming into the wall, the wind knocked out of him. He sank to the ground, wheezing in pain.

Draco sat back down too, several feet down the wall from Ron, paying no attention to Ron's moaning as he set about healing his own nose and eye.

A few minutes later, when Draco was no longer bleeding and Ron could breathe, Ron managed, "What the bloody hell was that?"

"What the bloody hell was what? You hit me first. I hit you back. That, my mentally challenged foe, is what's commonly known as fighting."

"You're determined to be an asshole straight to the end, aren't you?"

"If you've got talent, run with it. But then you wouldn't know that – you don't have any talent."

His patience long gone, Ron told Draco do something very rude indeed and settled back against the wall.

With as much composure as he could manage, considering his black eye and bloody nose, Draco said, "I don't swing that way, thank you. But glad to hear you're embracing your differences."

"Yeah, well, at least I've got something to embrace. You've got Crabbe and Goyle – handsome blokes if there ever were any; and Pansy Parkinson – now there's a real knockout." Ron surprised himself with that comment – he'd expected to be furious at Draco's insinuation, which hadn't been very subtle, and start another fight, but he was too tired; so instead, he'd just gone with it.

Draco looked surprised too. He'd been trying to provoke Ron, and instead Ron had neatly countered him, insulting his friends in the process.

He didn't have a retort, so instead he leaned up against the wall, blowing air through his teeth loudly.

"Can I ask you something, Weasley?"

"Maybe," Ron said warily. "What?"

"Why are you so hung up on Mudbloods? Where's your pride?" Draco's question sounded sincere, as if he really wanted to know the answer and wasn't just mocking Ron.

Ron, with a degree of sensitivity usually unseen, recognised this. "It's Muggle-born, for starters. And what's wrong with them? They're wizards, same as you or me. Your parents don't determine your abilities – you have to make something of yourself, regardless of what sort of background you come from."

"But they're not the same. They're not as strong magically, physically, or mentally. They're second-class people. We're clearly superior – our abilities, particularly when it comes to magic, are much greater because we haven't contaminated our bloodlines."

Ron asked, with a small smirk, "Is that a direct quote?"

"What?"

"I asked, were you quoting your father word for word or did you paraphrase it?"

Draco, not being able to answer that question, chose the timeless answer-a-question-with-a-question strategy, and asked, "So what? Weren't you quoting your father word for word?"

The answer was yes, but Ron couldn't say that, so instead he went on the defensive. "You know, Malfoy, you're so stupid, honestly. I can't believe you actually think that something as stupid as blood could possibly determine strength or intelligence. I mean, we all bleed; it's just blood, and everyone's is pretty similar. If you think You-Know-Who is actually going to be able to kill all the Muggle-borns, you're wrong. Dead wrong."

Draco laughed hollowly. "If you think that's the Dark Lord's whole agenda, than you're wrong. Dead wrong."

Ron didn't know what to say, so he remained silent as he shifted, trying to get comfortable.

Draco ignored Ron and stared the ceiling, which glowed a deep, burnished bronze, the color of a dying campfire, streaked with purple and red and blue, as the sun set. Draco couldn't look at a sunset without being reminded of a Viking funeral, a ship set out to sea in a blaze of glory, mourners remaining on the shore as a friend, neighbour, or lover made his way onto a new adventure, something hopefully better.

But Draco didn't believe that's what happened when you died. You had, if you were lucky, a hundred years or so, to do with as you pleased, and then lights out, boom, that's it. An infinity of nothingness. Which is why it didn't matter what you did – there were no long-term repercussions. Might as well grab some power and enjoy it while you could.

Ron was staring at the ceiling too, but he wasn't thinking about the sunset. Truth be told, poetics weren't really Ron's strong suit. He was thinking (not in so many words) about his ideals, the foundations on which he based all his actions. Were they all quoted verbatim from his father? Did that make him just like Malfoy, nothing more than a minion to his more powerful father?

Of course not. Ron was comforted by the knowledge that whatever few similarities they had, the big difference was Ron was right and Malfoy was wrong, and that difference precluded any comparisons.

Suddenly, Draco turned to Ron and, fixing him with his cold grey eyes, said, "Are you really, you know, embracing your differences?"

"Are you asking if I'm gay, Malfoy?" Ron asked, incredulous.

