The Prefects' Bathroom
By Lizard

Warnings: Slash, tasteless humour, bubblebath, a little angsty at the
end... Set during OotP, though there aren't really any spoilers...

Feedback: Please, please, please

Notes: I took a few, ahem, liberties with the canon description of
the Prefects' bathroom. You'll see what I mean...

~~***~~

Ron couldn't help but beam goofily at the pristine, white-tiled
splendour before him. Weasley, my man, you have made it big. He
stepped into the huge room and shut the door behind him, when the
saccharine tones of a mechanical female voice resounded from all
corners of the room.

"Good evening, Mr Weasley, and welcome to the Prefects' Bathroom."
Ron yelped in surprise and swept his gaze around the room, looking
for the source of the sound. Only when he was sure that there was in
fact no woman there to spy on him did his heart stop pounding in his
chest, his face turning bright red in embarrassment even though there
was no one there to see him. The voice continued,

"If you wish to use the lavatory, please use your wand to press one."

A pink, flowery scented cloud suddenly materialised before Ron's eyes
in the shape of a number one. Ron stared at it in fascination.

"If you wish to view our wide selection of aromatic oils and bubble
baths, please press two." Pale green smoke wreathed in a circle
around the pink number one before coalescing into a two next to it.

"If you wish to take our guided tour, please press three." Ron
hurriedly dug into his robe pocket and touched the powder blue number
three with his wand.

"You have selected number three. Please place any unneeded personal
items into the trolley provided." An over-polished wooden box glided
on its little brass wheels towards him, and he cautiously dumped his
school bag into it. The little wooden trolley zoomed off, leaving the
scent of perfumed beeswax in its wake.

Suddenly, Ron felt himself being lifted an inch off the floor. He let
out a strangled shriek and waved his arms about to try and steady
himself.

"What the - ?!" Fuck, he was moving, gliding over the floor. The
stupid woman's voice echoed around the room again.

"Please do not be alarmed, Mr Weasley. We at the Prefects' Bathroom
are here to ensure your every comfort and convenience."

"Convenience, my arse! Let me - "

The voice interrupted him, "On your left, you can see the Shaving
room." Was it him, or did the voice sound mildly pissed off? "Here,
you may choose from our varied selection of razors, foam, aftershave
and deodorants to suit your personal preferences."

Ron self-consciously stroked his completely hairless chin, a sudden
thought coming into his head. There were boys at Hogwarts who
shaved?! He felt stupid that the thought had never occurred to him.
He'd seen Charlie and Bill shave countless numbers of times at the
Burrow when they had been of school age, so they must have had to
shave at Hogwarts, right? Percy being the prissy prat that he was had
never been unshaven in anyone's presence. It had occurred to Ron on
many an occasion whether Percy even had body hair. Ron idly wondered
if the standard boys' toilets had a Shaving Room. If there was, he
was either unbelievably unobservant, or it was magically invisible to
the younger boys. But what if you were prematurely adolescent and
needed to shave at a younger age than others? Would the room appear -
?

"On your right, you can see the Shower Room. Ideal for when you are
short of time but still need to cleanse." Ron was glided over to a
smoky glass door which opened to allow him a peek inside. "We have a
choice of three different speeds of shower regimes, the 5 minute
shower, the 1 minute shower, and the 10 second shower." Ron's eyes
bugged out at the thought of being whizzed through a shower at such
startling speed. He must try that one some time...

"Next on the left, you can see our state of the art Bathing Room,
featuring therapeutic jets of hot water to soothe muscles, a jacuzzi
to accommodate upto four people at a time - " Ron snorted at this, " -
and a voice-activated temperature adjuster. We also have over a
hundred different types of aromatic oils, soaps, and bubblebaths to
suit your every need."

"On your next right is the Drying Room. Warning, Mr Weasley." The
mechanical voice somehow managed to sound ominous. "This is only to
be used when one must be completely dry in approximately 20 seconds."
A stainless steel door with "Drying Room" etched onto the front
opened and a blast of hot dry air pummelled Ron in the face, almost
gliding him across the room at breakneck speed. He squinted and
caught a glimpse of what looked like a giant tumble dryer lined with
pillows. The door slammed closed. Ron sighed in relief.

Right, I'm never going in there, he told himself.

"On your final left is the Lavatory. We at the Prefects' Bathroom
pride ourselves on this particular room." Ron couldn't help but be
curious. "Magically charmed to allow one to complete one's business
in whatever surroundings one wishes. Just state your request out loud
clearly, and the room will change to a summer meadow, a busy high
street, or even a classroom." Ron burst out laughing at this last
one, a sudden image of himself 'completing his business' in Snape's
Potions lesson unable to be shaken out of his mind.

"Lastly, on your right is the Final Touches Boutique." Ron wrinkled
his nose. Boutiques were for girls, he wasn't going near that room if
his life depended on it. "Equipped with sentient mirrors on all sides
to advise you on the best way to look as perfect as one can be. Also
features a Hair and Make-Up expert to add those final touches." The
mechanical voice turned unnaturally jubilant at those last two words.
Suddenly, Ron was gliding backwards at high speed back at the
entrance to the bathroom, where he was finally (and thankfully)
lowered to the floor. Feeling a little unsteady on his legs, Ron
grabbed onto the side of the little wooden trolley that had suddenly
materialised before him out of thin air. He reached in for his school
bag and placed it on the floor.

