Chapter Five- Meaning.

"Oi, Ron?"

I looked up over the edge of my Quidditch Quarterly, to where Dean and Seamus were ostensibly doing their Charms homework on Seamus' bed. "What do you want, Finnegan?" I asked.

Seamus propped himself up on his elbows and stuck his quill behind his ear. "Is kissing a bloke any different from kissing a girl?"

I considered the question. Excluding Hermione, (because she's, well, Hermione,) I'd kissed four or five girls, and about as many boys, all told. There wasn't a lot of, you know, categorical difference, unless you included things like lip gloss and breasts. It was like I'd told Harry after Great Justin Distaster in the greenhouses—people are people, and their bits don't really matter as much as everyone says they do. Beauty is beauty, mouths are mouths. It doesn't really matter so much what you're kissing as who...

...like when Malfoy grabbed my hair with his pointy girl hands and bit my lip and pushed, when it was sweet like cinnamon candy and painful pleasure both, when I didn't back down and he didn't give in, when my hands were in his hair and his arms were around my neck and he was leaving bloody kisses on my face, he was on top of me and we were moving and it hurt too much to stop...

"Er, Ron?"

I blinked. Seamus and Dean were staring at me. "Eh?"

"Is it?"

I forced a smirk on my face and winked. "Well, if you're so curious, I could show you first-hand..."

Seamus turned a bit green, and a moment later Dean announced they were going to study in the common room. I went back to my magazine, or tried to, but Harry got to me first. "That was uncalled for," he said.

Now, of all the unpleasant things that have ever happened to me, the worst ever was probably Malfoy. The second worst was nearly being eaten by a giant spider, and but tied for third (with Sirius sort of kidnapping me and breaking my leg) would have to be fighting with Harry. Any time I've fought with Harry, I mean. The boy just doesn't know how to do it properly; he just gets all quiet and sharp and avoids you. If he'd yell or something, that I could deal with, but not quiet. And when he said, "That was uncalled for," he said it all quietly, and it was all I could do not to say Oh, great, not again.

I actually said, "What was, Harry?"

"Ron, don't play stupid with me."

"I was just having him on."

"You deliberately made him uncomfortable."

I sighed. "Look, Harry, it's none of their business and Seamus deserved what he got."

"He was just asking a question."

"He was being an ass!"

"Why are you so touchy lately?"

"I'm not touchy!"

He scowled at me and pushed his glasses up his nose. Usually that was another a sign you should head for the hills. Not having that much sense, I pretended to be reading my magazine. "Ron, ever since the holidays you've been acting strange. Everyone's noticed it, even Ginny. You've been trying to get into anyone's pants who will even look at you, you're about as discerning as a cat in heat, I don't know what happened to you."

Damn it, I was going to be more interested in the newest broom polish than in him. "My sex life is none of your business."

"You're my best friend, Ron, of course it is!" He was standing up now. Abandon all hope, ye who entered here. "All this fooling around, this...this promiscuity, it's not healthy. It isn't like you!"

"And how would you know what I'm like anymore, Harry?" In retrospect, there are probably stupider things I could have said, such as Your father was a three-toed sloth or Shut up, you whinging speccy midget. There were not, however, very many. And the absolute worst thing to have done at that point was carry on, which, naturally, I did. "You spend all your free time moping around and moaning your fate and making googly eyes at my baby sister, and when you do come back to the real world you're either telling someone off or trying to borrow their homework. You're so wrapped up in yourself I'm surprised you even remember I'm alive!"

Like I said, Harry doesn't know how to fight properly. If he did, he would've just popped me one and told me to go fuck myself with a broken wand, or something. Instead he just went all quiet again, grabbed his cloak, and practically ran downstairs. After a few minutes, it dawned on me what I'd said, and I buried my face in my magazine. I don't know how these sorts of thing happen to me. Of course Harry's wrapped up in himself; he's got every right to be wrapped up in himself, considering, you know that he's being stalked by You-Know-Fucking-Who and all. How stupid could I be?

I rolled up my magazine, grabbed my cloak, and went downstairs. Hermione and Ginny were sitting by the fire, along with Neville, and I'd hex him if he got much closer to either of them. "Ron! What's the matter with Harry?"

"Me," I said, trying to fasten my own cloak while walking.

Neville frowned, Ginny scowled, and Hermione sighed. "Oh, Ron! What did you do now?"

"Long story," I said, resisting the impulse to smack her. "Did he mention where he was going or did he just storm out in a melodramatic huff?"

"Huff."

"You might try the broomshed," Ginny said. "He goes flying a lot, when he's upset."

