Fic: The Many Woes of Ronald Weasley [Ron/Draco, R]
The hp_springsmut authors have been revealed, and I can properly thank forgotnsuitcase for the wonderful gift, "and when he breaks inside," which I loved very much. And now I can post my contribution!
Title: The Many Woes of Ronald Weasley
Pairing: Ron/Draco. Past Harry/Draco and Harry/Ron.
Rating: R
Wordcount: 7,000
Beta: oddnari
Summary: Ron's life is a mess, but at least he can comfort himself that it makes sense. That is until Draco Malfoy makes a reappearance..
A/N: My contribution to hp_springsmut. Gift fic for ella_bane. This version contains an extra scene and some minor changes that weren't included in the one posted to the hp_springsmut comm. I have a sequel planned for this, eventually:), and I wanted to tidy up some things that will continue on in the second part. I can also finally thank nqdonne and geoviki for linking to this in their journals.
Ron can't remember when he realized that he was in love with Harry Potter. He supposes it just happened one day, just a natural progression from him being an eager little boy desperate for a friend of his own to becoming the one Harry missed most. The trouble was, Ron couldn't bring himself tell Harry, not after he thought Harry had fallen for his sister. So he hung back, always the loyal friend and brother, and watched Draco Malfoy steal Harry's heart instead. Yet at the end, when Harry faced Voldemort alone, it was Ron who was waiting in wings to pick up the pieces. And it was Ron who carefully laid Harry's broken body onto his bed, placing soft kisses upon his scar-less head and murmuring, "I love you," and "please," over and over again as he waited for Harry to be whole again.
After Ron awoke the next morning, Harry was gone and Malfoy with him. The only explanation was a short note, saying, I'm sorry. Soon, more letters came, couriered by strange birds from Australia, Africa, even a frozen missive all the way from the South Pole. Letters that said, Don't worry or I'm fine or Take care, never I miss you or I'm coming home. Hermione told Ron that it was for the best, that Harry needed the time away to heal, and besides he had given so much of himself already, it would be selfish to demand more.
Ron didn’t necessarily disagree, but he can’t help feeling lost without Harry and more than a little betrayed.
Now, Ron spends his time trying to think as little as possible about Harry Potter. He has a dream job, selling racing brooms for Firebolt, Inc. -- The Broom of Champions! -- and enough Galleons to buy a large flat in a converted cauldron factory, full of expensive furniture that Ginny picked out for him. He even has enough money to send his parents on a dream cruise on the Mediterranean, where they terrorized the Muggles onboard by levitating shuffleboard disks, thereby causing an international incident before several Corsican magistrates, a ship full of tourists and an American television crew were thankfully Obliviated.
He still spends time with Seamus and Dean, getting slowly pissed on cheap beer while they stare at girls. They tell him he’d be happier if he tried harder to get laid, so he tries dating Hermione, and then Luna Lovegood, and then several other girls. He even dates Justin Finch-Fletchley, which really isn't dating per se, but Ron screwing a poncy, pretty boy into the wall, but it takes some of the edge off. And it's better than sneaking off to Muggle London to have it off with the skinny dark-haired boys who stalk the streets of Soho. Thankfully, nobody knows about them. Except for Ginny. He's pretty sure she knows.
Still, in an odd sort of way, life makes sense, at least that's what Ron tries to tell himself until the day Draco Malfoy walks into the showroom, demanding to test ride Firebolt's latest in luxury brooms: the Firebolt G3000.
The Many Woes of Ronald Weasley
Ron blinks at the black swill swirling inside his coffee cup and wrinkles his nose.
"Late night, eh?"
Ron looks up and stares wearily at Nigel Smith, a man who has made a career out of hovering by the coffeepot, before replying, "Yeah. Ran out of Hangover potion."
Smith leans closer. "So who was it this time? That cute lass in accounting? I hear she likes to…" He makes a crude gesture with his hand, and Ron wrinkles his nose again.
"Er… no," Ron replies into his coffee cup.
Smith nudges him. "Bet she was pretty. Did I ever tell you about the time…"
Ron swallows, feeling bile rise in his throat. "Excuse me," he says quickly, pushing Smith out of the way and barely making it to the loo in time, before the contents of his stomach spill all over the lavatory floor.
Fuck. Ron wipes his mouth and leans back against the cold tile wall and shuts his eyes.
It's not like he has a problem, even though he's been late for work three times this week and hungover twice. After he outfitted Wimbourne's entire side with new brooms (earning him Saleswizard of the Month and a free set of steak knives), he could probably dance naked on the showroom floor and not get fired. Besides, if Harry can flake out and leave, Ron can comfort himself knowing that at least he's a productive member of society.
Right. He's not going to think about Harry right now. That got him into trouble last night. He is going to think about Melody Trumbull (a girl who fits Ron’s criteria of the perfect date: a pretty face, a pliant body and no promises in the morning) and how in eight hours he's going to pound her into her pretty pink bed.
After a stringent breath-freshening charm and a few Scourgify spells, Ron is finally ready to sell brooms. Still, it is with some trepidation that he opens the lavatory door, wondering when his life became so crushingly dull.
He probably should have taken that as a sign that his day is about to go pear-shaped because the first thing he sees after walking through the door is not his boss, Mortimer Plum, frantically trying to wave him over, but the man standing next to him.
"…You won't find a broom like this at Nimbus, I guarantee it. We have a very generous financing policy, but…" Plum mops his brow with a handkerchief, "I doubt you'd need that, Mr. Malfoy…"
Draco Malfoy. The former Death-Eater-turned-war-hero who is probably the last person in the world Ron would like to see again with the possible exception of Voldemort himself. Of course, Draco Malfoy, being Draco Malfoy, can't do anything without the papers writing about it, so it's hardly a secret that Malfoy recently arrived back in England. Alone.
"…Weasley here will set you up. He's our finest salesman," Plum continues, looking at Ron expectantly. "Close the deal," he whispers, clapping Ron on the shoulder.
Ron, however, is too busy trying to keep the unpleasant emotions churning around inside him from spilling out all over the showroom floor. "I heard you were back," he says, crossing his arms and ignoring all pleasantries to glare at the man who took Harry away from him.
If Malfoy notices Ron's hostility, he doesn't show it. Instead he greets Ron warmly like they are old friends catching up from a long absence. "I am. It's been an interesting couple of years, but I'm glad to be back." An easy smile appears on Malfoy's face that Ron is disturbed to find charming. "It's good to see you, Weasley."
Ron immediately decides that whatever Malfoy is playing at, he's not buying it. "So how is Harry, anyway?" he asks, his tone deliberately cold.
Malfoy gives him an odd look. "I’m sure he’s fine. We're no longer together, but I’m sure you already know that being his best friend and all."
Ron flushes. "He never talks about you, so how would I know," he lies.
Ron thinks that the most unforgivable thing Harry ever did - besides leaving - was that he talked about Malfoy incessantly. Draco is different now. Draco has changed. Draco is sensitive and kind. Draco is blah, blah, blah. Blah. It's enough to make Ron want to vomit, and he dealt with it the only sensible way he could think of: He began sending Harry's letters back, unopened.
Someone clears their throat, and Malfoy shifts, suddenly looking uncomfortable, and it's not for the reason Ron was hoping for. "So Weasley," he says finally, "are you going to sell me this broom, or what?"
"Fine. It's a very good broom. You won't be sorry," he hisses before noticing that Plum is still hovering within earshot, looking at Ron with the fury of someone who is seeing one of the biggest sales of the year walk out and take his business elsewhere.
Right. Ron sighs and begins rattling off a list of Firebolt's many superior and one-of-a-kind features: power, handling, anti-hex control… built-in braking system. "I guarantee you won't find a faster broom," he finishes. A sales pitch that he could probably recite in his sleep.
Malfoy pulls a face. "Well…" he starts.
"Tell him about our warranty," Plum hisses.
Malfoy smiles gamely. "Yes, Weasley. Tell me about the warranty."
Ron realizes that his face is probably redder than his hair. "Three years or thirty six thousand kilometers, whichever comes first," he grinds out.
"Hm." Malfoy looks at his nails, seemingly oblivious to the fact that everyone in the showroom has stopped to listen to their conversation. Even Smith, who generally shuts up for no one, has stopped talking. "Well," Malfoy starts, "I only pay in cash…"
Plum looks like he is about to wet himself. "Yes, yes, thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Your money is always welcome here. I used to do business with your father, you know."
Malfoy's face twists, and he glances quickly at Ron before turning away. "I assure you I'm not my father," he replies tightly, pulling out a card. "Send the broom to this address." His eyes linger on Ron. "Have Weasley deliver it," he adds, smirking before Disapparating away.
Ron stares at the card and wonders if it's too early in the day to get a drink.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
Ron supposes that the pivotal moment of his life was when he met Harry Potter for the first time. Suddenly, his life became amazingly exciting. Everyone wanted to know if it was really true? Was he a friend of Harry Potter's? Even his brother Bill, who never paid him much mind while he was growing up, sent him an express owl all the way from Egypt. In a weird sort of way Ronald Weasley became somebody.
It's sort of an afterthought that he remembers meeting Draco Malfoy that same day.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
The sign marking the entrance to the Olde Merlin's Club is discreet. Respectable. In other words: pure-blooded. Therefore, Ron is hardly surprised that this is where Malfoy asked him to deliver his new broom. Times may have changed, and the Bloodline Reform Act of 1999 requires the club allow half-bloods and Muggle-borns membership. Still, one would be more likely to find Hagrid sitting inside a teashop than a Muggle-born drinking Firewhisky at the Club's bar. Of course, this isn't the first time Ron has stepped foot inside its heavy wooden doors. Most of the club owners in the English Quidditch League are pure-blooded and, well, business is business.
He finds Malfoy leaning against the bar, staring at the bottom of his whisky glass. He almost looks forlorn and a black part of Ron cheers, but he has a job to do and he squashes any desire he has to rub Malfoy’s face in it.
"Malfoy? Your broom." He holds it out, hoping Malfoy will simply take the fucking thing so that he can leave and never cross Malfoy’s path again.
Naturally, Malfoy has other ideas.
"Weasley," he says, his voice betraying a slight slur. "Come have a drink with me."
Ron would rather not, and he hesitates before taking the glass of Firewhisky that is placed in front of him, thinking that perhaps it's not wise to drink with someone you despise so much. The whisky does wonders though. It curls around inside Ron, warming his belly and settling in his toes. All of the sudden, Ron is quite happy stay where he is. When Malfoy speaks again, his voice sounds muzzy and soft, not brittle like he always remembered.
