ginger_lust fic
I wrote this for ginger_lust and it is quite possibly my favourite fic that I've written.
Title: Nothing Ever Lasts Forever
Creator: hull1984
Rating: PG13
Beta: incoherenteye (thank you, you were great)
Pairing(s)/Characters: Ron/Draco, Ron/Viktor (minor), Harry, Blaise
Warnings/content: Excessive use of the f-word, minor use of a recreational drug
Word Count: 16,274
Summary: A non-magical AU. Ron and Harry meet while they are both on an exchange year at an American university. They have never met each other, or Blaise and Draco, before this story starts. Title from the song by Echo And The Bunnymen. There are random bandom cameos (because I just can’t seem to help myself).
Nothing Ever Last Forever
“I hate my life,” Ron groaned into the pillow he was hugging to his chest.
Harry chuckled from the opposite bed. “What’s Zabini done this time?” he asked.
Ron let out a snort, but at least he finally removed his head from the pillow (Harry had been worried about accidental asphyxiation). Sitting up, Ron turned to face Harry.
“Oh God, Harry, I never thought I’d say this but I wish it was Blaise.”
Harry’s eyebrows shot up in amazement. They’d been there two months now and, apart from two short, blissful weeks when Ron had been without a room-mate, every day had brought forth a litany of complaints regarding Blaise Zabini (and Harry had met the bloke, so he knew he hadn’t suddenly become any less annoying).
No. Clearly, something extraordinary had occurred. Harry sat up a little straighter.
Ron frowned. “Though, now that you mention it…”
Harry slumped. So fucking close.
“Have I told you about the moisturiser?”
Ron didn’t bother to wait for an answer (in fairness, Harry didn’t try to offer one; the Zabini Rants were legendary by this time).
“Harry, the guy gets up every day at 7am. That’s 7 o’clock in the MORNING!” Ron shook his head. “Which, you know, would be fine. If he didn’t also wake me up to the sound of cream being slapped loudly onto bare skin. Again. And again. And AGAIN.”
Ron suddenly sat upright, a stunned look on his face. “Bloody hell, Harry, I’m going to kill the bastard.” He turned tormented eyes to Harry. “He’s a bloke, Harry. A bloke. Why does he even need to put moisturiser on his thighs?”
Harry really had no answer to that.
“And he’s naked, Harry.” Ron looked wretched now. He took a deep breath before continuing. “Naked. And he. He. He bends over.” Ron’s voiced cracked on the last word.
Harry couldn’t stand it any longer; the look of pure horror on Ron’s face was just too much. He let out a loud snort of laughter and fell off the bed.
Ron sighed. “Fuck off, Harry.”
~~~
A little while later, they were sitting in The Deadwood nursing a couple of beers. Ron was slouched in his chair looking miserable and Harry was trying not to roll his eyes (it wasn’t easy; Ron wasn’t exactly enjoying his Exchange year).
“So, apart from Zabini’s smooth, well-moisturised thighs-” Ron choked on his beer (Harry grinned evilly, timing was everything) “- how’s it going?”
Ron put his bottle back on the table. “It isn’t,” he said, grumpily. “Going,” he attempted to clarify at Harry’s perplexed look. “It isn’t going, Harry. My life just. Isn’t.” When Harry just shook his head and looked more confused, Ron slumped forward and pouted pitifully. “See?” He said. “This is what my life has become.”
Not for the first time, Harry wondered if talking to Ron at the Exchange Students Meet and Greet had really been such a good idea. He liked the guy, he did. He just wished he’d bloody cheer up.
“It’s my Literature and Psychology class.”
Harry looked up from where he’d been staring at his bottle. Okay, this might be good. The Literature and Psyche class had brought forth good stuff before. Frankly, he still didn’t understand what had possessed Ron to sign up for it in the first place.
“I don’t know what possessed me to sign up for it in the first place.” Ron picked forlornly at the label on his bottle of beer (Harry remembered reading somewhere that that was a sign of sexual frustration, and vaguely wondered if it had ever come up in Ron’s psyche class. Looking at Ron’s unhappy face, he hastily concluded that mentioning it at this point would probably earn him a punch in the head).
Before he could ask what specifically about the class was bugging Ron this time, a shadow fell across the table.
Ron looked up at the same time as Harry, and frowned at the boy standing there, his features smoothing quickly into a smile. “Oh hey, Malfoy,” he said, nodding at the other boy.
Harry couldn’t quite hide his shock (although, he wasn’t sure what was more surprising, Malfoy actually deigning to talk to them, or Ron’s own apparent lack of surprise).
“Hey,” Malfoy returned Ron’s nod.
Harry and Ron looked at Malfoy expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate. But the blond boy showed no sign of continuing, choosing instead to bite at his bottom lip and stare intently at the table.
Ron exchanged a perplexed look with Harry, shrugging in confusion before turning back to Malfoy.
“So, um, did you need something, Malfoy?” he asked, with a grin.
That seemed to snap the other boy out of his fugue and he turned suddenly hopeful eyes to Ron.
“Yes,” he replied, a little breathlessly. “Yes, um, I needed to ask,” he paused, and Harry couldn’t be sure in the dim lights of the bar, but he thought Malfoy might actually be blushing. What the fuck?
“That is,” Malfoy stopped again and shifted from one foot to the other. “I needed to ask,” he sighed, his shoulders suddenly slumping, “to borrow your menu.” And he picked up the narrow strip of cardboard from the table, before turning abruptly and walking away.
Harry looked across the table at Ron in wide eyed wonder. “What the hell was that?” He asked.
Ron shook his head, looking equally shocked. “I know,” he replied. “The git could have at least waited to see if we’d finished with it.”
Harry’s eyes widened further. “No. I think you’re missing the point, Ron.” When Ron continued to look confused he went on. “That was Draco Malfoy.”
Ron was looking at him now like he was an idiot. “Er, yes, Harry. I know. Hence the ‘hey, Malfoy’.” He rolled his eyes.
“No, no,” (and yes, okay, Harry might have spluttered a bit, but really it was too annoying). “Ron, I have lived next door to that little shit for two months now, and he has never so much as acknowledged my existence,” he paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Bugger, the little tit just did it again, didn’t he?” He shook his head. “Anyway, the point is, I’ve never seen him talk to anyone outside his little circle of cronies. And yet, here he is actually talking to you as if you’re a real human being.” He looked pointedly at Ron.
Ron shrugged again. “Don’t know what you’re going on about, mate. He talks to me all the time.” And he stood up, grabbing the two empty bottles from the table. “Same again?” he asked, heading to the bar when Harry nodded weakly in response.
Well.
Harry was experiencing that same swooping feeling of displacement that comes when you reach carefully down to take the next step, only to find yourself suddenly at the bottom of the stairs after all.
And he couldn’t help feeling that perhaps he’d missed a few steps in-between.
Draco Malfoy lived in the room next door to Harry, not that you’d know it from the amount of interaction between the two. Harry would have been quite happy to speak to the other bloke but therein lay the problem. Draco Malfoy was the most arrogant, stuck up bastard that Harry had ever had the misfortune to come into contact with.
The obnoxious git refused to speak to his room-mate, let alone his neighbours. He never ate in the shared kitchen and refused to use the joint bathroom unless the rest of his suite mates were out (he’d even been known to lock them out for a whole evening just so he could take a bath). Why he was even living in the dorms was anyone’s guess. It was abundantly clear that he came from money; his father was an Ambassador to the UN, or some such, and Harry had heard that his parents lived in a huge house in Hyannis Port.
And now, Ron was saying that he talked to Malfoy all the time.
Well, shit.
~~~
Harry yawned and scratched his head tiredly. He squinted at his alarm clock and groaned.
“Ron, come on, mate. I have to be up in three hours.”
Ron let out a jaw-cracking yawn of his own before nodding. “Okay, Harry.” He flicked through the pages of the large, hard-backed notebook on the bed in front of him. “I think I’ve got enough.”
Harry sighed in relief and slumped down onto his pillow.
“But let this be a lesson to you,” Ron admonished, shaking his finger at him. “Next time, think before you make sweeping statements regarding other people’s class assignments.”
Before Harry could formulate an appropriately scathing response, Ron had gathered up his things and swept from the room. Fucker didn’t even have the courtesy to switch off the light.
“You’re welcome!” Harry shouted at the closing door (earning a thump on the wall and a muffled “shut the fuck up” from the room next door. Fucking Malfoy).
Okay so technically, you could argue that Harry was maybe slightly to blame for Ron’s predicament. But only very slightly. It’s not like Ron should have just taken his word for it, git still should have done his homework.
