Mad Slytherins and Blood Traitors

It was all effed up. Harry had absolutely no bloody idea about the Horcruxes or anything else. He and Hermione had followed Harry blindly for weeks now and what had it got them besides cold backsides and constant disappointment? Absobloodylutely nothing, that was what.

Ron glowered over at Harry, the locket heavy in more ways than one about his neck. Over the mad tattooing of rain against the tent, he could hear Hermione say his name sharply.

He ignored her.

Harry stared back at him, infuriatingly calm when he deigned to address Ron's outrage. "Well, sorry to let you down. I've been straight with you from the start, I told you everything Dumbledore told me. And in case you haven't noticed, we've found one Horcrux—"

But that wasn't good enough. They had no damned idea how to get rid of it. So Phineas Nigellus Black let on about Godric Gryffindor's sword. Lot of bleeding good that did when they had no way of knowing where Dumbledore put the real one!

The more Harry talked (and Hermione tried to intervene), the angrier Ron became. This entire mission was turning into nothing more than a bollixed mess, his family might be worse off than he'd figured, and Harry didn't care a whit about any of it.

Harry obviously didn't care a whit about him, either. He bellowed at Ron to just go home and Ron advanced, not sure if he wanted to pummel Harry or hex him. The only thing that prevented Ron from finding out which it would be was Hermione's shielding charm.

Glaring at Harry through the invisible barrier, he yanked the chain from over his head. Tossing it onto a nearby chair, he looked to Hermione.

Before she even said a word, Ron knew. He knew she'd choose to stay with Harry. She'd choose Harry over him.

"Ron, no—please—please come back, come back!"

Her voice echoing in his ears, louder still than the pounding rain, Ron stalked off into the night. He ran until he could stand the rain no more and Disapparated. Darkness pressed in on him from all sides, squeezing every fiber of his being into time and space.

When he opened his eyes, Ron felt air burst forth from his lungs. Choking, he leaned forward, pressing his palms against his thighs.

With the weight of the locket gone from his neck, clarity washed over him like a mad ocean. Sick over the rotten things he'd said to Harry, even if they'd been the truth, Ron knew he had to go back. He had to make things right. Harry was his best mate. He and Hermione had made a promise about Harry and these ruddy Horcruxes and Ron had gone and buggered things up but good.

Fingers curling round the hilt of his wand, Ron inhaled deeply, straightened –

And found himself smack dab in the middle of a group of blokes who made Tom at the Leaky Cauldron look like a fit devil.

"Well, what've we got here, Gareth?" said the one with the small, beady eyes and the splotchy skin.

"Looks like a wee lad skiving off school, that's wot," said Gareth, his mouth twisting into a cruel smirk.

"A Muggle-born, no doubt," offered a third, flashing Ron a gap-toothed smile.

"A Muggle-born?" Ron said slowly, tightening the grip on his wand.

"Not so fast," Gareth warned, disarming Ron with quick charm, deftly catching the expelled wand. He gave it a quick once-over before tossing it to the large, smelly, oafish-looking chap who looked as though he hadn't two brain cells to rub together. "What are you doing? Shouldn't you be in school, laddie?"

"Yeah," piped up the gap-toothed one. "Unless you've got reason to run, eh? So which is it – Muggle-born or blood traitor?"

A smaller figure, standing some ways away from the big, rank-smelling one, said, "Either way, he'll bring in gold at the Ministry." Though the hood of her robes obscured her face, there was something familiar about her voice. Curious despite himself, Ron started toward her, though the beady-eyed one cut Ron off at the pass, pressing a wand against his throat.

"Let's you and us take a little trip to the Ministry."

Shit, Ron thought, glancing from Gareth to Bucky and back again. Knowing he had to act fast to save his skin, he blurted out the first name that came to mind. "Stan Shunpike! My name is Stan Shunpike."

When Beady pulled his wand away, Ron was able to breathe easier.