Well, I knew that; she shouldn't have, though. God, Harry and Ginny dating—there was a frightening thought. Though not as bad as Ginny and Neville. Or Hermione and Neville... "I'll try him there," I said, and headed through the portrait hole before I could take that line of thought any farther.

I checked a few other places first, like the Owlery or the library, before I went out to the pitch—partly in case Harry had decided to do something out of character, partly to let him cool off before we started arguing again. It seemed like all I ever did with anyone these days was argue. Argue with Harry about my sex life, argue with Hermione about my homework and my sex life, argue with Ginny about what to tell Mum and Dad when they ask her about my sex life...

I was started to sense a theme, I really was.

Right. Well, I searched the castle and turned up no Harrys, so I headed outside; but I could see almost immediately that there were far too many figures zooming around the Quidditch pitch for Harry to be there. Probably a last-minute cram practice; Slytherin would play Hufflepuff the next day, and the winner would probably end up neck-and-neck with Gryffindor for the Cup. There were lights on in Hagrid's house, but I reckoned that'd be the last place I'd check. I didn't particularly want to knock on the door and say Excuse me, Hagrid, but I said something disgustingly insensitive even for me when Harry rather diplomatically called me a slut, have you seen him around anywhere? Just thinking about sex and Hagrid at the same time took me to a very bad mental place anyway. So I walked all the way around the lake twice, checked for footprints near the Whomping Willow, and even peered discretely into some of the greenhouses. No Harry anywhere.

What was I going to say when I found him, anyway? Sorry I was such an ass, Harry. I guess you're right? No way. It's none of his business who I'm with or what we do together or how often. Just because he's saving himself for "Miss Right" doesn't mean I have to—I'll take Miss Close, Miss Almost and Mister Near Enough, too. Preferably in large quantities. (I mean, I am nearly seventeen.) It's not like I'm irresponsible about it, either. I know the same spells everyone else does, I use them. There aren't any wandpoint weddings or nasty rashes in my future. Sex doesn't mean anything, anyway; it's just sweat and mess and a good feeling for a few minutes, and when you're done, that's it. Put your clothes on and go. It's fun. Granted, waiting for Miss Right is a bit more romantic, but at least when I find her I'll know what to do with her. Or him, I guess. If she, or he, even really exists.

The curfew bell started to sound inside the castle. It was times like this that I really wished Dumbledore hadn't confiscated the Marauder's Map. I could've found Harry with a couple taps of my wand. Instead I was wandering around the grounds like a lunatic, freezing to death, and I was probably going to have to dodge Filch coming back because there was no way I was going to let Harry sit around and huff himself into a state. Even if he was wrong. Which he was. I started marching back towards Hagrid's house, because I reckoned I was now at the last resort stage of things, and if he hadn't seen Harry I'd...well...just keep looking, I guess. Friendship is the pits sometimes, you know?

I had to go past the broomshed to get to Hagrid's. I could see that the Quidditch pitch was now empty, which was only logical, since whoever had been practicing would've needed time to pack up if they wanted to get back to their dormitories before curfew. There was still a light on in the shed, though, and I could see people standing around back of it. I didn't really think about it until I heard somebody yelling through the cold, still air.

"I said get the fuck off me!"

I would recognize that voice anywhere. I'll be a hundred and eighty years old, senile, bedridden and blind, and I'll still know that voice in a heartbeat. Malfoy, the smaller of the two cloaked figures, was pressed against the back wall of the broom shed and screaming at the top of his voice, and my first and only thought at the time was, why isn't he screaming at me?

My next one, several minutes after the fact, was, just where the hell did that come from?

I kept walking forward, but carefully, because there was a crust of ice just under the snow and it crunched loudly when I stepped through it. The other figure with Malfoy said something I couldn't make out and moved closer to him, practically covering him; Malfoy yelled again, "Damn it, get off—I'm not like you—"

The second figure laughed and echoed him, mimicked him, emphasizing an undercurrent of fear mingled with anger. "Not like who, you little faggot?" he said, and I recognized the voice—Alex Bole, a seventh year Slytherin Beater notable mostly for being built like a Muggle lorry. "Little pillow-biting fairy."

"Shut the fuck up," Malfoy snarled. "I'm not queer!"

"The hell you aren't." I was now close enough to see fine detail—detail like Bole reaching up and running his thumb over Malfoy's lower lip. "Always were camp as a row of tents. No wonder Parkinson left you; caught you trying on her panties, didn't she?"

"Fuck—"

Bole suddenly grabbed Malfoy's face, hard. "Don't lie to me, you little bitch. I know you're a filthy queer—we all do—bet this is your dream come true." His other hand disappeared between their bodies, and Malfoy went rigid all over. "Like it when it hurts, don't you? Bet you always wished one of us would grab you like this and teach you something about real men..."

