It is six o' clock in the morning, and Draco Malfoy is awake. What the hell, he thinks, and also thinks that perhaps he has gone insane. Not just because he is awake at six o' clock in the morning, though that is likely cause enough for concern, in most cases. Why he is awake at six o' clock in the morning (he can't help obsessing over the time - it's habit, and besides, the clock was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes, and he sure as hell wasn't going to be focusing on anything else) is the main thing. Bollocks, he thinks instead of thinking of why he is awake at six o' clock in the morning, and gets up to take a shower.

It is six twenty-seven in the morning and Draco Malfoy is dripping wet and in a very foul mood. This isn't fair, he thinks and towels his hair. And it isn't - not at all. It's just a bloody dream anyway, not like it matters. Or means anything. Because it doesn't. Not a thing except for that he has an overactive imagination and he cannot always be in control of it. Not fair at all, he thinks and pulls on his trousers. Not fair at all!

It is seven oh seven in the morning and Draco Malfoy is trying not to think about it. Not thinking shouldn't be this hard, is his opinion on the matter, and he is not feeling much better than at six twenty-seven. Worse, even. He contemplates waking someone up - anyone, really. Just so he can talk down to them and scowl and feel much more like himself. But he doesn't feel like dealing with all the bother right now. He doesn't feel like dealing with any bother right now, actually, and wishes that his brain would take the hint and just shut up, already.

It is eight o' clock in the morning, and Draco Malfoy's brain has decided that it isn't too keen on the idea of shutting up, and it's breakfast and everything's just getting worse and worse. As if eight o' clock in the morning wasn't bad enough on its own account, now he's got this dream business to deal with, even though he's already dealt with it, thank you very much and isn't thinking about it at all. Except he is, and he knows it, and it's pissing him off. And it doesn't help that the source of the problem isn't going away soon, even though he wishes it would.

It is eight oh five in the morning, and Ron Weasley isn't feeling too hot, probably because he ate too many Chocolate Frogs last night on a bet. And now Hermione is nagging him about prefects and responsibility and he really doesn't want to hear it. What he wants is a nap but it's only eight oh five and not time for a nap yet. Unless one is sick, he reasons, and he is very sick. At least, he is telling everyone that he is very sick, and NOT BECAUSE OF THOSE CHOCOLATE FROGS, YOU GITS, SO SHUT UP. He just wants to crawl into bed and forget about Chocolate Frogs and prefects and the fact that Malfoy is staring at him in a decidedly suspicious manner.

It is nine sixteen in the morning and Ron is trying to convince Harry that Malfoy is up to something. Harry believes him, of course, but of course Hermione thinks they should just ignore him and stay out of trouble this year. Ron tries to tell her that it's not exactly that they are trying to get into trouble, it's more as if trouble is an intrinsic (and yes he knows what that means) part of their destinies although she'd really have to talk to Lavender or Parvati about that to know for sure. And so she snorts and rolls her eyes and thinks viciously scathingly clever thoughts about Trelawney and Divination, which is funny but he was trying to make a point.

It is ten forty-two in the morning and Ron is in Transfiguration trying to remember what it was that Flitwick had said in Charms yesterday that had caused Lavender Brown to keel over with giggles, because he hadn't known what was so funny and he hated being left out of a joke. He notices that Malfoy is giving him the evil eye again and glares back as viciously as possible before McGonagall notices and glares them all into detention. Not that you can get a detention for glaring. But you never know. There could be rioting in the desks in a moment. Or maybe he's just bored and he's run out of doodle space in the margins of his notes and Harry is keeping his at a safe distance.

It is twelve o' clock noon and Ron is glancing over at the Slytherin table in what he hopes is a nasty and menacing manner. Just let him try something, he thinks, and barely touches his lunch. Hermione is sighing gustily and acting ever so mature whilst Harry is talking about how this always happens and how Malfoy is a prat and Ron is nodding and trying to glare at the same time and it just looks stupid. And Malfoy is looking back now and Ron doesn't like the look in his eyes at all, and it's really just grating on his nerves, so when the git leaves the Great Hall he decides to follow and have words. Not that he tells Harry or Hermione because this is going to be between Malfoy and himself, mano a mano, and it might get nasty - girls shouldn't be present.

It is twelve eighteen in the afternoon and Draco Malfoy has absolutely had enough of this thinking and glaring and he is leaving, all right? He goes out to the grounds because the castle is stuffy and people are everywhere and he really doesn't want to see people right now. The trees and paths are a bit better but not much because his brain is still on and he wants desperately for it to be off. This is stupid, of course, all because of a dream and he only had it once, really, that was all, and it was normal for those kinds of dreams to go on. He sits down at the base of a tree to forget about all of this but it isn't thirty seconds before someone is hauling him up by his collar and that just is not going to work, right now or ever.

It is twelve twenty-three in the afternoon and Ron is being spontaneous and already regretting it because Malfoy is looking murderous, not that he's scared of him. And now he's got a fist in his stomach and is crumpling but not before he gets in a good shot to the jaw and they're both on the ground, rolling and kicking and punching and biting. And he isn't going to be beat by some skinny hateful little ferret, oh no, he's going to give him hell and he won't be forgetting it. Not now or ever, and Ron won't either because now there's something very different going on and he isn't sure what to think of it, if he's supposed to think at all.

It is twelve twenty-nine in the afternoon and Draco Malfoy is kissing Ron Weasley for all he's worth, tongue and teeth and lips and everything in between and he doesn't care about dreams or time or anything else. Hate and rage and lust are pouring out into fingernails scratching long red welts onto his neck and into tongues that resist and then give and wrestle but it's different than the punching and kicking. Into fingers that move from his neck to his collar to his shirt-buttons and rip them away and brush up against his nipples and tear the moans from his mouth like he doesn't have any control over anything, and he doesn't. And now his hands are doing the same thing and getting the same response and maybe they aren't so different after all, even though he knows they are.

Ron doesn't know what time it is right now and he doesn't care because Draco Malfoy has undone his trousers and is trying to undo him and it's all working very well as far as he can tell. And it's not as if he's done this before, because he hasn't, but now he's doing the same thing and he doesn't have time to wonder about being caught at this even though he knows he ought to. And they're synchronized now, moaning and stroking and Merlin knows what else because he doesn't, and now it's all getting bright and dark all at once and significantly louder but only for a second and it's over.

It is twelve fifty-one in the afternoon and Draco only knows because he checked his watch out of habit, he doesn't really care at all. Right now, at, apparently, twelve fifty-one in the afternoon, he is draped over Ron Weasley who is looking rather stunned but is still grinning, sort of, so it can't have been all bad. Because it was wonderful, even with the blood and sore jaw and grass and leaves everywhere. Wonderful. And he wouldn't mind doing it again, of course, if Ron was game, and he shouldn't be referring to him by his first name, should he? But it's too late, and now he's kissing him again but this time it's different from before and Draco thinks that next time maybe they ought to use a bed.