"That bloke wot worked on the Knight Bus?" asked the gap-toothed one.

"That's what he says," Beady said.

"I thought that bloke was taller." Gap-tooth looked more and more confused by the second.

"That bloke is this bloke," Beady said, waving his wand at Ron, who took a few steps backwards.

In a flash, Gareth was by Ron's side, grabbing hold of his arms. "I dunno if it's him or not," Gareth said, eyeing Ron critically.

"It's him!" Beady insisted.

"Is not!" Gap-tooth spat.

Ron winced as Gareth's fingers dug into his arm. He thought about stomping on the git's foot but before the thought could connect with the rest of him, Beady and Gap-tooth erupted into a whirlwind of fists and hexes, all the while yelling loudly as to whether or not Ron was actually Stan Shunpike. The others around him started to bellow at the plonkers having the row, so Ron used the distraction to his advantage. With his free hand, Ron socked Gareth in the stomach, grabbed his wand, and ran toward Smelly. Before Smelly or the hooded girl beside him could react, Ron reclaimed his wand and Disapparated.

Before he even opened his eyes, Ron knew he'd gone and buggered it up. Sharp, hot pain shot up from the tips of two fingers. Biting down hard on his lip to avoid crying out, his eyes rounded when he saw what had happened. He'd gone and Splinched himself again – leaving behind two fingernails!

As if that weren't bad enough, he hadn't even Apparated into the right spot. Though he was clearly on a riverbank, it wasn't the place the three of them had pitched their tent and eavesdropped on Griphook and company.

Suppressing a moan (His fingers bloody hurt!), Ron tried again. And again. And again.

Third time was the charm.

Ron found himself on the very bank he'd left Harry and Hermione on.

Only he'd been too late. They were gone.

"How'm I going to find them now?" he muttered, squinting through fringe that was both plastered to his forehead and falling into his eyes.

"You're not finding anyone," said a voice behind him.

Then his world went black.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When Ron came to, his head was pounding and his stomach was positively growling. He hadn't eaten in—Merlin knew when. The last thing he recalled eating was some of that dreadful pike and there was no telling how long ago that had been.

Where am I?

Wherever he was, it was bloody dark.

Instinctively, Ron reached for his wand, only to find that it wasn't there.

His hands scrabbled over the cool stone beneath him. No luck whatsoever.

His wand was…gone. Lost or confiscated.

A loud, creaking noise somewhere to Ron's left got his attention. Crouching down, he waited apprehensively.

"Woken up, have we?"

It was the same voice he'd thought was familiar earlier.

"Who are you?" he demanded, rising to his feet. "Where am I?"

A bright point of light flared up suddenly, the stream emanating from the tip of a wand. The change from dark to light hurt Ron's eyes, made him squint. A few seconds passed before he could see anything besides large, fuzzy dots.

When he could focus at last on the figure before him, all Ron could do at first was stare.

The pug-like nose of Pansy Parkinson wrinkled. "I realize you've never been around a real, proper girl before, Weasley, but it's quite rude to stare."

"Parkinson," Ron said finally, "what in the bloody hell is going on?"

"Over your spattergoit, I see," she sniffed, idly inspecting her nails. "Everyone at Hogwarts was ever so worried. Well, except for the Slytherins – and anyone else who wasn't arse over tin cups about Speccy Potter."

"Where am I?" he said again, teeth grinding together. This was going to get old right quick.

"You're in the Ministry. Holding cells for Muggle-borns and blood traitors, you see."

"What?! "

"Oh, honestly, Weasley," she said with a nasty laugh, "did you think we'd let you get away? Turning in the best friend of Harry Potter'll merit quite a bit of gold. Of course, you're not Potter, so I'm afraid you'll be stuck down here for some time before any of the officials get around to you. My, my, but am I ever so glad Mother made me accompany cousin Sequoia on his Snatching excursion. And here I thought the family reunion was going to be boring."

