Title: Hogwarts Slander
Penname: Page of Cups
Summary: RonxDraco. Sometimes it doesn't take poetry or romance. Sometimes a few well-selected insults and lavatory graffiti is all you need.
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. I'll put them back when I'm done.
Warning: There is naughty boy-touching-boy in this fic. There is cursing. Adult content ahead. Slashyness. Boys humping boys. Red flag. Red flag. Okay. I'm done.
Author's Note: Hee. If you've read the author's notes in my stories before, you may recognize the title to this story as . . . well, something I wrote back circa April 2004. But the bunnies chewed up my cords. And I couldn't access it. But I saved my hard drive and today, well . . . now that I've got a computer again and all, I pulled this off it, and here it is. Hogwarts Slander in all it's glory. Don't ever say I don't follow through on my promises. By the way, Windows 95 looks so ghetto.
"How long are you and Malfoy going to keep this up?" asked Harry, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
Ron glanced at Harry, smirked, and rummaged through his bag. They stood in the boys' lavatory on the first floor just after Transfiguration on a Thursday afternoon. About three weeks ago, some random comment had been scrawled on this very lavatory wall. Hogwarts was typically good about graffiti (Filch lived to bust students for the slightest infraction), but this one had gone unnoticed. In fact, if it hadn't sparked such a sudden interest in libel, the event would have been unmemorable.
Now staring at the wall, Ron didn't know which comment had started it anymore. It had been about one of the Slytherins, Ron remembered. Something offensive enough that it reached said Slytherin's ear and prompted retaliation. Since then, the male half of Hogwarts waged a war on each other and the girls, their sole objective to defile the good names of their classmates. Ron got the feeling that if the girls had known of the spectacle going on in the first floor lavatory, they would highly disapprove. Or at least want to participate in the gossip.
Not that this was gossip. This was more like slander. Slander was nothing like gossip.
Offensive lines and pictures had hardly begun to cover the walls when the first piece of slander appeared against Malfoy. Someone had written, 'I'm a slut,' on the wall, and next to it was an arrow labeled, 'Malfoy advertisement.' It hadn't stopped there. The wall explained that all letters to Malfoy should be addressed to Draco Malfoy, Death Eater. Since that was written the Death part was crossed out, and replaced with Dick.
It hadn't stopped there, either. Poems started to show up. Pathetic little rhymes such as, 'I see milk. I see cheese. I see Malfoy on his knees.' Under where someone (probably a first year) had written, 'Weasley is my king,' someone else had written, 'Malfoy is my queen.' In big, capital letters, a random person had boasted, 'DRACO MALFOY SUCKS MY COCK.' It really was quite funny.
Ron couldn't resist. All the comments against the good Malfoy name were too much for Ron to resist. Just looking at the offenses against all things Malfoy caused a happy, giddy feeling to lift his heart. He'd been good, though. He hadn't commented (never mind the fact he was still honing the perfect insult). He didn't write anything about Malfoy until last week when he walked into the lavatory to find a rather cartoonish picture of a red-haired boy sucking another boy's cock. The boys were labeled 'Weasel'' and 'Potter.' By the picture was the comment, 'Weasels burrow into Potter's arse.'
It was childish. Ron knew it was childish. In a way, he was almost flattered that Malfoy (it had to be Malfoy – no one else called him Weasel) assumed he was the one coming up with so many insults. He had crossed out the Weasel by the picture and relabeled it Malfoy. Under the comment, Ron responded with, 'Weasels are beautiful and noble creatures.' He'd returned the next day to find the Malfoy relabeled Weasel and the words beautiful and noble replaced with ugly and poor.
Since then, there was a waging battle between himself and Malfoy. Though they'd seen each other many times in the corridors, continued to squabble and fight, their lavatory conversation remained in the lavatory. Ron found himself wandering down here once a day to see what message Malfoy had left.
Ron wasn't obsessed, though. Not even a little bit.
