Requital (How Stuff Works)
Title: Requital (How Stuff Works)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,300
Summary: See, if he’d been raised right, this wouldn’t’ve happened. I’d’ve brought in the soup, and he’d’ve said, “Why, thank you, Weasley. You’ve not cocked up this soup in any way, and I will wait for it to cool down like a normal person before I eat it. And I will eat it-because I’m sure it’s very tasty-instead of spitting it in your face. Twice.”
Author’s Notes: Written ages ago for deathnibblers/icanhaspancake at the ron_draco exchange. Originally posted here. I fixed a couple typos.
Requital
(How Stuff Works)
It started like this:
“I’m sick,” Malfoy said.
“That’s nice,” I said.
“ACHOO!” he said.
“Stop that!” I said.
“Urghhh,” he said.
“Fine!” I said. “I’ll take care of you, you stupid git!”
“I’m doomed,” he said, and passed out on the sofa.
Or, y’know, something along those lines. I may have embellished a bit.
Taking care of Malfoy is like taking care of a little kid. And not like one of those little kids that’s all quiet and polite and rather dodgy ‘cause it never misbehaves. Malfoy’s the exact opposite. He probably had all sorts of temper tantrums when he was growing up, and his mum never smacked him round for it, which is why I’m stuck with, y’know-this.
I once threw a fit in front of my mum. Wanted more pie, or something stupid, and nobody would give it to me.
Everyone thinks I’m too thick to learn things fast-at least, that’s what Hermione always implied, and what I was usually okay to agree with, ‘cause it helped me pass Potions-but Merlin, did I learn fast that time.
Bloody scary, Mum is.
I was four.
See, if Malfoy’d been raised right-if he’d been raised by Mum-he’d probably’ve turned out like a decent human being. He’d probably even be less pale, and Muggles would stop thinking he’s a vampire. (‘Cause they do. Doesn’t help that he likes to wear black and bare his teeth at them.) But he wasn’t, so he isn’t, and they don’t. Yeah.
Taking care of Malfoy’s like taking care of a little kid, ‘cause he likes to be a git on purpose.
I spent three hours in the kitchen this morning, trying to figure out how you’re supposed to make soup. I mean, it’s not like I’d know, or anything. The one thing Malfoy and I’ve got in common is that we’ve always had someone to cook for us. First, I had Mum and he had house-elves, then we both had Hogwarts, and now… I dunno how we’ve managed not to starve. Doesn’t make sense. I wonder…
Nevermind.
Anyway, I spent three hours in the kitchen. One hour was just me looking for a cookbook, before I realized that Ginny’d come over last week and taken them all away, ‘cause she was worried we’d end up killing ourselves if we tried anything. Then I remembered that Hermione’d brought over tinned stuff afterward, which she’d said was safer; but I reckon she forgot to tell me something, ‘cause I couldn’t get the tin open. I spent a half-hour hitting it against things, and another half-hour trying to think of a spell to do the job for me, before I finally stabbed a pair of scissors through the top.
Which, y’know, may or may not’ve been an accident, but it worked, anyway. S’not my fault Mum wouldn’t let me near the kitchen.
(Er, sort of. There was that one time…)
It took me the last hour to figure out how to actually cook the stuff.
By the time I’d finished-got the salvageable parts into a bowl ‘n everything-I was feeling pretty chuffed. I put the bowl on a tray (that’s how Mum used to do it when one of us was sick), and took it to Malfoy.
He was asleep, so I prodded his shoulder until he woke up.
“Oi, Malfoy,” I said.
“What do you want?”
I showed him the tray. “I’ve got food,” I told him.
“Congratulations.”
I could feel the tips of my ears heating up. Stupid prat. “It’s for you.”
He stared at me. “You didn’t make it yourself, did you?”
“’Course not,” I lied.
“Good. Give it to me.”
I did, ignoring the fact that I wanted to punch him in the face. This was Malfoy, after all. It wasn’t like I could expect him to fling himself at my feet in gratitude, or something.
He put a spoonful of soup in his mouth, then spat it back out at me.
“ARRGH!” I yelled, stepping backward. “What the hell’s your problem?”
“Are you trying to kill me, Weasley?” he yelled back. “It’s much too hot!”