That was a bloody lot of information to follow. Ron's brow furrowed for a moment before he said, "Snatching?"

"Don't you know anything?" Pansy asked, rolling her eyes. "With the Ministry offering up rewards for Muggle-borns and blood traitors, whole gangs of wizards are going out in capturing parties. Some people will do anything for money, you see."

"Like you?" Ron asked, lips curling with disgust.

Parkinson's face grew as hard as stone. "Don't presume to pretend you know anything about me, Weasley."

The light of her wand went out and soon Ron was left with only the darkness for company.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Argh! Give a man some warning before you light the place up!" Ron exclaimed, screwing his eyes shut against the sudden invasion of brightness in the small, dank room.

"I will when I come across a man to warn," Pansy said bemusedly.

"Ha bloody ha."

"I've brought you food." Arching a brow, she held out a small plate that held something which had probably been shepherd's pie once upon a time.

Though Ron had a million questions for Parkinson, the growling of his stomach won out. He took the plate and began to shovel the slop in his mouth, barely taking time to chew before he swallowed. Any other time, he would have found it dead disgusting but, when a bloke was starving, even mud would have tasted delicious.

"What, aren't you going to lick it clean?" Pansy asked when Ron offered her the plate back.

"Piss off," he said, wiping at his mouth with the sleeve of his tattered jumper.

"I wouldn't want to get you all hot and bothered, Weasley," she said, Banishing the offending plate.

"What am I doing here? What are you doing here?" he said, quite through with the pointless banter. If he was ever going to get back to Harry and Hermione, he had to suss out what he was up against here. He'd broken into the Ministry before. If he had his wand, breaking out might not have been so hard. There was no telling what Parkinson had done with his wand, though, and there was no way she'd return it to him.

"I've already told you why you're here. They're just not coming to deal with you straightaway, Weasley. You're second best to the real prize."

Those words cut Ron right down to the bone. How many times had he compared himself to Harry in such a manner? Thoughts like that had always been just below the surface over the years, but when Ron had started to share the burden of that ruddy locket they'd come to the forefront of his mind. Second best. Never first. Always getting hand-me-downs and—

STOP!

That single word reverberated loudly in his head, forcing all those other traitorous thoughts back to the recesses where they belonged.

Harry was his best mate. Harry was like a brother to him. If these arses running the Ministry and following You-Know-Who's orders wanted to make Ron squirm and prepare to hand them Harry on a silver platter, they were going to have to work a hell of a lot harder than this.

Lifting his chin, Ron stared down at Parkinson, trying to discern where she fit into this overgrown puzzle.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Can you stop being a bint for half a sodding second and answer my question? Why aren't you at Hogwarts?" He crossed his arms about his chest and looked at her expectantly.

Pansy's lips pursed together and her eyes narrowed. Ron refused to shift his gaze, foot tapping against the stones as he waited.

"Concerned about my education, Weasley? How terribly noble," she sneered.

"It's not noble," he said irritably. "Stop fucking about!" Something came over Ron just then and he snapped. Closing the distance between them in two long strides, he grabbed hold of Pansy's wrists and held them tightly. "I'm going to ask you one more time. Why aren't you at Hogwarts? What are you doing here?"

"Let go. You're hurting me!"

"Use your wand, then," Ron challenged, increasing the pressure of his fingers around her wrists.

Eyes flashing, Pansy stared back at him with contempt in utter silence.

And then Ron felt as though his bollocks were hurtling toward his stomach, which they very well likely were since Parkinson had just played dirty and kneed him where it hurt a bloke the most.

"Merlin's wrinkly DRAWERS," he roared, voice cracking as he doubled over in pain.

"Stay back," Parkinson panted, waving her wand about madly.

"Stay? I don't think I can sodding move," he moaned.

"Oh, I barely grazed you," she huffed.