"Thank you for taking our guided tour, Mr Weasley. If you require any
further assistance, do not hesitate to call. Enjoy your stay!" With
that, the echoing and infinitely annoying female voice disappeared.

That has got to be the most surreal experience of my life, thought
Ron. After a minute of contemplation, he broke out of his daze and
picked up his school bag, heading for the Bathing Room.

~~***~~

Draco walked along the corridor to the Prefects' Bathroom with a
decided swagger to his hips. He had just spent the last half an hour
supervising a first year Hufflepuff as they carried out their
detention - sweeping and cleaning his dorm. Without magic. He
particularly savoured the moment when he 'accidentally' charmed the
hapless boy's broom to swat him viciously on the arse every time he
bent over to pick something from the floor.

Draco grinned. Ah, happy days. But right now he didn't have time to
think about imbecilic first years. He had a date with Pansy in an
hour and he needed to look sharp.

As little as the prospect of Pansy and himself partaking of a
romantic moonlight picnic by the lake thrilled him, that wasn't going
to dissuade him from taking a bath. Cleanliness was next to
Perfection, and Perfection was his middle name.

Stepping into the bathroom, he nonchalantly dumped his school bag
into the trolley that had whizzed up to his side. Right on cue, the
insipid dulcet tones of a woman began,

"Welcome to - "

"Oh, shut up, Beatrice" Draco drawled. "I've been coming here for
over three years, I don't need a sodding introduction every time."

'Beatrice' harrumphed and muttered, "Enjoy your stay" in a
disgruntled mechanical fashion and faded away, a distinct echo
of "Wanker" bouncing off the walls of the room. Draco narrowed his
eyes, but nonetheless said nothing. After a moment's thought, he
strolled over to the Shaving Room, idly thumbing his cheek. Yup,
definitely needed a shave. Pansy always hated it when he shaved,
saying she liked him to be all stubbly and 'manly'. Manly be damned.
He didn't give a shit about being manly; stubble made him itch like
hell.

Standing in front of the giant mirror in the shaving room, Draco
snapped his fingers and murmured, "Clothes". At once, his school
robes, uniform and underwear were whisked off him to be replaced with
a pale green towel wrapped securely around his waist. He snapped his
fingers again and made his selection of razor and foam from the
thirty-odd various types laid out for him on the edge of the smooth
marble sink. The other products vanished and the sink filled with
lukewarm water. Smirking at himself in the mirror, Draco began his
daily ritual of shaving.

He would never admit it to anyone, but he had always found self-
grooming a highly satisfying pastime. There was something almost
sensual about the way a shining silver razor blade slides over one's
skin, leaving it smooth and clean and fragrant. And baths! Oh, he
could write sonnets about bathing, if one gave him the opportunity
and a guarantee that he wouldn't embarrass himself.

Having finished shaving, and spent a time admiring his smooth-chinned
reflection in the mirror, Draco snapped his fingers once again and
muttered, "Time."

'Beatrice' returned, seemingly more cheerful as she said in a bubbly
tone, "The time now is 7:41 pm."

Draco thought for a second. A jacuzzi, that's what he needed. A nice
relaxing laze in bubbling hot water. Now, what bubblebath should he
use? Perhaps the strawberry, or how about the apple and cinnamon? He
walked out of the Shaving Room to the door on his right.

"Beatrice, I think I'll try the lime and - WEASLEY!!"

"MALFOY!"

Draco stared in horror at the image of a redheaded Gryffindor, a wet
and naked redheaded Gryffindor sitting in clear waist-high gurgling
water. Ron swept his darkened damp hair out of his eyes.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?"

Draco closed his eyes in irritation. "What does it sodding well look
like I'm doing here? I'm naked save for a towel, for god's sake, and
I'm here to take a bath." He spied Ron's eyes widen at this. What?
Did the pillock think that he never bathed? What kind of imbecilic
brain cells did these Weasleys breed? All of their genes must have
been used to maintain that crazy red hair of theirs with none to
spare for actual intelligence.

"But - but - I'm using the bath!"

"Well done for noticing, Weasel. Now, if you don't mind removing your
impoverished freckled arse out of here, I'd like to use the jacuzzi."

"I'm not moving!"

Draco mentally debated between the two options he had facing him.
Getting into a bath with a stark-naked Weasley, or going on a date
with Pansy Parkinson stinking like a polecat. "Fine, whatever. But
I'm not getting out of here until I have my bath, so budge over."

Ron stared in absolute shock as Draco abandoned his towel and
slipped, serpent-like, into the clear water, schooling his features
into an expression of indifference and habitual smugness and managing
not to blush.

After all, it wasn't every day you stripped in front of your worst
enemy's sidekick.

