--

Two

Wincing at the throbbing pain in his right knee, Ron stood. Then he glared down at the seventh year Slytherin, barely containing a snarl. Malfoy was still smirking. He was sitting and leaning against the stone wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. Tendrils of his blond hair were sticking out at odd angles and, though Ron was certainly no expert on what Malfoy looked like he thought the teen’s face was unusually flushed and his eyes unusually red.

How did he get here so fast? Wasn’t he just sitting at his House table in the Great Hall?

Ron almost groaned. The Slytherin must have slipped away while he was busy watching Harry and Hermione grasp hands.

He didn't want to think about that. At all. So he took the anger that rose up at the thought of his two friends together and aimed it -- along with the already abundant supply of anger he'd always had for the boy -- at Malfoy.

“Prick. Watch where you're...sitting.” Okay. So his verbal sparring skills were not the best. But he was tall and he had gained muscle over the years. So his advantage when it came to physical sparring was pretty big. If it ever came to blows with Malfoy, Ron would have the smaller Slytherin beat before they even started fighting. Still glaring at the blond, Ron figured the boy had probably beat out Harry for position of shortest boy in seventh year.

Harry would be pleased to hear that. Ron decided not to tell his friend about his observation...at least not right away.

Malfoy’s calm demeanor suddenly disappeared. His eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you watch where you're walking, Weasel?”

Ron fought the urge to pummel the Slytherin. Right there, right then. “What are you doing out here, anyway? Everyone is supposed to be in the Great Hall.”

Looking furious and his fingers moving towards the shiny prefect badge pinned on his robe, the platinum haired teen opened his mouth to reply. He was probably going to point out that Ron too was wandering the halls while he was supposed to be in the Great Hall eating dessert. And he was probably going to point out that he, like Ron was a prefect. He was probably going to tell the redhead to go straight to hell.

Ron never had to think up a response to any of those things, however, because before Malfoy spoke Pansy Parkinson came charging up the marble staircase, her shoes clicking loudly on the floor. She brushed by Ron to stand at the blond’s side. She looked livid.

“I thought you had gone to the dorms. What are you doing here? The feast will be finished any minute and we have to be in our dorms. We have to be asleep, Draco.” She didn’t even seem to notice the Gryffindor standing next to her. She bent and tugged at Malfoy’s arm insistently. After a few tugs Malfoy, now looking just as livid as Pansy, spoke up.

“Let go of me. Don’t touch me.” His voice was low and deadly.

Pansy let go of the blond’s arm very suddenly. It was as if she’d been shocked. As if she’d just discovered he was covered in toxic waste. “Fine,” she said. “Just hurry and get to bed.”

With that, she turned and walked away.

Ron, not entirely sure what he had just witnessed going on between the two Slytherins, watched as Malfoy stood. The teenager leaned against the wall for a moment. He looked tired. He took a step and faltered, lost his balance.

Without thinking Ron reached out and steadied the blond. He had time to look into startled gray eyes and to notice how odd it felt to be grasping the narrow and very human shoulder of his enemy before Malfoy shrugged him off and stalked away.

Strange, thought the youngest Weasley brother as he stared after the Slytherin. Really strange.

He headed for his House.

--

Draco stayed a few feet behind Pansy as they walked. They had reached the school dungeons and were now headed towards the stretch of bare, damp stone wall that was the entrance to the Slytherin House. It was quiet all around them. The blond could hear the echo that the tapping of the seventh year girl’s heeled shoes against the floor produced.

Draco rubbed at his right shoulder. The shoulder Ron had grabbed. He knew it hadn’t been on purpose. He knew that if Ron had thought about it for an instant, if he hadn’t acted on pure instinct the redhead would have let him fall. It was that stupid hero mentality. The Weasel had spent entirely too much time with Harry Potter throughout the years.

Pansy glanced back at him and he paused in his shoulder rubbing. When she looked away, he started up again.

It had felt odd, when he and the Weasel had made contact. Like something had...clicked.

Draco snorted. More like something broke. Looking at that ugly mug of his probably impaired my sanity or something.

They reached the stretch of wall. Pansy spat out the password (venomous) and the common room was revealed. For a brief and stupid second Draco wondered how she knew the password. Then he recalled that Pansy too had been appointed a prefect back in fifth year. And she had, unlike him, gone to the prefect meeting that had taken place during the train ride to Hogwarts earlier that day.

“Let’s go to bed,” said the girl as soon as the entrance had closed back up. She moved in the direction of the girl’s dorms.

Draco stood his ground. He studied Pansy, noticing how pale and exhausted she looked. She seemed sick. Hell, she was sick. Sick with worry about what the other Slytherins would do when they finally got their hands on the two children of the traitors. She was trying to hide from them and avoid them.

She was delaying the inevitable.

Draco decided to let that particular issue drop for now.

Instead, he wanted to know why Pansy had sat with him in the train -- he thought he had resolved that, but considering her latest actions apparently not -- and why she had searched him out when he’d slipped away from the Great Hall. After what had happened to Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson how could the girl stand being near him? Why had she gone stomping around the school looking for him so he also could avoid the wrath of their Housemates for a bit longer?

He had to know.

“Pansy,” he said softly.

The girl stopped climbing the stairs that led up to the dorms and tensed. Obviously, she knew this latest conversation would not be pleasant.

“Yes?”

“Why did you search me out and lead me back here just now? After... Pansy. After what happened. After what happened with your parents-"

”Don’t you talk about my parents!" snapped the girl, cutting off Draco's question. "You don’t deserve to talk about them you...you stupid prat!” Her voice was loud and violent. Her eyes flashed with anger.

Abruptly and with envy Draco recalled all of the loving and adoring looks Pansy had shot his way throughout the years. He could hardly believe he'd once thought those looks to be annoying. Troublesome.

“I know! I know I don’t deserve to talk about them, okay? I also know I don’t deserve you willing to be anywhere near me. Why are you doing it, Pansy? I know you hate me. Don’t you hate me?”

His voice broke a little. He sounded desperate and on the verge of tears. He hated sounding like that. He was an aristocrat. He was pure-blooded, a Slytherin. His father had raised him to be-

Draco stopped that train of thought. His father didn’t matter anymore.

A few tears were falling down Pansy’s cheeks now. When she next spoke her voice was low, but clear and harsh. “I hate you, Draco Malfoy. I hate you more than anything or anyone I’ve ever hated before. I probably hate you more than the Dark Lord himself hates muggles and mudbloods. But our parents are gone and everyone knows our secrets now. You're all I've got.”

She paused for a moment. Breathed a shaky breath.

“I’ll never forgive you and I don’t like being around you, so don’t flatter yourself. You told me, after the murders, that you were sorry and that you would do anything. You told me you would even die for me... When things get bad, when the other Slytherins are about ready to hand us over to the Dark Lord on silver platters I intend to take you up on that offer. Are you happy? Is that enough of an answer for you?”

Numb inside, Draco nodded.

Pansy continued up the stairs.

So that was it. He had promised he’d die for her to make things up to her and that’s what she wanted.

She’d have a dead Draco and a sheild against the other Slytherins to boot.

Draco went up to his bed. Just before he fell into a restless sleep he was assaulted with the image of Ron’s eyes looking into his own, with the phantom feeling of a strong hand on his shoulder.