"If by barely you mean really bloody injured, then yeah, you did." The pain in his groin was unimaginable. Thank Godric he had brothers and a sister because Ron was seriously doubting he'd be able to give Mum and Dad grandkids after Parkinson's little stunt. Even shifting his weight hurt.

Closing his eyes, Ron willed himself to concentrate on something, anything other than the rampant pain currently tearing through his body. One flobberworm, two flobberworms, three flobberworms, four flobberworms….

"I'm your Keeper," Pansy said, the words snapping Ron right out of his little exercise.

"Er, what?" he asked.

"Whoever turns in a Muggle-born or blood traitor to the Ministry is responsible for them until the appropriate parties deal with the captured disgrace to wizardkind," she explained, using the tone of voice one might use when addressing a very small, very inept toddler.

"So what's that mean, then? I'm stuck with you until they decide to torture me or kill me or…something?" Honestly, he'd rather take facing down a slew of Death Eaters rather than be indebted to Pansy Parkinson for the unforeseeable future.

"That's exactly what it means."

"Oh, bloody hell."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The first couple of days being Kept by Parkinson were pretty ruddy awful. They fought and griped and she brought him crap food more often than not, likely to get back at him for being cross with her all the time. But Ron didn't see how she expected to treat him otherwise, what with her 1) being a Slytherin git and all; and 2) having got him into this shoddy predicament.

Just like the food, expending energy riling up Parkinson began to get old hat. Besides, Ron ought to focus on other things, like figuring out a plan of escape and how he was ultimately going to patch things up with Harry.

So when Pansy entered with a lukewarm cup of tea and the flattest pasty Ron had ever seen, he didn't so much as curl his lip at her in greeting. Instead, he silently accepted the plate and began to eat, not bothering to present her with his back like he'd been doing for days on end now.

If she was surprised by this, her expression betrayed nothing. Pansy merely watched Ron eat in utter silence, occasionally smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles on the front of her robes.

After draining the last of the tea (which, he noted, had been fixed the way he liked it – semiskimmed milk and two sugars), Ron set the cup down and pushed a bit of fringe out of his eyes. "Thanks," he mumbled.

Her eyes rounded the minutest of bits and her nostrils flared as a hand reached inside a pocket. Producing a fag, she lit the end of it with her wand and inhaled deeply.

"That's bad for your health, you realize," he said automatically, sounding not unlike Hermione in the least.

Exhaling through her nose, she delicately flicked ash onto the floor. "So is being mates with Harry Potter," she said conversationally.

"So is hanging about with a Death Eater like Draco Malfoy," he shot back.

Tossing the fag on the ground, she ground it out with her heel. "Leave Draco out of this," she said coolly.

"Only if you leave Harry out of this."

Her mouth twisted this way and that way. For a moment Ron though she was going to tell him to shove off, but to his surprise she laughed instead.

It was a real laugh, not the fake, cruel laughter he'd often heard echoing through the corridors at Hogwarts, nor was it the high-pitched idiotic trill she used to punctuate anything remotely witty Malfoy had said.

It was melodic and a wee bit husky.

"You ought to do that more often," he said, swirling the dredges of tea leaves about the bottom of his saucer.

"What's that, smoke?" she asked lightly. "I thought you said that was bad for my health."

"No." Ron shook his head. "Laugh. You've a nice laugh."

Ducking his chin, Ron stared hard at the saucer.

The leaves had formed a rose. Whatever the bloody hell that means.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The gaps between Pansy's visits seemed to lengthen. Either that, or he was too consumed with anticipation.

Ron tried to tell himself it was because he was going completely mental in the small room. Yes, that was it. That was totally it. It wasn't as though he was actually looking forward to her visits.

Only maybe, a small voice inside his head piped up, you are. What sort of Gryffindor are you, anyway? A Slytherin? Have you gone mad?

