Complicated

CHAPTER THREE

Ron sighed. He hated studying! But he and Hermione both knew that if he didn't study now, on Friday night, then he wouldn't study at all, and end up flunking the Potions test come Monday. He'd been studying for ages though, it seemed, and now he was sick of it. Upon glancing at the common room clock, he saw it was 6:30. Yes, only half an hour 'till dinner...

Brushing a hand through his hair, making it even messier as a result, Ron leaned back in his chair. His quill dropped from loose fingers, and the parchments he'd been writing notes on rustled slightly as Ron, scooting back his chair to give his long legs some space, placed a pair of green-socked feet on the desk. Yawning widely, Ron pillowed his head with his arms, and closed his eyes. It only took him a few moments to fall asleep.

However, he was awake a few moments later, for in his sleep he had relaxed his muscles, causing the chair to tip back. Ron's chair fell backward, and the boy jolted awake in pain, moaning, "Oh, shit...oww..." The lump he now had on his head was pretty large. Grumbling, Ron stood up dizzily, picking up the chair and throwing it across the room. Glowering darkly, he stormed past Hermione as she came into the room, saying nothing. The world was against him this night, it seemed, denying him any comfort whatsoever. He might as well take a walk before dinner; at least he couldn't get hurt walking around the corridors.

Why did the world always have to be against him? What had he ever done to deserve all the bad luck? He inherited all the old things from his older brothers. He got all the workload now that his brothers weren't at home. He was blamed for Ginny's mistakes. He wasn't forgiven for forgetting things, when really it was totally understandable that Ron would forget things, he thought, because he had so much to do. He had to do chores, he had to do over-the-summer homework, he had to take care of Pig, he had to de-gnome the garden, he had to do his laundry, he had to clean his room twice a week, he had to write letters to people, he had to quiet the ghoul (or make as much noise as it did, but with pleasanter sounds) every once in a while, etc., etc., etc!

Ron looked up with a start, realizing something: It was quiet. Too quiet! All the noises had faded away. As he was walking, the noise had gradually gotten quieter, and quieter, until now. He heard not a single voice. He couldn't even hear the people on the above or below levels. Not a single staircase moved, and not a single frame said a word. Where was he?

Ron glanced around. The corridor was dark, and cold, the gray of the bricks seeming especially plain and solemn in the dark silence. The walls were light colored, as if they were very old, but had somehow persisted throughout the years. And the smell...what was that smell? It reminded Ron of the time he had been forced to sniff the inside of Fred's sneakers, or the time he'd waded in the murky waters of a lake nearby the Burrow, and found a dead fish lying on the shore. It was the smell of rot and age. But it reminded Ron of another sort of smell...well, not really a smell, he mused. More like a feeling, a coldness, that crept into his bones and made him shiver.

Jumping at a sudden noise, Ron held back a squeak of fear. He stumbled forward, squinting, unable to see where he was going in the dim light, unknowing of any way but away from where he was. His stumbling in confusion made him trip - Ron fell backwards, barely catching himself with his hands so he wouldn't get yet another bruise. Was that a cobweb up there? Oh, shit! He wanted to get out of here! No way was he going to wait around for the spiders to come get him! But...which way should he go?

Ron found himself suddenly disoriented. Had he come from the left, or the right? There were doors on either side of him, and his trip had made him completely lose any sense of direction. What had he tripped on, anyway? Oh, no, what if it was a spider? Ron stood up, and slowly, ever so slowly turned around, ready to run if he saw anything remotely resembling four pairs of legs.

Nope. But the door to his right, he noticed, was open, whereas all the others were closed. Finding this unusual, and wanting to escape from any spiders that lurked in the corridor, Ron slowly pushed the door open wider, and slipped inside.

It was an empty classroom. Desks loomed out from the darkness like huge beasts, casting eerie shadows on the moonlit floor. Glancing around as he walked down the main aisle in between the rows of desks, Ron sighed in relief to see that this classroom was used: that meant that it was clean, and most likely had no cobwebs or spiders in it at all. Ron turned around, startled, as he glimpsed something glinting in the corner of the classroom, by the window. Turning around fully to face the window from which the moonlight spilled forth, Ron saw that the glint was a pair of grey eyes, belonging to a heavily cloaked and hooded individual standing in the corner closest to the window.

Stepping forward into the moonlight, revealing himself to the stranger, Ron said quietly, "Er...sorry to invade your space. I, uh...I'll only be in here a little while. Promise."

