Morning, Noon and Night (RW/DM, R)
Title: Morning, Noon and Night
Rating: R
Pairing: Ron/Draco, slight Harry/Susan
Spoilers: None
Summary: A day in Ron Weasley's life, with its biggest complication.
I knew Malfoy had been in the flat because when I got home, the place was a sty. I had spent the last two months following the Tornados on their American tour for Quidditch Quarterly, and dragging my Portlagged, unshaven carcass through my own front door, the last thing I wanted to see were old newspapers, dirty dishes and other random crap covering every horizontal surface. I'm not going to win any sort of housekeeping awards in the next century, but, Jesus Christ, even I have my limits. What the hell was that brown stuff?
I dropped my luggage and shucked off my cloak; it seemed like too much effort even to banish the lot to the bin, or the hamper, or maybe just out the window. I'd portkeyed from San Francisco to New York to London; my body was convinced that it was about three o'clock in the morning and long past time for sleep. You can therefore imagine my consternation when, upon entering my own bedroom, I found that my bed was already occupied. Malfoy was spread out in the middle of the matress, sort of laying on his stomach, but with one leg hitched up under him so his back was to me. He'd kicked all the bedclothes away and was wearing nothing but a pair of dark gray boxers that hardly covered anything. I doubt he would've awoken if a luxury liner had put into port in the bath; he had a policy that sleeping normal hours was one of those habits reserved for me and other plebes with actual jobs. I have no idea why Malfoy is always in my flat anyway. Harry doesn't do this sort of thing, nor Hermione or Ginny; they've got their own places to mess up.... Come to think of it, though, so does Malfoy. I don't even know how he gets in; he hasn't got a key and the whole place is Apparation-warded. For all I know he transfigures himself into a cockroach and shimmies under the door. I probably ought to lay down some flypaper.
But just then what mattered was Malfoy was present, and Malfoy was naked, and right up there with sleep were a shower and sex; there's a conventional order for these things. Just you try spending two months touring the shittiest inns in the States with twenty-three other men, all of whom would consider even the slightest flirtation to be grounds for justifiable homocide, presuming they even recognized it. My balls were rapidly progressing from blue to purple, and if Malfoy was going to randomly camp out in my flat the bastard might as well pay for it.
I stripped off my clothes and got the lube out of the nightstand. Those skimpy gray shorts were a lot harder to get off than they looked; I managed to drag them as far down as his knees, which woke him up. "Mmmm...? Hoozzere?"
"The one who pays the rent here,"
"G'morning, Weasley...!" He arched his back and squeaked when I stuck my finger up his arse. "Fuck, you could warn me..."
"Shut up and take your shorts off."
I slicked up him just enough that it wouldn't hurt either of us, and didn't waste time on anything stupid like foreplay. He kicked his boxers off and spread his legs properly, but I didn't let him get onto his knees; I wanted to nail him into the matress. I slicked myself up and pushed my way in, and god, he was tight and hot and perfect, like velvet. Just what I needed. He groaned and dug his fingers into the pillow. "Damn it, Weasley, are you trying to kill me?"
"Shut up." I let my head fall onto the back fo his neck and concentrated on nothing but driving into him, hard and fast and deep. Soon enough I could hear him choking on his own sounds of pleasure; he hardly ever makes a noise when I fuck him. When he's on top, of course, he's loud enough to wake the neighbors. Maybe that's why he comes here, because he'd get evicted from his own flat for noise pollution. Lord knows I've had that fight with my landlady.
I came fast and hard, my vision fuzzing out, buried so far in him our balls were knocking together. I rolled off of him, and I would've been perfectly contect to slip off into a post-orgasmic nap. But of course, Malfoy had to be Malfoy; he jumped on top of me and grabbed my wrists, making me wonder (not for the first time) how such a runty bloke could have such a strong grip. "Oh, no, you don't," he hissed, and thrust his cock in my face. "You're not going to sleep until you fucking finish me off."
I opened my mouth to tell him what precisely he could do with his cock, but as soon as I did he had it in my mouth. There was no helping it, and besides...well, I'm never going to tell him about it, but...I don't particularly mind sucking cock. I mean, everyone's got their kink, right? And mine is blowjobs. You're just so close together, and it's right there, and you can feel it and taste it and smell it all at once, and...well, it's just different. Malfoy likes to remind me that I'm the only bloke he's ever known who gets off on giving head, but I don't exactly hear him complaining about it.
It didn't take long to suck him off, and when he finally shot he fell off me and nearly rolled off the bed. I swallowed maybe half of it and spat the rest out into a tissue. When I laided back flat, he was grinning at me like a moron. Dirty secret number 672 about Malfoy: one good orgasm melts his brain for about an hour. "Good morning, Weasley."
"Hmm." I rubbed my eyes with the hand that hadn't been up his arse. "Don't you ever go home?"