"Yes." Ron clears his throat. "I was able to find the club. I- I'm actually a member," he adds hastily, before realizing that was probably not the best thing to admit.
"Really?" Malfoy cocks an eyebrow, but says nothing. Ron swallows the rest of his whisky down, waiting for the inevitable jibe, mocking him for betraying his lofty principles for membership to a pure-blood club. It never comes.
Ron quickly signals the barkeep for another. "It's for business," Ron explains, gulping his second drink down. The whisky is starting to burn, but it's a pleasant sort of burn and he imagines fire licking his insides, just flaming below the surface of his skin. Feeling just the right shade of drunk, he turns to look at Malfoy, tilting his head sideways.
Malfoy is wearing a crisp, black shirt, just unbuttoned at the collar to show a tiny v of skin. It's terribly distracting, and for feverish moment, Ron sees the slide of Harry's tongue as it licks the pale skin of Malfoy's neck.
Ron quickly jerks his eyes away. "I don't want to talk about business," he says, suddenly remembering what they were just talking about.
Malfoy laughs. "What shall we talk about, then? The weather? Quidditch? The revolting hag that's our new Minister for Magic?"
Ron giggles, thinking Hermione wouldn't approve of him talking about her boss that way. "She is pretty ugly."
"Hm," Malfoy replies, finishing off his glass. His eyes drift to someone walking across the room. "It's raining out as usual and the Cannons need a new Keeper. I guess that exhausts our topics of conversation." Malfoy stands and picks up his new broom. "Always a pleasure, Weasley."
"Same," Ron mumbles into his glass and tries not to watch Malfoy drape his arm around another man.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
A half hour later, Ron is thoroughly pissed, and he can't stop himself from staring at Malfoy's tongue as it disappears inside the other man's ear.
Fuck. Ron swallows. He should go home and wank, or maybe see if Melody will still see him even though he stood her up earlier. What he mustn't do is make a fool of himself in front of Draco sodding Malfoy. He stumbles to his feet just as the room begins to tip, and he nearly falls to the floor. Too late for that, he thinks miserably as he tries to right himself against the bar.
"Is there a problem?"
A man swims into focus who Ron recognizes as the one who always stands by the front door.
"N- no. I was just leaving."
"Very good, sir." The man turns to leave and Ron takes another step and the room begins to spin in earnest.
"It's okay. He's with me," Ron hears someone say, and he looks up to see Draco Malfoy taking his arm and leading him away.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
"So Weasley," Malfoy smirks. "Have a taste for whisky, do you?"
Ron blinks. They're standing alone in a corridor near the back exit. “How- How did I get here?”
Malfoy leans against the opposite wall, looking amused. "I would have thought a man like you could hold his liquor."
Ron snorts. "Harry used to make fun of me when I drank. He said I got drunk like a girl." Ron starts to giggle, unwittingly proving his point.
Malfoy rolls his eyes. "I guess Harry does know what he's talking about some of the time."
Ron frowns. He has to ask. "Why- Why did you do it?"
Malfoy's expression turns stony. "Do what, Weasley? Wear black today? Become a Death Eater? "
"No." Ron shakes his head, already realizing that this is a bad idea, but he can't stop himself. "Take Harry. You took him away. From… from his friends… everyone."
"Everyone." Malfoy lets out a bitter laugh. "From you, you mean. I remember the way you used to look at me. Oh, the horrid Death Eater is stealing away my best friend,” he mocks. “Why am I not surprised that I get blamed when he was the one who begged me to take him away.” He lets out a bitter-sounding laugh. “You know, it was an interesting couple of years - I don't regret them, but Harry has problems I can't fix."
"And you just left him?" Ron's voice rises to an uncomfortable level.
Malfoy's face reddens. "I didn't just leave Harry. We broke up. It happens." Malfoy sighs and chews his lip. "I got tired of running away. I wanted to come back and he didn't. End of story.
"So how's that for Gryffindor bravery," he adds when Ron can’t think of anything to say. "Bloody hero and he's too afraid to go back to the people who love him."
"D- do you love him?" Ron asks softly.
"I did, but it's over. I thought I said that." Malfoy takes a step forward. "My turn. What happened between you and Harry? He never told me."
Ron swallows. "I - I don't know." I scared him away. "He- he just left."
"But you love him. Still."
Ron shuts his eyes. Malfoy is so close that he can feel his breath warming his cheek. "Y- Yes." Ron turns his face away, feeling totally ashamed. He's not sure why he just admitted that.
"Yet, you never once tried to find him." Malfoy's voice doesn't sound accusatory, just soft. Close. Too close.
"Look, I was angry. That's why I refused to take his letters. Hermione says I'm being ridiculous and I'll regret it, but... I should go home," he says, pushing himself off the wall. Obviously, he's had way too much to drink.
Malfoy thrusts out an arm and stops him. "Why? I would have done the same thing if I were you. I don't waste time with people who don't want me around."
Ron looks at Malfoy and sees clear gray eyes, cold as a November morning. "Why are you doing this?" he asks.
"Doing what, Weasley? You brought up Harry, not me." Malfoy tips his head closer, revealing more of that elusive pale skin under his collar
"Yes, but…" Ron swallows. "I- I don't want to talk about Harry anymore," he says quickly, crushing his mouth against Malfoy's. It's a brutal kiss, hard and bitter, and full of unhappy memories, that is until Malfoy's tongue slips into his mouth, and something inside him breaks. He's not sure if the haze of whisky finally lifted, but suddenly he feels sober and awake and alive, and he stumbles forward pressing Malfoy into the opposite wall.
Oh God. Malfoy feels bony and sharp and hard under his hands. And there is skin to be discovered, too. Pale and smooth and burning with heat, and Ron can't stop touching it, tasting it, and Malfoy's black shirt falls to the ground in a cascade of silver buttons.
"You owe me for that," Malfoy rasps in his ear.
"I can afford it," Ron replies, finding a spot on Malfoy's neck and sucking hard.
"Can you?"
"Yeah," Ron replies, a raw hunger twisting inside him. "I can." But can he? He has just enough sense left to wonder that when he drops to his knees.
Malfoy’s chest glistens in the torchlight as Ron yanks down the soft silk of Malfoy’s trousers and removes his cock, already stiff and red. Ron only hesitates long enough to look up at Malfoy’s face, before sucking it into his mouth. He could probably count on one hand the number of time's he's sucked a man's cock, his technique sloppy and wet, as saliva dribbles down his chin. His relationships with other men always seemed to lack a certain reciprocity (he fucked him, not the other way around) and he's not sure why Malfoy is different. But he only has to hear the sounds Malfoy is making -- short, breathy whines, just short of begging Ron to swallow him whole - for him to know there is no why. There is only Malfoy and Ron and salty, spit-slick skin and more.
"Wea- Oh God." Malfoy's fingers tangle in Ron's hair, gripping his head hard. It's too much and not enough, and Malfoy is beautiful like this, surrendering under Ron's tongue. Suddenly, Ron doesn’t want to let him go, not like he let Harry walk out of his life. He tightens his grip on Malfoy's hips, pressing him against the wall and taking him in as deep as he can. It's over too soon, and Malfoy crumples, gasping as he comes hard down Ron’s throat.
“Fuck, Weasley. That was…" Ron looks up at him and swallows, suddenly feeling horribly uncertain, and Malfoy laughs shakily. "Come here," he says, and Ron can't stand fast enough.
"There's hope for you yet," Malfoy whispers before thrusting his tongue deep into Ron's mouth. Ron finds himself pressed against the wall with his trousers open and his cock in Malfoy's hand. "Tell me something," Malfoy asks, his hand pumping, "were you always this easy?"
Ron shuts his eyes, remembering for a feverish moment Harry accosting him in the Quidditch showers - the only time Harry ever touched him first, before he explodes into Malfoy's hand. "Yes," he gasps, sagging against the wall.
Ron peels his eyes open. Malfoy is watching him, his expression thoughtful, and a breathless moment passes before he leans forward to kiss Ron once on the lips. "We should do this again," he says, a sly smile tugging on his lips as he pulls away and takes a step back. For the first time Ron notices the man who helped him earlier is standing in the shadows. "Make sure he gets home in one piece," Malfoy tells him.
Ron blushes, unable to meet either of their eyes before he quickly follows the man out the door.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
When Ron arrives home, he finds a bird waiting for him outside his kitchen window. It's a brilliantly-colored parrot with a crown of red feathers on her head, and Ron's first instinct is to shut the curtains and hide. Then he curses Harry for sending a tropical bird on such a cold night and lets the bird in.
Harry doesn't even send a proper scroll. Instead it's a Muggle postcard with a color photograph on one side of a bikini-clad woman waving at him. Greetings from Ipanema is printed across the top.
He grabs a quill and contemplates writing Fuck you across the front in big, bold letters, but inspiration strikes and he does one better, printing I just sucked off your boyfriend! and signing his name. He looks over at the bird, who is eyeing Ron reproachfully from the nest of dirty dishes piled by the sink.
"You're right," he tells the bird. "Sending that wouldn't be a very adult thing to do. There's probably a very good reason why Harry is sending me a postcard like he's on winter holiday. He's probably just lonely without his boyfriend." That thought quickly stops Ron from talking, and he scowls angrily.
The bird caws sympathetically at him, and Ron opens a bag of crisps for the two of them to share. "Harry Potter is my best mate," he explains between mouthfuls. "Was my best mate." The parrot nips a crisp out of his fingers and looks at him balefully. "Fine. Is," Ron corrects himself. "Anyway, I was in love with him. I don't think I am anymore."
.. ~ .. ~ ..
Crash.
"Merlin's bitch."
Ron opens his eyes and winces at the sunshine bleeding through his bedroom curtains.
"Ronald Weasley."
"Arggh. Go away," he moans, pulling the blankets over his head.
A cupboard door slams, and Ron slowly sits up, desperately in need of Hangover potion, a hot bath and possibly large amounts of coffee. Of course, he never made it to the Apothecary to buy more potion, what with Malfoy reappearing in his life and totally sending it on end. He glances briefly at his alarm cloak and moans again, seeing the hand moving from "Late to Work" to "Very Late to Work," and he quickly turns the clock to face the wall.
He finds Ginny in the kitchen furiously banishing gobs of beef stew that she had spilt all over the kitchen floor.
"The kitchen doorway is generally not a good place to leave your shoes," she says, waving of her wand threateningly at him.
A limp carrot sails past his head. "It's generally not a good idea to break into someone's flat either," he retorts before sparing a look at the floor and shivering. "What was it, Sunday's dinner?"
"Don't blame me. Mum made me bring it over. She thinks you aren’t eating enough now that you broke up with… What was her name again?"