"So what's Malfoy have to say now?" asked Harry. He shoved up his sleeves and sighed.
"Dunno yet. Still looking. Someone's told us to get a life."
Ron pointed to a comment written off to the side. He pulled his quill from his bag, tapped it with his wand so the ink would stick to the wall, and touched it to the stone. Under the, 'Get a life,' Ron wrote, 'Get an orgasm.'
"There are better things to do than to insult Malfoy all day long," said Harry.
Harry had no idea.
"I'm not. Besides, if you have so many better things to do, why don't you go do them? I'll see you at dinner."
"Want to be alone with Malfoy now?" grumbled Harry. Ron glanced at him and frowned. "I was kidding. Do whatever you want. I need to find Hermione, anyway. I want to copy her History of Magic notes."
"Can I get them off of you later?"
"I suppose. We need to stop sleeping through lessons."
"Or we should have just dropped it after O.W.L.s."
"Excellent point. No use now, though. Not with the N.E.W.T.s a few months away."
Ron nodded and grumbled an incoherent sound. He cocked his head to the side, following his conversation with Malfoy. It wound around a fixture in the wall and turned sideways.
"I'll just leave you with Malfoy, then." Ron grumbled again, and Harry sighed for the second time. Grabbing his bag off the lavatory floor, he pushed out the door and into the corridor. Ron watched him go from the corner of his eye.
Toward the bottom of their communication, Malfoy had written, 'Ron Weasley sees a sickle and drops to his knees.' Ron responded with, 'You wish I were on my knees, Malfoy.' The last comment in their correspondence said, 'Weasels don't take charity. They like to work for their money . . . underneath Goyle.' Ron grimaced, scowled, and resisted the urge to vomit at the thought.
Ron scratched his quill along his chin and thought. What possible retaliation could match Malfoy's lewd and perverse insistence that Ron might be allowing Goyle to use his bum for money? Malfoy was not only sick, but very, very wrong.
As Ron pondered what could be the ultimate and perfect rebuttal, he glanced at the big, red words slashed off to the side. His eyes scanned the letters, pieced them into words, and processed the words into sentences. He had to be seeing things wrong. This could not be saying what he though it was saying. If it said what he thought it meant . . .
Someone else had to be following their conversation. There was no other thing for it. And that someone else was sorrowfully misinformed. He and Malfoy were not obsessed with each other, were not venting sexual frustration, and did not want to just fuck and get it over with already.
If this anonymous, large-lettered, highly unobservant person though Ron was going to bugger Malfoy's arse he had another thing coming.
Under the lewd and very wrong suggestion, Ron wrote, 'I do not want to bugger Malfoy. That is sick!' He shoved his things into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and hurried out of the lavatory. Glancing both ways down the corridor, Ron rushed toward the Grand Staircase, hoping to put all images of Malfoy's arse out of his head.
Whoever wrote such odious suggestions was going to die a slow and painful death. A death that involved bowtruckles and wood lice spread across the most notorious of male appendages. Never mind that he had yet to discover whom the foolish idiot was that made such unfounded suggestions. Draco would find out. Malfoys always find out who dare to ruin their reputations.
Okay, so Draco still didn't know who wrote the little rhyme about being on his knees or the Dick Eater comment or the idea that he would suck anyone's cock. That didn't matter, though. This was different.
Draco did not want to shag Weasel. Not at all.
Except that one time when they were in Potions and Weasel was bent over his cauldron, hair hanging in his eyes, and looked just so lost trying to figure out what to do next. And that time during detention with Snape when he was scrubbing out the cauldrons, up to his elbows in cleaner, a light sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. Or that time after Gryffindor Quidditch practice when Potter seemed to have forgotten Weasel's existence and went off on his own. He continued to drift on his broom long after the other team members had gone, a picture of pure ecstasy on his face from flying. Then there was the time last Hogsmeade weekend when Weasel was sitting at the Three Broomsticks with Mudblood and Potter, laughing like someone could actually enjoy their company.
