Who Killed Ronald Weasley?

Pink or Brown?
by Calanthe.

This chapter has been beta’d by Firedancer and knightmare. Thankyou!

All characters contained herein are the sole property of JK Rowling. No offence is intended.

Of course he’s dead! Ha! Murdered in cold blood. A completely fitting end for such a mean-spirited, evil cunt. I hate him. Hated him, rather. I hope he roasts in the fiery pits of hell for all eternity for what he did to my Neville.

Neville – my best friend and a human being of unparalleled worth. I wish I believed that Neville had got the bollocks to have murdered Weasley, but he hasn’t. It’s one of the things that make him so special. I’d lie for him if I thought there was the slightest chance he was involved. And I don’t mean lie by omission. I mean outright, blatant bullshit lie.

Right after Lorelei died, I thought I would lose Neville too. His grief seemed to know no bounds. They were meant to be. However much I feared losing him myself, I knew they were meant to be. But that ginger cunt came along and fucked it all up, clearly not satisfied with making a mess of his own life. What I still don’t understand is how his drugs came to be in her body.

I barely knew Weasley at school when he lived in Harry and Hermione’s shadow. But you could see even then that jealousy would tear him apart. His path through life was decided years ago, I think. He didn’t have the guts to fight it. My indifference towards him became distaste, in turn metamorphosing into disgust. And then, last but by no means least, hatred. I hope it hurt when he died. I hope he was in pain, the way Neville has been in pain every second of every day since Lorelei’s death.

“Mr. Zabini. Where were you between nine pm on Wednesday 30th October and two am on Thursday 31st October this year?”

I give the Basher woman a measured but respectful gaze as I take the time to order my thoughts before speaking. She looks uptight. She needs a good orgasm I think. That’d loosen her up a bit. Maybe after the investigation…

“I was at home with Neville Longbottom, my flat mate, during the mid to late evening.” I use my best ‘sincere and conscientious citizen’ tone. I pause for effect before continuing. “I Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron around eleven pm and I stayed there until the following morning – yesterday morning. And then I was brought here by your team of investigators.” I know she won’t be satisfied with my words, but I want to see her work to get them from me. As she paces, I look her up and down. Blonde, long legs. You know the type. Lusted after by at least half of those that know her by sight. I’d guess ‘missionary’ is the only position in her repertoire. And I bet she doesn’t swallow.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Mr. Zabini. This investigation requires solid facts and detailed statements. Please try again.” She’s trying out her ‘cool alpha female’ persona on me. It doesn’t work, but I let her think it does.

“My apologies, Ms. Basher. Neville returned to our flat in the late afternoon. I believe he had been to Hogwarts to visit an old teacher of his. He needed to talk to someone, I think, and Professor Sprout always had a lot of time for him. He needed to mourn Lorelei’s death, and I believe his visit to her was part of that process. You know of Lorelei?” I’m so polite I make myself nauseated. When she nods, I continue. “Whatever happened there, he returned home in a state of distress. He cries a lot since Lorelei’s death and he started to cry then. I helped him into bed and sat with him for a few hours, until he was asleep.” She’s raising her eyebrows at me in obvious disbelief. “You appear to be having some difficulties in imagining that I might be capable of being nice, Ms. Basher.” I laugh a little and she scowls and looks away. “Even philandering bastards such as myself have best friends and feelings, you know.” She pins me with an angry stare before gesturing for me to continue.

“I Apparated from our flat directly to the alleyway outside the Leaky Cauldron. I am not clear on the exact time but it would have been between ten forty-five and eleven fifteen pm. I met a friend there and we retired to room eighteen within ten minutes of my arrival. I was there until the following morning, as I said.” Even as I finish, I am anticipating her follow up question.

“And who exactly was this ‘friend’, Mr. Zabini?” Her lip curls in disgust as she speaks to me. I know she has two children, and I suspect they are the lucky result of her only two conjugal joinings with the decidedly unlucky Mr. Basher. “Unless absolutely necessary, I wish not to divulge the name of my friend. He is involved in a long term relationship which may cease if our affair becomes common knowledge.” I let her sense the finality of my words in my silence. Eventually she speaks.

“So it would appear, then, that your alibi for the time of the murder is your best friend who happened to be asleep and a lover whom you refuse to name.” She grins humourlessly at me and finishes, “How unlucky for you.”