As he settled himself in the water and draped an arm along the side
of the tub, Draco couldn't help but think what his father would say
at the sight of his son fraternising with a Gryffindor. A poor,
muggle-loving Gryffindor at that. He smirked inwardly in triumph. As
much as he loved Daddy Dearest, the thought of shocking him so
completely certainly had its good points. Being a Malfoy was
decidedly boring, what with all that self-control and cool arrogance
that one must be saturated in. He was a horny teenager, for crying
out loud - he needed to get his thrills from somewhere.

~~***~~

Was it him, or had the jacuzzi that could "accommodate upto four
people" suddenly shrink in size? I guess having a Malfoy threaten to
share your bath does make you get a little claustrophobic, thought
Ron in apprehension. He watched as Malfoy moved smoothly into the
water, naked as the day he was born and as cool as you please. And no
matter how hard he tried, he just had to shut his eyes, though he did
catch a glimpse a triangle of blond curly hair and his... well, you
know, that thing. Well, it wasn't so much a glimpse as a rather short
glance, or perhaps a slightly prolonged glance seeing as he now had a
very clear image of the exact shade of those blond curls...

Ron blinked and furiously told himself to snap out of his filthy-
minded daze. What the fuck was he doing thinking about Malfoy's pubic
hair? He saw enough of pubic hair at home - being the youngest of six
brothers certainly introduced one to the birds and the bees a lot
sooner than you would think. Or want, come to that. But then why was
he all hot and bothered now? He'd seen all of his brothers naked at
some point in his life. He'd seen Ginny naked. Heck, he'd even seen
Harry naked, though that had been entirely by accident - he knew now
never to go looking for his best friend in the showers immediately
after a long, tiresome, and sweaty Quidditch match. No sir-ee. And
anyway, that didn't explain why a naked Malfoy was infinitely more
disturbing than a naked Harry...

Damn it! There he was, thinking about naked people again. People did
not reminisce about their best friend in such a way. Unless they were
attracted to them (which he most definitely wasn't), or jealous of
them (which he...). Well, he guessed he was sometimes a tad jealous
of Harry. It was kind of difficult, what with the snazzy scar and the
heroics and the favouritism and the hordes of girls that obviously
fancied him but didn't have the guts to say. Harry, the brainless
git, didn't notice them at all - you'd think he were blind or
something! Or... maybe Ron noticed all the people who fancied Harry
because nobody fancied him...

Suddenly Ron was angry with himself. What was he doing spoiling his
first time in a jacuzzi with thoughts of Harry? He was Prefect now,
wasn't he? He didn't see Harry with a shiny gold and red badge pinned
to his robes. Ron had got this privilege entirely on his own merit,
not some quotient of fame handed to him on a plate as the little
redheaded friend of the Boy Who Had The Luck Of The Devil. This
bathroom was his domain, and he was going to enjoy it even if it
killed him. Even if he had to spend the next hour with a rather
hostile, and very naked - bollocks, not again! - blond Slytherin.

Before he could stop himself, Ron stole a look at the boy opposite
him. God, look at his skin. It's so white... so smooth. Like marble
or ice. Or cream. Yum. But probably like cream he was delicious on
the outside, but full of rotten calories on the inside and would make
you feel ill if you ate too much. I bet Malfoy was made Prefect only
because his oh-so-rich-and-smarmy Daddy pulled a few strings, thought
Ron smugly. Or threatened to pull Snape's arm off if his little baby
wasn't made Prefect, more like.

Shit, now he was feeling sorry for Snape of all people. Next time he
came into this bathroom, he was bloody well locking the door. Too
much naked cream - sorry, naked Malfoy - was very bad for your
indigestion.

Another glance, a wobbly image of the thing through the clear water -

Right, I have got to sort this out once and for all. Time for the
bubblebath.

~~***~~

Draco opened his eyes, annoyed with the sounds of Ron swishing and
turning through the water. He'd just been having a rather interesting
daydream involving - well, his concentration was broken now. Stupid
Weasel. Stupid bloody poor muggle-loving -

What the fuck is he doing? Why is he getting up? Do not blush. Do not
blush. He's just a Gryffindor. So what if he's stretching out from
the water, his muscles elegant and stream-lined, rivulets of water
sliding down his glowing freckled skin, droplets of water clinging to
his back...

Don't look at his arse! Gryffindor arse equals bad. As nice as it is,
do not look at it. Do not - Jesus Christ, he's got goose bumps all
over him. And that fine line of reddish blond hairs going down his
back, like a great sodding arrow pointing south. He may as well have
a sign on his head saying, "Look at my rear. Isn't it gorgeous?"

Oh, fuck. Never mind the rear, it's the front Draco was more worried
about. Go on, just a little bit more, stretch a bit more, can't quite
see his...

Damn. Damn, damn, damn, shit, bugger, crap and bollocks. Draco had a
hard on. A bloody hard on - here, of all places. In the jacuzzi. With
Weasley in front of him; because of Weasley in front of him.

This evening was just getting better and better.

Draco quickly draped his arm vaguely over his crotch area, praying
and hoping beyond hope that Weasley would remain his usual
unobservant self for just this once. The rippling water began to
settle as Ron sat back in the water, his tatty, scratched wand held
delicately in his long fingers. Draco stared as Ron just sat there,
his brow furrowed in concentration - Fat chance of any useful
thoughts coming out of that brain, Draco thought maliciously - and a
slightly nervous look on his blushing face.