“Trisha.”
“Trisha, right. The one with the big chest. How could I forget?” She looks up at Ron and smirks. "You look like you had an interesting evening."
Ron snorts. You have no idea. "I didn’t get much sleep last night," he says, as Harry's parrot hops onto his shoulder and give him a sharp nip on the ear.
Ginny reaches her finger to nuzzle the bird’s neck. "New pet?"
"Er… No. She came with a letter," Ron replies, waving his wand at his coffeemaker and setting it to extra strong.
"Harry Potter," the bird caws indignantly, before flying to the top of his refrigerator. "Harry Potter. Best mate. Best mate. Caw."
Ginny bursts out laughing and looks at Ron.
"Okay, the letter was from Harry," he admits, adding several scoopfuls of sugar to his mammoth-sized cup of coffee. "And I don't to talk about it."
"Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Brilliant sex. Brilliant sex," the bird continues, preening its feathers.
"It's Harry's bird. What to you expect it to say?" Ron hisses when Ginny raises an eyebrow at him. "She probably just picked it up from Harry. I'm sure he’s been crying miserably since Malfoy left him."
"I see," she replies neutrally.
Ron glares at the bird before slumping miserably into his kitchen chair. He supposes he should have known better than to pour his heart out to a fucking parrot. "God, I hate life sometimes," he says, imagining Malfoy in Harry's arms
Ginny looks at him sympathetically before sitting down across from him. "Mum's going to make you come to dinner next Sunday, you know," she says, changing the subject. "Bill and Fleur are going to be there."
Ron frowns into his coffee cup. "Can't. Busy."
"That excuse would only work if you did anything on Sundays, except sit in a pub and drink beer," Ginny points out.
"Still not going."
Ginny sniffs. "One of these days Mum is going to show up on your doorstep and it's not going to be a pretty sight."
Ron thinks about that for a moment and shudders. "Fine," he concedes, and then his stomach drops watching Ginny pick up the postcard he left sitting on the table. "Ginny," he warns.
"'I just sucked off your boyfriend,'" she reads, her eyes wide.
"It's not…"
"Really, Ron," she says, smirking.
Ron reddens. "It's a joke. I really didn't…"
"Ron."
"Fine."
Ginny cringes. "Well, I can see why you haven't been enthusiastic about writing Harry back. Just how long has this been going on?"
"It just happened once, last night, and it didn't mean anything. Really."
"I should hope not. Well, if it did I suppose…" She frowns, looking unhappy to continue.
"It's okay, Ginny. You don't have to like Malfoy. I don't like Malfoy. I just…"
"Like to suck his cock," Ginny finishes helpfully.
"Ginny." This is not a conversation he wants to have with his sister. His eyes drift to the sink where Harry's parrot is helping herself to the remnants of a moldy ham sandwich. "I don't know what to do," he sighs.
"Well, you're not really going to send this postcard back to Harry, are you?" she asks, picking it up again and smirking at him.
Ron scowls and crosses his arms. "I was thinking about it. Ow!" he cries, his hand jumping to his ear. "She just bit me. I'm getting really tired of this bird," he complains. Ginny looks back at him, unimpressed. "Fine. I won't send it. Honestly, of all people, I thought you would understand. You were in love with him once."
Ginny snorts. "I was also sixteen." She gives Ron a long look before continuing, "Ron, I know you miss him, and I know there was something more than friendship between you two, but I really think you're making yourself feel worse by shutting Harry out."
Ron rolls his eyes. "You sound like Hermione."
"You know what I think? I think you should send Harry a proper letter," Ginny suggests, a smug grin back on her face.
"I think I should go to work before Plum fires me," he retorts.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
Now, Ron spends his time trying to think as little as possible about Draco Malfoy. It’s no mean feat considering Harry's bird (who still stubbornly refuses to leave) squawks, "Brilliant sex. Brilliant sex" at the most inopportune of times, usually early in the morning after Ron wakes up hard from wanting to taste Malfoy’s skin again. It’s all terribly confusing. He hates Malfoy. Truly. It doesn’t matter that Malfoy redeemed himself in the eyes of many. The man took Harry away. That’s something Ron can’t forgive. Ever. Even if Harry acted on his own free will, that’s not the point. He’s not attracted to Malfoy. He’s not.
And to make matters worse, the stupid ponce can't seem to stay out of the papers. Whether he's bankrolling the Severus Snape Institute for Advanced Potions Research or landing on Witch’s Weekly's annual 'Sexiest Wizard of the Year' cover -- He's no longer the Chosen One's chosen. See how Draco Malfoy is coping. -- his smirking visage is unavoidable.
Ron throws the magazine across the room and glares at Harry's bird. "Don't start," he says sternly, as the bird hops onto his shoulder and begins nuzzling his ear.
"Harry Potter. Harry Potter," the bird caws.
"Don't start on that either."
.. ~ .. ~ ..
Harry's bird is also a frighteningly good burglar alarm as Ron discovers after returning home from squiring Melody to meet his parents (“Yes, mum. She is lovely, but no, we’re not serious. No, honestly, we’re just dating. Mum.”) and finding his neighbors standing outside on the pavement, fearful of the shrieks coming from the inside of his flat.
"It sounds like you have a banshee, dear," old Mrs. Butters tells him, as he pushes past the throng to get into his front door.
"No, I just have a very strange bird," he replies, already setting his sights on pan roasting her or, perhaps, making parrot kabobs. What he doesn't expect to find is a livid and rather hen-pecked Draco Malfoy standing in the middle of his foyer.
"Why is Harry's parrot here?" he seethes.
"Er… Why are you here?" Ron asks instead as the parrot settles onto his shoulder in order to - what Ron imagines - glare at his owner's former boyfriend.
Malfoy crosses his arms, stoically ignoring the rivulets of blood dripping from his torn earlobe. "I can’t talk with that thing staring at me."
"Harry Potter. Har-" the bird accuses.
"Shut up," they both shout back in unison.
The bird makes a hurt sound and flies into the kitchen to perch on top of the refrigerator, where she continues to watch them beadily.
Ron rolls his eyes and looks back at Malfoy. "You were saying," he says tiredly. Somehow this scene isn't fitting into his fantasy of finding Malfoy waiting for him in his flat, possibly because Malfoy is still wearing clothing and rather bloody ones at that.
"I had hoped that we could…" Malfoy touches his head and winces. "Never mind. This is too weird. I'm going home."
"Wait," Ron cries as Malfoy limps toward the door. "The bird doesn't have to stay," he adds as the bird caws indignantly from the kitchen.
"Then why is it even here?" That familiar sneer that Ron hasn’t seen since the war ended reappears on Malfoy’s face. "Or did you finally figure out a way to convince Harry to come back to you."
"No. No," Ron protests. "I've been trying to get rid of it for days. It won't leave." Ron looks at Malfoy helplessly. "I think it's been cursed."
"Please." Malfoy pulls open the front door. "Even I know Harry wouldn't stoop that low."
"Well…" Ron wrinkles his nose. "It’s waiting for me to send an answer to Harry's letter," Ron admits.
Malfoy glares at him witheringly before walking out the door.
The bird receives a withering glare of its own as Ron sinks down to the floor and Accios a bottle of beer from of the fridge. The parrot hops over and cocks of her head as he takes a long slug of beer, draining half the bottle. "You know," he says conversationally after wiping his mouth with his arm. "I don't even care about Harry anymore. Ow! God, I didn't mean that literally."
Ron is starting to think he has a very fucked up relationship with Harry's bird.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
The parrot gets a stern talking to before getting locked in Ron's toilet for the remainder of the evening so he can get slowly and deliberately pissed on his sofa in peace. When he awakes the next morning, he is still wearing yesterday's clothes and is achingly hard.
Fuck. He plunges his hand into his trousers and resolutely tries not to think of Malfoy's flushed face moments before he came. Of course, Ron does exactly that, remembering how vulnerable and naked Malfoy looked then. Almost beautiful, even. Ron’s orgasm shatters through him and afterward he lies tangled in his sheets, blinking at the bright sunlight streaming in his bedroom window and feeling as miserable as ever.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
Ron is already an hour late for work (What is it? Three times this week. Four? He lost count), but he makes a detour, finding himself standing on Hermione’s doorstep. It’s a path he used to wear thin, but he hasn’t been by in many weeks. Then he quickly remembers why, hearing the sound of a baby crying and Hermione yelling at someone, Rolf probably, that she is late for work.
Ron never would have pegged Hermione as the settle-down-to-raise-a-houseful-of-sprogs-type. Of course, that was before he and Hermione broke up -- they were actually engaged once, stupidly, for all of five days - and she left to “study abroad” in Berlin. She came back a year later with Rolf, a hulking intellectual with wire-rimmed glasses, (Ron likes to refer to him the bastard stepchild of Percy and Victor Krum. Ginny is the only one who thinks that is funny) and a pregnant belly. Ron supposes he’s the perfect man, if you like that sort of thing. He stays home to take care of their daughter while she still works insane hours trying to make the world safe for house-elves, giants, or whatever other cause she has adopted.
The front door bangs open before he can knock and Hermione nearly bowls him over in her haste run out. “Ron? What are you doing here?” she demands, blinking at him. Despite the smart set of business robes she is wearing, she still looks like she did when she was a teenager with her frizzy, bedraggled hair and the worn satchel, overflowing with books and parchment, she is dragging behind her. Still, she can catch Ron’s breath away at the oddest times and he wonders where everything went so terribly off course.
“Is everything all right? Did something happen to your Mum?” she asks, suddenly looking concerned.
“Yes. Everything is fine. I-“ Ron has a brief moment of self-doubt before taking the satchel out of her hands and hoisting it over his shoulder. “I just wanted to see you. That’s all.” He shrugs. He doesn’t know how to tell her that despite everything that happened between them she still feels like home to him. Someplace where he can just be.
Hermione seems to understand. C'mon, you can walk me to the Floo station. I was supposed to be at a meeting ten minutes ago and Eliza spit up all over my robes. A brand new set.” She looks at him, grinning. “But you don’t really want to hear about that, do you?”
He grins back. “No, not really.”
“Sorry, I know you hate it when I talk about work and the baby,” she adds with dramatic affect. “Ginny mentioned that you’re seeing someone.”
Ron stops and immediately thinks of Malfoy. “Wait. She told you?”
“Yes. Why? Is it supposed to be a secret?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s just complicated. He’s-“
Hermione’s eyes widen. “He?”
Ron’s stomach drops. “No. I mean…” Fuck.
Hermione squeezes his hand. “Ron. It’s okay. I know.”