"Closer to the clubs here." He wrinkled his nose and poked me in the chest. "Take a shower, or you'll stink up the sheets."
I snorted. "My flat looks like it's been raided by a gang of syphilitic hobos, and you're worried about the sheets."
He scowled. "Oh, yes, let's blame it all on me."
"Because you did it!" Dirty secret number 673: Malfoys are impervious to logic. Therefore, he rolled his eyes at me. "What the hell it that brown shit in the carpet, anyway?"
All of a sudden he looked at the ceiling. "An experiment."
"Experiment?"
"Nothing important."
"Well, experiment in your own damn flat, why don’t you?"
He sighed like a martyr. "If you're just going to get pisy with me, I'll leave."
"Oh, forget it." I covered my face with a pillow and drifted off to sleep; the last thing I remember clearly was Malfoy humming to himself as he climbed out of bed.
x-X-x-X-x-
I woke up just a few hours later, against my will; somewhere in North American, it was dawn. The whole bedroom had that "two blokes just shagged here" smell and my mouth tasted like cock, so I reckoned things could only go up from there and located the bathroom.
I showered and brushed my teeth, making two important deductions along the way. First, Malfoy had been using my bathroom on a regular basis the past eight weeks. Second, he sheds. Once I'd finished pulling slimy, scummy knots of blond hair out of all the drains, I put on a shirt and some comfortable jeans and ventured back into the front room. It was still mess, but a slightly less disgusting one: the dirty dishes were at least piled up in the sink (or piled in pieces on the floor next to the sink) and the other garbage was gone, though the brown stuff remained. Malfoy was sitting on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, wearing one of my sweaters and a pair of my pajama bottoms, and he was reading the Daily Prophet financial section. "G'morning," I said.
"It's noon."
"Fuck you."
"You did."
"Why are you still here?"
There's wasn't much food left, because I'd cleaned out the fridge before leaving, and Malfoy had apparently eaten everything else. I made myself a cup of coffee and found a box of crackers in the cupboard; that would have to do. I sat opposite Malfoy with the crackers balanced on my knee. "You're going to get crumbs between the cushions."
"It's my flat."
"You can live in filth if you want to, then."
Was this normal to him, I wondered, or did he deliberately set out to make no sense? Was it a hobby, maybe-Weasley-bothering? Or was he just dropped on his head as a child? I leaned over of the arm of the chair to examine the brown stuff. "What sort of experiment was it?"
He looked up. "Come again?"
"The shit in the carpet. What were you experimenting with?" He cleared his throat and muttered something into the paper. "What did you say?"
The wall of newsprint dipped just enough for me to see the crown of his head. "Jam, principally."
I looked at the stain again. "You say that's jam?" Predictably, he ignore me. "Malfoy, I didn't have any jam when I left."
"I noticed."
"You mean you brought jam to my flat to do experiments on?"
"Of course not, Weasley."
"What did you mean, then?"
"I brought the jam here to eat."
"And did you?" Because if that's how it had become brown shit in the carpet, I was going to kill him.
He rolled his eyes at me. "Of course not. If I had eaten it, it wouldn't be all over the floor, now, would it?"
"So how did it get all over the floor?"
Up went the paper again, since apparently the annual earnings reports from the Cleansweep Broomstick Corperation were absolutely engrossing. "It spilled."
"And what flavor of jam was this again?"
"...strawberry."
I spent some time contemplating the stain. Malfoy did not turn the page.
"Either tell me what you did to my carpet, or I'll throw you out the window."
He sighed and lowered the paper. "I spilled jam, it isn't a crisis."
"It's brown, Malfoy."
Malfoy crossed his arms and scowled at me, but there was a little pink spot on each cheek, which, I supposed, was the closest he could get to blushing. He announced, slowly and clearly, "Mrs. Skower does not provide adequate written instructions with her product line."
There are times like that, times when I can't help but laugh at him, right to his face. It was partly because it meant he'd be buying me new carpet, of course; partly, because normal people don't do things like burn holes in the floor with household potions. Malfoy not only does that sort of thing, he's completely astonished by it, like common sense is something that happens to other people. He makes fun of me for using the wrong fork and not wearing a tie, but when he turns around and does something like this...he deserves it. Oh, Merlin, does he deserve it.
'Course, you can't convince him of that. By the time I was finished laughing, he had the paper up in front of him again. "You are such a fucking idiot," I told him from the floor.
"Pick up your crackers."
I picked up my crackers and climbed back onto the chair. "So what have you been doing, besides the jam business?"
"I had lunch with Mother a few days ago."
"Really? She's not dead yet?"
He glared at me over the top of the paper and finally turned the page. "You could try to be civil, you know."
"And what exactly would be the point of that?"
"I don't know why I bother."