Bloody Psyche class. Harry was beginning to hate it as much as Ron. How was he supposed to know that the professor was a voyeuristic pervert (although yeh, his area of expertise should have probably clued Harry up on that one; you don’t get to be a doctor of psychology without harbouring certain tendencies).
Still. It seemed a bit invasive. Setting your students the task of keeping a journal for the duration of the course, and then, pulling the dirty trick of actually asking them to submit the bloody thing for grading. Harry was pretty sure that it would never have happened at home (thank God, for good old English reserve). He had really felt on solid ground when he’d assured Ron that there was no way he’d ever have to produce an actual journal. He should have known his words would come back to haunt him.
Ron had returned to their table at The Deadwood earlier that evening, with fresh beers and the chilling news that Professor Toro had cheerfully announced in class that day, that he’d like everyone to hand in their journals for grading. Toro had gone on to say, even more cheerfully apparently (the sadistic bastard), that this would make up twenty percent of their final grade. A red faced, rather strident Ron, had then produced an A4 sized notebook and flapped the very empty pages in Harry’s appalled face.
“Drink up, Harry,” he’d instructed soon afterward, pointing at Harry’s beer. “Because you and I have one night to fill this book up with eight weeks worth of diary entries. And you better make it interesting, there’s no way I’m having Toro think I’m a total loser.”
They’d gone back to Harry’s room (Harry’s room-mate, Jon, practically lived at his friends’ apartment off-campus, so Harry pretty much had the room to himself), and spent the next five hours composing a fictional account of Ron’s life over the past couple of months. It had to be fictional because Ron really was a total loser, who had effectively spent every day since he’d arrived sulking.
From the moment of their very first meeting, Ron had made it abundantly clear just how much he didn’t want to be there; his unwavering refusal over the weeks that followed to accept any invitation to socialise or enjoy himself, pretty much cementing the sentiment. Harry counted it as a huge win that Ron had finally started to actually meet up with Harry outside of their dorm.
When Harry had questioned him about it, Ron had just shrugged and said that he missed his friends back home and didn’t like the idea of them graduating without him, hated the fact that when he went back next year they’d all be gone. Harry suspected there was more to it. From a couple of things that Ron had let slip when his guard was down (usually around the fourth beer), he had the idea that perhaps there was one person in particular that Ron missed, and that it was the thought of not seeing that person again that had him so messed up. But Ron had shut down all of his attempts to dig deeper, refusing to be drawn out on the subject, so Harry had let it drop.
Whatever the true reason for Ron’s recent monastic lifestyle, it had certainly made it a challenge to come up with enough entries to fill the depressingly blank pages of Ron’s notebook. It had made for a rather trying night too. Things had grown particularly strained around the 3am point, when Ron had employed some hitherto undisclosed ninja stealth moves, to sneak up on Harry and read the latest journal entry he had been jotting down -
October 14th: Admired Blaise’s naked arse (how does he get his thighs so silky smooth, I wonder?). Lied to Harry about it. It is becoming increasingly hard (ha) to hide my flaming homosexual proclivities from Harry. He is so cunning (and devilishly handsome) that he is sure to figure it out soon. Thank goodness my humungous man-crush on Prof Toro remains hidden…
Harry had glared reproachfully at Ron as he'd rubbed the back of his abused head. “It’s not like I was really going to put it in,” he'd mumbled, churlishly. “Where’s your sense of humour?”
“I lost it somewhere around 2am, Harry,” Ron had responded, throwing the scrunched up page at Harry’s head.
Ron had soon forgiven him, however, when Harry had come up with the ingenious idea of padding things out with song lyrics.
“You just have to make a big deal at the start about music being your life and how inspired you are by the words and music of your musical heroes,” he’d explained, excitedly. “And bingo! Pages and pages filled with Morrissey’s struggle with celibacy.”
Ron had looked torn between hugging him, and kicking him in the face for the celibacy crack.
But the real trump - the thing that Harry reckoned meant he now owned Ron - was the dream suggestion. Psychoanalysts ate that shit up. Ron had declared Harry a genius, and then made him write out as many of his dreams as he could remember (apparently, Ron never remembered his own dreams and if he did, then, they were always about food).
Harry had been reluctant at first - “fuck off, Ron!” - but well, the truth was, Harry had always been a little obsessed by his dreams (he’d even kept a dream journal when he was fourteen) and he just hadn't been able to stop his natural interest in the subject taking over.
He had enthusiastically filled several pages with dreams from his old journal - he'd been a little surprised by how many of the dreams featured knives - he seemed to have had a fascination when he was younger with sharp objects, and a number of his teenage dreams were filled with grabbing hold of, or poking other people with them. He had also seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time jumping through windows. How odd. Still better to share the details of those dreams, than his more recent ones, which tended to feature a lot more nudity, and a good deal of grabbing and poking of other things.
It had been nearing 5am when Ron had finally left the room. Harry calculating the likelihood of actually staying awake for his 9am class, had re-set his alarm for noon, and crawled under his covers. Two minutes later, he had been fast asleep.
~~~
Harry was woken up by a text from Ron at 9am. Git.
Meet u at arbys at 12.30 I’m buying
In spite of being disturbed from his sleep, Harry couldn’t help smiling; at least the bastard was grateful for his efforts last night. He sent back a quick reply.
k now f off + let me sleep
He was just snuffling back under the covers when his phone beeped again.
Aaaw sweet dreams bb
Harry shook his head. Tosser. He switched his phone off and threw it over onto Jon’s empty bed.
~~~
Ron wasn’t just grateful, he was also very happy and relieved. So happy and relieved in fact, that he finally agreed to go to a party. Harry had asked as a matter of course, and really hadn’t been expecting a yes. Hearing Ron’s unexpected reply, he paused with his roast beef sandwich half-way to his mouth.
“Really?” Harry asked, blinking in disbelief.
Ron looked up from his curly fries and frowned. “Well, not if you don’t want me to,” he said, sulkily.
“No, no,” Harry waved his bun happily in Ron’s direction, stray bits of beef landing limply on the table between them. “That’s great. Really. I was just a bit surprised, that’s all.”
“Yeh, well,” Ron rubbed the back of his neck and ducked his head. “It’s recently been brought to my attention that I may have been acting in a somewhat anti-social manner, and probably needed to get out and about a bit more.” He grinned over at Harry and rolled his eyes, “except maybe in less polite terms and with a few more expletives.”
“Who -,” Harry started to ask, but Ron interrupted him, shaking his head and mumbling, “no one you know, Harry.”
Harry noticed the way Ron’s smile faded, his mouth pulling down at the corners, and remembered the letter from home Ron had told Harry he’d found in his mailbox that morning. He picked up a fry and threw it at Ron’s head. “So what are you going to wear for your very first college party, Ron?” He asked with a wink.
Ron looked up at Harry in horror, “Jesus, what are we, Harry? Thirteen year old girls?”
Harry shrugged, grinning, “Well, we are at the mall, and you did drag me into that shop earlier to show me the pair of shoes you’ve been coveting for the past three weeks.”
It was Ron’s turn to throw fries. “Fuck off, Harry. They were sneakers.”
Yeh, like that made a difference.
~~~
They were walking out of the mall, Ron enjoying a particularly vociferous Zabini rant, when Harry saw Malfoy.
The blond boy was walking towards them but on the opposite side of the concourse. He was striding along, nose in the air, looking for all the world like he fucking owned the place (and rumour had it, he probably did). It reminded Harry, that he still hadn’t asked Ron about the encounter the previous day, and he turned toward Ron to do just that. Unfortunately, it wasn’t easy to shut him up, once he got on to Blaise.
“One fucking bagel, Harry,” Ron said, gesticulating wildly with his hands to emphasise his point. “One fucking bagel and that bastard ate it. I wouldn’t have minded,” he went on, “but the fridge was heaving with his stuff, all sorts of fancy fucking shit and he eats the one bloody bagel I’ve got in there.” Ron’s voice had risen steadily as he warmed to his subject.
Harry glanced over as Malfoy drew level with them, and saw the moment the blond recognised Ron’s voice. To Harry’s surprise Malfoy immediately headed over in their direction. Huh, seemed he and Ron really did know each other.
Ron was still oblivious to everything except what he wanted to do to “Blaise fucking Zabini,” so he missed the moment when Malfoy came to a sudden halt in front of them, missed how at the word “fucking” Malfoy’s eyes bugged out of his head as if he’d just received a blow to the head.
Harry didn’t miss it though. Harry didn’t miss any of it. He had to fake a cough to cover the sudden urge to laugh out loud. He put his hand on Ron’s arm so he wouldn’t walk into Malfoy (and he didn’t miss the way Malfoy’s eyes narrowed at that either).