The stranger said nothing. Shrugging, Ron sat down on the window ledge, leaning against the sill, the brick cold and dry against the skin of his neck, each groove seeming to push into him, to try to distract him from the stranger standing in the shadows. He couldn't help but stare--who was this person with the striking eyes, lurking in the shadows? Why was he or she here, alone, with apparently nothing--as far as Ron could see beneath the heavy cloak and hood--but a wand somewhere on him or her? Ron couldn't even see the House badge on the person, because it was so dark.

Ron sat in silence. It was somehow comforting to glance out the window onto Hogwarts grounds, and to see the moonlight shining onto some things other than him--a few bushes seemed to glow in its light, and the grass appeared silver. Ron felt strangely isolated from the rest of the world in that moment. The moonlight favored him, its light shimmering strangely to pale his skin, shadows stretching on either side into the classroom and on most of Hogwarts grounds that he could see from this point, the darkness swallowing up the trees and the lake, making Hogwarts seem like a small and quiet place.

It was suddenly unnerving, to glance to his left, his right, and at the stranger, and see that everything was in shadow. He felt as if the moonlight did not bless him, but rather, cursed him, making him stand out in the light, a clear target to anything hungry for a victim. He felt vulnerable from every side, the light of the moon a threat that pressed upon him and blinded his sight if he tried to glance straight at the moon in defiance.

Unable to take the silence or the strange feeling he felt of isolation and discomfort anymore, Ron glanced over at the stranger. Those eyes, the glance more piercing and swarming with innumerable feelings than any stare Ron had ever experienced, were looking straight at him. Trying to shake off the uneasy feeling with a shrug of his shoulders, Ron took the stare as an opportunity of having the stranger's attention, and asked with real curiosity, "So...why are you here?"

Ron was surprised when he got an answer. "Just to relax...and think over some problems, in a place that's peaceful and quiet." Well, his first real question had been answered: the stranger was a boy.

Ron didn't even notice the personal jab aimed at him, and continued talking. "Oh. I see. Well, me too, sort of. I got sick of studying, and figured I'd take a walk before dinner...so, what is it that's on your mind? Are they the typical troubles--doing poorly in school, or unable to find a library book, or getting weekly detentions, or failing a class, or losing Quidditch matches? If you can't find a library book, it's probably because my friend, Hermione Granger, carries almost half the library along with her every day. Are your problems any of those?"
" No."

Ron couldn't help but notice the crisp way the short answer was said. He decided to change the subject. "Do you play Quidditch?"

"Yes, I do."

Ron immediately became interested. "Really? What position?"

"Seeker. Before Hogwarts, I used to pretend I was a Chaser...but that got kind of lame. And really, I'm a better flyer than that."

Ron nodded, smiling to find another interested in Quidditch (and a Seeker, at that!) and then asked abruptly, "Are you a Pureblood - or Muggleborn? I, I mean, not that I care, I'm not against Muggleborns or anything, not like those nasty Slytherin gits. Hermione's a Muggleborn. She's a really smart witch though, probably the best in the whole school. I hate when she makes me study, though. Stupid Potions test on Monday..."

Ron looked up in surprise as the stranger laughed. The laugh was a nice one, loud and rich in warmth, echoing around the room. It changed the entire mood of the darkened room, immediately turning it into a place Ron was suddenly glad to find himself at. Glancing bemusedly at the stranger, and wondering why he didn't feel angry--after all, the stranger was probably laughing at him--Ron asked, "What? What's so funny?"

Ron looked up as the stranger suddenly moved out of the shadows. That pair of grey-blue eyes were even more startling when the moonlight hit them, and Ron almost gasped to see how bright they were. He quickly moved aside to make space as the stranger, still wearing cloak and hood and therefore unable to be identified, sat down next to him on the windowsill. A smirk twisted a pair of lips that Ron could just barely squint to see in the heavy shadow--for the stranger sat with his back to the window, so the light shone only upon his cloaked head, and his features were still hidden.

Chuckling, the stranger said quietly, "You, Ron. You're funny. You have so many opportunities to take tutoring or just get a few tips from various people about Potions, but you don't take advantage of any of them--your muggleborn friend, or various other people. At least one good thing about the Slytherins is that some seem quite adept at Potions, hmm? Why not get a few tips from one of them?"

Ron was furious at the suggestion. "Take tips from a Slytherin? No! That would be a shameful thing for a Gryffindor to do, a total toss away of pride! I have pride in my House, and I won't toss it by asking a Slytherin for help. Besides, do you want to know what I bet one of them would say? They would call me a fool for thinking to ask, and would wank on about my family and my worthlessness and stupidity for a while, and then they would laugh. Snape would--"

"Do they make you feel worse - the Slytherins? When they make fun of you, about your family, friends, and poverty...etcetera. I mean...what's it like?" The boy's voice was low, quiet, as if he was hesitant about asking the question.