Draco and I meet once a month at the Leaky Cauldron for a night together. It’s an old habit, one that requires the minimum of effort for the maximum payback. We are as familiar in our bodies, and our desires as any married couple’s, but the illicit nature of our trysts dispels any sense of comfort.

We fall on each other like ravenous animals long denied of physical contact. He even tore my shirt in his hurry to get it off me, that night. The Aurors are particularly excited about my shirt. They think Weasley tore it as I murdered him, I’m sure.

There’s something about the smell, the taste of Draco that makes my every possession of him frenzied. It’s in the beautiful way he wiggles his backside in my face as I eat his hole out, and his ragged, crude screams. And Merlin but he’s tight! So much so that it’s hard to last long when I fuck him. And once is never enough. Even without a calendar, my body would know how long it has been denied the pleasure of him. Just the thought of him in those few days before our meetings is enough to make me hard.

He fucks me too, of course. Our ‘arrangement’ is most definitely reciprocal! He has this thing that he does. I often wank over the picture in my head of him doing it to me.

Once we’re naked, he kneels before me and teases me with his mouth, his hands, his eyes before he finally licks up my cock. He only takes the very end in his mouth at the start. But he sucks it, sometimes, hard enough to bruise. Even as I think about it now, I can feel the graze of his teeth over my silky, wet flesh. He takes his time in wrapping his arm around my hip and stroking my crease with a lubricated fingertip. He does it so softly, so gently that I squirm to force him to touch me harder. He giggles at my frustration, around my cock in his mouth and he stared up at me with his sparkling grey eyes, the extent of his arousal visible in his expression.

He teases me for a long time, taking an age to swallow more of me into his mouth and making the same, maddeningly slow progress in pressing his finger between my cheeks to stroke my hidden entrance. But finally, when I think I can take no more; when I’m sobbing for him, then he pushes his finger inside me and swallows me to the back of his throat. He knows I love to feel his gag reflex and the way it presses his throat briefly around my cock. It always makes me scream for him.

He keeps his finger inside me once he’s fought to get it there, and instead of sliding it in and out, he presses the pad of his fingertip onto my prostate in a slow rhythm that matches the movement of his mouth over my erection. I can never take very much of it, and once he makes eye contact, I’m gone. He gives me that look that tells me not to break our gaze because he likes to watch my face as I come.

He chokes slightly every time I reach my release. The intensity and skill of his stimulation rips my self control apart until my sperm jets down his throat. Once I’ve finished completely, he always slides his mouth off me and rests his head against my thigh. He laughs quietly and says,

“I love making you come like that.”

And then he fucks me like it’s the last time we’ll ever be together.

He’s so very intense.

“I’d like you to tell me, in detail, how well you knew the deceased and what the nature of your relationship was, Mr. Zabini.” Basher sits opposite me now. She has removed her jacket and is leaning forward, hands clasped on the table top. I meet her gaze and she flicks her eyes downwards for a moment. Oh please. Does she really think she can seduce me into being a good little witness with a show of cleavage? When her eyes flick back up to meet mine and she sees I haven’t taken the bait and ogled her, she looks pissed off. Put out, at the very least.

I smile sweetly at her before I speak.

“We met in our first year at Hogwarts, Inspector, although I had, of course, heard of his family. Being pureblood, you see.” She nods minutely, but she’s frowning. I’ve read that look on a hundred faces before. I’ve offended her. Oh, for fucks sake! I check out her tits, because she wants me to. Her nipples are hard – they’re sticking out through her jumper like wand tips. I smile appreciatively and pretend to be embarrassed at being caught. When I look back up at her face again, she’s smiling smugly. Good.

“We didn’t actually speak until the seventh year, when the battle against you-know-who was joined. It was all business, no pleasure. Harry and Hermione were always the ones you noticed. Ron was a void; a vacuum. He seemed nothing compared to them.” I shrug off-handedly before continuing, “Once the final battle was over, we attended many of the same parties and such, but he’d already started to show his unpleasant streak by then. It was around the same time that he developed an interest in recreational drugs. Just taking them, I believe. The actual dealing came later.”

“What about sexual relations, Mr. Zabini?” Oh yes. Her lips are stretched so thin now that they might as well not be there. Her disapproval is palpable. I don’t think she approves of homosexuality one little bit.