Ron stopped walking and looked enquiringly at Harry. Harry nodded his head at Malfoy, and Ron turned to see the blond in front of him. “Oh hey, Malfoy,” he smiled brightly.
“Hey,” Malfoy, shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and stared down at the floor.
And this. This. Was quite possibly the funniest moment of Harry’s life. Because this time, in the harsh lights of the mall, there was no mistaking the deep blush that spread rapidly across Malfoy’s face and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. Harry rubbed his hand under his nose and pressed his thumb against his lips; laughing at this point really wasn’t an option.
“So, how’s things?” Ron asked.
Malfoy looked up and smiled shyly, “Good,” he replied, softly. “Really good.”
He and Ron both turned sharply to look at Harry, who was coughing loudly into his hand.
“Sorry,” Harry said, “frog in my throat. I’ll just, erm,” he turned and pointed towards a drugstore, “go and buy some water.” And he walked away quickly, shoulders shaking.
When he got back, Ron and Malfoy were sitting on a bench, Ron talking animatedly, while Malfoy looked on in rapt fascination.
Fucking. Hilarious.
Harry took a last swallow from his bottle of water, wiped the smirk from his face and walked over.
“Hey, you ready to go, Ron?” He kicked at Ron’s outstretched feet, earning a glare from Malfoy.
Ron looked up. “Oh, you’re back,” he said cheerfully.
“Yes,” Harry said, looking pointedly at Malfoy. “I’m back.” He knew it was mean but this was fun. Hey, and look, Malfoy was definitely acknowledging Harry’s existence now.
Ron stood up and gave Malfoy an awkward little wave. “So, guess I’ll see you around,” he said, with a final nod.
Malfoy smiled up at him. “Yeh, see you around.”
Ron nudged Harry in his side. “Come on, then, loser.” And he started walking towards the exit.
Harry paused long enough to give Malfoy a smug, little wave of his own. Wow. Malfoy had certainly embraced the culture of his adopted country. Nice finger.
Harry threw his arm around Ron’s shoulder and pulled him tight against his side. He grinned widely at the unmistakable “fucker” he heard mumbled at his back. Life was sweet. He looked up at Ron, who was frowning down at him.
“Um, Harry. What the fuck are you doing?”
Harry shrugged, unapologetically, “I have no idea, Ron. No idea.” And he steered his bemused friend through the automatic doors.
~~~
They caught one of the university buses back to the dorms. Harry was relieved that it was mostly empty at this time on a Friday afternoon, less people to overhear their conversation (they claimed it was ‘the accent,’ but frankly Harry thought they were just a bunch of nosy bastards).
“So,” he said, looking pointedly at Ron. “How long?”
Ron gave him a puzzled look, then peered around the interior of the bus, “About 35/40 foot?” He replied, confusedly.
Harry shook his head. Fucking oblivious much. “Not the bloody bus, you prat. How long have you and Malfoy… you know.” And he waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.
Ron looked at him, clearly even more confused now. “You know what, Harry? Talked? Recognised each other? Thought you were a moron? What?”
Harry was torn between laughing and banging his head against the seat in front. Ron didn’t know. He really, really didn’t know. Jesus, you couldn’t write this stuff. This was pure fucking gold.
“Never mind,” he said, weakly. “So… party?”
They spent the rest of the ride talking about the upcoming party.
~~~
Sadly, Ron’s good mood had long disappeared by the time the night of the party arrived.
Harry thought he had a pretty good idea why.
When they’d got back to the dorm the day before, Ron had received a phone call from his friends back home. There’d been a birthday party, and some genius had had the idea to call Ron. There’d been lots of good-natured shouting down the phone from various drunken friends and Ron had laughed and shouted back with the best of them. But then he’d had to hang up. Harry had never seen Ron so quiet; Ron had wandered back to his own room soon afterwards.
Harry had hoped that a decent night’s sleep might have restored Ron’s good humour, but Ron looked thoroughly miserable when he shuffled into Harry’s room that night. Harry bit his tongue and prayed for alcohol (seriously, this kid could make Marvin The Paranoid Android look like Happy the Happy Clown from Happyville).
It wasn't as if Harry didn’t sympathise, he did. He even suffered the occasional pang of homesickness himself. But he’d never had the sort of intense friendships that Ron clearly enjoyed with his friends. Harry made friends easily enough and he had plenty of them, but he just didn’t miss them in the same way Ron did.
Maybe, it was because Harry had never had a best friend, had never known that level of friendship. Well, until now. And that was another thing. Lately, he’d been wondering just who the fuck was going to help him out of his funk, when he had to say goodbye to Ron. He’d never tell the ginger git, but Ron was pretty much the best friend Harry had ever had (well, why else would Harry have put up with the miserable bastard for so long).
And now, Harry got this horrible cold pull in his stomach whenever he thought of their exchange year coming to an end (which probably meant he really was the thirteen year old girl Ron accused him of being).
Fuck it.
Harry stood up and pointed at Ron. “You fucking cheer up. Now.” And he strode from the room, pulled along by the siren call of brain numbing amounts of alcohol.
They didn’t exactly have far to go. The party was in their building, one block over and two flights up. Harry had been invited by Mike, who lived on the party floor and who Harry knew from his Media class.
As they stepped out of the lift, their ears were assaulted by the music blaring out of two speakers at the end of the hall. There was no bar in sight, which caused some momentary panic, but then Harry noticed that most of the people milling around were carrying cups of beer. Harry let out a relieved puff of breath and walked with renewed hope, towards the large banner proclaiming “Registration Here”. Mike had told Harry that it was going to be a ‘classroom’ party. Harry had no idea what that was, but frankly as long there was alcohol involved, he was game for anything.
Mike was sitting behind the makeshift desk, under the banner. He was writing people’s names on labels - “so your classmates know who you are,” he said with a grin as he handed one to Harry. “Glad you could make it,” he added. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Ron,” Harry said, as he stuck the label to his chest. “Ron, this is Mike.”
Ron nodded solemnly at Mike. Harry let out a frustrated sigh and slapped Ron upside the head. “Fucking play nice, you sulky git,” he told him, sternly.
Ron frowned at Harry, rubbing the back of his head, but he turned back to Mike and forced a smile. “Hi, Mike. I am super happy to meet you and stoked to be here at your delightful little shindig.”
Mike laughed loudly, shaking his head. “You’re right, Harry, he is a little shit,” he paused, raking his eyes slowly up Ron’s body, “or well, maybe not that little.” He held out Ron’s name label with a wink.
Ron looked at him wide-eyed, frozen in place, until Harry nudged him. “Come on, Ron, take the label, he doesn’t bite.” Harry laughed, mockingly.
Ron reached out nervously and took the label, stepping back from the table as he fixed it to his shirt, eyeing Mike warily all the while.
Harry shook his head, then turned back to Mike. “So, what next?” He asked, hoping it involved beer.
Mike inclined his head towards the guy sitting next to him. “Adam here, will fix you up with your class assignments and your timetable. Here,” he handed Harry two plastic cups and a sharpie, “write your names on these. Keg’s in the last room down the hall, help yourselves, then move on to your first class.” He grinned up at them both. “Work hard, get good grades and make me proud, boys.”
Harry finished writing his name on the cup and handed the pen to Ron. “We will try our very best, dad.”
Mike nodded solemnly. “That’s all a father could ask for, son.” And with a wide grin he looked over Harry’s shoulder and shouted, “next!”
Harry moved along to stand in front of Adam. Ron put the pen back on to the desk carefully, clearly trying to avoid drawing Mike’s attention his way again, and stepped up next to Harry.
Adam handed them a slip of paper each, then waved them off without a word.
Harry looked down at the piece of paper in his hand.
Class: Remedial (Harry frowned and turned back to look reproachfully at Adam. Bloody cheek).
Homeroom: 101
Period 1: Chemistry; Period 2: English; Period 3: Calculus; Period 4: History; Period 5: Art; Period 6: French.
Huh. Harry really hoped tests weren’t involved. Or homework.
Having filled their cups with beer from the keg, they made their way to Room 101, Harry casting Adam a very pointed look as he walked past (and being just as pointedly ignored). When they walked into the room they were greeted by a tall, thin bloke wearing a mortar board and a long billowing academic gown (the overall effect was somewhat marred by the fact that the cap and gown were a neon pink. Still, Harry appreciated the effort).
“Good evening, class,” the bloke said, in the worst English accent Harry had ever heard. “My name is Professor Blackinton. Please take a seat and I will hand out your test papers.”
Harry exchanged a slightly worried look with Ron at the word ‘test’, but felt cheered by the sight of an opened bottle of tequila and four shot glasses on a nearby table. It was only once he and Ron were seated at one of the four seats (a bean bag, an ergonomically correct stool - and how embarrassing was it that it took Harry three tries before he was facing the right way - a giant orange cushion and an inflatable dolphin), that Harry had a chance to take in their other ‘classmates’.