“It’s soup! It’s supposed to be hot!”
“It’s too hot! Take it back!”
“No!”
He crossed his arms. “I won’t eat it, and then I’ll die, and it will be all your fault.”
“So? S’not like I care!”
‘Cept, I did care, seeing as how I’m not, y’know, a Slytherin. Or Snape. Snape wouldn’t care.
Right.
So I snatched back the tray, glaring at him for being such a stupid, picky bastard, and cast a Cooling Charm. I reckon I’m fairly good at them now, since it got so bloody hot here last summer, and I’ve had a lot of practice.
Malfoy flinched. He reckoned I was going to blow the soup up, and us with it.
I didn’t, though. ‘Course I didn’t.
“Here,” I hissed, and shoved it at him.
So he took a spoonful.
And spat the sodding thing out again.
“MALFOY!” I yelled. I wiped soup out of my eye.
This time, instead of looking insulted, or like I’d tried to poison him, or something, he smirked at me.
“It’s too cold.” He said it all jammy like a cat. Like Crookshanks, who is evil.
See, if he’d been raised right, this wouldn’t’ve happened. I’d’ve brought in the soup, and he’d’ve said, “Why, thank you, Weasley. You’ve not cocked up this soup in any way, and I will wait for it to cool down like a normal person before I eat it. And I will eat it-because I’m sure it’s very tasty-instead of spitting it in your face. Twice.”
I told him to go to hell. Told his mum to go somewhere else. (Probably shouldn’t repeat that sort of thing.)
He didn’t care, and kept smirking until I left the room. Hermione’d probably say we were both being daft, but I didn’t care about that, either.
When I came back (and I’d calmed down a lot), Malfoy was asleep again. Or he’d passed out, or was just dead, or something. I dunno. I reckoned he was actually breathing, and that was enough for me.
I also rather stared at him for a bit. You’d be surprised at how much less of a git he looks like when he’s sleeping. Not like it makes him any less of a git, or anything. S’just… he’s relaxed. And he looks like a kid, instead of just acting like one. ‘Cept, now he’s one of those kids that’s all quiet and polite and rather dodgy ‘cause it never misbehaves.
You can only look that peaceful when you’re a kid, y’know? We’ve both seen a lot of mad stuff in the last few years, and I dunno how anyone can still look like that when they sleep anymore. I s’pect I probably don’t.
He does, though.
Malfoy’s hair was stuck to his forehead-he was sweating a lot-and he muttered something under his breath. It sounded like, “I can has pancake?”
I snorted.
When Mum first found out about us, she wasn’t surprised. I mean, she was surprised about me ‘n Malfoy, but she wasn’t surprised about me. Said she’d seen it coming. I asked her how, ‘cause I sure as hell hadn’t. She told me to watch my language, then said that there was a reason I’d always acted like such a blundering fool round girls, and not in the usual way. She said it was like I couldn’t fathom them, but also like I didn’t want to. She told me it hadn’t made sense, until one day, it finally had, and she’d known.
At the time, nothing’d even made sense to me, so I stared at her. My mouth may’ve been open, I dunno.
But it was okay, she said. “Just…” She stopped. “Why Draco Malfoy, dear?”
I hadn’t known that, either. I remembered working together after Harry killed You-Know-Who, putting Hogwarts back together, ‘n all that. I remembered being gobsmacked, ‘cause he’d actually come and helped, instead of sitting back on his ungrateful arse like all the other Slytherins were doing. I remembered asking him-er, asking is probably a nice way to put it-what he was doing there, and he’d told me to piss off. So I asked again, and he let something slip about something-or-other else being his fault. I couldn’t remember anything from there, except maybe, y’know… snogging… But I didn’t know when that’d been. It couldn’t’ve been right away, right?
So I shrugged. “Dunno, Mum. I reckon it just sort of happened.”
Ginny didn’t find out. Said she’d always known, which I s’pect is bollocks, but I’m dead sick of arguing with her ‘bout it.
“Dad’ll be proud,” she announced to me.
I looked at her like she was mad-which, I mean, I thought she was. I hadn’t told Dad yet.
“Ask me why,” she insisted. “Really.”
I snorted. “Why, Ginny, would Dad ever be okay with-”
She interrupted before I could finish. “Because this will completely kill Lucius Malfoy!”