“There’s not much to tell, Inspector. About a year after you-know-who was defeated, Ron developed an ‘interest’ in me. He followed me about for a couple of months, trying to strong-arm me into his bed. I didn’t like his tactics or his personality and I refused. He didn’t like that. The threats started then. Eventually I just decided to give him what he wanted and put on the worst display of my bedroom skills I could manage, in the hope that the novelty would wear off quickly.” I’ve surprised her. She’s looking at me, her mouth a little ‘o’. She’s not an Auror any more; she’s just a woman listening to a sad story now. This is too easy.

“And that, Ms. Basher, is the extent of what happened between us.”

Yeah.

Right.

The truth of it is quite a funny story, actually. Well – it makes me smile, anyway.

It all started at one of the Order parties. The alcohol was flowing freely and everyone drank a bit more than was wise. I spent most of the evening talking to Molly Weasley. Now there’s a woman who is masquerading as something she most definitely is not. But I digress. As the party wound down, she started to flirt with me. She wasn’t shy, I can tell you. She eventually cornered me in the empty dining room and threw herself at me. Being something of an equal opportunities kind of lothario, I didn’t let her age put me off.

She was rough; aggressive to the point that I almost thought she was going to tear my cock off. When I moved to raise her skirt and get to work, she shoved me off and pushed it to the floor herself. She didn’t have any knickers on. I reached out to touch her but she grabbed my wrist and pulled me over to this huge dresser. She turned her back on me and stuck her rear end out, so I groped it a bit. She had very soft skin, as I recall.

When she told me to fuck her up the arse I laughed aloud. She turned her head and gave me the most evil glare over her shoulder, so I hurried up and did it. I remember thinking at the time that even with my pretty impressive manhood, I doubted it’d touch the sides of her pussy after playing ‘house’ to seven kids.

I would imagine the sight of me banging her arse like a drum while she diddled herself would have pissed any of her kids off. It certainly pissed Ron off, when he walked in on us. And I don’t think he liked it when she screamed, ‘Fuck me harder, with that big black prick!’ (Yes. Really.)

I suppose I should give Ron some credit here. After all, he did wait until I came before he punched my lights out.

After that night, he did his level best to get me on my own and make me pay for what he had seen. He made constant threats of violence and he even hexed me a few times. I’ve dealt with worse, in all honesty. More than a few irate spouses have sought revenge for my affairs, but never an irate child. Not until Ron, anyway.

He made it clear he wanted to fuck me, (‘Good and proper. With fists. And blood, you know, Zabini?’) and I admit I avoided him. But when he threatened to take his revenge out on Neville, I gave in. I found him and offered him what he wanted. He slapped me about a bit before ordering me to wank him. But he was so out of his head on drugs that he couldn’t get a hard on. And I tried every trick in the book to help him, I assure you. All to no avail. Even in his messed up state he was humiliated. I left quickly and he never came after me again. I, of course, kept my mouth shut about the whole sordid affair.

“There was that time he beat me up in Club Echelon…” I throw in nonchalantly. Basher gets this steely glint in her eye and she presses me to tell her all about it. She’s almost salivating.

“I heard the same rumours everyone else did. Gossips said that Ron gave Lorelei a fatal dose of some drug or other on purpose. Neville was too distraught to be able to process the information, so as his best friend, I decided to look into it myself. I found Ron at his usual table at the club, touting his wares as well as sampling them. I confronted him with the gossip; asked him if it was true. He dragged me outside and beat the shit out of me.” I shrug again. “I made sure I had absolutely nothing to do with him after that, Inspector. I’d quite like to keep this handsome face, thank-you very much!” I grin internally as I watch her reign her smile at my comment back in. I swear if I pushed her a bit more, I could probably have her over the table before the interview is concluded. She must be distracted! She hasn’t asked about Hermione yet, and I bet she’s heard about that already.

It was Draco’s father, Lucius, who pulled me out of the industrial rubbish bin at the back of his club, where Weasley had left me for dead. He was calm and efficient as he carried me to his office and cleaned me up. Even now, his behaviour that night still surprises me when I think about it. He dosed me up on potions and bade me sleep the worst of my pains off on his enormous sofa.