"Erm... *cough*... Malfoy, could you - well, um, could - how do I get
bubblebath?"

Draco lifted both his eyebrows, trying to make sense of the
incomprehensible babble that Weasley had just addressed him with.

"What in Merlin's wrinkled arse are you going on about?" he asked in
bewildered exasperation, his normally admirable cool fraying at the
edges as his... problem seemed to grow. Literally.

The carrot-headed fool blinked.

"Err... you know, bubblebath. How do I get the freaky woman's voice
to turn up so that I can get some bubblebath for our - I mean, for
this jacuzzi?"

Draco smirked automatically, an image of a bubble-coated Weasel
coming to his mind.

"Wouldn't you like to know..."

He was about to open his mouth to deliver the customary insult, when
it occurred to him that having bubblebath might not be such a bad
thing, seeing as his little problem was likely getting more visible
by the minute. He cleared his throat hurriedly, cursing himself for
sounding at a disadvantage in front of the Gryffindor.

"Why... ah... oh. Just click your fingers and call Beatrice."

Weasley's eyes first widened in confusion, then a deeper shade of red
washed over his face. Draco thought for a second, then grinned in
unabashed malevolent amusement.

"You don't know how to click your fingers, do you?"

Weasley somehow managed to turn an even darker shade of red, his
white teeth startling in contrast as they emerged to bite his lower
lip. His long brown lashes swept down to hide his eyes.

Crap, thought Draco. A shy, blushing Weasley isn't doing my problem
any good, no matter how amusing the sight is - just sodding well call
the woman for him.

"Oi, Beatrice, you slut. I know you've been watching us, so you may
as well say something. Boy Weasel here wants bubblebath."

Beatrice's cheerful voice echoed from an unknown source, sounding
perfectly innocent. A little too innocent.

"I hope you are enjoying your bath together, Messrs Weasley and
Malfoy. Mr. Weasley, would you like to try our Tester Taster Pot to
choose your preferred product?"

Draco frowned at the 'bathing together' allusion, knowing it for the
spiteful dig that it was. Bitch.

He watched as Weasley examined the small Tester Taster Pot that
appeared in the palm of his hand, reading the instructions on the
label with that delightfully diligent look on his face.

Draco metaphorically slapped himself round the head. Delightful?!
Weasel had never been delightful at anything in his life. God damn
it, what had gotten into him today? He wasn't usually this bad at
hiding his attraction to the redhead. In fact, Draco prided himself
on his excellent handling of the 'Weasel Dilemma', as he liked to
term it. Ever since third year when adolescence and hormones had
kicked in, Draco had been unaccountably struck by the sheer beauty of
the boy in front of him.

The pale skin dotted with light orange. The cute nose that just
begged to be kissed. Those big, innocent-as-a-lamb eyes, big and
bluish green. Gorgeous colour; he had a shirt at home that would
exactly match those eyes, actually. And that figure...hmm...

Oh, but the hair! Draco metaphorically wrinkled his nose - bright
colours really weren't his thing. But somehow it suited Ron down to a
tee. Especially when he was angry; which was very often, courtesy of
yours truly. Those eyes of his would kind of flare up when Draco
pissed him off, like someone had lit a fire in his head. His red hair
veritably stood on end and his face would flush, making those
freckles disappear in the heat. His pretty white teeth would appear
as his lips parted roughly in a snarl.

He was just... electric when he was like that. Pure energy radiating
from him, shoulders trembling slightly with emotion, just so alive
and... beautiful.

He remembered the exact moment he'd seen Ron like that. Not just
seen, but truly seen him. Their first Care of Magical Creatures
lesson with that buffoon games keeper, wasn't it? There he was, next
to Pothead and the bushy-haired Mudblood, and Potter had been looking
at him and trying to insult him. Idiotic bothersome little shit - as
if he could compete with his superior wit and intellect. Hah. But
what really annoyed him was that Weasley was standing there, fairly
crackling with pent-up rage, and all on behalf of Potter.

What was he doing getting angry like that when Draco wasn't even
insulting him? Weasley was ten times more interesting than Pothead,
what right did he have to be crackling with rage on the side lines?

And thus began the obsession. A very well-hidden one, but an
obsession none-the-less. From then on, every time Draco was in the
vicinity of Potter and Co., he always made sure to address a hand-
picked insult to Weasley. Granted, there wasn't much you could say
about him, bar his poverty and stupidity, but that was enough. Just
enough to make him almost catch fire.

Gorgeous.

And Pothead thinking Draco was only concerned with him, the arrogant
arsehole. As if he was even half as interesting as Weasley. Besides,
he didn't want to wank in the bath to the image of a pissed-off
Potter...

What? he said to his alter-ego inner voice. He could wank to whatever
he sodding well liked. He really didn't give a toss that Weasley was
a guy. He bet every boy in the world wanked to the image of another
bloke at least once in his life. Didn't they? Who was to know,
anyway? Aside from his father, who could read minds as well as he
could think up novel tortures. But like he said, every bloke had a
quotient of homosexuality in his blood. And besides, his Dad was one
of the campest men he knew, and he'd be damned if he hadn't at least
indulged in a spot of sodomy when he was young. Almost all the Death
Eaters were men, right? Well, they had to do something when they got
bored of hurting people...