I didn't know, either. I mean, I love my mum, but she's actually nice to me; Malfoy's mum, aside from being a murdering Dark witch who got out of Azkaban on a technicality, is evil. There's a lot to be said for family loyality, but there's a point when ever your mum deserves a good hex or two. Malfoy's mum had passed it exactly once, and never come back across to the nice side.
"So what'd she have to say?" I asked, once he'd turned a few pages.
"Hmm? Mother?"
"Of course your mother."
He flicked his wrists, so the paper snapped audibly. "The Notts had another baby."
Oh, great. "And how often did bang you over the head with it?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"Well, you're not exactly in the market for a wife, now, are you?"
"That has nothing to do with anything."
"Oh, come off it, Malfoy." He snapped the paper down and glared at me. "Your mum only brings up Nott and his brats to make you feel guilty. If she had her way, you'd be tethered to that bloody so-called manor with a full-time job and a couple of brats, married to Pansy Parkinson."
I should've noticed sooner that his knuckles had gone white, but honestly, with his complexion, it's hard to tell. I should've notice the look in his eyes, but then again, he gets so pissy over the weirdest things, I cant never be sure whether he's about to have a tantrum or commit first-degree murder. I really, really should not have brought up Parkinson. As it was, it was too late to take any of it back; Malfoy threw down the paper and stalked off into the bedroom with his fists clenched. I sat, and ate my crackers, and cringed through two thumps and a mysterious crash before I went after him.
He was rummaging through my clothes like he was looking for something. He slammed the closet door and stomped to the bureau, nearly tripping over the bottoms he was wearing. "What the hell are you doing?" I asked when he started emptying the drawers onto the floor.
"I am collecting my things and then I am leaving," he declared. Like he'd be quoted on it or something.
I snorted at him. "Shall I write it up for the papers?"
"Yes." He turned around and glared at me, and he probably didn't know that it looked a lot less intimidating in my clothes, becase the pajamas pooled over his feet and I could see his collarbone through the neck of the sweater. "Write it all up and make an announcement. I, Draco D. Malfoy, could not have been more devastatingly ignorant that on the day during which I first made the acquaintance of one Ronald L. Weasley. My continued association with the aforesaid Weasel has only compounded the initial error, which shall henceforth be corrected."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Rot in hell."
He conured a white dress shirt made of some flimsy fabric out of the hamper-I don't know why didn't look there in the first place-and put it on, after throwing my sweater at my head. I threw it down and snarled at him, "What are going to do, then? Run home to Mummy?"
"That's not any of your concern, is it?" He gave a frustrated growl and tossed a pile of my clothes in the air, then ran out the front door still wearing my pajamas bottoms. I heard him Disapparate in the hall.
I surveyed the total damage.
"Well, bloody hell."
-x-X-x-X-x-
I eventually cleaned up the bedroom. I got properly dressed. I wrote up my piece for Quidditch Quarterly and bought some groceries. I didn't feel like cooking, however, so I did the next best thing, which was go to Harry's house.
Susan saw me coming from the kitchen and opened the back door for me. "What is it this time?" she asked, but she wasn't scowling, which was always a good sign.
"I've realized I'm madly in love with you, Susan darling. I want you to run away with me forever."
She snorted. "Get inside."
I don't think Susan likes me. At least, she doesn't like me as much as she likes Hermione. Maybe it has something to do with the fiasco that was Harry's bachelor party, or maybe she thinks I'm a bad influence, or maybe some Weasley did something to piss off some Bones six generations ago and she's decided she she's going to hold it against me. I haven't got the faintest idea. Most of the time she's nice, but then again, most of the time we're not at her and Harry's house. She usually lets me in but she won't make small talk, and I'm pretty certain that if she could keep Harry from finding out, I wouldn't be allowed on the furtinture.
Charming woman, my best mate's wife; if he weren't so deleriously happy with her, I would kill him.
She hollared up the stairs for Harry and went back to the stove. Harry came down a few minutes later and grinned at me. "Hey, Ron. How was America?"
"Wonderful, if you don't count the Americans."
Susan sighed. "You always say that."
"Doesn't make it any less true."
Harry glanced at his watch. "It's almost dinner time, d'you want to stay?"
"Why do you think he showed up, Harry?"
I pouted at her. "Susan, you wound me. I am wounded. Just look at my wounds."
"No, thank you."
Harry rolled his eyes at us and grabbed an extra place setting out of the cupboard. When he was out of the room. I leaned in close to Susan and asked, "Why don't you like me?"
She smiled. "I don't dislike you, Ron. Everyone's husband needs one really odd friend to hang around at all hours, disturb the peace and eventually corrupt the all children."
"Nice to know I'm thought of so highly."
At dinner, Harry and Susan told me about the Ministry and I told them about the trip. "...and when I get back, Draco bloody Malfoy's camped out in the bedroom, my flat's a disaster, and there's a hole burned into the carpet."