I sort of went mad then. It wasn't like I felt anything for Malfoy. I hated him, I didn't care what happened to him. But ever since what happened in Hogsmeade, I'd been dreaming about him, just like this. I'd fantasized about catching him alone somewhere, vulnerable—in an empty classroom, in the forest, even right here at the broomshed—catching him, and making him pay for what he did. Pinning him down and watching him spit and glare and scream at me, while I...well...did something to him. The fantasies were a bit vague on the particulars, usually, but they always ended the same way. He was always moaning in the end. Moaning for me.

And here was Bole, pinning him down and watching him spit and glare and scream, but it should've been me, he screamed for me. I was the one he hated, he hurt, he was mine to pay back and pin down. It was my turn, my fantasy, my hands on his body and his breath in my ear. Not fucking Bole. Malfoy was mine, damn it. Mine.

No, I wasn't exactly coherent. To hell with coherency. I raced up behind the side of the broomshed, heedless of the noise, drew my wand, and took a deep breath. My plan of attack wasn't quite properly Gryffindor, but it was better than getting my head bashed in, and it would definitely get Bole out of the picture.

I sang.

Bole never even realized I was there; I staggered him the moment he came around the corner and Stunned him before he could figure out what was happening. I reckoned Defense Against the Dark Arts had taught me something after all—it was either that, or hanging around with Harry for five years. I kicked the big oaf in the ribs to be sure he was out, and when he didn't react, I pushed back the hood of my cloak. Take that, you big filthy troll...

"Weasley, what the fuck...?"

Malfoy was standing less than three feet away, still leaning heavily against the wall. He was re-fastening his cloak and staring at me like I was a maniac. I felt a bit like a maniac, to tell the truth—I didn't care about Malfoy, I hated him, and I had just attacked another student completely out of the blue for...well, not exactly no reason, because Bole was a disgusting pervert, but it was a pretty random thing to do. I could already hear Hermione lecturing me about trying to kill perverts after curfew, or something. Come to think of it, she'd probably manage to work in something about my sex life in there, too.

Malfoy, still fiddling with his cloak, swallowed hard and tried again. "Weasley...what the fuck are you doing?"

My only sudden burst of inspiration was to act casual. "Oh, I was, er, just in the area..." I shoved my hands in my pockets, and one of them closed around the eclectical plug Professor Fix had handed out to our Muggle Studies class a few days ago. It was obviously not going to be of much help in this situation. "...and, you know, I saw you about to be raped and all..."

"Shut up." Malfoy was still trying to fasten his cloak; I suddenly realized his hands were shaking too badly to work the clasp. He sounded hoarse, probably from all the hollering. "Just shut up. This is all your fault."

"What?" I stepped over Bole until Malfoy and I stood toe to toe. "How the hell is this my fault?"

"You started all this," he said, and backed away.

I took another step forward. "I didn't start anything, you daft git!"

Malfoy retreated again, until he was back flat against the wall. "Just keep the hell away from me, you fucking faggot!"

"Faggot—? Look, you're the one who fucked me, you little—" I stopped. I was standing in the same position Bole had been when I spotted them. Malfoy had finally gotten his cloak fastened, and was groping inside his Quidditch robes for his wand. His hands were still shaking, but he glared at me with such an acidic expression that I took a step back. Not because I was scared of him—you can't seriously be scared of that little midget. I stepped back because, well, I was about to live one of my fantasies. Bole had been living the same fantasy. Bole was a pervert. What did that make me?

Malfoy got his wand out, and even with a two-fisted grip on it the tip traced little jagged patterns in the air. I took another step away, and he slid away from the wall, shuffling about to his left. Like a trapped rat, he looked. I was suddenly very uncomfortable. "Look, Malfoy...er..." Change of subject, change of subject, change of subject... "What to we do with him?" I kicked Bole again for emphasis

He stopped staring at me like a hunted animal and thought for a bit. "Crabbe can start as Beater tomorrow in his place."

If I'd ever doubted Malfoy was completely mental—you know, as if what he'd done to me in Hogsmeade hadn't been enough—I had full proof right there. "So we just leave him like this?"

"No, Weasley, we leave him in the broomshed," he said, as if it were obvious. "If he dies of exposure, you'd be guilty of manslaughter, and then I could be charged as an accessory after the fact."

"As a what?"