Draco quickly left that train of thought to wilt in his inactive
imagination. There were some things you really didn't want to think
about; and Death Eater orgies were definitely one of them.

He suddenly focussed on his surroundings, slightly shocked to find
that Weasley was delicately licking the end of his forefinger with an
expression of... well. He supposed that edible bubblebath would be a
treat to someone as poor as Weasel. But Draco completely forgot to
voice the jibe his mind had concocted, completely stricken by the
image of Weasley's eyes closed in pure pleasure at the taste and
sucking his finger and... God.

Now there was an image he would be wanking to in the future.

Oh piss off! he told his irritatingly obnoxious inner voice. So what
if Weasley was a guy? Did it really matter? The boy was naked in
front of him. And naked body equals turned-on Draco. Big deal. He was
only human, after all. An exceptionally smart and good-looking human,
yes, but human none-the-less. He recognised an attractive specimen
when he saw one, same way he noticed that almost all of his teachers
were ugly, as were all the girls in Slytherin. Particularly Pansy
Parkinson. But he couldn't very well turn her down, now could he?
Ugly self-obsessed bitch that she was, he'd be damned if he went out
with anyone who wasn't in Slytherin and his equal in status. And he'd
be double damned if he went out with a guy in public. He wasn't gay
or anything. Then again, he wasn't really straight, either. He
hesitated to call himself bisexual - that label stank too much of sex-
obsessed laziness, in his mind. Not that he wasn't sex-obsessed. He
prided himself on his virility. Grrr.

Too bad he had to hide it from everyone. But that's what Malfoys did,
right? They make out that they're completely stone cold and
untouchable, even if they're pretty normal inside. He guessed that's
why he had fallen for a redheaded Gryffindor.

No, he corrected himself quickly. Not fallen, just become obsessed.

All that passion and rage and electricity that emanated from Weasley.
He admired it, he really did. Sometimes, Draco wondered what it'd be
like if he didn't have to be all stone cold, if he didn't have to
always remember to uphold the family honour like every other guy in
Slytherin. If he just let loose all his emotions like Weasley did so
often with such enthusiastic lucidity. Maybe he'd be electric then.
Maybe he'd be allowed to live...

Suddenly, Draco felt something soft touch the skin on his stomach. He
looked down to find that the entire surface of the water in the tub
had been completely covered in lime and orange scented bubblebath.

That was what I had been about to pick, thought Draco quizzically.

He must have moved or made a noise, for Weasley looked up at him and
parted his lips nervously.

"You - you don't mind if I pick this one, do you? I'll change it if
you want."

That must have been what made him flip. He couldn't really account it
to anything else. A wave of anger just rushed through him. Why the
fuck was Weasley being so nice to him? Why wasn't he trembling in
fear, or anger, or anything? He was Draco Malfoy, people weren't
meant to be polite to him. No one was ever polite to him. Wary, yes.
Cowering, of course. Pissed off, all too often. But never nice.

He couldn't deal with that. It was too much effort. He didn't want to
see Weasley with a calm innocent look on his face. He wanted to see
the electricity, the energy, the red-faced anger. That he could deal
with. That he could come face to face with and give as good as he
got. But this...

"Look, I don't care what fucking bubblebath you use. I don't care.
I'm only here to have a bath so I can bugger off on a date later on."

Weasley flinched. Just a tiny bit. Not enough.

"Why don't you just eat all the soap products in this entire room.
I'm sure it tastes better than the pig shit you eat at home."

Weasley's brows lowered as he frowned in irritation. Come on, Draco,
you can do better than this.

"Actually, go ahead and eat it all. I guess no one in your idiotic
muggle-loving family told you that soap is actually poisonous if you
have too much."

Not such a good insult, but at least he got the muggle-loving bit in
there.

"Ronald Weasley, redheaded pillock, unloved by all who knew him.
Completely shit at Quidditch, stupid enough to think that he mattered
to anyone."

Oooh, that must have hurt. Weasley was definitely looking angry now.

"Go on, poison yourself. No one would really care. And what better
way to die, eating in a jacuzzi - must be absolute heaven to your
poverty-stricken eyes - "

The Weasel managed to splutter, "No one would care?! Look who's
talking, you ferret-faced little arse! At least I have some friends,
unlike you - you with your brainless goons either side of you
wherever you go." The impudent bastard had the temerity to smirk in
self-satisfaction. No one ever smirked at Draco Malfoy! Oh, that did
it, he was really going to have to teach him a lesson.

"Yeah? Well at least I have the one thing you'll never be able to
have. Respect. Oh, you think your so-called friends respect you, do
you? Why would they want to respect a poor, stupid, ugly misfit like
you? What on earth have you got to recommend yourself? How can you
even compare yourself to me? You think Potter's your friend? And
Granger?"