The taller of the two - “Viktor, with a ‘k’,” he informed them solemnly, in a heavily accented, deep voice - was hot in a dark, brooding, probably-serial-killer kind of way. He scowled menacingly at the test questions as Blackinton handed them out, and Harry’s hopes for a fun evening took a definite nosedive. He turned desperate eyes to the fourth member of their class. And had to fight the urge to cry. This one may have been smaller and less intimidating, but he was also broodier, and looked like he ate puppies. He was currently glaring fiercely at Ron.
Well, weren’t they a happy bunch of campers.
Ron leant across to Harry and muttered, “definitely one of your more fucked up ideas, Harry. Cheers.”
Before Harry could reply, Blackinton, cleared his throat and frowned over at them,. “No talking in class boys.” He broke into a wide grin. “Well, not until teacher leaves the room,” and he waggled his eyebrows in a most disturbing manner.
“Right,” Blackinton continued. “Write your names on the top of your answer sheets.”
When they had all finished and put down their pencils, Blackinton walked between their seats, checking that they had carried out his instructions correctly. He paused in front of Small and Broody. Picking up the sheet of paper, he held it closer, his eyes going comically wide. “Poliakoff. Really?” He looked down at the scowling boy, “Fuck, dude, your parents must really fucking hate you.”
Poliakoff reached out and snatched the paper back. “That,” he spat, “is my family name. You do not need to know my given name.”
Blackinton put his hand in front of his mouth. “Oops, my bad,” he winked at the others.
Harry and Ron both laughed, and Harry was relieved to see even Viktor cracked a small smile.
Blackinton walked over to the table holding the tequila and Harry automatically sat up straighter.
“You’ve all done very well,” Blackinton told them, as he poured the tequila into the shot glasses. “Now, I could give you all a gold star but I figure you might prefer something else.”
He picked up one glass and, with the bottle in his other hand, carried it over to Poliakoff. “Here,” he said to the still scowling boy. “You should go first.”
Poliakoff took the glass and threw the drink down his throat as if he had been issued a personal challenge. He wiped off his lips with the back of his hand, before holding the empty glass out to Blackinton, but Blackinton just shook his head and poured him another shot.
“Huh-uh,” he said, with a little shake of his head. “You’re going to need twice as much as everyone else, if we’re going to kill that bug in your ass.” And he turned and walked back to the table.
The others all burst out laughing, even Viktor, and Harry thought perhaps it might not be a total wash-out after all. Poliakoff looked like he might be about to throw the glass at Blackinton’s head, but then seemed to think better of it. After a quick glance to where Viktor and Ron were smiling at each other over their own, now empty glasses, he drank down the second shot and glared around at everyone.
Before they left the homeroom, Blackinton explained that for the rest of the evening they would be expected to act like mature, responsible members of the illustrious student body they now represented. This, he went on, would require them to answer all the questions on the sheet to the very best of their ability, while also giving great care and attention to the even more important task of getting completely shitfaced.
“Don’t let me down now, boys,” he told them as they left, giving each of them a hard slap on the arse as they passed him by.
Braced by his shot of tequila and Blackinton’s inspiring words, Harry felt more than equal to the task that lay ahead, and he set off eagerly for Chemistry 101.
~~~
“What were King Harold’s last words at the Battle of Hastings?” Ron read out the question in a slightly slurred voice. He was sitting on the floor, his shoulder pressed up against Viktor, who was slumped next to him. Harry was sitting cross legged in front of them. Polly was in the chair in the corner, arms crossed, frowning down at them (it had to be said, he really hadn’t taken to his new nickname).
Harry was feeling very pleased. He’d rocked the first three tests. Which was really cool because if you got the question right, then you got to take three shots of whatever drink had been put out in that classroom.
Mind you, he wasn’t fully convinced that all his answers had actually been right. He frowned in thought. Like in English class, although he had never read Romeo & Juliet, he had a nagging feeling that the next line after, “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?” probably wasn’t “Down here, the ladder broke.” But he’d received a big tick and three shots of JD, so maybe, maybe, he actually knew a lot more Shakespeare than he thought.
“Right,” Ron leant forward and waggled the test paper in his face. “Pay attention, Harry.”
Harry looked up and over at Ron and Viktor. His eyes were drawn to where Viktor was resting his hand on Ron’s thigh. That was interesting.
“The options are,” Ron cleared his throat and sat up straighter (Harry noticed Viktor’s hand slid a few inches higher) “a) “Make sure those bastards from Bayeux get my good side”; b) “If Monty Python make a film about this, don’t let Cleese play me”; or c) Watch where you’re pointing that arrow, you’ll have somebody’s eye out in a minute”.
Ha. Harry knew his history, he wasn’t going to be fooled by those other silly made up answers. With his tongue peeping out as he concentrated, he carefully wrote ‘c’ on his answer sheet, underlined it three times, then eyed the half empty bottle of vodka on the table hopefully.
~~~
Harry wanted to die.
He was never drinking again.
Ever.
He rolled over and puked into the wastepaper bin someone had kindly left on his pillow.
Clearly, he was not ready to be up and about yet.
He carefully (spilled vomit was nobody’s friend) placed the bin onto the floor next to his bed, before throwing the covers back over his head, and turning over with a groan, the room shifting and spinning behind his closed eyelids.
~~~
When he woke up a few hours later, he felt considerably better, but that didn’t stop him from leaping on the bottle of water and packet of Advil some saint had left on his bedside table. About half-way through the water, he noticed that the bin had been emptied and cleaned out too. There was a post-it stuck to the rim.
Dude, you owe me BIG time!
Jon
He did, he really, really did. Harry started to nod his head, but the ice pick stabbing into his brain caused him to quickly reconsider the notion.
It took another hour before he felt sufficiently revived to attempt to make his way along the hall to see how Ron was faring. Blaise opened the door.
“You here to view the body?” he asked, with a grin.
Harry could only manage a feeble wave in response, but Blaise stepped aside and let him in anyway.
While it was true that Blaise was an annoying git with many strange and unusual habits (if you believed what Ron said, anyway) what he also was, was the owner of an awesome coffee machine. And he was willing to share.
The tempting smell eventually even coaxed Ron from under the covers, and by the time Blaise had made a second pot, Ron was feeling human enough to actually talk to Harry.
“So, um, good party last night?” Harry knew he sounded uncertain, but the thing was, while he was fairly sure they’d had a good time (what he could remember), Ron’s mood swings lately had been so erratic, that he really couldn’t be sure what sort of response he was going to get.
Ron’s face split into a huge grin, then his hand shot up to his head and he winced in pain. “Fuck. What was in that punch, Harry?”
Harry grimaced in sympathy. The punch had definitely delivered a, well, punch. It had been served at their ‘graduation ceremony’ at the end of the evening. Harry suspected it contained all the dregs of alcohol left over from the classrooms. But he didn’t really want to dwell on the subject, his stomach already beginning to protest the memory.
“Yeh, I feel your pain, Ron,” he said instead.
Ron settled back on his pillows, pulling his cup of coffee to his chest. He smiled at Harry. “Good night though, Harry,” he said, happily.
“Yeh?” Harry grinned back at him. He felt ridiculously pleased that he’d been the one responsible for getting Ron to finally go to a party and that he’d actually enjoyed it.
“Yeh,” Ron said, nodding carefully.
They sat for a few minutes in companionable silence, sipping at their coffee.
“So,” Harry started, waiting until Ron looked up before continuing. “Viktor.”
Ron immediately ducked his head and blushed. Harry would have punched his arms in the air if it wasn’t for the cup of hot coffee (or the fact that his head might fall off).
“You guys seemed to get on very well,” he continued, after Ron had been made to squirm uncomfortably for the requisite amount of time.
Ron looked up, smiling, face still flushed. “Yeh, he was a good bloke.” His eyes lit up suddenly. “Better than his bloody room-mate.”
Harry cringed. “Fuck, don’t remind me,” he agreed.
Poliakoff had been a nightmare. He hadn’t stopped scowling all night, getting progressively more obnoxious as the evening had gone on. He’d taken an immediate dislike to Ron, which now that Harry thought about it, seemed to intensify the more attention Viktor paid to Ron. A horrible thought suddenly darted into his head.
“Ooh, you don’t think him and Viktor…?” He pulled a face.
Ron looked at him confused for a moment, before his face screwed up in disgust. “Eew, no! Urgh, Harry, what a thought. No, I’m pretty sure that horrible little shit is straight.”
Harry noticed that Ron didn’t make the same assertion regarding Viktor. He grinned into his coffee.