As far as I knew, Malfoy hadn’t been planning on telling either of his parents, but I laughed, anyway. It was a funny thing to picture.
“He’ll just,” she giggled, “he’ll just… drop dead on the Ministry floor, and nobody’ll have the foggiest what happened! Dad’ll come home and say, ‘The strangest, most wonderful thing happened today: Lucius Malfoy died!’ And you’ll say, ‘I know, Dad. That was me. I did it.’ And it’ll be okay.” Ginny looked at me, serious then. “You know it will be okay, right?”
“Sure.”
‘Course, I hadn’t believed her, and Lucius hadn’t died, either, when Malfoy finally told him. But it was okay. Dad was a little weird, at first, but he came round. Everyone I care about did, eventually. Even Harry.
Reckon Malfoy wasn’t as lucky.
I’d always thought that was why he came to live with me. I mean, one of the reasons. Or the real one, maybe. Not just ‘cause he’d wanted to, but ‘cause he’d had to.
I didn’t ask, though, and he’s never told me.
I sort of looked out the window at the snow, then looked back at Malfoy. He was still sweating, but he’d started to shiver like mad, too.
“Oi,” I said quietly, and prodded him again.
It took a few prods to wake him up this time. He rolled over and glared at me.
“What?”
I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d meant to say.
“You cold?” I tried.
He rolled his eyes. “You think, Weasley?”
“Er… what should I do?”
“Try fetching me a blanket,” he suggested sarcastically. Which made sense, seeing as I’d forgotten to get him one. Bugger.
I Summoned something warm from somewhere in the house-dunno where it came from, just that it did come-and a pair of socks, ‘cause that seemed to make sense, too. Malfoy grabbed the blanket and tried to wrap himself up in it, but mostly failed. Didn’t bother to help him, though, ‘cause he doesn’t like that. Usually.
Okay. So I’m utter shite at taking care of people, I admit. It’s sort of obvious, though. I mean, I’ve never had to take care of someone before. There’s always somebody taking care of me, when I need it. And it’s not like I always do. I’m not some bloody pansy fairy, and neither, really, is Malfoy. You’d think he’d be, but he’s not. Just ‘cause we’re, y’know-us, n’ the way we are-doesn’t mean we’re not normal blokes. Er, or mostly normal. Very masculine, and stuff.
I left him alone for a while as I searched the cupboards for some food. (I settled on a bag of crisps.) I felt kind of lost, like I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Don’t get me wrong: Malfoy’s annoying. I mean, really, bloody annoying, and a real git-y’know, like I’ve mentioned before. But I like having him round. I dunno how to explain it. He makes me feel-
Er. I don’t want to get into all that pansy rubbish about feelings, so I won’t. Just… It’s just…
Merlin. Nevermind!
I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep until I felt something kicking at my foot lightly.
“Urgh,” I groaned. “Whaddyawant?”
I was on the floor, apparently, since Malfoy seemed to be staring down at me. He had the blanket wrapped round his shoulders like a Muggle superhero.
“Nothing,” he said, and shrugged. “I just wanted you to know what it felt like.”
“You’re a git,” I told him.
He nodded. “I try.”
He looked like he was unsure about something, and kept glancing behind him at the window. It was dark outside by then, and I wondered how long I’d slept. Must’ve been more than a few hours.
After about a minute, he bent down to the floor beside me, and just sat. He didn’t say anything else, just sort of scooted closer until a corner of the blanket covered my leg.
“Malfoy?”
He ignored me.
“Malfoy?” I tried again.
That time, the barmy bloke decided to… to… Well, we snogged. It was short, and rather awkward, seeing as he broke it off to practically cough into my mouth. But it still felt-
Right. None of that pansy feelings stuff, remember?
“Blimey,” I said. “What was that for?” My head was a little foggy.
Malfoy shrugged, and turned faintly pink, but he still didn’t say anything.
Later, I reckoned that it’d been some sort of weird-but, y’know, not bad-way of showing gratitude, ‘cause I’ll be a hippogriff’s arse if I’ve ever actually heard him say Thank you before.
But… it’s okay. I reckon that’s just the way it works with us.
Malfoy leaned himself against my shoulder for a long while after that.