It was mid morning the next day when I finally came round. Lucius looked like he was doing the books, but he darted glances over at me every minute or so, to check up on me. I was touched by his concern.

I was also grateful for the lack of pain, swelling and obvious injuries. I felt it only right that I show my gratitude for his care.

He fucked me on his desk, wrapping his arms around my thighs and pulling me onto his slow, deep thrusts. He would have been quite a good lay if he hadn’t been so detached. He looked into my eyes the whole time he was taking me and I never saw a flicker of emotion. Not even when he came. I think Draco got all the passion in the Malfoy family.

“Mr. Zabini. I’d like you to look at this knife. It’s the one we removed from the body of the deceased.” She hands it to me and our fingertips brush slightly as I grasp it. Our eyes meet and she blushes. I am so in! I turn the knife over, studying it in minute detail. After a pause, she asks,

“Have you ever seen this knife before?”

“I’m not sure, if I’m honest. It’s almost identical to the one given to me by my mother on my seventeenth birthday. I take it you know of the tradition in pureblood families, Ms. Basher?” She nods and smiles indulgently. “I can tell clearly that this knife isn’t mine because my initials are carved here…and here.” I point out two places, one on the handle and one on the blade where my own knife is decorated. Again, she nods. “I would say this knife is from Constantine’s in Diagon Alley. This is their stamp, just below the hallmark.” I’m just being so helpful! I do hope I get a nice treat for being such a good boy. When she takes the knife off me, her hand lingers just a touch too long. Our palms press together for a moment. I see her wince as she realises her hand is clammy with sweat and mine is warm and dry to the touch. A point for me, I believe.

On my seventeenth birthday, I was at Hogwarts. I was called to the office of my Head of House just after the evening meal. Professor Snape gave me a lengthy lecture on responsibility and pride before handing over the package from my mother containing the sacrificial blade. I unwrapped it with all due reverence and blooded the tip by slicing the pad of my thumb, as dictated by tradition.

However, I do not think that ‘tradition’ stretches so far as to dictate that the spilt blood be licked off your body part by your guardian, or their proxy. But that is exactly what happened. The sight of my blood seemed to cause Snape to hyperventilate; so much so that I thought he might be genuinely unwell. When his velvety wet mouth closed over my whole thumb and his tongue lapped at the wound, I fought back my shock and fell headfirst into the pleasure of it. When he moved to kiss me on the mouth, I let him. The taste of my blood seemed so intense; much more concentrated than it should have been. He kissed me with a gentle passion. It was a kiss that said he wanted me, but that he would be oh-so-careful. I was on my knees and sucking him off in less than a minute. He fucking loved it, let me tell you. But if he thought he was about to deflower an innocent little virgin, he was soon put right. I gave him more than a run for his money. We took one nights pleasure in each other and that was an end to it. For quite some time, anyway.

How do you feel about Ron Weasley’s death, Blaise? Oh! I’m so sorry! May I call you Blaise?” She flushes beautifully and I know she is a sure thing. I can have her any time I want, husband or no husband. I don’t think I’ll ever lose my touch!

“Given what I’ve told you, Ms. Basher, I think you will not be surprised to hear me say that I am finding it difficult to be either sad, or upset, at his passing.” And that is the understatement of the fucking century. “Although I would not wish the method of his demise on anyone.” Merlin, but I’m a liar!

“I didn’t like him, Ms. Basher. I don’t know anyone who did, except maybe Neville. Neville’s just so naïve sometimes. He can’t see the badness in anyone. Ron was cruel to everyone around him; friends, family, even his customers, it would seem. I wonder if things might have been different for Ron if Harry had returned his love instead of setting up house with Draco…But now, we’ll never know the answer to that.” I paint a false, pained expression on my face and she mirrors it, in sympathy. Pathetic woman.

And what about Harry? Gods! I wish I knew. I think he might be broken beyond repair. In some ways, I’m surprised he couldn’t work it out with Ron. Harry always leaned towards the submissive, and Ron most definitely did not. Knowing Harry and Draco as I do, I think Draco met his needs for quite some time. Until Harry started to hate himself, that is. He lost his lust for life when he defeated the Dark Lord. I watched the will ebb out of him until he was an empty vessel, sustained only by Draco’s love. And do not be mistaken. Draco does love Harry. He might have an odd way of showing it, but love it is.