But that didn't mean he wanted to shag Weasley. The very idea was sickening. Even if he did want to shag Weasley, it wasn't his fault. Weasley was muscular and tall and strong and sexy and Draco wouldn't mind being pinned under that body, and . . .
Perhaps he did want to shag Weasley, but that was beside the point. People shouldn't be broadcasting it on Hogwarts lavatories, even if he had been focusing a lot of his attention lately on Weasley's sex life. Bless him, the stupid wanker had only recently inquired as to why Draco spent so much time talking about Weasley's sexual practices (ranging from bedroom activities with Potter and Mudblood to wet dreams and wanking).
It wasn't Draco's fault if he wanted assurance that Potter or Mudblood hadn't defiled Weasley. It was research. It was guaranteeing that if he were to, say, rape Weasley, he wouldn't be infested with any diseases. Who knew what kind of infections bred in Mudbloods and Boys-Who-Just-Won't-Die?
And if he happened to get the idea over their correspondence that Weasley had no interest in either Potter of Mudblood, all the better.
Despite everything, it still left one very distressing situation before him. Just because Draco wouldn't mind being pinned beneath Weasley, it did not mean that ignorant little wankers had the right to saunter into the lavatory and tell the pauper. It was nice, though, that Weasel had thought the comment was directed to him. Better than nice. In fact, Weasel's comment had been a little rash, hotheaded (as Weasel often was when caught off-guard), and all together panicked.
Which meant good things for Draco's cock.
When Draco found this beautiful angel, he may have to actually thank him. If he got to be pinned underneath Weasley, anyway. If it turned out that Weasel really didn't want to shag him, was honest when calling it sick, and actually had the audacity to turn Draco away, he'd have to castrate the fucker and feed his balls to the giant squid.
The tricky part was getting Weasley to come on to him. There was no way he could come on to Weasley. In addition looking both pathetic and desperate, Weasley would hang this piece of mortification over his head for the next three months at least. Or, you know, until it became redundant, unimaginative, and failed to annoy him. Like the constant ferret references. Because they weren't annoying anymore and that memory wasn't all that painful.
Except, you know, when walking by that particular spot in the corridor or on rainy days.
Draco shook his head, trying to clear his mind of such thoughts, and rummaged through his things. He pulled out a quill, dipped it in his inkwell, and touched his wand to the wall. Underneath Weasley's comment, Draco wrote, 'Weasel, I always knew you were queer, but I never knew you had such good taste. Your room or mine?'
Smirking, Draco shoved his things back into his bag. That should sufficiently turn Weasley's face red and cause him to gape and stutter for at least five minutes. There were very few things in life that gave Draco as much pleasure as the vision of a flustered Weasel. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Draco pushed out into the corridor and collided with a body. There, sprawled on the floor, looking up at him through a fringe of dark red hair was Weasel.
"Weren't you already in there today?" said Draco. He stared down at Weasel and arched his eyebrow. Shifting under his gaze, Weasel's face twisted into the look of rage that frequented his face whenever Draco was around. This was not only flattering because Draco could cause such a reaction in Weasley, but also quite the turn on.
Weasel brushed himself off and got to his feet. He looked as if he were searching for what to say, trying not to trip over his words too much.
"Since when is a guy only allowed to use the loo once a day?" said Weasel, his upper lip twitching as he tried to sneer.
Draco arched an eyebrow, shrugged, and stepped aside, motioning for Weasel to move into the lavatory. Weasel watched him, eyes narrowed, as if Draco were pulling some sort of gag on him, and stayed rooted in one spot. For a second time, Draco motioned inside the lavatory door.