( Part Two)
Title: Nothing Ever Lasts Forever
Creator: hull1984
Rating: PG13
Beta: incoherenteye (thank you, you were great)
Pairing(s)/Characters: Ron/Draco, Ron/Viktor (minor), Harry, Blaise
Warnings/content: Excessive use of the f-word, minor use of a recreational drug
Word Count: 16,274
Summary: A non-magical AU. Ron and Harry meet while they are both on an exchange year at an American university. They have never met each other, or Blaise and Draco, before this story starts. Title from the song by Echo And The Bunnymen. There are random bandom cameos (because I just can’t seem to help myself).
Nothing Ever Last Forever
“I hate my life,” Ron groaned into the pillow he was hugging to his chest.
Harry chuckled from the opposite bed. “What’s Zabini done this time?” he asked.
Ron let out a snort, but at least he finally removed his head from the pillow (Harry had been worried about accidental asphyxiation). Sitting up, Ron turned to face Harry.
“Oh God, Harry, I never thought I’d say this but I wish it was Blaise.”
Harry’s eyebrows shot up in amazement. They’d been there two months now and, apart from two short, blissful weeks when Ron had been without a room-mate, every day had brought forth a litany of complaints regarding Blaise Zabini (and Harry had met the bloke, so he knew he hadn’t suddenly become any less annoying).
No. Clearly, something extraordinary had occurred. Harry sat up a little straighter.
Ron frowned. “Though, now that you mention it…”
Harry slumped. So fucking close.
“Have I told you about the moisturiser?”
Ron didn’t bother to wait for an answer (in fairness, Harry didn’t try to offer one; the Zabini Rants were legendary by this time).
“Harry, the guy gets up every day at 7am. That’s 7 o’clock in the MORNING!” Ron shook his head. “Which, you know, would be fine. If he didn’t also wake me up to the sound of cream being slapped loudly onto bare skin. Again. And again. And AGAIN.”
Ron suddenly sat upright, a stunned look on his face. “Bloody hell, Harry, I’m going to kill the bastard.” He turned tormented eyes to Harry. “He’s a bloke, Harry. A bloke. Why does he even need to put moisturiser on his thighs?”
Harry really had no answer to that.
“And he’s naked, Harry.” Ron looked wretched now. He took a deep breath before continuing. “Naked. And he. He. He bends over.” Ron’s voiced cracked on the last word.
Harry couldn’t stand it any longer; the look of pure horror on Ron’s face was just too much. He let out a loud snort of laughter and fell off the bed.
Ron sighed. “Fuck off, Harry.”
~~~
A little while later, they were sitting in The Deadwood nursing a couple of beers. Ron was slouched in his chair looking miserable and Harry was trying not to roll his eyes (it wasn’t easy; Ron wasn’t exactly enjoying his Exchange year).
“So, apart from Zabini’s smooth, well-moisturised thighs-” Ron choked on his beer (Harry grinned evilly, timing was everything) “- how’s it going?”
Ron put his bottle back on the table. “It isn’t,” he said, grumpily. “Going,” he attempted to clarify at Harry’s perplexed look. “It isn’t going, Harry. My life just. Isn’t.” When Harry just shook his head and looked more confused, Ron slumped forward and pouted pitifully. “See?” He said. “This is what my life has become.”
Not for the first time, Harry wondered if talking to Ron at the Exchange Students Meet and Greet had really been such a good idea. He liked the guy, he did. He just wished he’d bloody cheer up.
“It’s my Literature and Psychology class.”
Harry looked up from where he’d been staring at his bottle. Okay, this might be good. The Literature and Psyche class had brought forth good stuff before. Frankly, he still didn’t understand what had possessed Ron to sign up for it in the first place.
“I don’t know what possessed me to sign up for it in the first place.” Ron picked forlornly at the label on his bottle of beer (Harry remembered reading somewhere that that was a sign of sexual frustration, and vaguely wondered if it had ever come up in Ron’s psyche class. Looking at Ron’s unhappy face, he hastily concluded that mentioning it at this point would probably earn him a punch in the head).
Before he could ask what specifically about the class was bugging Ron this time, a shadow fell across the table.
Ron looked up at the same time as Harry, and frowned at the boy standing there, his features smoothing quickly into a smile. “Oh hey, Malfoy,” he said, nodding at the other boy.
Harry couldn’t quite hide his shock (although, he wasn’t sure what was more surprising, Malfoy actually deigning to talk to them, or Ron’s own apparent lack of surprise).
“Hey,” Malfoy returned Ron’s nod.
Harry and Ron looked at Malfoy expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate. But the blond boy showed no sign of continuing, choosing instead to bite at his bottom lip and stare intently at the table.
Ron exchanged a perplexed look with Harry, shrugging in confusion before turning back to Malfoy.
“So, um, did you need something, Malfoy?” he asked, with a grin.
That seemed to snap the other boy out of his fugue and he turned suddenly hopeful eyes to Ron.
“Yes,” he replied, a little breathlessly. “Yes, um, I needed to ask,” he paused, and Harry couldn’t be sure in the dim lights of the bar, but he thought Malfoy might actually be blushing. What the fuck?
“That is,” Malfoy stopped again and shifted from one foot to the other. “I needed to ask,” he sighed, his shoulders suddenly slumping, “to borrow your menu.” And he picked up the narrow strip of cardboard from the table, before turning abruptly and walking away.
Harry looked across the table at Ron in wide eyed wonder. “What the hell was that?” He asked.
Ron shook his head, looking equally shocked. “I know,” he replied. “The git could have at least waited to see if we’d finished with it.”
Harry’s eyes widened further. “No. I think you’re missing the point, Ron.” When Ron continued to look confused he went on. “That was Draco Malfoy.”
Ron was looking at him now like he was an idiot. “Er, yes, Harry. I know. Hence the ‘hey, Malfoy’.” He rolled his eyes.
“No, no,” (and yes, okay, Harry might have spluttered a bit, but really it was too annoying). “Ron, I have lived next door to that little shit for two months now, and he has never so much as acknowledged my existence,” he paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Bugger, the little tit just did it again, didn’t he?” He shook his head. “Anyway, the point is, I’ve never seen him talk to anyone outside his little circle of cronies. And yet, here he is actually talking to you as if you’re a real human being.” He looked pointedly at Ron.
Ron shrugged again. “Don’t know what you’re going on about, mate. He talks to me all the time.” And he stood up, grabbing the two empty bottles from the table. “Same again?” he asked, heading to the bar when Harry nodded weakly in response.
Well.
Harry was experiencing that same swooping feeling of displacement that comes when you reach carefully down to take the next step, only to find yourself suddenly at the bottom of the stairs after all.
And he couldn’t help feeling that perhaps he’d missed a few steps in-between.
Draco Malfoy lived in the room next door to Harry, not that you’d know it from the amount of interaction between the two. Harry would have been quite happy to speak to the other bloke but therein lay the problem. Draco Malfoy was the most arrogant, stuck up bastard that Harry had ever had the misfortune to come into contact with.
The obnoxious git refused to speak to his room-mate, let alone his neighbours. He never ate in the shared kitchen and refused to use the joint bathroom unless the rest of his suite mates were out (he’d even been known to lock them out for a whole evening just so he could take a bath). Why he was even living in the dorms was anyone’s guess. It was abundantly clear that he came from money; his father was an Ambassador to the UN, or some such, and Harry had heard that his parents lived in a huge house in Hyannis Port.
And now, Ron was saying that he talked to Malfoy all the time.
Well, shit.
~~~
Harry yawned and scratched his head tiredly. He squinted at his alarm clock and groaned.
“Ron, come on, mate. I have to be up in three hours.”
Ron let out a jaw-cracking yawn of his own before nodding. “Okay, Harry.” He flicked through the pages of the large, hard-backed notebook on the bed in front of him. “I think I’ve got enough.”
Harry sighed in relief and slumped down onto his pillow.
“But let this be a lesson to you,” Ron admonished, shaking his finger at him. “Next time, think before you make sweeping statements regarding other people’s class assignments.”
Before Harry could formulate an appropriately scathing response, Ron had gathered up his things and swept from the room. Fucker didn’t even have the courtesy to switch off the light.
“You’re welcome!” Harry shouted at the closing door (earning a thump on the wall and a muffled “shut the fuck up” from the room next door. Fucking Malfoy).
Okay so technically, you could argue that Harry was maybe slightly to blame for Ron’s predicament. But only very slightly. It’s not like Ron should have just taken his word for it, git still should have done his homework.
Bloody Psyche class. Harry was beginning to hate it as much as Ron. How was he supposed to know that the professor was a voyeuristic pervert (although yeh, his area of expertise should have probably clued Harry up on that one; you don’t get to be a doctor of psychology without harbouring certain tendencies).