Harry got to the point where he needed not just to submit, but for his partner to be forceful. He craved humiliation, as if it might validate his existence. How do I know? Well – he came to me, of course. But I didn’t see what he wanted until after we had been together. And that’s unusual for me.

When Harry pursued me that night, I didn’t give much thought to Draco. Why would I? I took Harry home with me and he set about giving me anything and everything I wanted. Except that he wouldn’t allow me to make him come. He got me off in every way you can imagine, but he went home with blue balls. He never had a single orgasm the whole night. Just the thought of my failure causes me shame.

I tried to justify that night to myself afterwards, because I could not make sense of his behaviour. Finally, I went to his house while Draco was at work and confronted him. He cried when he told me he was worthless and did not deserve to be pleasured. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t talk to Draco about it, but he didn’t want to worry him. Harry also loves Draco, you will not be surprised to hear.

In the end, I recommended Snape to Harry, as an avenue to explore in his search to find the missing part of himself. So you could say that I am to blame for Harry’s slavery to his old Potions master. But they both seem happy, so where’s the problem?

“I’ve just got one last question, Blaise.” I swear she’s fluttering her eyelashes at me. “Who do you think killed Ron Weasley?”

Ah. So, we finally get here. I consider my response momentarily before deciding how to answer.

“My honest answer is that anyone who knew Ron over the last few years, and who is actually capable of committing murder assuredly had just cause, Ms. Basher. But that’s not awfully helpful to you, is it?” She smiles sadly at me. “However, the last person I saw with Ron was Hermione. And they were arguing big time. When I Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron, they were at the far end of the alleyway. They were pushing each other and shouting so loudly at the same time that I couldn’t make out what was being said. My money has to be on Hermione Granger.”

And that’s a pity. I actually like Hermione. If I were ever to abandon my love of cock in preference for pussy, I’d grab Ms. Granger and hold on tight. For a while, at least. For such a highly strung person, she sure knows how to have a good time in the sack. Ten out of ten for skill. Eleven out of ten for enthusiasm. It made me laugh at first, but I truly believe that when Hermione wants to learn something – anything – she gives her all. She certainly gave me her all and I admit I liked it.

If life was purely sex, then I could have been satisfied with her, but it was all the other crap that did my head in. Whenever she was with me, it was like she was using me to erase the evidence that Ron had ever touched her. And afterwards, she’d always cry. I hated that.

But Merlin, she liked her orgasms! I’ve never known a woman who could come like she could, over and over without the need for a rest. I sometimes think that the worst thing about being a man is that we can’t have multiple orgasms to the extent that women can.

I used to play a game with myself whenever Hermione showed up. I’d try to beat the number of orgasms she’d had on her previous visit to my bed. The sure fire winning strategy was to set up shop between her legs and eat her out until my tongue couldn’t take any more. In case you’re interested, the record was nine in half an hour.

I used to do this thing that drove her wild. When she was really wet, I’d push two fingers right up inside her and just leave them there. Then I’d suck not just her clit, but all the skin surrounding it into my mouth until the flesh was stretched taut. When she started to scream my name, I’d use just the very tip of my tongue to trace rapid circles around her little gem. Guaranteed orgasm in fifteen seconds. Try it if you don’t believe me.

In fact, that was exactly what I was doing to her the time that Draco burst in on us, in a blind fury because he thought Harry was screwing around on him. He took one look at my naked arse stuck up in the air, dropped his trousers and slammed his length right inside me until his balls hit my body. He told me afterwards that he and Hermione just panted and stared at each other over my back while they both got what they wanted. After he left, she was furious. I told her I’d never, ever made out that I preferred women to men but she wouldn’t have any of it. She never came back after that. Oh well.

“I want to thank you for your candour during this interview, Blaise.” Basher leans right over me and I cannot help but see the lacy cups of her bra down the gaping neck of her jumper. She clearly thinks she’s hot. I don’t. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to detain you for a while longer, just so that the remaining evidence can be collected.” She looks distraught; like she’s just told me I’m being condemned to death. I tell her it’s fine. She says,

“Well, just in case anything crops up after the investigation, take my card and contact me if you need anything.” She’s blushing vividly the whole time she’s talking. I take the card and give her my patented false shy smile in return.

As I walk back to the holding room, I can’t help but think about the murderer.

I really hope they get away with it.