"After you, your majesty." Weasel moved toward the door, paused, and pushed past Draco into the lavatory. Draco smirked, hummed 'Weasley is Our King,' and contemplated the better course of action. On one hand, Weasel could actually need to piss. In that case, Draco could go back in the lavatory, insult Weasley, and stare at his cock, or he could go back to his common room before dinner. Then there was the chance Weasel actually came back to see what Draco had to say about the shagging comment. Either way, Draco saw no reason to leave the illustrious little Weasel any time soon, and walked back into the lavatory.
Weasel's tattered bag lay propped against the wall, contents spilling over. Draco spotted several quills with their feather's ruffled, worn, beaten schoolbooks with the binding Spello-taped, and tears covered the material of the bag. Weasel himself was in almost as bad shape, Draco noted, looking from the bag to it's owner, whose eyes now scanned the wall, scowling. A sliver of ankle could be seen between the hem of Weasel's trousers and his socks. As per usual, Weasel was not wearing his school robes, only his uniform trousers, shirt, and tie. His sleeves were rolled up just above his elbows, which Draco had noticed was a habit of Weasel's since third year when none of his uniform shirts fit the length of his arms anymore.
In a way, his dilapidated appearance was endearing. It didn't hurt either that Weasel's pants were so low on his hips that Draco knew one good tug could yank them right off, or that because they were so small, they hugged the curves of Weasel's arse in just the right way.
Draco leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and watching as Weasel scowled, reached down to fumble with his bag, and pulled out a quill.
"Don't bother," said Draco. Weasel yelped, and his head snapped up to find Draco smirking at him. "Whatever it is you have to say to me, you can say it to my face. No lavatory wall needed."
"I don't have anything to say to you."
"Really? So you haven't decided if it's my room or yours, then. Let me know when you figure it out."
"I . . . gods, Malfoy . . . that's so . . . honestly . . . I don't want to shag you!"
"Took you an awful long time to say so. Don't worry, Weasel, I wouldn't lower myself to letting you bugger my arse. I was only baiting you."
"Why?" Weasel's face had gone red, his freckles disappeared into his skin, and his eyes seemed especially bright and blue against the tone. "Why do you say things like that? Why do you bait me?"
"Because I can, Weasel. You make it far too easy." Draco paused, smirked, and decided it wouldn't hurt to push a little bit farther. The worst that could happen would be Weasel snapping and lunging himself at Draco. A little physical contact never hurt anyone. "You don't honestly think I care if you want me, do you? I think the Slytherin girls have a fan club. I'm sure they'd be happy to have you. I send them an autographed picture once a month that keeps them at bay. Maybe they'd even let you touch one."
"I don't want you! I – you are wholly unbelievable."
"I know. Thank you."
"No! I mean . . . gods, Malfoy . . ."
"Are you always this articulate?"
"Oh, bugger off. I've had enough of this."
Weasel snatched up his bag with such a violent motion and in such a hurry that, forgetting to actually close it, his belongings spilled all across the floor. He swore under his breath, face and ears going redder than Draco had ever seen. Draco snickered, smirked, and watched as Weasel shoved his things back inside the bag. He tugged on the zipper several times before it actually closed the whole way. Scrambling to his feet, Weasel stalked by Draco and shoved his way into the corridor.
Draco leaned back against the wall and snickered.
Draco glanced around the lavatory, his eyes lingering on the graffiti. He took a step toward it, and was about to go see what the latest gossip he'd skipped over was, but the door to the lavatory banged open, slammed against the wall, and retaliated back on Weasel, who caught it just in time to avoid head injury. He threw his bag across the floor, causing it to skid across the room and under a stall. Gripping Draco by the shoulders, Weasel forced Draco against the wall and latched their mouths together.
It was only five minutes later when the passionate, desperate kisses gave way to softer, more subdued ones that Draco felt a smug satisfaction in how easy Weasel really made it.
Their lips met in a slow, lingering kiss. Draco felt his stomach clench, and a familiar tugging in his groin. Weasel dipped his head, kissed the length of Draco's neck down to his collarbone, and scraped his teeth across the bone to the dip below his Adam's apple. Weasley ran his tongue across the Adam's apple, wrapped his lips around it, and sucked.