Ron squints at her. “You do?”
“I’m just surprised you finally admitted it.”
Ron mulls that over. “Oh.” He takes a deep breath. “I’d rather not tell you who it is right now, if it’s all the same to you.”
“All right.” Hermione starts walking again. “So this Melody that Ginny told me about…”
Ron sighs. How did his life get so complicated? “Yeah, I guess you can say I’m seeing her, too.”
“I see,” Hermione replies.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
It’s nearly noon when he finally walks into the showroom and finds Plum waiting for him stonily by the front desk. “Sorry,” Ron mutters, not meeting his eyes. “Family emergency. My brother. Nasty dragon injury.” Plum looks at him dubiously. “I’ll work through lunch,” he offers.
“You’ll be filling in Saturday morning, too,” Plum calls after him. “And the Saturday after that.”
Fuck. He drops his wand on his desk and slumps down into his chair. Smith is smirking at him from his spot near the coffee maker and Ron wonders if perhaps Harry had the right idea in leaving after all.
"Weasley."
"Hmm?" Ron looks up and sees Plum heading his way, bellowing at the top of his lungs.
"Weasley, do I pay you to stare off into space? You have a customer."
"Oh." Ron sighs, and then blinks, seeing Malfoy standing in the middle of the showroom, still looking wounded, but otherwise back to his crisp, normal self.
"I need to speak to you in private," Malfoy tells him, glaring contemptuously at Plum, who is doggedly trying to follow behind.
"Er… sure." Ron swallows, noting that Malfoy doesn't look all that happy to see him either, although if he were to be honest, the only expressions he thought Malfoy was capable of ranged from a dismissive sneer to a cruel smirk.
"Use my office, please." Plum interrupts, his red jowls flapping as he talks. "Always a pleasure, Mr. Malfoy. Always a pleasure," he says, bowing. "Tell him about the new models coming in," he hisses before plastering a smile on his face again.
"I think you're going to give him a heart attack if you spend any more money here," Ron jokes, hoping to lighten the mood as he lets them into Plum's office. "What did you want to talk- oof," Ron asks before finding himself pushed face first onto the top of Plum's desk, sending papers flying everywhere. "Malfoy, what the fu-nghh." Ron shuts his eyes, feeling Malfoy's fingers, still cold from the outside, wrap around his cock.
"I've been thinking about you. Did you know that?" he whispers into Ron's ear, making quick work opening Ron's flies and yanking down his trousers.
"Uh…N- no. M- Malfoy, what are you doing?" Malfoy's trousers hit the ground and Ron gasps feeling the warm press of skin against skin.
Malfoy ignores him. "Weasley, you even have freckles on your arse," he says, slapping one of Ron's cheeks before squeezing it soothingly. "I was going to stay away, but then I thought: You don't just walk away from someone after they gave you the blow job of your life."
"Really?" Ron squeaks, knocking over one of Plum's inkpots and spilling ink over last month's sales reports. A pair of thumbs slide between his cheeks to pull them apart.
"It was quite a performance. I admit I didn't think you had that in you, and I've been… remiss in returning the favor." A finger presses against Ron's hole. “I thought this would be the perfect place to do it too, over that horrific oaf’s desk. Wouldn't you agree, Weasley?”
Ron leans his forehead into the crook of his arm, sure that he is the color of a tomato. He is also desperately aroused, need coiling around inside him. "Malf- Oh fuck." He looks up and finds himself staring out a large picture window overlooking the showroom. A showroom full of customers. "They can see us," he just manages before a slick finger slips inside.
"Nonsense." Malfoy is breathing heavily against Ron's neck and it's doing all sorts of wonderful things to his skin. "It's a mirror, remember? We can see out, but they can't see in. God, you're tight," he adds, slipping another finger inside.
"Um… It's been a while," Ron manages, gripping the desk hard enough to cut off the circulation in his fingers. "Malfoy, I don't think this a good-" He stops, feeling the head of Malfoy's cock press inside. "Oh my God," he whimpers, trying to adjust. Malfoy makes a soft sound of agreement as he pushes forward, filling Ron completely. It's not the most comfortable place to get fucked, splayed as he is across Plum's desk and his nose only centimeters away from a photograph of Plum's equally rotund wife. But Malfoy is right. There is something erotic and oddly satisfying getting thoroughly screwed atop his boss's desk. Just then, two saleswizards walk past the other side of the window and Ron groans, arousal spiking through him, and he can't stop himself from reaching down to fist his own cock.
"You like this, don't you?" Malfoy whispers, thrusting forward and just grazing Ron's prostrate hard enough to make him squirm. "I thought you would. I remember you liked to watch."
"Malf-"
"I know you used to watch us, Weasley." Malfoy's voice sends an unpleasant shiver through Ron as he remembers sitting in the shadows watching Malfoy and Harry fuck in one of the outposts the three shared during the war. Is this why Malfoy is doing this? To get payback? Malfoy suddenly thrusts forward, hard enough that Ron can't help groaning with pleasure and he almost doesn't hear Malfoy whisper in his ear, "…maybe I was fucking the wrong person this whole time."
"What?" Oh.
Ron doesn't really know how to respond to that, and, perhaps, that's something he should think about later. Especially not with the way Malfoy's hand is wrapped around his cock, squeezing, oh, so tight. His eyes, still trained at the window, start to lost focus, and he's getting close. So, so close and he barely registers Malfoy telling him that someone is coming to the door when he comes all over the top of Plum's desk.
Malfoy collapses on top of him just as Plum opens his office door. "Weasley, what is the meaning of this?" he bellows.
Ron looks up and blinks. "Um…" Malfoy's cock slips wetly out of his hole as he quickly stands with his trousers still hanging around his ankles. "We…"
"Is that…" Plum thrusts a sausage-like finger in the direction of a puddle of semen mixing with the spilled ink on top of his desk.
"Er…" Ron supposes his mum would be horrified right now, but he suddenly he finds the whole situation rather amusing. The look on Plum's face is hilarious, actually, and he can't stop himself from laughing.
"Funny? You think this… this perverted display is funny?" Plum roars, and Ron can only laugh harder.
"What's going on?" Smith's head pokes in behind Plum, and soon half the office is jostling in the doorway trying to see the two of them furiously pull on their clothes.
"Weasley, shut up," Malfoy hisses, pushing Ron aside and somehow exuding an air of righteous indignation despite being found half-naked with his cock up someone's arse. The door slams shut with an angry swish of his wand and another flick cleans the desktop save for the ink-stained parchment (Alas, Plum only uses permanent, anti-scourgify inks). "Now," he says, mustering enough attitude that Plum retreats back toward the door. "Weasley and I were just finalizing the terms of a business agreement. A mutually beneficial one, I might add. One that I think will have lasting implications. Wouldn't you agree, Ron?" Malfoy turns to Ron, a tell-tale sign of a smile betraying his otherwise business-like demeanor.
Ron suddenly stops laughing. "What? Oh." Oh. "Right. Yes, Draco." Malfoy's smile widens, and something inside Ron flips, pleasantly for a change.
"I don't follow," Plum interrupts, still staring at his desktop with frank distaste. "Weasley just…"
"Signed an agreement with Puddlemere United. Starting next month they’ll exclusively fly Firebolt brooms. A press release will go out by owl in the morning."
"Wait, Malfoy. I mean, Draco. I-" Ron starts.
Malfoy gives Ron a look before continuing, "The owner and my father used to go way back. In fact, I'm sure he'd love to be reminded of the Death Eater rallies they attended together. This," somehow, from the depths of his robes, Draco has procured a rather large sack of Galleons, which he places on top of Plum's desk, "I believe this will cover the down payment until other financial arrangements are made."
Plum jumps to his feet, clapping his meaty hands together. "Mr. Malfoy," he exclaims, beaming, as he pumps Malfoy's hand. "I knew you had a bit of your father in you. We used to do business together, you know…"
"Draco, you don't have to do this," interrupts Ron, noticing the look of revulsion coloring his face.
"Shut up, Weasley. I'm trying to help you."
"I don't need your ruddy help," Ron snaps back, offended by the insinuation. "And really, I don't want this job anymore, anyway. It's pathetic and it's boring," he tells Plum's rapidly coloring face before taking a steadying breath. The two of them are staring at him with disbelief. "Piss off," he replies. "The both of you. I don’t need you."
.. ~ .. ~ ..
Ron is not sure exactly what just happened back there. Well, he understands the sex part. That was… amazing. Thrilling. Everything sex should be, really. And despite his bruised hipbones he would do it again in a heartbeat. In a millisecond.
It's just the Draco Malfoy part he doesn't understand. Fucking ferret has been the bane of his existence since they first met.
"Weasley!"
Ron quickens his pace. The Leaky Cauldron where there's enough Firewhisky inside to make himself happily numb in a matter of minutes is close within his sights. Besides it's not like he could ever have a future (God, is he even thinking that word?) with someone like Malfoy. What would his family think? What would Harry?
"For fuck's sakes."
Pop.
"RON!"
Ron jumps, seeing a very livid Draco Malfoy suddenly Apparate in front of him.
"What was that?" he roars.
Ron glares at Malfoy stubbornly. "Just leave me alone."
Malfoy's lips curl. "Fine, Weasley. I'm not going to waste my time with you anymore. Have a good life."
Ron doesn't want to think about how much his gut hurt watching him go.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
Ron supposes that at one point in your life you have to own up to what you really want. But is this what he really wants? He’s not really sure, to tell the truth, but there is something to be said about brilliant sex. Maybe peace and happiness will come later.
"Malfoy, wait!" Ron shouts, sprinting down the centre of Diagon Alley.
Malfoy turns and Ron has a brief moment of panic. "Weasley," he says, crossing his arms, waiting.
Ron catches his breath. "I'm sorry," he says. "Really. I just sort of… lost it."
"Yeah, I saw." A lifetime of animosity stretches between them and that achy feeling inside Ron’s gut returns. "I guess I should be used to random outbursts of anger after living with Harry," Malfoy continues, a wry look on his face.
Ron exhales sharply. Harry. Ron would rather not hear Draco mention that name ever again, but still he has to ask, "Draco, is this just us settling old scores?"
Malfoy is silent for a moment. "Is that what this is to you?"
"No. Maybe in some weird way it was at first, but…" Ron bites his lip, feeling an odd hope mixed with anxiety grow inside him. "I don't think it is anymore."
.. ~ .. ~ ..
"I think I'm falling for Draco Malfoy," he tells Harry's bird when he returns to his flat later that evening, feeling lighter than he has in months. The parrot jumps onto his shoulder and begins nuzzling his ear as he walks over to his writing table to pull out a roll of parchment. "But first I need to write Harry a letter."