"Yeah, I guess so," Draco said, not looking at Ron. Then, some imbedded code of Malfoy honour got the better of him, because he raised his eyes and said, "Because I wouldn't be surprised – you're so screwed up about Mudbloods, it would only make sense for you to be screwed up about that, too."

Ron just stared at Draco as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Malfoy," he croaked, "is there a minority group you don't hate? I'm not gay at all, not that it's any of your business, but I'm curious. Do you have to be a white, straight, pure-blood Slytherin to be considered acceptable?"

Draco shrugged. "You don't have to be white," he said. "Ethnicity doesn't matter."

Ron shook his head and went back to looking at the ceiling, which had darkened to a dusky blue, tinged with red and dotted with sparkles.

Draco chewed on his lower lip and thought. Ron alternated between staring at the ceiling and staring at Draco as if he had two heads.

Then, having had enough, Ron stood up and said, "We're supposed to be polishing trophies. Filch will probably be back soon, and it'll be another detention if we're not done." And he walked over to where he'd been working before, sat down, and went back to polishing with a vengeance, as if the past half-hour hadn't occurred.

Draco also got up and walked over to his seat, though much slower. He started polishing again, still careful to have as little contact with the trophies and plaques as possible.

They continued this way for another two hours, working silently and diligently (well, diligently on Ron's part, anyway). At long last, Filch came by and muttered "others have determined you've been punished enough," in a voice that made it clear he thought they hadn't suffered enough at all. Then he walked off, leaving the boys to put up their cleaning materials.

Ron was closer to the closet, so he put his things in first, but he could feel Draco standing close behind him, waiting. This bothered Ron a great deal, so he said, "Back off, would you, Malfoy? We don't need to be this close unless you're planning to hex me."

"Then we need to be this close," Draco said, sweeping past Ron to put up his stuff.

Ron stood to the side, shaking his head in disbelief. Draco said, "Really, Weasley, have some dignity. You're sputtering like a fish out of water."

Ron's head stopped at once. "You know, Malfoy, you're a real git."

This was an obvious chance for Draco to retort. Instead, he let the opportunity slip by. He seemed distracted; he kept glancing at Ron sideways, the way one might size up an angry bear.

Ron rolled his eyes at Draco's obvious mental deficiency and started to leave the Great Hall. "Well, Malfoy, it's been real. Here's to hoping we never see each other again."

But that didn't seem to be what Draco had in mind. With a strange, crazed look in his eyes, he ran up to Ron and, before either of them knew what was happening, Draco's mouth was pressed up against Ron's. The kiss was full of confusion and longing and panic, not to mention violence and passion and intensity, at least on Draco's side.

Ron was shocked. What was he supposed to do? He was being kissed by Draco bloody Malfoy, and his brain simply couldn't cope with the shock.

But before he could come to a decision, Draco had stopped kissing him and was suddenly several feet further from Ron than he had been just a second before. He looked more embarrassed than Ron had ever seen him.

"What the hell was that?!"

Draco stared at the floor and said in a panicked tone, wringing his hands, "Look, Weasley, about that, um, see –"

"Malfoy, I am gonna kill you. You kissed me! You're a guy! I'm a guy! I told you I wasn't gay, Malfoy. Did you somehow read that to mean 'Kiss me now'? 'Cause that wasn't what I meant."

"Look," Draco said, anger and embarrassment making him flush, "that was a mistake. An accident. It will never happen again. And, uh, I'm going to have to repair your memory so that didn't happen."

"The hell you'll Memory Charm me! I don't want to remember it either, but I will not let you Obliviate me. Not a chance."

"Weasley, do you really think I'd let you tell people I kissed you?" Draco's voice was a little too high, and he kept looking first at Ron and then at the entrance to the Great Hall and then at Ron again.

"Why would I tell anyone? I'm in no mood to share the details of this lovely little moment. Ever."

"Except that you have no pride, and would gladly sacrifice it if you did to see me humiliated."

"Malfoy, believe it or not, the world does not revolve around you. I've got more important things to think about than trying to embarrass you."

"Yeah right, Weasley. Like what? Copying homework off Granger? Keeping Potter out of trouble?" Draco fingered his wand nervously – he was clearly itching to Memory Charm Ron.

"Look, I'm going. I have to brush my teeth. I want your germs off me."