Draco's mouth seemed to be on auto pilot. The only thought going
through his head was, Make him angry. Make him rage. Don't let him be
nice and make you vulnerable. You're a Malfoy, this is what makes you
tick. Insult him, go on, do your worst.

"You'll never be their equal, Weasel. You can delude yourself all you
want, make yourself believe that you're important to them. But you're
not, are you? Tell me, in all of these heroic escapades you've been
embroiled in every sodding year, what did you contribute? The brains?
The bravery? What did you do? What do you ever do when you're with
them? Nothing, that's what. You just follow like a little puppy dog,
hoping for a little treat, a little bit of recognition. The ultimate
sidekick."

Weasley was even redder in the face than he'd ever seen him before,
looking just about ready to grab Draco's throat. His eyes were wide
open and shining with unadulterated fury.

This is good, thought Draco determinedly. This is what you want. Even
as his heart was thumping in his chest - from exhilaration or
something else, he wasn't sure - he managed to produce the most
nonchalant expression he could muster. With deliberate unconcern, he
made patterns in the foam, then looked at his bubble-coated fingers
for a second before licking them clean.

Then he laughed in the cruellest way he could. Because that's what
Malfoys do.

~~***~~

Hold it back. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

Ron tried his best to ignore the tightness in his throat and that
horrible aching burning feeling behind his eyes. God, what had he
been thinking? He couldn't afford to forget what Malfoy was really
like. But for a second there, he had looked really - well, human, he
guessed. Relaxed and normal, not all mean and cold and closed off.
Then again, the guy had been staring at him rather strangely for a
bit. He should have realised there was nothing but rotten bloody-
minded shittiness in that heart of his. Damn himself for letting his
guard down.

And damn him for letting Malfoy get to him with those insults. Why
couldn't he be smart enough and quick enough, just once, and be able
to give as good as he got? Harry could do it, hands down. So could
Hermione. But him? No. He just let the insults pummel him, while he
got angrier and angrier until he felt he might burst and...

Nothing. He couldn't do anything. No comeback. Zilch. Nada.

Malfoy was right. He couldn't believe he was admitting this, but he
was bloody well right. He was stupid - the fact that he was about to
cry attested to that. He was ugly and poor. He was the charity case,
the one people felt sorry for and gave a little attention just to
make them feel better, then left and completely forgot about them.
That was his life. No wonder Harry always ignored him whenever they
were off on some adventure. What did he know? He was stupid, right?
And besides, he always managed to end up in the hospital wing after
one of Harry's heroics. Because he was stupid and always managed to
hurt himself.

Malfoy was right. He was fucking right. He was the sidekick. Heck,
even in his own family he was unremarkable. Bill was cool. Charlie
was devoted to his dragons. Percy was the smart perfectionist. Fred
and George were funny and popular. Ginny was a girl, and that was
enough to make her unique in the Weasley family. But him? What was
he? Just another redheaded freckle-faced Gryffindor boy. Nothing
special.

Damn it! The burning in Ron's eyes was getting worse. He really
shouldn't let Malfoy think that he had the upper hand. Okay, so he
did have the upper hand, but he could still try, right? Sort of like
a game. He didn't have Harry or Hermione to hide behind, though - he
had to think up something himself. Right.

Run. That's what he would do. Cowardly or not, it would be better
than bursting into tears right there in front of Malfoy. Oh, the
Slytherin'd have a field day if that happened. Go telling all his
little Slytherin lackeys how he managed to make little Ron Weasley
blubber like a baby, just with a stream of verbal abuse.

Think, brain, think! God, he felt like just screaming out loud, he
was so frustrated. Why couldn't he think of anything to say? To do?
And the bastard was laughing even louder now. Ron would bet that
Malfoy could tell just how upset he was, even though he hadn't even
looked up from examining his thin white fingers.

And to think that just a few minutes ago, Ron had been admiring that
smooth white skin...

Suddenly, Ron experienced a revelation. An epiphany of sorts, he
guessed. In Malfoy's eyes, he was absolutely worthless. He couldn't
believe he hadn't seen it before. Oh, sure, Malfoy insulted him once
in a while, but really, it was probably only for practice. Like a
Beater practicing hitting bludgers by swatting at flies in his spare
time. Ron the pesky fly, that's what he was. Malfoy didn't care.
Ron's worst enemy didn't give a shit about what he thought. With
Harry it was different; the animosity was so clear, you could grab it
and put it in a jar. But with him? He wasn't worth the effort.

Why won't my eyes stop hurting?! Ron thought in aggravation. Maybe if
he closed them for a bit so all the blinding white tiles wouldn't
glare so much... Shit. Okay, bad idea to close your eyes when they're
full of tears. Ah, well, he'd better steel himself against the flood
of jibes to come.

~~***~~

Draco watched the stream of emotions blossom over Weasley's
beautiful, expressive face. Except now it wasn't expressive. He just
looked totally blank. Dead. Like all his feelings had been drained
out of him suddenly. But Draco knew that Weasley wasn't totally
emotionless - he could see a lone tear slide down the pale freckled
cheek when he squeezed his eyes shut.