THE END
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,300
Summary: See, if he’d been raised right, this wouldn’t’ve happened. I’d’ve brought in the soup, and he’d’ve said, “Why, thank you, Weasley. You’ve not cocked up this soup in any way, and I will wait for it to cool down like a normal person before I eat it. And I will eat it-because I’m sure it’s very tasty-instead of spitting it in your face. Twice.”
Author’s Notes: Written ages ago for deathnibblers/icanhaspancake at the ron_draco exchange. Originally posted here. I fixed a couple typos.
Requital
(How Stuff Works)
It started like this:
“I’m sick,” Malfoy said.
“That’s nice,” I said.
“ACHOO!” he said.
“Stop that!” I said.
“Urghhh,” he said.
“Fine!” I said. “I’ll take care of you, you stupid git!”
“I’m doomed,” he said, and passed out on the sofa.
Or, y’know, something along those lines. I may have embellished a bit.
Taking care of Malfoy is like taking care of a little kid. And not like one of those little kids that’s all quiet and polite and rather dodgy ‘cause it never misbehaves. Malfoy’s the exact opposite. He probably had all sorts of temper tantrums when he was growing up, and his mum never smacked him round for it, which is why I’m stuck with, y’know-this.
I once threw a fit in front of my mum. Wanted more pie, or something stupid, and nobody would give it to me.
Everyone thinks I’m too thick to learn things fast-at least, that’s what Hermione always implied, and what I was usually okay to agree with, ‘cause it helped me pass Potions-but Merlin, did I learn fast that time.
Bloody scary, Mum is.
I was four.
See, if Malfoy’d been raised right-if he’d been raised by Mum-he’d probably’ve turned out like a decent human being. He’d probably even be less pale, and Muggles would stop thinking he’s a vampire. (‘Cause they do. Doesn’t help that he likes to wear black and bare his teeth at them.) But he wasn’t, so he isn’t, and they don’t. Yeah.
Taking care of Malfoy’s like taking care of a little kid, ‘cause he likes to be a git on purpose.
I spent three hours in the kitchen this morning, trying to figure out how you’re supposed to make soup. I mean, it’s not like I’d know, or anything. The one thing Malfoy and I’ve got in common is that we’ve always had someone to cook for us. First, I had Mum and he had house-elves, then we both had Hogwarts, and now… I dunno how we’ve managed not to starve. Doesn’t make sense. I wonder…
Nevermind.
Anyway, I spent three hours in the kitchen. One hour was just me looking for a cookbook, before I realized that Ginny’d come over last week and taken them all away, ‘cause she was worried we’d end up killing ourselves if we tried anything. Then I remembered that Hermione’d brought over tinned stuff afterward, which she’d said was safer; but I reckon she forgot to tell me something, ‘cause I couldn’t get the tin open. I spent a half-hour hitting it against things, and another half-hour trying to think of a spell to do the job for me, before I finally stabbed a pair of scissors through the top.
Which, y’know, may or may not’ve been an accident, but it worked, anyway. S’not my fault Mum wouldn’t let me near the kitchen.
(Er, sort of. There was that one time…)
It took me the last hour to figure out how to actually cook the stuff.
By the time I’d finished-got the salvageable parts into a bowl ‘n everything-I was feeling pretty chuffed. I put the bowl on a tray (that’s how Mum used to do it when one of us was sick), and took it to Malfoy.
He was asleep, so I prodded his shoulder until he woke up.
“Oi, Malfoy,” I said.
“What do you want?”
I showed him the tray. “I’ve got food,” I told him.
“Congratulations.”
I could feel the tips of my ears heating up. Stupid prat. “It’s for you.”
He stared at me. “You didn’t make it yourself, did you?”
“’Course not,” I lied.
“Good. Give it to me.”
I did, ignoring the fact that I wanted to punch him in the face. This was Malfoy, after all. It wasn’t like I could expect him to fling himself at my feet in gratitude, or something.
He put a spoonful of soup in his mouth, then spat it back out at me.
“ARRGH!” I yelled, stepping backward. “What the hell’s your problem?”
“Are you trying to kill me, Weasley?” he yelled back. “It’s much too hot!”
“It’s soup! It’s supposed to be hot!”