Ron turned to walk out of the hall, and Draco, in a moment of wild desperation, lunged at him, yelling, "Obliviate!"

There was an eternity of silence, in which neither Ron nor Draco moved. Draco wondered if it had worked, and silently begged, Oh, let it have worked, let it have worked. After an agonizingly long moment, Ron turned around slowly, looking dazed. "Uh, Malfoy – did something just happen? For some really weird reason, I feel like you just... er, what did you just do?"

Draco was very pleased with himself – he hadn't really expected it to work. But he quickly adopted a look of outrage. "Weasley, you attacked me! We were putting up our stuff, and all the sudden you lunged at me and tried to kill me. Luckily, I'm stronger than you, but really. I didn't do anything!"

Ron was still not thinking straight from the Memory Charm, so he asked, "Why would I attack you?"

"Beats me. You're probably just jealous of me; you've got plenty of reasons to be. Or, as I've always suspected, you're soft in the head. Possibly some feeling of inadequacy you knew could never be overcome led you to believe, in that small mind of yours, the only thing to do was eliminate the competition. And so you tried to kill me.

"Or," Draco said quietly, almost to himself, "maybe you realised that we're not as different as we'd like to believe, and maybe you saw something in me that was really just a twisted version of yourself, and it scared you and you lost your ability to think rationally for a minute."

"No," said Ron, "that can't be it. We're nothing alike. At all. Plus, that's not really a reason for attacking you."

Depends on what you mean by attack. Draco shrugged, trying to both understand and hide his unexplainable sadness. Hadn't Weasley felt it? Was it only his imagination that they had so much in common? That they were, in so many ways, caricatures of each other? Why did he feel it but Weasley didn't?

Ron's eyes still weren't focusing; he seemed to have no grasp of his surroundings. "Malfoy," he said, a little slurred, "I'm pretty sure I didn't attack you."

"Yes, you did," Draco insisted. "You attacked me."

Ron shook his head stubbornly. "I don't remember what happened, but I'm pretty sure I didn't start it."

"How do you know that? You can't remember what happened. Why would I make that up?"

There was a logic to Draco's statements Ron couldn't argue with , but he still couldn't bring himself to accept he'd attacked Malfoy unprovoked. Draco's only injuries were the ones from the earlier fight, and Ron knew he'd be a lot more beat up if he'd been attacked again.

He thought, hard. Malfoy had been standing behind him; he'd told him to back off. Then, he started to leave the Great Hall. And then, nothing. A big hole existed in the fabric of Ron's memory, like stitches missing from a hem. It started, kept going, skipped off, and picked back up. Ron was frightened – how could he just forget the past few minutes?

Draco realised Ron was growing suspicious, so he quickly said, "Look, Weasley, as much as I'd love to use this as blackmail, I won't because, er... I might get in trouble too. So let's just never mention this again, shall we?"

A still disoriented Ron pondered on this. Perhaps that was a good plan – he didn't remember what happened, but he had a feeling it was highly scandalous, whatever it was. He wouldn't ever mention it again.

But Malfoy might. As the fog began to clear from Ron's head, it seemed more and more likely that Malfoy would tell the entire world what had happened (or at least what Malfoy said had happened – no guarantees it was the truth). How could he fix this?

And then, the solution. Dangerous, but perfect, forever eliminating the worry that Malfoy might tell anyone what had happened.

Draco looked at Ron suspiciously – what was he planning?

Suddenly, Ron whipped out his wand and said, "Obliviate!"

Draco froze for a moment, then, in movements pantomiming Ron's, looked up slowly. "Uh... what was that?"

Feigning anger, Ron said, "Malfoy, I just Stunned you because you tried to attack me. I don't know what you were thinking – I didn't do anything!"

Draco stared at Ron stupidly. "I did?"

"Yes. Why would I make that up?"

Somewhere in the back of Draco's mind, something told him he hadn't attacked Ron, but he had no idea what had happened. Some instinct, however, told him to just accept Ron's story.

Still shell-shocked, and not at all sure what he was doing, Draco said, "Yeah. Okay. Sorry. Got to go."

"Me too," Ron said, immensely relieved Draco had believed him.

Both turned in opposite directions and fled the Great Hall, wondering to themselves, What the hell really happened back there?