ferretface_git | (no subject)

(no subject)

It was common knowledge that Draco Malfoy's heart was made of the blackest stone. Or perhaps ice. Frozen solid and frostbitten and shriveled from decades of disuse. And this was no fairy tale. Luna Lovegood had not warmed that frozen little heart of his, nurtured it with her loony brand of love until it had suddenly grown three sizes, springing forth from his chest in a shower of bloody rainbows and unicorns and puppies.

He was still a prat. Would always be a prat.

But she'd come to him that night, tears in her eyes, and she'd planted the seed. Over the weeks it had grown in his mind, ugly and untamed, like a weed, until it was practically all he could think about.

That bastard. How dare he?

He hadn't sought out the redhead twat. Not intentionally. But when he'd seen him, something in Draco snapped and he found himself striding across the grass, closing the distance fast, and at the last moment, drawing his fist back to strike.

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"Who ever said I was your friend?" Draco said, his pointed face twisting with disgust. Scrambling to his feet, he immediately lunged, curling a hand in the front of Weasley's shirt and reeling back for another wildly aimed punch. He no longer cared where the next blow landed, as long as it caused some pain.

"Look around you, you fool. The war's over. Nobody gives a damn about purebloods or The Dark Lord or any of it, anymore. We've moved on. Some of us have even grown up," he said, aiming for the ribs, this time, "Don't take it out on her that you can't manage it."

He took one to the jaw, vision still swimming as he reeled from the force of it. The shot to his ribs nearly hit just where his knee had not to long ago, and Ron groaned and pushed back with both hands on Malfoy's shoulders as he shoved him away. Half blind, he swung at Malfoy again.

"You don't get to take the high ground here! You don't get to pretend everything alright just because you've tricked someone into being your friend!" he shouted back, voice gruff and pained.

This wasn't supposed to be about the war. The war that was still so fresh in Ron's mind despite him not even having been at the final battle of it. But now Malfoy had brought it up and all he could think about was Fred. And Tonks. And Remus. And all the others who'd died back home. And maybe it wasn't Malfoy's fault-- directly, anyway-- but right now, it was good to have a face to put to all of that.

He only had a moment to feel smug, only a moment of deep, visceral satisfaction when his fist connected with Weasley's jaw, another to his ribs, before he was stumbling back, Weasley's fist crashing into his cheekbone, stars bursting out across his vision.

"I tricked her? I'm not the one who sent her home in tears. Why don't you go ask her which one of us has hurt her the most, lately," he sneered, still shaking away the haze in his vision, his next blow off-center and halfhearted.

Malfoy's next blow hit him square in the shoulder, a great deal less force behind it than the one that had nearly blinded him at the start of their fight. But instead of swinging wildly again, he moved backwards out of Malfoy's reach.

"Tears? What are you talking about?" he managed, trying to catch his breath.

Taking another wobbling step back, Draco barked out a laugh and said, "It's impressive how clueless you are. Really. Takes a rare kind of talent."

He sniffed, drawing the back of his hand across his face, blood smearing along the way.

"You might think she's being made a fool of-- that she's wasted over a year of her life, but next time you broach the subject? Try and use a little more tact. If that's even possible, for you."

"Oh, come off it. That didn't happen," Ron replied, wiping at his own face, and wincing when he grazed the already bruised skin near his eye. Malfoy wasn't above lying and saying something like that just to get a reaction, though.. there was something that made Ron suspect that might not have been the case. Or maybe he just wanted to be sure Malfoy wasn't telling the truth.

"...it didn't. Did it?"

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