“It’s too hot! Take it back!”
“No!”
He crossed his arms. “I won’t eat it, and then I’ll die, and it will be all your fault.”
“So? S’not like I care!”
‘Cept, I did care, seeing as how I’m not, y’know, a Slytherin. Or Snape. Snape wouldn’t care.
Right.
So I snatched back the tray, glaring at him for being such a stupid, picky bastard, and cast a Cooling Charm. I reckon I’m fairly good at them now, since it got so bloody hot here last summer, and I’ve had a lot of practice.
Malfoy flinched. He reckoned I was going to blow the soup up, and us with it.
I didn’t, though. ‘Course I didn’t.
“Here,” I hissed, and shoved it at him.
So he took a spoonful.
And spat the sodding thing out again.
“MALFOY!” I yelled. I wiped soup out of my eye.
This time, instead of looking insulted, or like I’d tried to poison him, or something, he smirked at me.
“It’s too cold.” He said it all jammy like a cat. Like Crookshanks, who is evil.
See, if he’d been raised right, this wouldn’t’ve happened. I’d’ve brought in the soup, and he’d’ve said, “Why, thank you, Weasley. You’ve not cocked up this soup in any way, and I will wait for it to cool down like a normal person before I eat it. And I will eat it-because I’m sure it’s very tasty-instead of spitting it in your face. Twice.”
I told him to go to hell. Told his mum to go somewhere else. (Probably shouldn’t repeat that sort of thing.)
He didn’t care, and kept smirking until I left the room. Hermione’d probably say we were both being daft, but I didn’t care about that, either.
When I came back (and I’d calmed down a lot), Malfoy was asleep again. Or he’d passed out, or was just dead, or something. I dunno. I reckoned he was actually breathing, and that was enough for me.
I also rather stared at him for a bit. You’d be surprised at how much less of a git he looks like when he’s sleeping. Not like it makes him any less of a git, or anything. S’just… he’s relaxed. And he looks like a kid, instead of just acting like one. ‘Cept, now he’s one of those kids that’s all quiet and polite and rather dodgy ‘cause it never misbehaves.
You can only look that peaceful when you’re a kid, y’know? We’ve both seen a lot of mad stuff in the last few years, and I dunno how anyone can still look like that when they sleep anymore. I s’pect I probably don’t.
He does, though.
Malfoy’s hair was stuck to his forehead-he was sweating a lot-and he muttered something under his breath. It sounded like, “I can has pancake?”
I snorted.
When Mum first found out about us, she wasn’t surprised. I mean, she was surprised about me ‘n Malfoy, but she wasn’t surprised about me. Said she’d seen it coming. I asked her how, ‘cause I sure as hell hadn’t. She told me to watch my language, then said that there was a reason I’d always acted like such a blundering fool round girls, and not in the usual way. She said it was like I couldn’t fathom them, but also like I didn’t want to. She told me it hadn’t made sense, until one day, it finally had, and she’d known.
At the time, nothing’d even made sense to me, so I stared at her. My mouth may’ve been open, I dunno.
But it was okay, she said. “Just…” She stopped. “Why Draco Malfoy, dear?”
I hadn’t known that, either. I remembered working together after Harry killed You-Know-Who, putting Hogwarts back together, ‘n all that. I remembered being gobsmacked, ‘cause he’d actually come and helped, instead of sitting back on his ungrateful arse like all the other Slytherins were doing. I remembered asking him-er, asking is probably a nice way to put it-what he was doing there, and he’d told me to piss off. So I asked again, and he let something slip about something-or-other else being his fault. I couldn’t remember anything from there, except maybe, y’know… snogging… But I didn’t know when that’d been. It couldn’t’ve been right away, right?
So I shrugged. “Dunno, Mum. I reckon it just sort of happened.”
Ginny didn’t find out. Said she’d always known, which I s’pect is bollocks, but I’m dead sick of arguing with her ‘bout it.
“Dad’ll be proud,” she announced to me.
I looked at her like she was mad-which, I mean, I thought she was. I hadn’t told Dad yet.
“Ask me why,” she insisted. “Really.”
I snorted. “Why, Ginny, would Dad ever be okay with-”
She interrupted before I could finish. “Because this will completely kill Lucius Malfoy!”