"How," Harry asked, "did Malfoy burn a hole in the carpet?"
"He says he used Mrs. Skower's."
Susan snorted. "That's not supposed to be possible."
"That's never stopped him before." Malfoy does a lot of impossible things; I think he likes the challenge.
Susan clucked her tongue, and Harry sort of laughed. "I still have no idea how you manage to put up with the bastard," he said.
"I drink, early and often."
"Lovely way to talk about your boyfriend," Susan said.
I make this note for future generations: it is exceedingly painful when dry white wine comes out your nose. "My what?" I said...well, okay, more like yelped. "You think he's my what?"
Susan stared at me like I was mad while Harry tried to hand me a napkin. "Your boyfriend. You know, man you live with and shag a lot and complain about every time I see you?"
I took the napkin from Harry before he could start cleaning my face for me, and squeezed my eyes shut against the burning in my sinuses. "Susan, we don't live together. He doesn't live in my flat."
"That's not the impression I get."
"Well, okay, maybe he sort of lives in my flat, but that isn't my fault," I told her. "He just sort of...comes and goes as he pleases. Like a cat."
Harry blinked. "So Malfoy is your cat?"
"He's not my anything!"
"All right," Susan said, with a funny look in her eyes. "So Malfoy isn't your boyfriend and he's not a household pet. What is he, then?"
"What're you on about?"
"How do you define your relationship with him?" she said slowly, like I was dumb.
I waggled my finger in her face. "Aha. That's just it. I don't have a relationship. Not one with Malfoy, 'leastways."
You know, everyone goes on about how Hufflepuffs are so loyal and hard-working and just, but nobody every mentions that they're bloody stubborn, too. "You sleep together regularly," she said, and started counting off on her fingers. "Furthermore, you've been sleeping together regularly for some time. You obviously trust him, or you wouldn't be so blasé about him being in your home when you're not."
"I sleep with a lot of people," I said, and ignored Harry coughing. "It's a matter of convenience. And I'm blasé about him being in my flat because the alternative would give me ulcers and heart disease."
"They don't even call each other by their first names," Harry said, and I silently thanked him for not pursuing the lots-of-people business. "Besides, I don't think Malfoy's capable of any emotion except disdain."
"I don't know," Susan said philosophically, "he does a pretty good approximation of self-satisfied arrogance." But she was still looking at me like she was waiting for me to say something.
I poured myself more wine instead. "He also gets pissed off pretty frequently."
"Is that what you're doing here?"
I blinked at her. "What?"
She smiled. "Is that why you came to dinner here? To hide from Malfoy?"
It took me a moment to recover from that one. "Susan," I told her gravely, "you have definitely got something against this tablecloth."
Harry snickered and handed me another napkin. "Ron doesn't have to hide from Malfoy. He just has to hold his wand over his head-Malfoy wouldn't be able to reach it."
Susan snickered; I shook my head. "Tried that, mate. He punched me in the kidney." They goggled.
Eventually Harry said, "Look, let's change the subject, shall we? There's much more pleasant things to talk about than Malfoy."
"No, no-he still hasn't answered me." Susan leaned forward with her chin in her hand and smiled sweetly. "Did you make him mad, Ron? Is that why you're hiding out over here?"
I rolled my eyes. "Yes and no, all right?
Harry raised his eyebrows and paused with his glass in the air. "What'd you do, take away his mirror priveledges?"
"Ha ha ha, no." And then, because Susan was looking at me like a really fascinating bit of fuzzy crap pulled out of a trouser pocket, I mumbled, "I mentioned Pansy Parkinson."
They blinked at me. "So?" Harry finally asked.
Well, Harry, if you'd been engaged to a girl from age four, refused to join the cult of the psychotic Dark wizard she adored, and then she got turned into something squishy on the floor by incoming Aurors, would you enjoy talking about her? "It's...he's a bit touchy about her."
"Ah." Susan nodded like she understood. "You know pretty well for someone without a relationship."
I glared at her, and Harry stood up abruptly. "You know what? Let's have dessert."
I went home right away, not because I was annoyed as Susan and certainly not because Malfoy might think I was hiding from him. I was still screwed up by the time change, so I took a sleeping potion before I went to bed. Just before it kicked in, I heard someone enter the room, run into the bed, and curse. I sat up and peered into the dark; Malfoy waved me off, though I could hardly see him. "Go back to sleep, Weasley."
"Okay," I muttered, pulling the covers back up.
I felt the mastress shake as he climbed into bed behind me. "'M sorry your mother's a bitch," I muttered into the pillow.
He snorted. "You drank tonight, didn't you?"
"An' 'm sorry 'bout Parkinson, too."
Something warm and smooth pressed against me from behind; Malfoy, curled up so his back pressed against mine. "Good night, Weasley."