~fin
Title: The Many Woes of Ronald Weasley
Pairing: Ron/Draco. Past Harry/Draco and Harry/Ron.
Rating: R
Wordcount: 7,000
Beta: oddnari
Summary: Ron's life is a mess, but at least he can comfort himself that it makes sense. That is until Draco Malfoy makes a reappearance..
A/N: My contribution to hp_springsmut. Gift fic for ella_bane. This version contains an extra scene and some minor changes that weren't included in the one posted to the hp_springsmut comm. I have a sequel planned for this, eventually:), and I wanted to tidy up some things that will continue on in the second part. I can also finally thank nqdonne and geoviki for linking to this in their journals.
Ron can't remember when he realized that he was in love with Harry Potter. He supposes it just happened one day, just a natural progression from him being an eager little boy desperate for a friend of his own to becoming the one Harry missed most. The trouble was, Ron couldn't bring himself tell Harry, not after he thought Harry had fallen for his sister. So he hung back, always the loyal friend and brother, and watched Draco Malfoy steal Harry's heart instead. Yet at the end, when Harry faced Voldemort alone, it was Ron who was waiting in wings to pick up the pieces. And it was Ron who carefully laid Harry's broken body onto his bed, placing soft kisses upon his scar-less head and murmuring, "I love you," and "please," over and over again as he waited for Harry to be whole again.
After Ron awoke the next morning, Harry was gone and Malfoy with him. The only explanation was a short note, saying, I'm sorry. Soon, more letters came, couriered by strange birds from Australia, Africa, even a frozen missive all the way from the South Pole. Letters that said, Don't worry or I'm fine or Take care, never I miss you or I'm coming home. Hermione told Ron that it was for the best, that Harry needed the time away to heal, and besides he had given so much of himself already, it would be selfish to demand more.
Ron didn’t necessarily disagree, but he can’t help feeling lost without Harry and more than a little betrayed.
Now, Ron spends his time trying to think as little as possible about Harry Potter. He has a dream job, selling racing brooms for Firebolt, Inc. -- The Broom of Champions! -- and enough Galleons to buy a large flat in a converted cauldron factory, full of expensive furniture that Ginny picked out for him. He even has enough money to send his parents on a dream cruise on the Mediterranean, where they terrorized the Muggles onboard by levitating shuffleboard disks, thereby causing an international incident before several Corsican magistrates, a ship full of tourists and an American television crew were thankfully Obliviated.
He still spends time with Seamus and Dean, getting slowly pissed on cheap beer while they stare at girls. They tell him he’d be happier if he tried harder to get laid, so he tries dating Hermione, and then Luna Lovegood, and then several other girls. He even dates Justin Finch-Fletchley, which really isn't dating per se, but Ron screwing a poncy, pretty boy into the wall, but it takes some of the edge off. And it's better than sneaking off to Muggle London to have it off with the skinny dark-haired boys who stalk the streets of Soho. Thankfully, nobody knows about them. Except for Ginny. He's pretty sure she knows.
Still, in an odd sort of way, life makes sense, at least that's what Ron tries to tell himself until the day Draco Malfoy walks into the showroom, demanding to test ride Firebolt's latest in luxury brooms: the Firebolt G3000.
The Many Woes of Ronald Weasley
Ron blinks at the black swill swirling inside his coffee cup and wrinkles his nose.
"Late night, eh?"
Ron looks up and stares wearily at Nigel Smith, a man who has made a career out of hovering by the coffeepot, before replying, "Yeah. Ran out of Hangover potion."
Smith leans closer. "So who was it this time? That cute lass in accounting? I hear she likes to…" He makes a crude gesture with his hand, and Ron wrinkles his nose again.
"Er… no," Ron replies into his coffee cup.
Smith nudges him. "Bet she was pretty. Did I ever tell you about the time…"
Ron swallows, feeling bile rise in his throat. "Excuse me," he says quickly, pushing Smith out of the way and barely making it to the loo in time, before the contents of his stomach spill all over the lavatory floor.
Fuck. Ron wipes his mouth and leans back against the cold tile wall and shuts his eyes.
It's not like he has a problem, even though he's been late for work three times this week and hungover twice. After he outfitted Wimbourne's entire side with new brooms (earning him Saleswizard of the Month and a free set of steak knives), he could probably dance naked on the showroom floor and not get fired. Besides, if Harry can flake out and leave, Ron can comfort himself knowing that at least he's a productive member of society.
Right. He's not going to think about Harry right now. That got him into trouble last night. He is going to think about Melody Trumbull (a girl who fits Ron’s criteria of the perfect date: a pretty face, a pliant body and no promises in the morning) and how in eight hours he's going to pound her into her pretty pink bed.
After a stringent breath-freshening charm and a few Scourgify spells, Ron is finally ready to sell brooms. Still, it is with some trepidation that he opens the lavatory door, wondering when his life became so crushingly dull.
He probably should have taken that as a sign that his day is about to go pear-shaped because the first thing he sees after walking through the door is not his boss, Mortimer Plum, frantically trying to wave him over, but the man standing next to him.
"…You won't find a broom like this at Nimbus, I guarantee it. We have a very generous financing policy, but…" Plum mops his brow with a handkerchief, "I doubt you'd need that, Mr. Malfoy…"
Draco Malfoy. The former Death-Eater-turned-war-hero who is probably the last person in the world Ron would like to see again with the possible exception of Voldemort himself. Of course, Draco Malfoy, being Draco Malfoy, can't do anything without the papers writing about it, so it's hardly a secret that Malfoy recently arrived back in England. Alone.
"…Weasley here will set you up. He's our finest salesman," Plum continues, looking at Ron expectantly. "Close the deal," he whispers, clapping Ron on the shoulder.
Ron, however, is too busy trying to keep the unpleasant emotions churning around inside him from spilling out all over the showroom floor. "I heard you were back," he says, crossing his arms and ignoring all pleasantries to glare at the man who took Harry away from him.
If Malfoy notices Ron's hostility, he doesn't show it. Instead he greets Ron warmly like they are old friends catching up from a long absence. "I am. It's been an interesting couple of years, but I'm glad to be back." An easy smile appears on Malfoy's face that Ron is disturbed to find charming. "It's good to see you, Weasley."
Ron immediately decides that whatever Malfoy is playing at, he's not buying it. "So how is Harry, anyway?" he asks, his tone deliberately cold.
Malfoy gives him an odd look. "I’m sure he’s fine. We're no longer together, but I’m sure you already know that being his best friend and all."
Ron flushes. "He never talks about you, so how would I know," he lies.
Ron thinks that the most unforgivable thing Harry ever did - besides leaving - was that he talked about Malfoy incessantly. Draco is different now. Draco has changed. Draco is sensitive and kind. Draco is blah, blah, blah. Blah. It's enough to make Ron want to vomit, and he dealt with it the only sensible way he could think of: He began sending Harry's letters back, unopened.
Someone clears their throat, and Malfoy shifts, suddenly looking uncomfortable, and it's not for the reason Ron was hoping for. "So Weasley," he says finally, "are you going to sell me this broom, or what?"
"Fine. It's a very good broom. You won't be sorry," he hisses before noticing that Plum is still hovering within earshot, looking at Ron with the fury of someone who is seeing one of the biggest sales of the year walk out and take his business elsewhere.
Right. Ron sighs and begins rattling off a list of Firebolt's many superior and one-of-a-kind features: power, handling, anti-hex control… built-in braking system. "I guarantee you won't find a faster broom," he finishes. A sales pitch that he could probably recite in his sleep.
Malfoy pulls a face. "Well…" he starts.
"Tell him about our warranty," Plum hisses.
Malfoy smiles gamely. "Yes, Weasley. Tell me about the warranty."
Ron realizes that his face is probably redder than his hair. "Three years or thirty six thousand kilometers, whichever comes first," he grinds out.
"Hm." Malfoy looks at his nails, seemingly oblivious to the fact that everyone in the showroom has stopped to listen to their conversation. Even Smith, who generally shuts up for no one, has stopped talking. "Well," Malfoy starts, "I only pay in cash…"
Plum looks like he is about to wet himself. "Yes, yes, thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Your money is always welcome here. I used to do business with your father, you know."
Malfoy's face twists, and he glances quickly at Ron before turning away. "I assure you I'm not my father," he replies tightly, pulling out a card. "Send the broom to this address." His eyes linger on Ron. "Have Weasley deliver it," he adds, smirking before Disapparating away.
Ron stares at the card and wonders if it's too early in the day to get a drink.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
Ron supposes that the pivotal moment of his life was when he met Harry Potter for the first time. Suddenly, his life became amazingly exciting. Everyone wanted to know if it was really true? Was he a friend of Harry Potter's? Even his brother Bill, who never paid him much mind while he was growing up, sent him an express owl all the way from Egypt. In a weird sort of way Ronald Weasley became somebody.
It's sort of an afterthought that he remembers meeting Draco Malfoy that same day.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
The sign marking the entrance to the Olde Merlin's Club is discreet. Respectable. In other words: pure-blooded. Therefore, Ron is hardly surprised that this is where Malfoy asked him to deliver his new broom. Times may have changed, and the Bloodline Reform Act of 1999 requires the club allow half-bloods and Muggle-borns membership. Still, one would be more likely to find Hagrid sitting inside a teashop than a Muggle-born drinking Firewhisky at the Club's bar. Of course, this isn't the first time Ron has stepped foot inside its heavy wooden doors. Most of the club owners in the English Quidditch League are pure-blooded and, well, business is business.
He finds Malfoy leaning against the bar, staring at the bottom of his whisky glass. He almost looks forlorn and a black part of Ron cheers, but he has a job to do and he squashes any desire he has to rub Malfoy’s face in it.
"Malfoy? Your broom." He holds it out, hoping Malfoy will simply take the fucking thing so that he can leave and never cross Malfoy’s path again.
Naturally, Malfoy has other ideas.
"Weasley," he says, his voice betraying a slight slur. "Come have a drink with me."
Ron would rather not, and he hesitates before taking the glass of Firewhisky that is placed in front of him, thinking that perhaps it's not wise to drink with someone you despise so much. The whisky does wonders though. It curls around inside Ron, warming his belly and settling in his toes. All of the sudden, Ron is quite happy stay where he is. When Malfoy speaks again, his voice sounds muzzy and soft, not brittle like he always remembered.
"Yes." Ron clears his throat. "I was able to find the club. I- I'm actually a member," he adds hastily, before realizing that was probably not the best thing to admit.