Ron growled. "Well, we're not half as poor as everyone thinks! We just like to get along with what we've got; it's the family philosophy, in a way: take what you get, but aspire to make something out of what you get, and be the most you can be. You know there's going to be mistakes in life, bad things and feelings, but you just have to deal with it, and make the most of it and of yourself that you can. It is sort of shoddy, though...our house, and belongings. I inherit all my older brothers things, and I get blamed for a lot of shit. As for me, and my friends, and different aspects of us - I wouldn't care what the Slytherins say, since I know who I and my friends really are, but they lie so much, and some people actually believe them. That just makes me so mad, that people believe all that junk. Even if they do, why not come up and talk to us, ask us, instead of just believing the Slytherins?"

For a long while, the stranger was silent, silent so long that Ron thought the stranger didn't want to talk anymore. But then, quietly, the other boy said, "I see you what you mean. And the family philosophy - it's a good one. Anyways, I interrupted what you were saying before - continue, please."

"What was I saying? Oh yeah, reasons not to ask the Slytherins for tips. Well, Snape would be even more brutal during the next Potions lesson, and would probably take some points off of me for no reason, and Malfoy would laugh his arse off so hard that his goddamn smirk would become permanent. I REFUSE to ask a Slytherin for anything!"

"I suppose I can see your point. It has some truth in it. I don't think Professor Snape would get involved in the matter during the next Potions lesson, however, and I do believe you are highly biased. Put aside the Gryffindor ego, and just think--what if you wanted to ask a Slytherin a question, not relating to school or anything like that. Not asking as in a request, because obviously you see that as a weakness and refuse to ask a Slytherin for anything resembling 'help,' even if the consequences of not getting help are horrid, but just as something you want to know, any question at all--what would you ask? And if there was a specific Slytherin you wanted to speak to, who would it be?"

Ron thought about it, for a long time. He didn't even contemplate what sort of question the stranger was asking, but just accepted it, and tried to think of an answer. Who would he ask, and what? Was there any particular Slytherin he wanted to know something about, or had always wondered about? Not really. He didn't like a single one of them, and didn't know very many of them, actually, he realized. A few random Slytherin names came to mind--Millicent Bulstrode, Zacharias Smith, Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson. But he certainly didn't have any question for them. What about Snape? Ron pondered about that for a little bit. Snape? But what would he ask? There was no point asking the man why he hated Ron so - it was a Slytherin versus Gryffindor thing, a tradition of sorts that had been going on for ages, and never ended, because never did a Slytherin or Gryffindor in history take a liking to each other in any way.

Then, suddenly, the answer came to him.

"Malfoy!" Ron said. "Malfoy would definitely be it. I would ask him."

There was a pause, and Ron glanced at the stranger to try and gauge his reaction, but a slender, pale hand was tugging at the hem of the hood, covering the boy's face even more from view. Ron noticed a few threads of the hood coming loose, the boy tugged and pulled at it so.

"Why would you ask...this, this Malfoy? What would you ask him?"

Ron changed position, curling his knees up to his chest, hugging them to him, and placing his bruised chin gingerly atop. He blew a stray lock of red hair to the side before answering. As he did so, he stared off into the distance, not quite seeing the view outside the window.

"I would ask him what he cares about, if somewhere in that brainwashed mind of his, he has the ability to think for himself, and if he does, what he thinks."

There was a long pause, and for a while, Ron just stared out into the distance, silent. This was peaceful, talking to someone interesting who had questions, contemplating things he hadn't thought on before. But he started to fall asleep, and had just closed his eyes, when the silence was broken.

"If he told you an answer you didn't expect, how would you react? Would you accept it as truth, or refuse to accept his answer, just because it's hard for you to fathom?"

Ron turned to face the stranger, squirming. What was the boy going on about?

"Well...what do you mean? I mean, it depends what the answer was. I mean, what would Malfoy say as an answer that I couldn't fathom? He'd probably say that the most important things to him are his father, You-Know-Who, his riches, his pure blood, and the book I bet he's written on 'strategies to kill Potter, Weasley, and the -' well, I won't say it. It's...you know. That offensive word for Muggleborns."