As far as I knew, Malfoy hadn’t been planning on telling either of his parents, but I laughed, anyway. It was a funny thing to picture.
“He’ll just,” she giggled, “he’ll just… drop dead on the Ministry floor, and nobody’ll have the foggiest what happened! Dad’ll come home and say, ‘The strangest, most wonderful thing happened today: Lucius Malfoy died!’ And you’ll say, ‘I know, Dad. That was me. I did it.’ And it’ll be okay.” Ginny looked at me, serious then. “You know it will be okay, right?”
“Sure.”
‘Course, I hadn’t believed her, and Lucius hadn’t died, either, when Malfoy finally told him. But it was okay. Dad was a little weird, at first, but he came round. Everyone I care about did, eventually. Even Harry.
Reckon Malfoy wasn’t as lucky.
I’d always thought that was why he came to live with me. I mean, one of the reasons. Or the real one, maybe. Not just ‘cause he’d wanted to, but ‘cause he’d had to.
I didn’t ask, though, and he’s never told me.
I sort of looked out the window at the snow, then looked back at Malfoy. He was still sweating, but he’d started to shiver like mad, too.
“Oi,” I said quietly, and prodded him again.
It took a few prods to wake him up this time. He rolled over and glared at me.
“What?”
I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d meant to say.
“You cold?” I tried.
He rolled his eyes. “You think, Weasley?”
“Er… what should I do?”
“Try fetching me a blanket,” he suggested sarcastically. Which made sense, seeing as I’d forgotten to get him one. Bugger.
I Summoned something warm from somewhere in the house-dunno where it came from, just that it did come-and a pair of socks, ‘cause that seemed to make sense, too. Malfoy grabbed the blanket and tried to wrap himself up in it, but mostly failed. Didn’t bother to help him, though, ‘cause he doesn’t like that. Usually.
Okay. So I’m utter shite at taking care of people, I admit. It’s sort of obvious, though. I mean, I’ve never had to take care of someone before. There’s always somebody taking care of me, when I need it. And it’s not like I always do. I’m not some bloody pansy fairy, and neither, really, is Malfoy. You’d think he’d be, but he’s not. Just ‘cause we’re, y’know-us, n’ the way we are-doesn’t mean we’re not normal blokes. Er, or mostly normal. Very masculine, and stuff.
I left him alone for a while as I searched the cupboards for some food. (I settled on a bag of crisps.) I felt kind of lost, like I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Don’t get me wrong: Malfoy’s annoying. I mean, really, bloody annoying, and a real git-y’know, like I’ve mentioned before. But I like having him round. I dunno how to explain it. He makes me feel-
Er. I don’t want to get into all that pansy rubbish about feelings, so I won’t. Just… It’s just…
Merlin. Nevermind!
I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep until I felt something kicking at my foot lightly.
“Urgh,” I groaned. “Whaddyawant?”
I was on the floor, apparently, since Malfoy seemed to be staring down at me. He had the blanket wrapped round his shoulders like a Muggle superhero.
“Nothing,” he said, and shrugged. “I just wanted you to know what it felt like.”
“You’re a git,” I told him.
He nodded. “I try.”
He looked like he was unsure about something, and kept glancing behind him at the window. It was dark outside by then, and I wondered how long I’d slept. Must’ve been more than a few hours.
After about a minute, he bent down to the floor beside me, and just sat. He didn’t say anything else, just sort of scooted closer until a corner of the blanket covered my leg.
“Malfoy?”
He ignored me.
“Malfoy?” I tried again.
That time, the barmy bloke decided to… to… Well, we snogged. It was short, and rather awkward, seeing as he broke it off to practically cough into my mouth. But it still felt-
Right. None of that pansy feelings stuff, remember?
“Blimey,” I said. “What was that for?” My head was a little foggy.
Malfoy shrugged, and turned faintly pink, but he still didn’t say anything.
Later, I reckoned that it’d been some sort of weird-but, y’know, not bad-way of showing gratitude, ‘cause I’ll be a hippogriff’s arse if I’ve ever actually heard him say Thank you before.
But… it’s okay. I reckon that’s just the way it works with us.
Malfoy leaned himself against my shoulder for a long while after that.
THE END