Still. It seemed a bit invasive. Setting your students the task of keeping a journal for the duration of the course, and then, pulling the dirty trick of actually asking them to submit the bloody thing for grading. Harry was pretty sure that it would never have happened at home (thank God, for good old English reserve). He had really felt on solid ground when he’d assured Ron that there was no way he’d ever have to produce an actual journal. He should have known his words would come back to haunt him.
Ron had returned to their table at The Deadwood earlier that evening, with fresh beers and the chilling news that Professor Toro had cheerfully announced in class that day, that he’d like everyone to hand in their journals for grading. Toro had gone on to say, even more cheerfully apparently (the sadistic bastard), that this would make up twenty percent of their final grade. A red faced, rather strident Ron, had then produced an A4 sized notebook and flapped the very empty pages in Harry’s appalled face.
“Drink up, Harry,” he’d instructed soon afterward, pointing at Harry’s beer. “Because you and I have one night to fill this book up with eight weeks worth of diary entries. And you better make it interesting, there’s no way I’m having Toro think I’m a total loser.”
They’d gone back to Harry’s room (Harry’s room-mate, Jon, practically lived at his friends’ apartment off-campus, so Harry pretty much had the room to himself), and spent the next five hours composing a fictional account of Ron’s life over the past couple of months. It had to be fictional because Ron really was a total loser, who had effectively spent every day since he’d arrived sulking.
From the moment of their very first meeting, Ron had made it abundantly clear just how much he didn’t want to be there; his unwavering refusal over the weeks that followed to accept any invitation to socialise or enjoy himself, pretty much cementing the sentiment. Harry counted it as a huge win that Ron had finally started to actually meet up with Harry outside of their dorm.
When Harry had questioned him about it, Ron had just shrugged and said that he missed his friends back home and didn’t like the idea of them graduating without him, hated the fact that when he went back next year they’d all be gone. Harry suspected there was more to it. From a couple of things that Ron had let slip when his guard was down (usually around the fourth beer), he had the idea that perhaps there was one person in particular that Ron missed, and that it was the thought of not seeing that person again that had him so messed up. But Ron had shut down all of his attempts to dig deeper, refusing to be drawn out on the subject, so Harry had let it drop.
Whatever the true reason for Ron’s recent monastic lifestyle, it had certainly made it a challenge to come up with enough entries to fill the depressingly blank pages of Ron’s notebook. It had made for a rather trying night too. Things had grown particularly strained around the 3am point, when Ron had employed some hitherto undisclosed ninja stealth moves, to sneak up on Harry and read the latest journal entry he had been jotting down -
October 14th: Admired Blaise’s naked arse (how does he get his thighs so silky smooth, I wonder?). Lied to Harry about it. It is becoming increasingly hard (ha) to hide my flaming homosexual proclivities from Harry. He is so cunning (and devilishly handsome) that he is sure to figure it out soon. Thank goodness my humungous man-crush on Prof Toro remains hidden…
Harry had glared reproachfully at Ron as he'd rubbed the back of his abused head. “It’s not like I was really going to put it in,” he'd mumbled, churlishly. “Where’s your sense of humour?”
“I lost it somewhere around 2am, Harry,” Ron had responded, throwing the scrunched up page at Harry’s head.
Ron had soon forgiven him, however, when Harry had come up with the ingenious idea of padding things out with song lyrics.
“You just have to make a big deal at the start about music being your life and how inspired you are by the words and music of your musical heroes,” he’d explained, excitedly. “And bingo! Pages and pages filled with Morrissey’s struggle with celibacy.”
Ron had looked torn between hugging him, and kicking him in the face for the celibacy crack.
But the real trump - the thing that Harry reckoned meant he now owned Ron - was the dream suggestion. Psychoanalysts ate that shit up. Ron had declared Harry a genius, and then made him write out as many of his dreams as he could remember (apparently, Ron never remembered his own dreams and if he did, then, they were always about food).
Harry had been reluctant at first - “fuck off, Ron!” - but well, the truth was, Harry had always been a little obsessed by his dreams (he’d even kept a dream journal when he was fourteen) and he just hadn't been able to stop his natural interest in the subject taking over.
He had enthusiastically filled several pages with dreams from his old journal - he'd been a little surprised by how many of the dreams featured knives - he seemed to have had a fascination when he was younger with sharp objects, and a number of his teenage dreams were filled with grabbing hold of, or poking other people with them. He had also seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time jumping through windows. How odd. Still better to share the details of those dreams, than his more recent ones, which tended to feature a lot more nudity, and a good deal of grabbing and poking of other things.
It had been nearing 5am when Ron had finally left the room. Harry calculating the likelihood of actually staying awake for his 9am class, had re-set his alarm for noon, and crawled under his covers. Two minutes later, he had been fast asleep.
~~~
Harry was woken up by a text from Ron at 9am. Git.
Meet u at arbys at 12.30 I’m buying
In spite of being disturbed from his sleep, Harry couldn’t help smiling; at least the bastard was grateful for his efforts last night. He sent back a quick reply.
k now f off + let me sleep
He was just snuffling back under the covers when his phone beeped again.
Aaaw sweet dreams bb
Harry shook his head. Tosser. He switched his phone off and threw it over onto Jon’s empty bed.
~~~
Ron wasn’t just grateful, he was also very happy and relieved. So happy and relieved in fact, that he finally agreed to go to a party. Harry had asked as a matter of course, and really hadn’t been expecting a yes. Hearing Ron’s unexpected reply, he paused with his roast beef sandwich half-way to his mouth.
“Really?” Harry asked, blinking in disbelief.
Ron looked up from his curly fries and frowned. “Well, not if you don’t want me to,” he said, sulkily.
“No, no,” Harry waved his bun happily in Ron’s direction, stray bits of beef landing limply on the table between them. “That’s great. Really. I was just a bit surprised, that’s all.”
“Yeh, well,” Ron rubbed the back of his neck and ducked his head. “It’s recently been brought to my attention that I may have been acting in a somewhat anti-social manner, and probably needed to get out and about a bit more.” He grinned over at Harry and rolled his eyes, “except maybe in less polite terms and with a few more expletives.”
“Who -,” Harry started to ask, but Ron interrupted him, shaking his head and mumbling, “no one you know, Harry.”
Harry noticed the way Ron’s smile faded, his mouth pulling down at the corners, and remembered the letter from home Ron had told Harry he’d found in his mailbox that morning. He picked up a fry and threw it at Ron’s head. “So what are you going to wear for your very first college party, Ron?” He asked with a wink.
Ron looked up at Harry in horror, “Jesus, what are we, Harry? Thirteen year old girls?”
Harry shrugged, grinning, “Well, we are at the mall, and you did drag me into that shop earlier to show me the pair of shoes you’ve been coveting for the past three weeks.”
It was Ron’s turn to throw fries. “Fuck off, Harry. They were sneakers.”
Yeh, like that made a difference.
~~~
They were walking out of the mall, Ron enjoying a particularly vociferous Zabini rant, when Harry saw Malfoy.
The blond boy was walking towards them but on the opposite side of the concourse. He was striding along, nose in the air, looking for all the world like he fucking owned the place (and rumour had it, he probably did). It reminded Harry, that he still hadn’t asked Ron about the encounter the previous day, and he turned toward Ron to do just that. Unfortunately, it wasn’t easy to shut him up, once he got on to Blaise.
“One fucking bagel, Harry,” Ron said, gesticulating wildly with his hands to emphasise his point. “One fucking bagel and that bastard ate it. I wouldn’t have minded,” he went on, “but the fridge was heaving with his stuff, all sorts of fancy fucking shit and he eats the one bloody bagel I’ve got in there.” Ron’s voice had risen steadily as he warmed to his subject.
Harry glanced over as Malfoy drew level with them, and saw the moment the blond recognised Ron’s voice. To Harry’s surprise Malfoy immediately headed over in their direction. Huh, seemed he and Ron really did know each other.
Ron was still oblivious to everything except what he wanted to do to “Blaise fucking Zabini,” so he missed the moment when Malfoy came to a sudden halt in front of them, missed how at the word “fucking” Malfoy’s eyes bugged out of his head as if he’d just received a blow to the head.
Harry didn’t miss it though. Harry didn’t miss any of it. He had to fake a cough to cover the sudden urge to laugh out loud. He put his hand on Ron’s arm so he wouldn’t walk into Malfoy (and he didn’t miss the way Malfoy’s eyes narrowed at that either).
Ron stopped walking and looked enquiringly at Harry. Harry nodded his head at Malfoy, and Ron turned to see the blond in front of him. “Oh hey, Malfoy,” he smiled brightly.