"Mm."
Rating: R
Pairing: Ron/Draco, slight Harry/Susan
Spoilers: None
Summary: A day in Ron Weasley's life, with its biggest complication.
I knew Malfoy had been in the flat because when I got home, the place was a sty. I had spent the last two months following the Tornados on their American tour for Quidditch Quarterly, and dragging my Portlagged, unshaven carcass through my own front door, the last thing I wanted to see were old newspapers, dirty dishes and other random crap covering every horizontal surface. I'm not going to win any sort of housekeeping awards in the next century, but, Jesus Christ, even I have my limits. What the hell was that brown stuff?
I dropped my luggage and shucked off my cloak; it seemed like too much effort even to banish the lot to the bin, or the hamper, or maybe just out the window. I'd portkeyed from San Francisco to New York to London; my body was convinced that it was about three o'clock in the morning and long past time for sleep. You can therefore imagine my consternation when, upon entering my own bedroom, I found that my bed was already occupied. Malfoy was spread out in the middle of the matress, sort of laying on his stomach, but with one leg hitched up under him so his back was to me. He'd kicked all the bedclothes away and was wearing nothing but a pair of dark gray boxers that hardly covered anything. I doubt he would've awoken if a luxury liner had put into port in the bath; he had a policy that sleeping normal hours was one of those habits reserved for me and other plebes with actual jobs. I have no idea why Malfoy is always in my flat anyway. Harry doesn't do this sort of thing, nor Hermione or Ginny; they've got their own places to mess up.... Come to think of it, though, so does Malfoy. I don't even know how he gets in; he hasn't got a key and the whole place is Apparation-warded. For all I know he transfigures himself into a cockroach and shimmies under the door. I probably ought to lay down some flypaper.
But just then what mattered was Malfoy was present, and Malfoy was naked, and right up there with sleep were a shower and sex; there's a conventional order for these things. Just you try spending two months touring the shittiest inns in the States with twenty-three other men, all of whom would consider even the slightest flirtation to be grounds for justifiable homocide, presuming they even recognized it. My balls were rapidly progressing from blue to purple, and if Malfoy was going to randomly camp out in my flat the bastard might as well pay for it.
I stripped off my clothes and got the lube out of the nightstand. Those skimpy gray shorts were a lot harder to get off than they looked; I managed to drag them as far down as his knees, which woke him up. "Mmmm...? Hoozzere?"
"The one who pays the rent here,"
"G'morning, Weasley...!" He arched his back and squeaked when I stuck my finger up his arse. "Fuck, you could warn me..."
"Shut up and take your shorts off."
I slicked up him just enough that it wouldn't hurt either of us, and didn't waste time on anything stupid like foreplay. He kicked his boxers off and spread his legs properly, but I didn't let him get onto his knees; I wanted to nail him into the matress. I slicked myself up and pushed my way in, and god, he was tight and hot and perfect, like velvet. Just what I needed. He groaned and dug his fingers into the pillow. "Damn it, Weasley, are you trying to kill me?"
"Shut up." I let my head fall onto the back fo his neck and concentrated on nothing but driving into him, hard and fast and deep. Soon enough I could hear him choking on his own sounds of pleasure; he hardly ever makes a noise when I fuck him. When he's on top, of course, he's loud enough to wake the neighbors. Maybe that's why he comes here, because he'd get evicted from his own flat for noise pollution. Lord knows I've had that fight with my landlady.
I came fast and hard, my vision fuzzing out, buried so far in him our balls were knocking together. I rolled off of him, and I would've been perfectly contect to slip off into a post-orgasmic nap. But of course, Malfoy had to be Malfoy; he jumped on top of me and grabbed my wrists, making me wonder (not for the first time) how such a runty bloke could have such a strong grip. "Oh, no, you don't," he hissed, and thrust his cock in my face. "You're not going to sleep until you fucking finish me off."
I opened my mouth to tell him what precisely he could do with his cock, but as soon as I did he had it in my mouth. There was no helping it, and besides...well, I'm never going to tell him about it, but...I don't particularly mind sucking cock. I mean, everyone's got their kink, right? And mine is blowjobs. You're just so close together, and it's right there, and you can feel it and taste it and smell it all at once, and...well, it's just different. Malfoy likes to remind me that I'm the only bloke he's ever known who gets off on giving head, but I don't exactly hear him complaining about it.
It didn't take long to suck him off, and when he finally shot he fell off me and nearly rolled off the bed. I swallowed maybe half of it and spat the rest out into a tissue. When I laided back flat, he was grinning at me like a moron. Dirty secret number 672 about Malfoy: one good orgasm melts his brain for about an hour. "Good morning, Weasley."
"Hmm." I rubbed my eyes with the hand that hadn't been up his arse. "Don't you ever go home?"