Draco couldn't help it, but his heart lurched. God, that was just too
creepy. Unnatural. He hadn't meant for Weasley to look like that.
Where was the anger, the rage, the bloody fucking unadulterated
passion? Sure, he wanted that. But not this stultifying dead look.

He hated that look. He saw it too often. On the faces of his fellow
Slytherins when they think it's safe to let their guard down. He
sometimes saw it on his mother's face. He saw it every single fucking
day when he looked at himself honestly in the mirror. When he decided
to let all the ingrained arrogance go and see what was left behind.
That was what he saw - a shell of a person with nothing warm and
human in it.

Despite his arrogance and superciliousness, Draco was fully aware of
what he was. He was just another unpleasant Slytherin, steeped in
family tradition, born merely for the purpose of carrying the family
name and its overwhelming wealth on to his own future son.

Yup, that was him in a nutshell - Draco Malfoy, sole heir of Lucius
Malfoy. Nothing else. Not Draco Malfoy, member of Slytherin House,
who had a detrimental weakness for strawberries and chocolate; who
wasn't as fond of Quidditch as people thought; who despite what his
behaviour suggested, did have some semblance of a heart inside him;
who didn't get the same kick out of being mean as his father did; who
had suffered a silly little crush on a certain redheaded Gryffindor
for the past two and a half years...

And that certain redheaded Gryffindor, the bastard - he had none of
those responsibilities. He didn't have to be constantly upholding
family honour - the Weasleys were dirt-cheap muggle-lovers anyway, he
thought with false defiance. And Ron Weasley himself - he had no
obligations to anyone. He didn't have to be cold and calm all the
time, he didn't have to be heroic and brave like Potter, he didn't
have to be the smartest in the year like the Mudblood Granger. He
could just be... himself. Totally, freely, gloriously himself.

God, sometimes Draco was so envious of that freedom, he felt almost
physically sick.

But envious or not, he refused to deny himself the pleasure of
watching Weasley from afar. He refused to be the cause of that
completely dead look on the redhead's face. As long as he was flushed
and angry and alive, then that was fine. But not this. God, what had
he done?

Draco had to fix it. He had to show Weasley that he wasn't an empty
shell like Draco was. He was beautiful and wonderful and gorgeous and
electric and any other adjectives he could think of. And even as his
body seemed to move through the water of its own accord, he realised
that what he was thinking totally contradicting what he had just said
to the redhead.

And he didn't give a fuck.

~~***~~

Ron didn't notice the approach of the blond Slytherin until he was
within a couple of inches of touching his skin. Ron hurriedly
scrubbed at his eyes with his wet hand in embarrassment, damning
himself for being such an emotional pillock. But when he looked up,
the expression on Malfoy's face was... indescribable.

Ron's first thought was, Shit, he's damn good-looking when he's like
that.

Then he thought, I really shouldn't be admiring my worst enemy's
appearance, seeing as he's just told me I'm less worthwhile than a
puddle of dog piss. And especially seeing as he's a guy, and in
Slytherin, and God he's graceful, and definitely his enemy, yup
definitely. Mustn't think about him like that.

But then there was a quick flurry of movement, and Malfoy was getting
close to him and suddenly those elegant white fingered hands were
holding his face and fuck, those lips that were usually sneering at
him were now all soft and delicate and only a miniscule distance from
his own and...

Ron's eyes widened in shock. He raised his hands in panic, ready to
push the Slytherin git off him any moment. Just... mmm... any moment
now... if he could just think clearly for a second. If Malfoy's lips
weren't so bloody perfect and soft and wonderful when pressed hard
against his mouth with such consummate determination and... Oh God,
he felt something hot and moist on his mouth and it felt so damn good
he couldn't stop himself...

Ron settled his wet hands, still dangling vaguely in the air, to rest
on Malfoy's shoulders. He'd never realised how thin the guy was. Kind
of girlish when you think about it. Except he didn't feel like
thinking right now, and Malfoy was no girl, he was a guy.

He was a guy. Shit, what was he doing? What was Malfoy doing?

And then Ron felt Malfoy shiver, just a tiny bit, and he suddenly
realised exactly what he was doing.

With what seemed like superhuman strength, Ron gripped Malfoy's slim
shoulders with bruising force and pushed him away. The blond first
looked at him in pain and dazed confusion, then annoyance at being
pushed off, then bewilderment and finally settling on white-faced
shock.

The boys looked at each other, completely stunned, stark naked and
sitting in a jacuzzi of now tepid water. Malfoy looked on the verge
of a nervous melt down. Ron gathered what little wits he had left and
tried to say something, anything.

"I..."

That sound must have snapped Malfoy out of his stupor, for he swiftly
realised he was still holding onto Ron's face. He dropped his hands
quickly and looked up at the redhead with what could only be
described as a little-boy-lost look.

"Ron..."

The shock of hearing his first name being spoken, by Malfoy of all
people, was just too bizarre and uncomfortable to process in his
mind. Strong hot panic started wending its way through Ron's system
like wildfire.

He had to get out of here, Ron thought. He had to get out NOW. Oh,
crap, but he was naked! He couldn't get out like that - he was
certain he had a semi hard on, and that was not the sort of thing you
let your worst enemy see, even if said worst enemy had just snogged
you in a jacuzzi. Fuck, how did he get that freaky woman's voice to
get him a towel? What was her name again?