"No," he said sharply, his voice echoing in the cramped space, "I've not." Irritated with himself, full up with cabin fever, and wishing like hell he wasn't still trying to figure out those ruddy tea leaves (He'd always been crap at Divination.), Ron pounded a fist against a wall.

"Fuck!" he cried, stumbling backwards. Cradling his hand against his chest, bloody knuckles burrowing against his jumper, Ron's eyes began to sting.

"Weasley?" There was a clattering of china against the floor

In an instant, Pansy was by his side, a hand pulling at his arm.

"What have you done? Let me see it."

Ron started at her touch, instinctively pulling away. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

"You're not," she said flatly. Digging her nails into his forearm, Pansy looked up at him, a hard, determined light in her eyes. "Let me see it. Now."

"Right," he relented.

When Pansy took her hand in his, Ron sucked in a breath. Her touch was surprisingly gentle. For a girl who had something of a tough reputation, this was unexpected – and rather nice.

"Here," she murmured, inclining the tip of her wand to his bruised knuckles. "This ought to make everything better." Once she uttered a simple healing charm, bluish-white light poured from the end of her wand and onto his skin, knitting it right up as good as new. "See? I told you, didn't I?"

As Ron looked down at her, one corner of his mouth quirked up in gratitude. Wiggling his fingers a bit, he found she'd been right. He was healed and the daft pain he'd brought upon himself was gone. She smirked up at him, a warmth in her eyes he'd not seen before. She was right there, pug nose, dark hair, and all, and suddenly she was kissing him. It wasn't soft or gentle in the least. Rather, it was hard and fast and demanding, almost as though she was daring him to pull away.

The last person Ron snogged had been Lavender and that had been months ago. Fortunately, he quickly discovered that snogging was a bit like riding a broomstick – you never forgot how. Not to be outdone by Parkinson – by Pansy -- and her pushiness, Ron pressed a large palm against the small of her back. Yanking her close, the fingers of his free hand entwined in her hair, pressed against her scalp to hold her to him. She retaliated by grabbing a handful of his arse, pulling a low moan from deep in his throat. The sound was swallowed up by her mouth, which he felt curve against his in what had to be a self-satisfied smile. His head was so bloody fuzzy that he stumbled against her, dizzy with want and need.

Her hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping firmly before shoving him backwards. His shoulder blades hit the wall hard, sending shockwaves of pain radiating through his frame, though he barely paid it any mind when her mouth attached to the dip in the hollow of his throat. Like a cat making a most thorough meal of its bowl of cream, Pansy lapped at the skin there, teeth scraping him from time to time. Arching his back, Ron could feel himself harden, absolutely aching and feeling more wanton than anyone had a right to be, least of all him.

She worked her way upwards, lips brushing along the line of his throat, over his jaw line, until finally her teeth nipped at his ear. "I want you to fuck me, Weasley," she said huskily, and it made Ron shiver.

And he wanted her. In that moment, Ron didn't give a toss that she was Pansy Parkinson, Slytherin, or that she'd got him in this mess. All he cared about was her soft skin and wicked mouth. Oh, how bloody wicked a mouth it was.

"Say my name," he managed to get out as visions of Umbridge in pink knickers danced in his head. Definitely disgusting but absolutely necessary to avoid embarrassing himself in front of her then and there.

"No," she said with a toss of her hair, breath warm against his cheek.

"Say it," he practically growled, tugging at the handful of hair he still held.

She blinked, slackening against him. "Ron," she whispered.

"Again."

"Ron." Her voice was no louder than an exhalation of breath and he gave her no opportunity to say anything else, capturing her mouth with his own, lips and teeth and tongue working against her own. Somehow their hands began the complicated dance of nudging clothes out of the way or off entirely, something which didn't detract for even a moment from the battle in which their mouths were engaged.

Running a hand along her side, which elicited a giggle ("I'm ticklish, you prat!"), Ron then scooped her up. Switching places, he pressed Pansy up against the wall. Fortunately, she was too consumed in wrapping every inch of her limbs about him to complain about the chill or the dampness -- not that he would have stopped had she said anything about it either.