“Hey,” Malfoy, shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and stared down at the floor.
And this. This. Was quite possibly the funniest moment of Harry’s life. Because this time, in the harsh lights of the mall, there was no mistaking the deep blush that spread rapidly across Malfoy’s face and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. Harry rubbed his hand under his nose and pressed his thumb against his lips; laughing at this point really wasn’t an option.
“So, how’s things?” Ron asked.
Malfoy looked up and smiled shyly, “Good,” he replied, softly. “Really good.”
He and Ron both turned sharply to look at Harry, who was coughing loudly into his hand.
“Sorry,” Harry said, “frog in my throat. I’ll just, erm,” he turned and pointed towards a drugstore, “go and buy some water.” And he walked away quickly, shoulders shaking.
When he got back, Ron and Malfoy were sitting on a bench, Ron talking animatedly, while Malfoy looked on in rapt fascination.
Fucking. Hilarious.
Harry took a last swallow from his bottle of water, wiped the smirk from his face and walked over.
“Hey, you ready to go, Ron?” He kicked at Ron’s outstretched feet, earning a glare from Malfoy.
Ron looked up. “Oh, you’re back,” he said cheerfully.
“Yes,” Harry said, looking pointedly at Malfoy. “I’m back.” He knew it was mean but this was fun. Hey, and look, Malfoy was definitely acknowledging Harry’s existence now.
Ron stood up and gave Malfoy an awkward little wave. “So, guess I’ll see you around,” he said, with a final nod.
Malfoy smiled up at him. “Yeh, see you around.”
Ron nudged Harry in his side. “Come on, then, loser.” And he started walking towards the exit.
Harry paused long enough to give Malfoy a smug, little wave of his own. Wow. Malfoy had certainly embraced the culture of his adopted country. Nice finger.
Harry threw his arm around Ron’s shoulder and pulled him tight against his side. He grinned widely at the unmistakable “fucker” he heard mumbled at his back. Life was sweet. He looked up at Ron, who was frowning down at him.
“Um, Harry. What the fuck are you doing?”
Harry shrugged, unapologetically, “I have no idea, Ron. No idea.” And he steered his bemused friend through the automatic doors.
~~~
They caught one of the university buses back to the dorms. Harry was relieved that it was mostly empty at this time on a Friday afternoon, less people to overhear their conversation (they claimed it was ‘the accent,’ but frankly Harry thought they were just a bunch of nosy bastards).
“So,” he said, looking pointedly at Ron. “How long?”
Ron gave him a puzzled look, then peered around the interior of the bus, “About 35/40 foot?” He replied, confusedly.
Harry shook his head. Fucking oblivious much. “Not the bloody bus, you prat. How long have you and Malfoy… you know.” And he waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.
Ron looked at him, clearly even more confused now. “You know what, Harry? Talked? Recognised each other? Thought you were a moron? What?”
Harry was torn between laughing and banging his head against the seat in front. Ron didn’t know. He really, really didn’t know. Jesus, you couldn’t write this stuff. This was pure fucking gold.
“Never mind,” he said, weakly. “So… party?”
They spent the rest of the ride talking about the upcoming party.
~~~
Sadly, Ron’s good mood had long disappeared by the time the night of the party arrived.
Harry thought he had a pretty good idea why.
When they’d got back to the dorm the day before, Ron had received a phone call from his friends back home. There’d been a birthday party, and some genius had had the idea to call Ron. There’d been lots of good-natured shouting down the phone from various drunken friends and Ron had laughed and shouted back with the best of them. But then he’d had to hang up. Harry had never seen Ron so quiet; Ron had wandered back to his own room soon afterwards.
Harry had hoped that a decent night’s sleep might have restored Ron’s good humour, but Ron looked thoroughly miserable when he shuffled into Harry’s room that night. Harry bit his tongue and prayed for alcohol (seriously, this kid could make Marvin The Paranoid Android look like Happy the Happy Clown from Happyville).
It wasn't as if Harry didn’t sympathise, he did. He even suffered the occasional pang of homesickness himself. But he’d never had the sort of intense friendships that Ron clearly enjoyed with his friends. Harry made friends easily enough and he had plenty of them, but he just didn’t miss them in the same way Ron did.
Maybe, it was because Harry had never had a best friend, had never known that level of friendship. Well, until now. And that was another thing. Lately, he’d been wondering just who the fuck was going to help him out of his funk, when he had to say goodbye to Ron. He’d never tell the ginger git, but Ron was pretty much the best friend Harry had ever had (well, why else would Harry have put up with the miserable bastard for so long).
And now, Harry got this horrible cold pull in his stomach whenever he thought of their exchange year coming to an end (which probably meant he really was the thirteen year old girl Ron accused him of being).
Fuck it.
Harry stood up and pointed at Ron. “You fucking cheer up. Now.” And he strode from the room, pulled along by the siren call of brain numbing amounts of alcohol.
They didn’t exactly have far to go. The party was in their building, one block over and two flights up. Harry had been invited by Mike, who lived on the party floor and who Harry knew from his Media class.
As they stepped out of the lift, their ears were assaulted by the music blaring out of two speakers at the end of the hall. There was no bar in sight, which caused some momentary panic, but then Harry noticed that most of the people milling around were carrying cups of beer. Harry let out a relieved puff of breath and walked with renewed hope, towards the large banner proclaiming “Registration Here”. Mike had told Harry that it was going to be a ‘classroom’ party. Harry had no idea what that was, but frankly as long there was alcohol involved, he was game for anything.
Mike was sitting behind the makeshift desk, under the banner. He was writing people’s names on labels - “so your classmates know who you are,” he said with a grin as he handed one to Harry. “Glad you could make it,” he added. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Ron,” Harry said, as he stuck the label to his chest. “Ron, this is Mike.”
Ron nodded solemnly at Mike. Harry let out a frustrated sigh and slapped Ron upside the head. “Fucking play nice, you sulky git,” he told him, sternly.
Ron frowned at Harry, rubbing the back of his head, but he turned back to Mike and forced a smile. “Hi, Mike. I am super happy to meet you and stoked to be here at your delightful little shindig.”
Mike laughed loudly, shaking his head. “You’re right, Harry, he is a little shit,” he paused, raking his eyes slowly up Ron’s body, “or well, maybe not that little.” He held out Ron’s name label with a wink.
Ron looked at him wide-eyed, frozen in place, until Harry nudged him. “Come on, Ron, take the label, he doesn’t bite.” Harry laughed, mockingly.
Ron reached out nervously and took the label, stepping back from the table as he fixed it to his shirt, eyeing Mike warily all the while.
Harry shook his head, then turned back to Mike. “So, what next?” He asked, hoping it involved beer.
Mike inclined his head towards the guy sitting next to him. “Adam here, will fix you up with your class assignments and your timetable. Here,” he handed Harry two plastic cups and a sharpie, “write your names on these. Keg’s in the last room down the hall, help yourselves, then move on to your first class.” He grinned up at them both. “Work hard, get good grades and make me proud, boys.”
Harry finished writing his name on the cup and handed the pen to Ron. “We will try our very best, dad.”
Mike nodded solemnly. “That’s all a father could ask for, son.” And with a wide grin he looked over Harry’s shoulder and shouted, “next!”
Harry moved along to stand in front of Adam. Ron put the pen back on to the desk carefully, clearly trying to avoid drawing Mike’s attention his way again, and stepped up next to Harry.
Adam handed them a slip of paper each, then waved them off without a word.
Harry looked down at the piece of paper in his hand.
Class: Remedial (Harry frowned and turned back to look reproachfully at Adam. Bloody cheek).
Homeroom: 101
Period 1: Chemistry; Period 2: English; Period 3: Calculus; Period 4: History; Period 5: Art; Period 6: French.
Huh. Harry really hoped tests weren’t involved. Or homework.
Having filled their cups with beer from the keg, they made their way to Room 101, Harry casting Adam a very pointed look as he walked past (and being just as pointedly ignored). When they walked into the room they were greeted by a tall, thin bloke wearing a mortar board and a long billowing academic gown (the overall effect was somewhat marred by the fact that the cap and gown were a neon pink. Still, Harry appreciated the effort).
“Good evening, class,” the bloke said, in the worst English accent Harry had ever heard. “My name is Professor Blackinton. Please take a seat and I will hand out your test papers.”
Harry exchanged a slightly worried look with Ron at the word ‘test’, but felt cheered by the sight of an opened bottle of tequila and four shot glasses on a nearby table. It was only once he and Ron were seated at one of the four seats (a bean bag, an ergonomically correct stool - and how embarrassing was it that it took Harry three tries before he was facing the right way - a giant orange cushion and an inflatable dolphin), that Harry had a chance to take in their other ‘classmates’.