"Closer to the clubs here." He wrinkled his nose and poked me in the chest. "Take a shower, or you'll stink up the sheets."
I snorted. "My flat looks like it's been raided by a gang of syphilitic hobos, and you're worried about the sheets."
He scowled. "Oh, yes, let's blame it all on me."
"Because you did it!" Dirty secret number 673: Malfoys are impervious to logic. Therefore, he rolled his eyes at me. "What the hell it that brown shit in the carpet, anyway?"
All of a sudden he looked at the ceiling. "An experiment."
"Experiment?"
"Nothing important."
"Well, experiment in your own damn flat, why don’t you?"
He sighed like a martyr. "If you're just going to get pisy with me, I'll leave."
"Oh, forget it." I covered my face with a pillow and drifted off to sleep; the last thing I remember clearly was Malfoy humming to himself as he climbed out of bed.
x-X-x-X-x-
I woke up just a few hours later, against my will; somewhere in North American, it was dawn. The whole bedroom had that "two blokes just shagged here" smell and my mouth tasted like cock, so I reckoned things could only go up from there and located the bathroom.
I showered and brushed my teeth, making two important deductions along the way. First, Malfoy had been using my bathroom on a regular basis the past eight weeks. Second, he sheds. Once I'd finished pulling slimy, scummy knots of blond hair out of all the drains, I put on a shirt and some comfortable jeans and ventured back into the front room. It was still mess, but a slightly less disgusting one: the dirty dishes were at least piled up in the sink (or piled in pieces on the floor next to the sink) and the other garbage was gone, though the brown stuff remained. Malfoy was sitting on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, wearing one of my sweaters and a pair of my pajama bottoms, and he was reading the Daily Prophet financial section. "G'morning," I said.
"It's noon."
"Fuck you."
"You did."
"Why are you still here?"
There's wasn't much food left, because I'd cleaned out the fridge before leaving, and Malfoy had apparently eaten everything else. I made myself a cup of coffee and found a box of crackers in the cupboard; that would have to do. I sat opposite Malfoy with the crackers balanced on my knee. "You're going to get crumbs between the cushions."
"It's my flat."
"You can live in filth if you want to, then."
Was this normal to him, I wondered, or did he deliberately set out to make no sense? Was it a hobby, maybe-Weasley-bothering? Or was he just dropped on his head as a child? I leaned over of the arm of the chair to examine the brown stuff. "What sort of experiment was it?"
He looked up. "Come again?"
"The shit in the carpet. What were you experimenting with?" He cleared his throat and muttered something into the paper. "What did you say?"
The wall of newsprint dipped just enough for me to see the crown of his head. "Jam, principally."
I looked at the stain again. "You say that's jam?" Predictably, he ignore me. "Malfoy, I didn't have any jam when I left."
"I noticed."
"You mean you brought jam to my flat to do experiments on?"
"Of course not, Weasley."
"What did you mean, then?"
"I brought the jam here to eat."
"And did you?" Because if that's how it had become brown shit in the carpet, I was going to kill him.
He rolled his eyes at me. "Of course not. If I had eaten it, it wouldn't be all over the floor, now, would it?"
"So how did it get all over the floor?"
Up went the paper again, since apparently the annual earnings reports from the Cleansweep Broomstick Corperation were absolutely engrossing. "It spilled."
"And what flavor of jam was this again?"
"...strawberry."
I spent some time contemplating the stain. Malfoy did not turn the page.
"Either tell me what you did to my carpet, or I'll throw you out the window."
He sighed and lowered the paper. "I spilled jam, it isn't a crisis."
"It's brown, Malfoy."
Malfoy crossed his arms and scowled at me, but there was a little pink spot on each cheek, which, I supposed, was the closest he could get to blushing. He announced, slowly and clearly, "Mrs. Skower does not provide adequate written instructions with her product line."
There are times like that, times when I can't help but laugh at him, right to his face. It was partly because it meant he'd be buying me new carpet, of course; partly, because normal people don't do things like burn holes in the floor with household potions. Malfoy not only does that sort of thing, he's completely astonished by it, like common sense is something that happens to other people. He makes fun of me for using the wrong fork and not wearing a tie, but when he turns around and does something like this...he deserves it. Oh, Merlin, does he deserve it.
'Course, you can't convince him of that. By the time I was finished laughing, he had the paper up in front of him again. "You are such a fucking idiot," I told him from the floor.
"Pick up your crackers."
I picked up my crackers and climbed back onto the chair. "So what have you been doing, besides the jam business?"
"I had lunch with Mother a few days ago."
"Really? She's not dead yet?"
He glared at me over the top of the paper and finally turned the page. "You could try to be civil, you know."
"And what exactly would be the point of that?"
"I don't know why I bother."