Palming a breast in his hand, Ron looked down at it in awe, amazed at both the way it fit in his palm and how he could feel her nipple peak beneath his skin.

"They're just breasts," Pansy said, laughing that laugh Ron quite fancied once more.

"Yeah," he said, "but they're brilliant."

"True," she said thoughtfully, "though there're other parts of me that are even more brilliant." Having said that, she wrapped a hand around Ron's cock. He yelped, hips automatically nudging forward into her grasp.

"I'm going to help you, Ron."

He smiled a little, grateful. "All—"

"Wouldn't want you to fuck it up; you are a Gryffindor," she said sweetly before guiding him inside her.

Any retort Ron might have said immediately died the moment he felt her warm and tight around him.

Try as he might, he really didn't have any idea what he was doing as far as shagging went. It was entirely up to Pansy to set the rhythm and lead, which she had no problems doing whatsoever. It was sloppy, it was wet, it was loud, and it was way better than Ron thought a first time would be – even if it was over way too quickly.

With a loud groan, he slumped against her, his hair sticking to her shoulder. "Gods," he panted. Her heel dug into his arse and he straightened as best he could, grinning lopsidedly over at her. "That definitely made everything better."

"I thought it might," she said with a devilish smile, slowly untangling herself from him.

Though he was loathe to lose the feel and the heat of her against him, Ron began to put himself back in order.

"Ron?" Pansy said, buttoning up her blouse.

He paused, jumper halfway over his head. "Yeah?"

"I've something to tell you."

Her tone was so serious that he immediately became alarmed. Was today finally the day those Ministry arseholes were coming to do…whatever it was they were going to do to him?

He felt the pit of his stomach drop out. "What's that?"

"I've been keeping something from you."

Not sure where she was going with this, his brow furrowed. "What's that?"

"Watch," she said, and Ron did as she instructed.

Before him and around him, the room began to change. It lengthened and grew, high windows sprouting up on the walls. Then aisles rose up every which way and it took a moment before Ron realised the aisles were made out of rickety furniture, books, ratty cloaks, and countless other objects.

"Where are—" he started, but Pansy cut him off.

"The Room of Requirement," she said, adjusting the waistband of her skirt.

"I'm not in the Ministry?" he asked, not entirely comprehending what she was telling him.

"No, and you've never been there. You're at Hogwarts."

"What?" Clarity reared its ugly head and smacked Ron clean in the face. "What the bloody fuck is going on, Pan—Parkinson?!"

"Don't look at me like that!" she said, looking wounded.

"I'll look at you any damned way I like! Where do you get off, feeding me a line of shit like you've been doing for—what? Weeks? Months? Hell, I don't know! How long have I been here? "

"I was going to take you to the Ministry like I was supposed to," she said, hands clenching into fists. "But I didn't. I don't know why I didn't. I brought you here instead. I wanted—I thought—"

"You thought maybe you'd learn something about where Harry was and then you'd be the apple of You-Know-Who's slitted sodding eye, right?" he spat, beyond disgusted.

"No!" Pansy said, shaking her head vehemently. A beat, and then she relented. "Well, yes, but—"

"But what?!"

"But then I didn't care so much about that anymore," she whispered.

Swallowing hard against the bile that had risen in his throat, Ron let a heavy silence fall between them in the now-cavernous room. Only when Pansy began to squirm did he finally speak.

"Did you care about anything at all?" he asked.

Without a word, Pansy stepped toward him. She reached inside her robe and pressed something into Ron's hand.

He said nothing, watching as she edged her way toward the door.

The hinges creaked as she pulled on the heavy handle.

Unwilling to see her leave, Ron's gaze dropped to his hand to see what she had given him.

His wand.

"You," he heard her say.

But when Ron looked up, she was gone.