Draco told himself he shouldn't respond like such a horny little bitch in heat, but he couldn't help the way his hips just bucked against Weasley's thigh. It was instinct.
"I have no bloody idea what I'm doing," Weasley moaned into Draco's ear.
"You're doing fine from where I'm standing," said Draco, rubbing the bulge in his pants against Ron's thigh.
"Is that . . . right?" Weasley panted. Draco smirked and rolled his hips forward again.
Draco gasped, blinked, and rolled his head back as he felt Ron's fingers dip beneath the waistband of his trousers. Weasley's fingers were long and lean like the rest of his body, impossibly strong, and were now teasing the zipper of Draco's trousers.
Draco honestly wondered just how far Weasley was prepared to go.
And from the way his trousers now lay pooled around his ankles, farther than Draco had initially anticipated.
Which also meant incredibly good things for his cock.
Draco peered at the slander scrawling across the wall as Weasley's inexperienced hands explored every crevice of his body. The fingers faltered the farther south they went, and stilled just above the waistband of Draco's boxers. One thumb hooked the material and tugged with the apprehension of tugging on a grenade pin. Weasley needn't be so apprehensive; the explosion would only come later.
And it really was quite an experience to feel Weasley move against him. Two bodies, naked, bathed in sweat, skin flushed, rubbing in an intoxicating rhythm that pulsated through the lavatory. Draco felt his head spin, consciousness ebb in and out with the roll of Weasley's hips. His lips parted in a silent cry of euphoria, his head fell back, and Weasley spun Draco around.
The cold, harsh wall pressed against Draco's chest. Pain seared through his muscles, ravaging his body, and was replaced with pleasure as Weasley pushed inside. Draco's head fell, forehead pressed against the wall. Weasley grunted into Draco's ear, those deep, throaty moans lengthening Draco's already hardened cock.
Though it lacked a certain romantic, poetic quality, it was complete ecstasy. Draco was sure he could swing some romance and poetry later. For now, it was about feeling, and touching there, there, and there.
Oh dear God.
Ron lay on his back, eyes tracing the lavatory ceiling. Malfoy lay cradled haphazardly in one arm, silent, fingers curled around the material of Ron's shirt. Though they'd dressed after (sex? fucking? sleeping together?), neither made any attempts to leave. Instead, they dropped to the floor together, and somewhere in the dark, dust-filled recesses of Ron's mind, he thought of how disgusting it really was to be cuddling (laying? enjoying a post-coital snuggle?) with Malfoy on a lavatory floor. Not that it was digesting being with Malfoy, but those lavatory floors could get disgusting. Especially in the boys' loo.
However, he had no intentions on leaving just yet. Not that he knew where his bag slid to anyway.
"Okay," said Ron. "I did want to bugger you."
"So did I," said Malfoy. "In case you haven't noticed."
They were silent again, and Ron felt himself drifting. He floated in that blissful state that only a post-sex sleep can induce. In that wonderful state between conscious and unconscious, where everything is fuzzy and flowing, Ron stroked Malfoy's hair and yawned.
He really could have fallen asleep right there if the lavatory door hadn't flown open and Harry hadn't walked in.
"Harry –" Ron started. Malfoy jerked out of his own in-between and turned around enough to glare. "Harry. Hi. It isn't what it looks like."
Actually, it was exactly what it looked like.
Harry glanced at Ron, at Draco, and said, "It's about time. And Hermione told me that leaving you that message would never work."
"Message . . ."
"You," said Malfoy, narrowing his eyes. "You were the one who told us to fuck already?"
Harry grinned, winked, and walked out the door.
"I'm gonna kill 'im," said Ron.
"Dunno. Maybe we should be thanking him."
"So . . . your room or mine?"
And there you go.
That only took two and half years to post.
Feel free to review. I would appreciate it.