The other boy turned around to face Ron with such force, his face twisting in such anger that Ron thought he would surely get throttled thoroughly. Hands balled up into fists in evident anger, the boy shouted, "Is that ALL that - all that he MEANS to you? Does the name Malfoy just make you think of a Death Eater's son who worships Voldemort and who wants to murder anyone who cares for Potter and who loves only himself and his wealth? Is that ALL Draco Malfoy is to you?"

Ron was rendered speechless in the face of such fury. Those eyes seemed to blaze silver in their fury, those fists clenching and unclenching as if preparing to fight, teeth grit in fury, the veins of his arms standing, his hair on end. Usually people being angry with him didn't affect Ron, and most often Ron would get angry back. But seeing how such fury was so obviously directed straight at him, and noticing the way he thought the clenched fists and the sparkling wetness in those eyes also spoke of a great sadness at Ron's words, frightened Ron, that he could cause so much anger and hatred so quickly, and yet with those same words also cause such evident pain. Ron sat helpless, speechless, backed up against the windowsill as much as he could possibly be, eyes wide.

When no words came from Ron's mouth, the boy did not become even more furious as Ron expected him to, but rather, he became even more pained. Lunging forward, tears springing in his eyes, his eyelashes seats upon which the salty droplets sat, the boy grabbed Ron by the shoulders and shook him, hard. Cringing, shutting his eyes tightly, Ron felt his throat become dry, and his lungs heave to breathe, even as the boy's grip dug so hard into his shoulders, like talons, that he was sure he was bruised.

Ron wished he had no ears as the boy, voice choked, and cracking, trembling and faltering every few moments, rasped, "Is that all he is? You've changed; why can't Malfoy? Why must you hate all Slytherins, why must you give them no chance to be viewed as anything but horrid? Why can't Malfoy be seen to you as more than an enemy, a Slytherin, a Death Eater's son, a person to hate so much you almost burst every time you lay eyes on him? Why must you stereotype him so, and not see what lies beneath, but only what lies upon the surface? You're intelligent; surely you must know that if you strive to see beneath the thin layer, you will see the true Malfoy, as clearly as you see my face at this moment?"

Ron slowly, ever so slowly let a breath out with a whoosh, and dared to open his eyes as the boy's grip loosened, and those cold hands slid to rest upon Ron's hips. This caused him to remember it all in the rush--not that he had forgotten it, but he had forced it from his mind, so unable had he been to bear the memories. He remembered the collision with Malfoy in the hall, in which Malfoy had seemed to want to be close and had dared rest a hand on Ron's thigh, and Ron had discovered afterward it made his body feel and his mind ponder things he didn't want to feel or ponder. He remembered he tripping in the hallway on the way to Potions, and how Malfoy had not laughed at Ron like the others, and how Ron had begun to think that maybe Malfoy wasn't so bad, and that he really didn't actually know Malfoy at all. So when the boy mentioned the true Malfoy, Ron remembered all of these repressed memories, and the image of Malfoy, his mouth twisted in a genuine smile, hand held out in an offer of kindness to Ron, came to mind.

And then Ron opened his eyes, and saw the face that who he thought was a stranger said he could clearly see. Immediately, shock hit him like a blow to the stomach. Ron stared in unconcealed alarm at the very boy who had become the chosen topic: Draco Malfoy. His eyes wide, red streaks upon his cheeks from tears now wiped away, Draco returned Ron's stare. Ron watched in silence as the hood slid from Draco's head, confirming the other boy's identity as Malfoy, with the unmistakable sight of that white-blonde hair, now unusually unkempt.

Ron stared at Draco, stared, and stared, until his eyes began to water. Then, just as Ron opened his mouth to speak, Draco leant in, and Ron thought at any moment, that, surely they would just bump noses? Surely, Malfoy was just going to laugh mockingly in Ron's ear? Surely, this leaning forward didn't have any strange intentions behind it? Ron realized in a moment that it did, as those lips came but a breath away from touching his, before he quickly turned away in the nick of time, causing Draco's mouth to brush softly instead against his cheek. Ron found the touch of those lips to be soft, feather-light, gentle, and caring.

It hurt. It hurt to know that he meant more to this boy than he had ever imagined, and that he was now causing Draco pain. It actually hurt to cause Malfoy emotional pain, the most pain Ron had ever caused anyone in his life. But it hurt even more to be confused, to be unable to understand his own feelings, to know not what to do about the situation, and only know that he was scared, and he wanted to be angry again, in order to regain the sense of normalcy with the world by being angry with Malfoy. But he had no reason to be angry with Malfoy! The need to escape, to get a chance to bury his face in his pillow and try and blank all thoughts from his mind swallowed Ron up, buried him so deep he felt the sting of tears unlike he'd felt in years prick at the corners of his eyes.