The taller of the two - “Viktor, with a ‘k’,” he informed them solemnly, in a heavily accented, deep voice - was hot in a dark, brooding, probably-serial-killer kind of way. He scowled menacingly at the test questions as Blackinton handed them out, and Harry’s hopes for a fun evening took a definite nosedive. He turned desperate eyes to the fourth member of their class. And had to fight the urge to cry. This one may have been smaller and less intimidating, but he was also broodier, and looked like he ate puppies. He was currently glaring fiercely at Ron.
Well, weren’t they a happy bunch of campers.
Ron leant across to Harry and muttered, “definitely one of your more fucked up ideas, Harry. Cheers.”
Before Harry could reply, Blackinton, cleared his throat and frowned over at them,. “No talking in class boys.” He broke into a wide grin. “Well, not until teacher leaves the room,” and he waggled his eyebrows in a most disturbing manner.
“Right,” Blackinton continued. “Write your names on the top of your answer sheets.”
When they had all finished and put down their pencils, Blackinton walked between their seats, checking that they had carried out his instructions correctly. He paused in front of Small and Broody. Picking up the sheet of paper, he held it closer, his eyes going comically wide. “Poliakoff. Really?” He looked down at the scowling boy, “Fuck, dude, your parents must really fucking hate you.”
Poliakoff reached out and snatched the paper back. “That,” he spat, “is my family name. You do not need to know my given name.”
Blackinton put his hand in front of his mouth. “Oops, my bad,” he winked at the others.
Harry and Ron both laughed, and Harry was relieved to see even Viktor cracked a small smile.
Blackinton walked over to the table holding the tequila and Harry automatically sat up straighter.
“You’ve all done very well,” Blackinton told them, as he poured the tequila into the shot glasses. “Now, I could give you all a gold star but I figure you might prefer something else.”
He picked up one glass and, with the bottle in his other hand, carried it over to Poliakoff. “Here,” he said to the still scowling boy. “You should go first.”
Poliakoff took the glass and threw the drink down his throat as if he had been issued a personal challenge. He wiped off his lips with the back of his hand, before holding the empty glass out to Blackinton, but Blackinton just shook his head and poured him another shot.
“Huh-uh,” he said, with a little shake of his head. “You’re going to need twice as much as everyone else, if we’re going to kill that bug in your ass.” And he turned and walked back to the table.
The others all burst out laughing, even Viktor, and Harry thought perhaps it might not be a total wash-out after all. Poliakoff looked like he might be about to throw the glass at Blackinton’s head, but then seemed to think better of it. After a quick glance to where Viktor and Ron were smiling at each other over their own, now empty glasses, he drank down the second shot and glared around at everyone.
Before they left the homeroom, Blackinton explained that for the rest of the evening they would be expected to act like mature, responsible members of the illustrious student body they now represented. This, he went on, would require them to answer all the questions on the sheet to the very best of their ability, while also giving great care and attention to the even more important task of getting completely shitfaced.
“Don’t let me down now, boys,” he told them as they left, giving each of them a hard slap on the arse as they passed him by.
Braced by his shot of tequila and Blackinton’s inspiring words, Harry felt more than equal to the task that lay ahead, and he set off eagerly for Chemistry 101.
~~~
“What were King Harold’s last words at the Battle of Hastings?” Ron read out the question in a slightly slurred voice. He was sitting on the floor, his shoulder pressed up against Viktor, who was slumped next to him. Harry was sitting cross legged in front of them. Polly was in the chair in the corner, arms crossed, frowning down at them (it had to be said, he really hadn’t taken to his new nickname).
Harry was feeling very pleased. He’d rocked the first three tests. Which was really cool because if you got the question right, then you got to take three shots of whatever drink had been put out in that classroom.
Mind you, he wasn’t fully convinced that all his answers had actually been right. He frowned in thought. Like in English class, although he had never read Romeo & Juliet, he had a nagging feeling that the next line after, “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?” probably wasn’t “Down here, the ladder broke.” But he’d received a big tick and three shots of JD, so maybe, maybe, he actually knew a lot more Shakespeare than he thought.
“Right,” Ron leant forward and waggled the test paper in his face. “Pay attention, Harry.”
Harry looked up and over at Ron and Viktor. His eyes were drawn to where Viktor was resting his hand on Ron’s thigh. That was interesting.
“The options are,” Ron cleared his throat and sat up straighter (Harry noticed Viktor’s hand slid a few inches higher) “a) “Make sure those bastards from Bayeux get my good side”; b) “If Monty Python make a film about this, don’t let Cleese play me”; or c) Watch where you’re pointing that arrow, you’ll have somebody’s eye out in a minute”.
Ha. Harry knew his history, he wasn’t going to be fooled by those other silly made up answers. With his tongue peeping out as he concentrated, he carefully wrote ‘c’ on his answer sheet, underlined it three times, then eyed the half empty bottle of vodka on the table hopefully.
~~~
Harry wanted to die.
He was never drinking again.
Ever.
He rolled over and puked into the wastepaper bin someone had kindly left on his pillow.
Clearly, he was not ready to be up and about yet.
He carefully (spilled vomit was nobody’s friend) placed the bin onto the floor next to his bed, before throwing the covers back over his head, and turning over with a groan, the room shifting and spinning behind his closed eyelids.
~~~
When he woke up a few hours later, he felt considerably better, but that didn’t stop him from leaping on the bottle of water and packet of Advil some saint had left on his bedside table. About half-way through the water, he noticed that the bin had been emptied and cleaned out too. There was a post-it stuck to the rim.
Dude, you owe me BIG time!
Jon
He did, he really, really did. Harry started to nod his head, but the ice pick stabbing into his brain caused him to quickly reconsider the notion.
It took another hour before he felt sufficiently revived to attempt to make his way along the hall to see how Ron was faring. Blaise opened the door.
“You here to view the body?” he asked, with a grin.
Harry could only manage a feeble wave in response, but Blaise stepped aside and let him in anyway.
While it was true that Blaise was an annoying git with many strange and unusual habits (if you believed what Ron said, anyway) what he also was, was the owner of an awesome coffee machine. And he was willing to share.
The tempting smell eventually even coaxed Ron from under the covers, and by the time Blaise had made a second pot, Ron was feeling human enough to actually talk to Harry.
“So, um, good party last night?” Harry knew he sounded uncertain, but the thing was, while he was fairly sure they’d had a good time (what he could remember), Ron’s mood swings lately had been so erratic, that he really couldn’t be sure what sort of response he was going to get.
Ron’s face split into a huge grin, then his hand shot up to his head and he winced in pain. “Fuck. What was in that punch, Harry?”
Harry grimaced in sympathy. The punch had definitely delivered a, well, punch. It had been served at their ‘graduation ceremony’ at the end of the evening. Harry suspected it contained all the dregs of alcohol left over from the classrooms. But he didn’t really want to dwell on the subject, his stomach already beginning to protest the memory.
“Yeh, I feel your pain, Ron,” he said instead.
Ron settled back on his pillows, pulling his cup of coffee to his chest. He smiled at Harry. “Good night though, Harry,” he said, happily.
“Yeh?” Harry grinned back at him. He felt ridiculously pleased that he’d been the one responsible for getting Ron to finally go to a party and that he’d actually enjoyed it.
“Yeh,” Ron said, nodding carefully.
They sat for a few minutes in companionable silence, sipping at their coffee.
“So,” Harry started, waiting until Ron looked up before continuing. “Viktor.”
Ron immediately ducked his head and blushed. Harry would have punched his arms in the air if it wasn’t for the cup of hot coffee (or the fact that his head might fall off).
“You guys seemed to get on very well,” he continued, after Ron had been made to squirm uncomfortably for the requisite amount of time.
Ron looked up, smiling, face still flushed. “Yeh, he was a good bloke.” His eyes lit up suddenly. “Better than his bloody room-mate.”
Harry cringed. “Fuck, don’t remind me,” he agreed.
Poliakoff had been a nightmare. He hadn’t stopped scowling all night, getting progressively more obnoxious as the evening had gone on. He’d taken an immediate dislike to Ron, which now that Harry thought about it, seemed to intensify the more attention Viktor paid to Ron. A horrible thought suddenly darted into his head.
“Ooh, you don’t think him and Viktor…?” He pulled a face.
Ron looked at him confused for a moment, before his face screwed up in disgust. “Eew, no! Urgh, Harry, what a thought. No, I’m pretty sure that horrible little shit is straight.”
Harry noticed that Ron didn’t make the same assertion regarding Viktor. He grinned into his coffee.
( Part Two)