I didn't know, either. I mean, I love my mum, but she's actually nice to me; Malfoy's mum, aside from being a murdering Dark witch who got out of Azkaban on a technicality, is evil. There's a lot to be said for family loyality, but there's a point when ever your mum deserves a good hex or two. Malfoy's mum had passed it exactly once, and never come back across to the nice side.
"So what'd she have to say?" I asked, once he'd turned a few pages.
"Hmm? Mother?"
"Of course your mother."
He flicked his wrists, so the paper snapped audibly. "The Notts had another baby."
Oh, great. "And how often did bang you over the head with it?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"Well, you're not exactly in the market for a wife, now, are you?"
"That has nothing to do with anything."
"Oh, come off it, Malfoy." He snapped the paper down and glared at me. "Your mum only brings up Nott and his brats to make you feel guilty. If she had her way, you'd be tethered to that bloody so-called manor with a full-time job and a couple of brats, married to Pansy Parkinson."
I should've noticed sooner that his knuckles had gone white, but honestly, with his complexion, it's hard to tell. I should've notice the look in his eyes, but then again, he gets so pissy over the weirdest things, I cant never be sure whether he's about to have a tantrum or commit first-degree murder. I really, really should not have brought up Parkinson. As it was, it was too late to take any of it back; Malfoy threw down the paper and stalked off into the bedroom with his fists clenched. I sat, and ate my crackers, and cringed through two thumps and a mysterious crash before I went after him.
He was rummaging through my clothes like he was looking for something. He slammed the closet door and stomped to the bureau, nearly tripping over the bottoms he was wearing. "What the hell are you doing?" I asked when he started emptying the drawers onto the floor.
"I am collecting my things and then I am leaving," he declared. Like he'd be quoted on it or something.
I snorted at him. "Shall I write it up for the papers?"
"Yes." He turned around and glared at me, and he probably didn't know that it looked a lot less intimidating in my clothes, becase the pajamas pooled over his feet and I could see his collarbone through the neck of the sweater. "Write it all up and make an announcement. I, Draco D. Malfoy, could not have been more devastatingly ignorant that on the day during which I first made the acquaintance of one Ronald L. Weasley. My continued association with the aforesaid Weasel has only compounded the initial error, which shall henceforth be corrected."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Rot in hell."
He conured a white dress shirt made of some flimsy fabric out of the hamper-I don't know why didn't look there in the first place-and put it on, after throwing my sweater at my head. I threw it down and snarled at him, "What are going to do, then? Run home to Mummy?"
"That's not any of your concern, is it?" He gave a frustrated growl and tossed a pile of my clothes in the air, then ran out the front door still wearing my pajamas bottoms. I heard him Disapparate in the hall.
I surveyed the total damage.
"Well, bloody hell."
-x-X-x-X-x-
I eventually cleaned up the bedroom. I got properly dressed. I wrote up my piece for Quidditch Quarterly and bought some groceries. I didn't feel like cooking, however, so I did the next best thing, which was go to Harry's house.
Susan saw me coming from the kitchen and opened the back door for me. "What is it this time?" she asked, but she wasn't scowling, which was always a good sign.
"I've realized I'm madly in love with you, Susan darling. I want you to run away with me forever."
She snorted. "Get inside."
I don't think Susan likes me. At least, she doesn't like me as much as she likes Hermione. Maybe it has something to do with the fiasco that was Harry's bachelor party, or maybe she thinks I'm a bad influence, or maybe some Weasley did something to piss off some Bones six generations ago and she's decided she she's going to hold it against me. I haven't got the faintest idea. Most of the time she's nice, but then again, most of the time we're not at her and Harry's house. She usually lets me in but she won't make small talk, and I'm pretty certain that if she could keep Harry from finding out, I wouldn't be allowed on the furtinture.
Charming woman, my best mate's wife; if he weren't so deleriously happy with her, I would kill him.
She hollared up the stairs for Harry and went back to the stove. Harry came down a few minutes later and grinned at me. "Hey, Ron. How was America?"
"Wonderful, if you don't count the Americans."
Susan sighed. "You always say that."
"Doesn't make it any less true."
Harry glanced at his watch. "It's almost dinner time, d'you want to stay?"
"Why do you think he showed up, Harry?"
I pouted at her. "Susan, you wound me. I am wounded. Just look at my wounds."
"No, thank you."
Harry rolled his eyes at us and grabbed an extra place setting out of the cupboard. When he was out of the room. I leaned in close to Susan and asked, "Why don't you like me?"
She smiled. "I don't dislike you, Ron. Everyone's husband needs one really odd friend to hang around at all hours, disturb the peace and eventually corrupt the all children."
"Nice to know I'm thought of so highly."
At dinner, Harry and Susan told me about the Ministry and I told them about the trip. "...and when I get back, Draco bloody Malfoy's camped out in the bedroom, my flat's a disaster, and there's a hole burned into the carpet."