Ron shoved Malfoy away, glad that the boy caught himself and didn't fall to the floor. His head turned away so Malfoy would not see how much pain it caused him to say it, Ron whispered quietly, but loud enough for Malfoy to hear, "How could you do that? You..." A million words came to Ron's mind. You...liar, Slytherin, poof, pillock, dimwit, or a hopeless romantic - to even imagine such a thing as an 'us' could exist. That last one stung Ron just to think it. Never had he experienced such a feeling of elation upon a sign of affection, even with family. Never had the brush of mouth against his cheek, so soft, so caring, meant so much. Never had he been loved that much, that strongly, for who he was NOW, rather than for who he had been when younger, for who he had been THEN.

And yet Ron managed to spit out the words, "Malfoy, you're a bastard. Shove off."

Then, Ron did what he had felt like doing for years, but never done because he'd never been this afraid: He RAN.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Draco didn't know what to think, what to do, what to say. So, he said nothing, and did nothing, and tried his best to not think anything at all. Of course, none of the Slytherins were concerned for him; even though he lay in his bed all day, face down, without a single word or movement. Crabbe and Goyle, when he had arrived in the common room early next morning, had simply asked him why his face was green-ish. He had murmured that he'd decided he wanted to be Slytherin all the way. Of course, being Crabbe and Goyle, they'd accepted that answer.

On the third day, Pansy had come to see him, and nodded when he'd told her he was sick, after wailing for him to get up. He had promptly thrown many objects all around the room and at her, and at the door after she slammed it closed. It had not made him feel any better, really. But he supposed it had gotten him more exercise throwing than if he'd cast spells to make the objects toss themselves.

Blaise came in at one point even, and quietly told Draco to get the fuck out of bed, and that he was humiliating the whole of Slytherin, and especially Snape, by moping and not being present in public. Draco had said nothing to the other boy. Then Millicent Bulstrode had come, and tried to sit on him, saying that he'd either get up or get smashed, but he'd pointed his wand at her nose, threatening to rid her of it. She'd promptly shut up, of course.

No one else came to visit Draco. He didn't care either way; he tried his best not to care about anything. But every once in a while, he would glance at the Slytherin flag up on the wall, and would almost succumb to the temptation to tear it down. But he didn't. Finally, after a few words from Snape, and a lot of thinking, he had decided that there was no use sulking. If he went on too long, his father would send him a letter about the Malfoy pride, and besides, he tried to convince himself, it wasn't good to let one Gryffindor's words and actions effect him so much.

There were some points, though, he realized--three days after he'd stepped out of Slytherin common room for the first time in a long time--when he couldn't hold in his anger. He didn't want Ron to know how much it had hurt to be rejected; rather, he wanted to hurt the Gryffindor back. So, he decided, the next time I see Ron, I will show no weakness. There is no time to love or to heal, only to hurt him. I'll be more aggressive upon our next encounter; that is for sure!

~~~~~*~~~~~

"What did you do that for, Malfoy?"

Draco turned around, and then looked up. Damn it, he hated looking up! But it was required, if one wanted to look Ron in the eye. Smirking, he tapped his foot, drawling, "Do what, Weasley? Make you realize how pathetic you are?"

"Pathetic? I didn't DO anything! You knocked over my cauldron, you--" Draco snapped his fingers even as Ron jumped at him. How it hurt to see that fury burning in those eyes, and to know that he could never have or understand it. How it hurt to know that nothing but that anger and hatred would ever be directed at him. He felt a twinge of jealousy as Crabbe and Goyle grabbed Ron, one arm each, and shoved him back against the wall. Smirking, Draco stepped so that he was standing directly in front of Ron, only inches away. Standing on his tiptoes a little so that his eyes were level with the Gryffindor's, Draco smirked, stroking the underside of that rough jaw, and ghosting fingers over that pouting mouth, beautiful with its wide lips and smooth, gentle curves. Then, his smirk turning into a frown and was joined by a burning glare, Draco gave a harsh squeeze to one of Ron's shoulders, knowing at the other boy's wince that he was pushing against the same bruise his own hands had put upon Ron's skin. Draco smiled; it still hurt. Good.

Pointing towards a broom closet, Draco waved goodbye to the redhead, and then walked down the hallway. He cast a locking spell on the closet at the last moment, so Ron couldn't escape.

He didn't give a damn if that bastard died in there!