"Really?" Malfoy cocks an eyebrow, but says nothing. Ron swallows the rest of his whisky down, waiting for the inevitable jibe, mocking him for betraying his lofty principles for membership to a pure-blood club. It never comes.
Ron quickly signals the barkeep for another. "It's for business," Ron explains, gulping his second drink down. The whisky is starting to burn, but it's a pleasant sort of burn and he imagines fire licking his insides, just flaming below the surface of his skin. Feeling just the right shade of drunk, he turns to look at Malfoy, tilting his head sideways.
Malfoy is wearing a crisp, black shirt, just unbuttoned at the collar to show a tiny v of skin. It's terribly distracting, and for feverish moment, Ron sees the slide of Harry's tongue as it licks the pale skin of Malfoy's neck.
Ron quickly jerks his eyes away. "I don't want to talk about business," he says, suddenly remembering what they were just talking about.
Malfoy laughs. "What shall we talk about, then? The weather? Quidditch? The revolting hag that's our new Minister for Magic?"
Ron giggles, thinking Hermione wouldn't approve of him talking about her boss that way. "She is pretty ugly."
"Hm," Malfoy replies, finishing off his glass. His eyes drift to someone walking across the room. "It's raining out as usual and the Cannons need a new Keeper. I guess that exhausts our topics of conversation." Malfoy stands and picks up his new broom. "Always a pleasure, Weasley."
"Same," Ron mumbles into his glass and tries not to watch Malfoy drape his arm around another man.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
A half hour later, Ron is thoroughly pissed, and he can't stop himself from staring at Malfoy's tongue as it disappears inside the other man's ear.
Fuck. Ron swallows. He should go home and wank, or maybe see if Melody will still see him even though he stood her up earlier. What he mustn't do is make a fool of himself in front of Draco sodding Malfoy. He stumbles to his feet just as the room begins to tip, and he nearly falls to the floor. Too late for that, he thinks miserably as he tries to right himself against the bar.
"Is there a problem?"
A man swims into focus who Ron recognizes as the one who always stands by the front door.
"N- no. I was just leaving."
"Very good, sir." The man turns to leave and Ron takes another step and the room begins to spin in earnest.
"It's okay. He's with me," Ron hears someone say, and he looks up to see Draco Malfoy taking his arm and leading him away.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
"So Weasley," Malfoy smirks. "Have a taste for whisky, do you?"
Ron blinks. They're standing alone in a corridor near the back exit. “How- How did I get here?”
Malfoy leans against the opposite wall, looking amused. "I would have thought a man like you could hold his liquor."
Ron snorts. "Harry used to make fun of me when I drank. He said I got drunk like a girl." Ron starts to giggle, unwittingly proving his point.
Malfoy rolls his eyes. "I guess Harry does know what he's talking about some of the time."
Ron frowns. He has to ask. "Why- Why did you do it?"
Malfoy's expression turns stony. "Do what, Weasley? Wear black today? Become a Death Eater? "
"No." Ron shakes his head, already realizing that this is a bad idea, but he can't stop himself. "Take Harry. You took him away. From… from his friends… everyone."
"Everyone." Malfoy lets out a bitter laugh. "From you, you mean. I remember the way you used to look at me. Oh, the horrid Death Eater is stealing away my best friend,” he mocks. “Why am I not surprised that I get blamed when he was the one who begged me to take him away.” He lets out a bitter-sounding laugh. “You know, it was an interesting couple of years - I don't regret them, but Harry has problems I can't fix."
"And you just left him?" Ron's voice rises to an uncomfortable level.
Malfoy's face reddens. "I didn't just leave Harry. We broke up. It happens." Malfoy sighs and chews his lip. "I got tired of running away. I wanted to come back and he didn't. End of story.
"So how's that for Gryffindor bravery," he adds when Ron can’t think of anything to say. "Bloody hero and he's too afraid to go back to the people who love him."
"D- do you love him?" Ron asks softly.
"I did, but it's over. I thought I said that." Malfoy takes a step forward. "My turn. What happened between you and Harry? He never told me."
Ron swallows. "I - I don't know." I scared him away. "He- he just left."
"But you love him. Still."
Ron shuts his eyes. Malfoy is so close that he can feel his breath warming his cheek. "Y- Yes." Ron turns his face away, feeling totally ashamed. He's not sure why he just admitted that.
"Yet, you never once tried to find him." Malfoy's voice doesn't sound accusatory, just soft. Close. Too close.
"Look, I was angry. That's why I refused to take his letters. Hermione says I'm being ridiculous and I'll regret it, but... I should go home," he says, pushing himself off the wall. Obviously, he's had way too much to drink.
Malfoy thrusts out an arm and stops him. "Why? I would have done the same thing if I were you. I don't waste time with people who don't want me around."
Ron looks at Malfoy and sees clear gray eyes, cold as a November morning. "Why are you doing this?" he asks.
"Doing what, Weasley? You brought up Harry, not me." Malfoy tips his head closer, revealing more of that elusive pale skin under his collar
"Yes, but…" Ron swallows. "I- I don't want to talk about Harry anymore," he says quickly, crushing his mouth against Malfoy's. It's a brutal kiss, hard and bitter, and full of unhappy memories, that is until Malfoy's tongue slips into his mouth, and something inside him breaks. He's not sure if the haze of whisky finally lifted, but suddenly he feels sober and awake and alive, and he stumbles forward pressing Malfoy into the opposite wall.
Oh God. Malfoy feels bony and sharp and hard under his hands. And there is skin to be discovered, too. Pale and smooth and burning with heat, and Ron can't stop touching it, tasting it, and Malfoy's black shirt falls to the ground in a cascade of silver buttons.
"You owe me for that," Malfoy rasps in his ear.
"I can afford it," Ron replies, finding a spot on Malfoy's neck and sucking hard.
"Can you?"
"Yeah," Ron replies, a raw hunger twisting inside him. "I can." But can he? He has just enough sense left to wonder that when he drops to his knees.
Malfoy’s chest glistens in the torchlight as Ron yanks down the soft silk of Malfoy’s trousers and removes his cock, already stiff and red. Ron only hesitates long enough to look up at Malfoy’s face, before sucking it into his mouth. He could probably count on one hand the number of time's he's sucked a man's cock, his technique sloppy and wet, as saliva dribbles down his chin. His relationships with other men always seemed to lack a certain reciprocity (he fucked him, not the other way around) and he's not sure why Malfoy is different. But he only has to hear the sounds Malfoy is making -- short, breathy whines, just short of begging Ron to swallow him whole - for him to know there is no why. There is only Malfoy and Ron and salty, spit-slick skin and more.
"Wea- Oh God." Malfoy's fingers tangle in Ron's hair, gripping his head hard. It's too much and not enough, and Malfoy is beautiful like this, surrendering under Ron's tongue. Suddenly, Ron doesn’t want to let him go, not like he let Harry walk out of his life. He tightens his grip on Malfoy's hips, pressing him against the wall and taking him in as deep as he can. It's over too soon, and Malfoy crumples, gasping as he comes hard down Ron’s throat.
“Fuck, Weasley. That was…" Ron looks up at him and swallows, suddenly feeling horribly uncertain, and Malfoy laughs shakily. "Come here," he says, and Ron can't stand fast enough.
"There's hope for you yet," Malfoy whispers before thrusting his tongue deep into Ron's mouth. Ron finds himself pressed against the wall with his trousers open and his cock in Malfoy's hand. "Tell me something," Malfoy asks, his hand pumping, "were you always this easy?"
Ron shuts his eyes, remembering for a feverish moment Harry accosting him in the Quidditch showers - the only time Harry ever touched him first, before he explodes into Malfoy's hand. "Yes," he gasps, sagging against the wall.
Ron peels his eyes open. Malfoy is watching him, his expression thoughtful, and a breathless moment passes before he leans forward to kiss Ron once on the lips. "We should do this again," he says, a sly smile tugging on his lips as he pulls away and takes a step back. For the first time Ron notices the man who helped him earlier is standing in the shadows. "Make sure he gets home in one piece," Malfoy tells him.
Ron blushes, unable to meet either of their eyes before he quickly follows the man out the door.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
When Ron arrives home, he finds a bird waiting for him outside his kitchen window. It's a brilliantly-colored parrot with a crown of red feathers on her head, and Ron's first instinct is to shut the curtains and hide. Then he curses Harry for sending a tropical bird on such a cold night and lets the bird in.
Harry doesn't even send a proper scroll. Instead it's a Muggle postcard with a color photograph on one side of a bikini-clad woman waving at him. Greetings from Ipanema is printed across the top.
He grabs a quill and contemplates writing Fuck you across the front in big, bold letters, but inspiration strikes and he does one better, printing I just sucked off your boyfriend! and signing his name. He looks over at the bird, who is eyeing Ron reproachfully from the nest of dirty dishes piled by the sink.
"You're right," he tells the bird. "Sending that wouldn't be a very adult thing to do. There's probably a very good reason why Harry is sending me a postcard like he's on winter holiday. He's probably just lonely without his boyfriend." That thought quickly stops Ron from talking, and he scowls angrily.
The bird caws sympathetically at him, and Ron opens a bag of crisps for the two of them to share. "Harry Potter is my best mate," he explains between mouthfuls. "Was my best mate." The parrot nips a crisp out of his fingers and looks at him balefully. "Fine. Is," Ron corrects himself. "Anyway, I was in love with him. I don't think I am anymore."
.. ~ .. ~ ..
Crash.
"Merlin's bitch."
Ron opens his eyes and winces at the sunshine bleeding through his bedroom curtains.
"Ronald Weasley."
"Arggh. Go away," he moans, pulling the blankets over his head.
A cupboard door slams, and Ron slowly sits up, desperately in need of Hangover potion, a hot bath and possibly large amounts of coffee. Of course, he never made it to the Apothecary to buy more potion, what with Malfoy reappearing in his life and totally sending it on end. He glances briefly at his alarm cloak and moans again, seeing the hand moving from "Late to Work" to "Very Late to Work," and he quickly turns the clock to face the wall.
He finds Ginny in the kitchen furiously banishing gobs of beef stew that she had spilt all over the kitchen floor.
"The kitchen doorway is generally not a good place to leave your shoes," she says, waving of her wand threateningly at him.
A limp carrot sails past his head. "It's generally not a good idea to break into someone's flat either," he retorts before sparing a look at the floor and shivering. "What was it, Sunday's dinner?"
"Don't blame me. Mum made me bring it over. She thinks you aren’t eating enough now that you broke up with… What was her name again?"
“Trisha.”