"How," Harry asked, "did Malfoy burn a hole in the carpet?"
"He says he used Mrs. Skower's."
Susan snorted. "That's not supposed to be possible."
"That's never stopped him before." Malfoy does a lot of impossible things; I think he likes the challenge.
Susan clucked her tongue, and Harry sort of laughed. "I still have no idea how you manage to put up with the bastard," he said.
"I drink, early and often."
"Lovely way to talk about your boyfriend," Susan said.
I make this note for future generations: it is exceedingly painful when dry white wine comes out your nose. "My what?" I said...well, okay, more like yelped. "You think he's my what?"
Susan stared at me like I was mad while Harry tried to hand me a napkin. "Your boyfriend. You know, man you live with and shag a lot and complain about every time I see you?"
I took the napkin from Harry before he could start cleaning my face for me, and squeezed my eyes shut against the burning in my sinuses. "Susan, we don't live together. He doesn't live in my flat."
"That's not the impression I get."
"Well, okay, maybe he sort of lives in my flat, but that isn't my fault," I told her. "He just sort of...comes and goes as he pleases. Like a cat."
Harry blinked. "So Malfoy is your cat?"
"He's not my anything!"
"All right," Susan said, with a funny look in her eyes. "So Malfoy isn't your boyfriend and he's not a household pet. What is he, then?"
"What're you on about?"
"How do you define your relationship with him?" she said slowly, like I was dumb.
I waggled my finger in her face. "Aha. That's just it. I don't have a relationship. Not one with Malfoy, 'leastways."
You know, everyone goes on about how Hufflepuffs are so loyal and hard-working and just, but nobody every mentions that they're bloody stubborn, too. "You sleep together regularly," she said, and started counting off on her fingers. "Furthermore, you've been sleeping together regularly for some time. You obviously trust him, or you wouldn't be so blasé about him being in your home when you're not."
"I sleep with a lot of people," I said, and ignored Harry coughing. "It's a matter of convenience. And I'm blasé about him being in my flat because the alternative would give me ulcers and heart disease."
"They don't even call each other by their first names," Harry said, and I silently thanked him for not pursuing the lots-of-people business. "Besides, I don't think Malfoy's capable of any emotion except disdain."
"I don't know," Susan said philosophically, "he does a pretty good approximation of self-satisfied arrogance." But she was still looking at me like she was waiting for me to say something.
I poured myself more wine instead. "He also gets pissed off pretty frequently."
"Is that what you're doing here?"
I blinked at her. "What?"
She smiled. "Is that why you came to dinner here? To hide from Malfoy?"
It took me a moment to recover from that one. "Susan," I told her gravely, "you have definitely got something against this tablecloth."
Harry snickered and handed me another napkin. "Ron doesn't have to hide from Malfoy. He just has to hold his wand over his head-Malfoy wouldn't be able to reach it."
Susan snickered; I shook my head. "Tried that, mate. He punched me in the kidney." They goggled.
Eventually Harry said, "Look, let's change the subject, shall we? There's much more pleasant things to talk about than Malfoy."
"No, no-he still hasn't answered me." Susan leaned forward with her chin in her hand and smiled sweetly. "Did you make him mad, Ron? Is that why you're hiding out over here?"
I rolled my eyes. "Yes and no, all right?
Harry raised his eyebrows and paused with his glass in the air. "What'd you do, take away his mirror priveledges?"
"Ha ha ha, no." And then, because Susan was looking at me like a really fascinating bit of fuzzy crap pulled out of a trouser pocket, I mumbled, "I mentioned Pansy Parkinson."
They blinked at me. "So?" Harry finally asked.
Well, Harry, if you'd been engaged to a girl from age four, refused to join the cult of the psychotic Dark wizard she adored, and then she got turned into something squishy on the floor by incoming Aurors, would you enjoy talking about her? "It's...he's a bit touchy about her."
"Ah." Susan nodded like she understood. "You know pretty well for someone without a relationship."
I glared at her, and Harry stood up abruptly. "You know what? Let's have dessert."
I went home right away, not because I was annoyed as Susan and certainly not because Malfoy might think I was hiding from him. I was still screwed up by the time change, so I took a sleeping potion before I went to bed. Just before it kicked in, I heard someone enter the room, run into the bed, and curse. I sat up and peered into the dark; Malfoy waved me off, though I could hardly see him. "Go back to sleep, Weasley."
"Okay," I muttered, pulling the covers back up.
I felt the mastress shake as he climbed into bed behind me. "'M sorry your mother's a bitch," I muttered into the pillow.
He snorted. "You drank tonight, didn't you?"
"An' 'm sorry 'bout Parkinson, too."
Something warm and smooth pressed against me from behind; Malfoy, curled up so his back pressed against mine. "Good night, Weasley."
"Mm."