Draco just looked at him, and for once, he thought that every feeling in existence could be described in one's eyes. Ron could see pain, and fear, excitement, and hunger. His eyes were globes, worlds that had yet to be discovered, and Ron was but a lonely traveler. "I have to go, it's rather late you know, bloody school and everything," he blurted out, his heart about to explode out of his chest. He started walking toward the exit with a speed that was purely uncanny, before Draco yelled "You intend on walking the entire way back to the quidditch pitch?

Seems idiotic, even for you." His tone had a confidence to it that Ron didn't quite take to, it almost came off as smug. "I think I can manage," he stomped outside, letting the door smack it's hinges behind him. He forgot how cold it was. "Ron . . ." Draco said, Ron kept walking, avoiding his words at all costs. "Ron!"

Draco grabbed his hand, forcing him to stop. "Ron," he turned around. The feeling of his hand in his was new, and weird, and amazing.

"What?" He asked, confused as to why his voice was suddenly so disgusted.

"I'm not letting you walk by yourself in the cold for the next fifteen minutes,"

"Why not?

It's good exercise . . . especially for quidditch," Ron realized he sounded ridiculous at the quizzical look Draco gave him. Draco took a step closer, grabbing his other hand by the base of his palm. His grip was as tight as iron, two shackles pulling him back. "I don't care, you're flying with me." The Moonlace was still in Ron's hand, acting as a barrier between them.

It lit up both of their faces, revealing just how clear and pale Draco's skin was. Ron wanted to go, especially after what he had just admitted to him a few seconds ago. But, something in the way Draco held his hands made his plea an irresistible request. "Okay fine, I'll go with you."

___

They flew in absolute silence, and it was unbearably awkward. Part of Ron just wanted him to make fun of him, to say something rude like "Haha I'm what you desire most? Ew that's disgusting. Who could ever love a Weasley." After all, crushing someone's roses into the ground would be a more merciful death than leaving them to slowly wither away in the dark.

It was agonizing, and Ron didn't expect Draco to acknowledge it, or even care. But the fact that he wasn't, that he left Ron with a million and twenty unanswered questions, now that was pain. So, when they finally landed at the pitch and dismounted their brooms, Ron ran as quick as he possibly could into the main hall. "Ron, wait!" Draco called, practically tripping over the doorframe in his attempt to chase after him.

Ron turned a corner, confused as to where he was going in the darkness. His feet staggered, tapping hard against the floor, echoing against the walls. The paintings snored, the flower in his hand glowed, his broom fell on the ground. Ron didn't care, not at all, he just kept going. "Ron, stop!

Just wait!" Draco called. Ron made the mistake of looking behind him, noticing that Draco had ripped his hat and gloves off, showing his swarth of curly hair. And just like that, he tripped over his own feet, landing back-first on the ground. Draco pounced on him before he had a moment to think, pinning his arms by his head and sitting on his stomach.

They were both breathing heavily, chests heaving, hearts pounding. Ron struggled a bit under Draco's grasp, trying his hardest to free his wrists. But to no avail, he was too strong (surprisingly). "What's wrong?" Draco forced out, his husky breath against Ron's ear.

What was wrong? Ron thought he knew, but, maybe he didn't. Maybe he didn't know anything. "I . . . You . . ." He could hardly breath, both from having ran across Hogwarts and the fact that Draco Malfoy was sitting on top of him. "What?

I need to know."

"I-I don't know Draco," he shook his head,

"Do you want to know something?" He asked, more like a statement than a question. "The amortentia, it was you," he said,

"What?" Ron asked, so confused at everything that was happening.

It felt like a dream. "It was you Ron, the cinnamon, the rain . . . It was you,"

"But you didn't say-"

"I know Ron, I should've, I just . . . didn't know how." Ron felt like he might puke, or blackout, one of the two was certainly bound to happen.

"So, what does it mean?" His voice was quivering, Merlin, why did his voice have to quiver?

"It means," he grabbed his wrists tighter, causing Ron to feel his pulse, "that we de-"

"What's going on over there? Ron?" Neville's voice rang throughout the darkness, his innocent tone causing Draco to jump. There were five seconds that passed when everything was just a wave of confusion. Draco was scurrying across the floor like a rabid animal, Ron was struggling under him, and Neville was just . . . well, Neville.

Draco hit his head on the edge of a painting while standing up, letting out a soft string of swear words that even Ron found phallic. "Uh . . . hi, Neville. What are you doing up so late?" Ron said, with a degree of urgency that even the walloping willow could have understood. "I-well, I couldn't sleep, who's with you?" He asked, clouded beneath the shadows of the dark hall.

Draco took off with his coat (Ron didn't remember how he got it), his gloves, and his hat nestled in his arms. "Nobody, no one at all." One thing to know about Ron was that he was a terrible liar. And, he was even worse under pressure. "But I heard someone talking, it almost sounded like Malf-"

"It was no one!" He screamed, immediately realizing his mistake.

"I mean, I was talking to myself. You know, can't sleep and all,"

"Oh, are you sure Ron?" His voice was filled with concern, and Ron could just barely make out the fact that his eyebrows were raised. "Positive," Ron responded, standing to his feet after spending way too much time on the ground. "Well okay, just wanted to make sure,"

"Thank you. I should probably be going now," he started walking, and fast.

"Okay, sleep w-" the last bit of his sentence cut off by Ron reaching a bend in the hall. He thought (with a cheeky smirk) that he had never walked so bloody fast in his life.

___

Ron crashed into bed, gripped his pillow, and let out an exasperated sigh for good measure. Harry shifted a bit in his sleep, mumbling some incoherent mumbo jumbo about nothing. But, he wasn't awake like Ron had feared, nor was he even close to being so. Seeing Harry so comfortable instantly made Ron twenty times as tired as he was before. How long had he been up for?

He genuinely couldn't remember, hell, it could have been hours. So, he let himself fall into bed, wrestling with himself to keep his eyes open. He was about to fall asleep when he remembered the pressure around his neck, and the scent of cologne filling his nostrils. The scarf. Draco's scarf.

He unraveled it quickly, forgetting the fact that the only other person in the room was unconscious. "Blimey," he said aloud, surveying the room for a place to hide the thing. The desk was too obvious and under the bed was too . . . odd. He grabbed the stack of pillows where he normally laid his head, overviewing the amount of space it created. He molded the scarf into a bit of a ball, resting it there neatly.

It's perfect! He thought to himself, ignoring all of the implications that the gesture might have had. Because Ron refused to be faced with Harry asking him the almost definite question of, "why do you have a Slytherin scarf with you?" Ron knew he wouldn't come up with an answer to that one. He would likely just be backed into an inescapable corner.

With that thought, he nestled the pillows on top of the silver and green scarf, making sure that no ends or corners were peaking out. Finally, after a momentary heart attack, he threw himself in bed, trying his hardest not to think about what had just happened. But, despite everything, knowing that a piece of Draco was under him, just lying there innocently, made him smile. And that fact lulled him into a peaceful sleep.