He made a derisive noise and, after a few tries, levitated Bole around the side of the shed. I probably should've left right then, which would've made several things a whole lot easier and several other things a whole lot nonexistent. But I felt like there was something more that had to be said, something incomplete about the whole thing. With Bole being sort of unconscious and things, this was the first time Malfoy and I had been alone together since that night in Hogsmeade (I'd been avoiding him—who wouldn't?) and if I wasn't going to jump him, I wanted to do at least something. So I followed him around the side to the door of the shed, and since I didn't really want to be thinking too hard about what I was doing, I took the plug out of my pocket and started fiddling with it. At least it was something to do with my hands.

Malfoy dumped Bole on the floor next to the crates of Quidditch balls, turned around to leave. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized I was still there. "What the hell are you doing, Weasley?" he demanded.

I concentrated on my plug. "Look, Malfoy...I need to talk to you."

"You are talking to me."

"I mean—fuck."

"We have."

Bastard. "And what the hell was it? I mean, why?"

He looked at me sideways, smirking a little. Guess he was getting over the shock. "Why what?"

"Why did you—" I almost said rape me. But it wasn't rape, not really. If it had been rape (and this was as much a revelation to me as anyone just then) I wouldn't have liked it. I wouldn't have enjoyed it. I wouldn't have wanted more.

"Why'd you do it?"

"Why'd I do you, you mean?" He hesitated, as if he was waiting for me to try to kill him. While I really would have liked to, I reckoned that I'd never find out anything if I did, so I just clamped my fist around the plug and kept silent. "I suppose I just felt like it."

He was so fucking casual— "That's it? You just woke up one morning and thought 'Hmmm, I'm gay, guess I'll go fuck Weasley?'"

"I'm not gay." Only he said sort of, sort of brittle-like, as if what he was saying was glass and it could shatter.

I snorted at him. "You're fucking deep in denial, then."

"I'm not in denial!" I dropped the plug.

Bole groaned, and Malfoy took off practically at a run. I kept after him (though I made sure to shut the shed door, so Bole wouldn't see us). "Is that all?" I demanded. "Was everything just...just nothing? Just you fucking around because you felt like it?"

"Why is that so hard for you to grasp, Weasel?"

"Because I was there."

He stopped; I nearly ran into him. He turned on me and he was the angriest I'd ever seen him, face red, eyes blazing. He might've looked a bit more pissed if smoke had been coming out of his nostrils or something, but I'm not too sure. "Shut the fuck up, just shut up, you fucking imbecile! You're nothing to me, you get that? Nothing. You were nothing but a hole, a whore, a convenience for a quick shag and run. How devastatingly stupid would you have to be to think that I would ever have—have feelings for something like—like—" His voice broke, he made a funny sort of growling noise, and he took off running, kicking up little clouds of snow behind him with every step.

I couldn't move. I was shaking, I was so angry; I was seeing spots of gray and red around the edges of my eyes. I just kept thinking How dare he, how dare he, how dare he...The little bastard, the fucking git...it wouldn't have been so bad if he'd actually cared about it. It would've been better if he were some kind of mad stalker or something. You just don't kiss like that if you don't really care...do you? Bastard. Fucking bastard. It couldn't have been worse if he'd paid me.

I dunno how long I stood there in the snow. It must've been a while because my feet were freezing and wet when I heard another set of footsteps behind me. For one horrible moment I thought Bole was coming to kill me; but when I turned around, it was just Harry coming from the direction of Hagrid's house. "Ron? What're you doing out here?"

I cleared my throat. "I was...er...looking for you. Originally." I scuffed the snow with my foot, hoping that he wouldn't look too closely at the patterns of footprints. "I got a little distracted."

"Oh."

We stood around in an uncomfortable silence for a while. Snow had melted into my gloves; I took them off. I realized I'd lost my plug somewhere, but I reckoned I could get Dad to send me one to replace it—he must have about five hundred. When I got so I couldn't stand it, I just blurted out, "I'm sorry about what I said, Harry."

He jumped a little and sort of smiled, and then said, "I'm sorry, too. I guess it really isn't any of my business."

I startled myself more than him when I said "No," but the more I stood there with snow in my shoes and thought about it, the more it made sense. I looked up, but it was too dark to see anything except glints of light off his glasses, so I couldn't really tell his expression. "No, I think...maybe...you were right. Sort of."

"Really?"

I nodded. "I think I'm going to lay off...things, you know. For a while."

"You really mean that?"

I nodded. "Sex doesn't mean anything, anyway."

He sighed. "That's...I'm glad, Ron. Really. I was worried about you."

"Yeah, well. You don't have to worry about me, I'll be all right." I started walking back towards the castle, and Harry matched pace with me. "I'll be fine. Just...never mind."

"Hmmm?"

"Never mind."

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Disclaimer: Back to the music in this chapter...Ron sings The Hedgehog Song, which belongs to Terry Pratchett by way of Gytha "Nanny" Ogg. Beware.