“Trisha, right. The one with the big chest. How could I forget?” She looks up at Ron and smirks. "You look like you had an interesting evening."
Ron snorts. You have no idea. "I didn’t get much sleep last night," he says, as Harry's parrot hops onto his shoulder and give him a sharp nip on the ear.
Ginny reaches her finger to nuzzle the bird’s neck. "New pet?"
"Er… No. She came with a letter," Ron replies, waving his wand at his coffeemaker and setting it to extra strong.
"Harry Potter," the bird caws indignantly, before flying to the top of his refrigerator. "Harry Potter. Best mate. Best mate. Caw."
Ginny bursts out laughing and looks at Ron.
"Okay, the letter was from Harry," he admits, adding several scoopfuls of sugar to his mammoth-sized cup of coffee. "And I don't to talk about it."
"Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Brilliant sex. Brilliant sex," the bird continues, preening its feathers.
"It's Harry's bird. What to you expect it to say?" Ron hisses when Ginny raises an eyebrow at him. "She probably just picked it up from Harry. I'm sure he’s been crying miserably since Malfoy left him."
"I see," she replies neutrally.
Ron glares at the bird before slumping miserably into his kitchen chair. He supposes he should have known better than to pour his heart out to a fucking parrot. "God, I hate life sometimes," he says, imagining Malfoy in Harry's arms
Ginny looks at him sympathetically before sitting down across from him. "Mum's going to make you come to dinner next Sunday, you know," she says, changing the subject. "Bill and Fleur are going to be there."
Ron frowns into his coffee cup. "Can't. Busy."
"That excuse would only work if you did anything on Sundays, except sit in a pub and drink beer," Ginny points out.
"Still not going."
Ginny sniffs. "One of these days Mum is going to show up on your doorstep and it's not going to be a pretty sight."
Ron thinks about that for a moment and shudders. "Fine," he concedes, and then his stomach drops watching Ginny pick up the postcard he left sitting on the table. "Ginny," he warns.
"'I just sucked off your boyfriend,'" she reads, her eyes wide.
"It's not…"
"Really, Ron," she says, smirking.
Ron reddens. "It's a joke. I really didn't…"
"Ron."
"Fine."
Ginny cringes. "Well, I can see why you haven't been enthusiastic about writing Harry back. Just how long has this been going on?"
"It just happened once, last night, and it didn't mean anything. Really."
"I should hope not. Well, if it did I suppose…" She frowns, looking unhappy to continue.
"It's okay, Ginny. You don't have to like Malfoy. I don't like Malfoy. I just…"
"Like to suck his cock," Ginny finishes helpfully.
"Ginny." This is not a conversation he wants to have with his sister. His eyes drift to the sink where Harry's parrot is helping herself to the remnants of a moldy ham sandwich. "I don't know what to do," he sighs.
"Well, you're not really going to send this postcard back to Harry, are you?" she asks, picking it up again and smirking at him.
Ron scowls and crosses his arms. "I was thinking about it. Ow!" he cries, his hand jumping to his ear. "She just bit me. I'm getting really tired of this bird," he complains. Ginny looks back at him, unimpressed. "Fine. I won't send it. Honestly, of all people, I thought you would understand. You were in love with him once."
Ginny snorts. "I was also sixteen." She gives Ron a long look before continuing, "Ron, I know you miss him, and I know there was something more than friendship between you two, but I really think you're making yourself feel worse by shutting Harry out."
Ron rolls his eyes. "You sound like Hermione."
"You know what I think? I think you should send Harry a proper letter," Ginny suggests, a smug grin back on her face.
"I think I should go to work before Plum fires me," he retorts.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
Now, Ron spends his time trying to think as little as possible about Draco Malfoy. It’s no mean feat considering Harry's bird (who still stubbornly refuses to leave) squawks, "Brilliant sex. Brilliant sex" at the most inopportune of times, usually early in the morning after Ron wakes up hard from wanting to taste Malfoy’s skin again. It’s all terribly confusing. He hates Malfoy. Truly. It doesn’t matter that Malfoy redeemed himself in the eyes of many. The man took Harry away. That’s something Ron can’t forgive. Ever. Even if Harry acted on his own free will, that’s not the point. He’s not attracted to Malfoy. He’s not.
And to make matters worse, the stupid ponce can't seem to stay out of the papers. Whether he's bankrolling the Severus Snape Institute for Advanced Potions Research or landing on Witch’s Weekly's annual 'Sexiest Wizard of the Year' cover -- He's no longer the Chosen One's chosen. See how Draco Malfoy is coping. -- his smirking visage is unavoidable.
Ron throws the magazine across the room and glares at Harry's bird. "Don't start," he says sternly, as the bird hops onto his shoulder and begins nuzzling his ear.
"Harry Potter. Harry Potter," the bird caws.
"Don't start on that either."
.. ~ .. ~ ..
Harry's bird is also a frighteningly good burglar alarm as Ron discovers after returning home from squiring Melody to meet his parents (“Yes, mum. She is lovely, but no, we’re not serious. No, honestly, we’re just dating. Mum.”) and finding his neighbors standing outside on the pavement, fearful of the shrieks coming from the inside of his flat.
"It sounds like you have a banshee, dear," old Mrs. Butters tells him, as he pushes past the throng to get into his front door.
"No, I just have a very strange bird," he replies, already setting his sights on pan roasting her or, perhaps, making parrot kabobs. What he doesn't expect to find is a livid and rather hen-pecked Draco Malfoy standing in the middle of his foyer.
"Why is Harry's parrot here?" he seethes.
"Er… Why are you here?" Ron asks instead as the parrot settles onto his shoulder in order to - what Ron imagines - glare at his owner's former boyfriend.
Malfoy crosses his arms, stoically ignoring the rivulets of blood dripping from his torn earlobe. "I can’t talk with that thing staring at me."
"Harry Potter. Har-" the bird accuses.
"Shut up," they both shout back in unison.
The bird makes a hurt sound and flies into the kitchen to perch on top of the refrigerator, where she continues to watch them beadily.
Ron rolls his eyes and looks back at Malfoy. "You were saying," he says tiredly. Somehow this scene isn't fitting into his fantasy of finding Malfoy waiting for him in his flat, possibly because Malfoy is still wearing clothing and rather bloody ones at that.
"I had hoped that we could…" Malfoy touches his head and winces. "Never mind. This is too weird. I'm going home."
"Wait," Ron cries as Malfoy limps toward the door. "The bird doesn't have to stay," he adds as the bird caws indignantly from the kitchen.
"Then why is it even here?" That familiar sneer that Ron hasn’t seen since the war ended reappears on Malfoy’s face. "Or did you finally figure out a way to convince Harry to come back to you."
"No. No," Ron protests. "I've been trying to get rid of it for days. It won't leave." Ron looks at Malfoy helplessly. "I think it's been cursed."
"Please." Malfoy pulls open the front door. "Even I know Harry wouldn't stoop that low."
"Well…" Ron wrinkles his nose. "It’s waiting for me to send an answer to Harry's letter," Ron admits.
Malfoy glares at him witheringly before walking out the door.
The bird receives a withering glare of its own as Ron sinks down to the floor and Accios a bottle of beer from of the fridge. The parrot hops over and cocks of her head as he takes a long slug of beer, draining half the bottle. "You know," he says conversationally after wiping his mouth with his arm. "I don't even care about Harry anymore. Ow! God, I didn't mean that literally."
Ron is starting to think he has a very fucked up relationship with Harry's bird.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
The parrot gets a stern talking to before getting locked in Ron's toilet for the remainder of the evening so he can get slowly and deliberately pissed on his sofa in peace. When he awakes the next morning, he is still wearing yesterday's clothes and is achingly hard.
Fuck. He plunges his hand into his trousers and resolutely tries not to think of Malfoy's flushed face moments before he came. Of course, Ron does exactly that, remembering how vulnerable and naked Malfoy looked then. Almost beautiful, even. Ron’s orgasm shatters through him and afterward he lies tangled in his sheets, blinking at the bright sunlight streaming in his bedroom window and feeling as miserable as ever.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
Ron is already an hour late for work (What is it? Three times this week. Four? He lost count), but he makes a detour, finding himself standing on Hermione’s doorstep. It’s a path he used to wear thin, but he hasn’t been by in many weeks. Then he quickly remembers why, hearing the sound of a baby crying and Hermione yelling at someone, Rolf probably, that she is late for work.
Ron never would have pegged Hermione as the settle-down-to-raise-a-houseful-of-sprogs-type. Of course, that was before he and Hermione broke up -- they were actually engaged once, stupidly, for all of five days - and she left to “study abroad” in Berlin. She came back a year later with Rolf, a hulking intellectual with wire-rimmed glasses, (Ron likes to refer to him the bastard stepchild of Percy and Victor Krum. Ginny is the only one who thinks that is funny) and a pregnant belly. Ron supposes he’s the perfect man, if you like that sort of thing. He stays home to take care of their daughter while she still works insane hours trying to make the world safe for house-elves, giants, or whatever other cause she has adopted.
The front door bangs open before he can knock and Hermione nearly bowls him over in her haste run out. “Ron? What are you doing here?” she demands, blinking at him. Despite the smart set of business robes she is wearing, she still looks like she did when she was a teenager with her frizzy, bedraggled hair and the worn satchel, overflowing with books and parchment, she is dragging behind her. Still, she can catch Ron’s breath away at the oddest times and he wonders where everything went so terribly off course.
“Is everything all right? Did something happen to your Mum?” she asks, suddenly looking concerned.
“Yes. Everything is fine. I-“ Ron has a brief moment of self-doubt before taking the satchel out of her hands and hoisting it over his shoulder. “I just wanted to see you. That’s all.” He shrugs. He doesn’t know how to tell her that despite everything that happened between them she still feels like home to him. Someplace where he can just be.
Hermione seems to understand. C'mon, you can walk me to the Floo station. I was supposed to be at a meeting ten minutes ago and Eliza spit up all over my robes. A brand new set.” She looks at him, grinning. “But you don’t really want to hear about that, do you?”
He grins back. “No, not really.”
“Sorry, I know you hate it when I talk about work and the baby,” she adds with dramatic affect. “Ginny mentioned that you’re seeing someone.”
Ron stops and immediately thinks of Malfoy. “Wait. She told you?”
“Yes. Why? Is it supposed to be a secret?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s just complicated. He’s-“
Hermione’s eyes widen. “He?”
Ron’s stomach drops. “No. I mean…” Fuck.
Hermione squeezes his hand. “Ron. It’s okay. I know.”
Ron squints at her. “You do?”
“I’m just surprised you finally admitted it.”