"Betty, no... Bee... Beatrice!" Ron finally managed in a strangled
voice. "I... my... towel... I need..."

Beatrice must have read his mind (or possibly been spying them) for
without a word, a pale blue towel appeared in front of Ron, and some
unknown source of magic lifted him out of the water and whisked the
towel around his waist at lightning speed, thankfully hiding his
little problem before Malfoy could see it. At least, he hoped so.

Ron was still a little dizzy when he was set back on his feet on the
steps leading up to the jacuzzi, but he didn't care. Malfoy was still
looking at him with that uncharacteristically confused and vulnerable
look on his face. He didn't have time to let his head stop feeling
woozy.

Grabbing together his belongings, he fairly galloped out of the door,
not daring to look back at Malfoy who was still sitting silently in
the water. At the bathroom's main door, Ron threw off the towel,
pulled on his trousers and robes without bothering to put on his
underwear, and stuffing the rest of his clothes in his bag, he legged
it out of there as fast as his shoeless feet could bear to carry him
over the rough stone floor.

He ran and ran and ran all the way to Gryffindor Tower, swearing
occasionally when he stepped on something sharp along the way.
Finally he made it to the Fat Lady's painting, panting out the
password and leaping through the hole into the Gryffindor Common
Room. The few people lounging around on the armchairs looked up in
surprise as they saw a flash of wet-haired, bare-chested Weasley with
his robes hanging open speed past them to the stairs leading up to
the dorms.

Finally wrenching open the correct door, he was infinitely annoyed to
find Neville sitting innocently on his bed reading some godawful
looking book about subtropical venomous shrubs or something equally
dull. Ron was even more annoyed when Neville had the temerity to ask
if he was feeling alright.

No I am not sodding well alright, he felt like yelling. But even if
he wanted to say it, Ron's verbal abilities had seemingly shut down
for the night, for all that emerged was an undecipherable squeak.

He flopped down onto his bed, ignoring the fact that he was lying on
top of one of his books.

Shit, he thought. Shitty shit shit. I cannot believe what happened in
that bathroom was true. Please let it be a dream, just some evil
twisted dream that he'd wake up from in a moment and then thank
whatever deity lives up in the sky that it was only a dream.

A persistent and steadily more painful headache began to burn behind
his eyeballs as his thoughts went round and round in circles.

He and Malfoy had shared a jacuzzi. They had been within inches of
each other. Stark naked. Stark buggering naked. He had been nice to
Malfoy. Malfoy had kissed him. And Ron had fucking well kissed him
back.

The last thought echoed in his head like some demonic mantra, getting
steadily louder and more taunting as his headache got worse. God,
what would Harry say? And Hermione? Never mind the fact that Malfoy
was a bloke. But it was Draco Malfoy -one of the shittiest Slytherins
and Ron's worst enemy. And they had kissed. Malfoy had kissed him and
Ron had kissed him back. Kissed. Him. Back. He could just imagine
everyone in Gryffindor House pointing at him and laughing.

Ron and Draco sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

Ron and Draco sitting in a tree. G-R-O-P-I-N-G.

Ron and Draco sitting in a tree. F-U-C-

~~***~~

Draco did eventually get to his date with Pansy, although he was half
an hour late and most definitely not in the mood for a moonlight
picnic. Pansy assumed that the hard work of being a Prefect must be
taking its toll, and surreptitiously made sure to snuggle up to him
extra close just to make him feel better. This was not appreciated,
unfortunately, and the date ended a lot earlier than Pansy would have
liked.

The next time the redhead and the blond saw each other was in
Potions. Both of them tried to ignore the other, but Draco was by far
the more successful - he had a lifetime of experience in the business
of ignoring people. Ron, however hard he tried, was still unable to
prevent his eyes from searching for the Slytherin now and again.
Harry and Hermione mistook Ron's intense looks at Draco for his usual
anger and disregarded, though Hermione (being the intelligent girl
that she was) did wonder why Ron was so much more voluble when
voicing the many and varied tortures he would like visited upon Draco.

It didn't occur to either boy to use 'The Kiss' as fodder for gossip
and getting back at each other, for a incriminating as it was, they
couldn't tell anyone about it without losing face. And besides, Ron
enjoyed a perverse sort of pleasure in knowing that Draco had let his
guard down in front of him. But the fact that the 'lowering of the
guard' involved kissing him, well... Ron didn't much like thinking
about that, because it brought up too many issues that he wasn't
prepared to face at that point in time, and so he tried to forget the
incident as best he could; and he was largely successful - Weasleys
may not be exceptionally crafty, but they sure had determination when
they needed it.

As for Draco, he continued as he usually did - taunting the Trio
whenever the opportunity arose, playing tricks on them, and generally
being his usual pain in the arse.

Only when he was alone in his room, or in the shower, did he think
what might have happened if Ron hadn't panicked and run away from him
when they'd kissed. If he'd actually stayed for more and...

What? A guy could dream, right?


THE END

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