Ron mulls that over. “Oh.” He takes a deep breath. “I’d rather not tell you who it is right now, if it’s all the same to you.”
“All right.” Hermione starts walking again. “So this Melody that Ginny told me about…”
Ron sighs. How did his life get so complicated? “Yeah, I guess you can say I’m seeing her, too.”
“I see,” Hermione replies.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
It’s nearly noon when he finally walks into the showroom and finds Plum waiting for him stonily by the front desk. “Sorry,” Ron mutters, not meeting his eyes. “Family emergency. My brother. Nasty dragon injury.” Plum looks at him dubiously. “I’ll work through lunch,” he offers.
“You’ll be filling in Saturday morning, too,” Plum calls after him. “And the Saturday after that.”
Fuck. He drops his wand on his desk and slumps down into his chair. Smith is smirking at him from his spot near the coffee maker and Ron wonders if perhaps Harry had the right idea in leaving after all.
"Weasley."
"Hmm?" Ron looks up and sees Plum heading his way, bellowing at the top of his lungs.
"Weasley, do I pay you to stare off into space? You have a customer."
"Oh." Ron sighs, and then blinks, seeing Malfoy standing in the middle of the showroom, still looking wounded, but otherwise back to his crisp, normal self.
"I need to speak to you in private," Malfoy tells him, glaring contemptuously at Plum, who is doggedly trying to follow behind.
"Er… sure." Ron swallows, noting that Malfoy doesn't look all that happy to see him either, although if he were to be honest, the only expressions he thought Malfoy was capable of ranged from a dismissive sneer to a cruel smirk.
"Use my office, please." Plum interrupts, his red jowls flapping as he talks. "Always a pleasure, Mr. Malfoy. Always a pleasure," he says, bowing. "Tell him about the new models coming in," he hisses before plastering a smile on his face again.
"I think you're going to give him a heart attack if you spend any more money here," Ron jokes, hoping to lighten the mood as he lets them into Plum's office. "What did you want to talk- oof," Ron asks before finding himself pushed face first onto the top of Plum's desk, sending papers flying everywhere. "Malfoy, what the fu-nghh." Ron shuts his eyes, feeling Malfoy's fingers, still cold from the outside, wrap around his cock.
"I've been thinking about you. Did you know that?" he whispers into Ron's ear, making quick work opening Ron's flies and yanking down his trousers.
"Uh…N- no. M- Malfoy, what are you doing?" Malfoy's trousers hit the ground and Ron gasps feeling the warm press of skin against skin.
Malfoy ignores him. "Weasley, you even have freckles on your arse," he says, slapping one of Ron's cheeks before squeezing it soothingly. "I was going to stay away, but then I thought: You don't just walk away from someone after they gave you the blow job of your life."
"Really?" Ron squeaks, knocking over one of Plum's inkpots and spilling ink over last month's sales reports. A pair of thumbs slide between his cheeks to pull them apart.
"It was quite a performance. I admit I didn't think you had that in you, and I've been… remiss in returning the favor." A finger presses against Ron's hole. “I thought this would be the perfect place to do it too, over that horrific oaf’s desk. Wouldn't you agree, Weasley?”
Ron leans his forehead into the crook of his arm, sure that he is the color of a tomato. He is also desperately aroused, need coiling around inside him. "Malf- Oh fuck." He looks up and finds himself staring out a large picture window overlooking the showroom. A showroom full of customers. "They can see us," he just manages before a slick finger slips inside.
"Nonsense." Malfoy is breathing heavily against Ron's neck and it's doing all sorts of wonderful things to his skin. "It's a mirror, remember? We can see out, but they can't see in. God, you're tight," he adds, slipping another finger inside.
"Um… It's been a while," Ron manages, gripping the desk hard enough to cut off the circulation in his fingers. "Malfoy, I don't think this a good-" He stops, feeling the head of Malfoy's cock press inside. "Oh my God," he whimpers, trying to adjust. Malfoy makes a soft sound of agreement as he pushes forward, filling Ron completely. It's not the most comfortable place to get fucked, splayed as he is across Plum's desk and his nose only centimeters away from a photograph of Plum's equally rotund wife. But Malfoy is right. There is something erotic and oddly satisfying getting thoroughly screwed atop his boss's desk. Just then, two saleswizards walk past the other side of the window and Ron groans, arousal spiking through him, and he can't stop himself from reaching down to fist his own cock.
"You like this, don't you?" Malfoy whispers, thrusting forward and just grazing Ron's prostrate hard enough to make him squirm. "I thought you would. I remember you liked to watch."
"Malf-"
"I know you used to watch us, Weasley." Malfoy's voice sends an unpleasant shiver through Ron as he remembers sitting in the shadows watching Malfoy and Harry fuck in one of the outposts the three shared during the war. Is this why Malfoy is doing this? To get payback? Malfoy suddenly thrusts forward, hard enough that Ron can't help groaning with pleasure and he almost doesn't hear Malfoy whisper in his ear, "…maybe I was fucking the wrong person this whole time."
"What?" Oh.
Ron doesn't really know how to respond to that, and, perhaps, that's something he should think about later. Especially not with the way Malfoy's hand is wrapped around his cock, squeezing, oh, so tight. His eyes, still trained at the window, start to lost focus, and he's getting close. So, so close and he barely registers Malfoy telling him that someone is coming to the door when he comes all over the top of Plum's desk.
Malfoy collapses on top of him just as Plum opens his office door. "Weasley, what is the meaning of this?" he bellows.
Ron looks up and blinks. "Um…" Malfoy's cock slips wetly out of his hole as he quickly stands with his trousers still hanging around his ankles. "We…"
"Is that…" Plum thrusts a sausage-like finger in the direction of a puddle of semen mixing with the spilled ink on top of his desk.
"Er…" Ron supposes his mum would be horrified right now, but he suddenly he finds the whole situation rather amusing. The look on Plum's face is hilarious, actually, and he can't stop himself from laughing.
"Funny? You think this… this perverted display is funny?" Plum roars, and Ron can only laugh harder.
"What's going on?" Smith's head pokes in behind Plum, and soon half the office is jostling in the doorway trying to see the two of them furiously pull on their clothes.
"Weasley, shut up," Malfoy hisses, pushing Ron aside and somehow exuding an air of righteous indignation despite being found half-naked with his cock up someone's arse. The door slams shut with an angry swish of his wand and another flick cleans the desktop save for the ink-stained parchment (Alas, Plum only uses permanent, anti-scourgify inks). "Now," he says, mustering enough attitude that Plum retreats back toward the door. "Weasley and I were just finalizing the terms of a business agreement. A mutually beneficial one, I might add. One that I think will have lasting implications. Wouldn't you agree, Ron?" Malfoy turns to Ron, a tell-tale sign of a smile betraying his otherwise business-like demeanor.
Ron suddenly stops laughing. "What? Oh." Oh. "Right. Yes, Draco." Malfoy's smile widens, and something inside Ron flips, pleasantly for a change.
"I don't follow," Plum interrupts, still staring at his desktop with frank distaste. "Weasley just…"
"Signed an agreement with Puddlemere United. Starting next month they’ll exclusively fly Firebolt brooms. A press release will go out by owl in the morning."
"Wait, Malfoy. I mean, Draco. I-" Ron starts.
Malfoy gives Ron a look before continuing, "The owner and my father used to go way back. In fact, I'm sure he'd love to be reminded of the Death Eater rallies they attended together. This," somehow, from the depths of his robes, Draco has procured a rather large sack of Galleons, which he places on top of Plum's desk, "I believe this will cover the down payment until other financial arrangements are made."
Plum jumps to his feet, clapping his meaty hands together. "Mr. Malfoy," he exclaims, beaming, as he pumps Malfoy's hand. "I knew you had a bit of your father in you. We used to do business together, you know…"
"Draco, you don't have to do this," interrupts Ron, noticing the look of revulsion coloring his face.
"Shut up, Weasley. I'm trying to help you."
"I don't need your ruddy help," Ron snaps back, offended by the insinuation. "And really, I don't want this job anymore, anyway. It's pathetic and it's boring," he tells Plum's rapidly coloring face before taking a steadying breath. The two of them are staring at him with disbelief. "Piss off," he replies. "The both of you. I don’t need you."
.. ~ .. ~ ..
Ron is not sure exactly what just happened back there. Well, he understands the sex part. That was… amazing. Thrilling. Everything sex should be, really. And despite his bruised hipbones he would do it again in a heartbeat. In a millisecond.
It's just the Draco Malfoy part he doesn't understand. Fucking ferret has been the bane of his existence since they first met.
"Weasley!"
Ron quickens his pace. The Leaky Cauldron where there's enough Firewhisky inside to make himself happily numb in a matter of minutes is close within his sights. Besides it's not like he could ever have a future (God, is he even thinking that word?) with someone like Malfoy. What would his family think? What would Harry?
"For fuck's sakes."
Pop.
"RON!"
Ron jumps, seeing a very livid Draco Malfoy suddenly Apparate in front of him.
"What was that?" he roars.
Ron glares at Malfoy stubbornly. "Just leave me alone."
Malfoy's lips curl. "Fine, Weasley. I'm not going to waste my time with you anymore. Have a good life."
Ron doesn't want to think about how much his gut hurt watching him go.
.. ~ .. ~ ..
Ron supposes that at one point in your life you have to own up to what you really want. But is this what he really wants? He’s not really sure, to tell the truth, but there is something to be said about brilliant sex. Maybe peace and happiness will come later.
"Malfoy, wait!" Ron shouts, sprinting down the centre of Diagon Alley.
Malfoy turns and Ron has a brief moment of panic. "Weasley," he says, crossing his arms, waiting.
Ron catches his breath. "I'm sorry," he says. "Really. I just sort of… lost it."
"Yeah, I saw." A lifetime of animosity stretches between them and that achy feeling inside Ron’s gut returns. "I guess I should be used to random outbursts of anger after living with Harry," Malfoy continues, a wry look on his face.
Ron exhales sharply. Harry. Ron would rather not hear Draco mention that name ever again, but still he has to ask, "Draco, is this just us settling old scores?"
Malfoy is silent for a moment. "Is that what this is to you?"
"No. Maybe in some weird way it was at first, but…" Ron bites his lip, feeling an odd hope mixed with anxiety grow inside him. "I don't think it is anymore."
.. ~ .. ~ ..
"I think I'm falling for Draco Malfoy," he tells Harry's bird when he returns to his flat later that evening, feeling lighter than he has in months. The parrot jumps onto his shoulder and begins nuzzling his ear as he walks over to his writing table to pull out a roll of parchment. "But first I need to write Harry a letter."
~fin