Title: What Purebloods Do
Summary: Ron himself had always maintained that a fuck was a fuck and your girl was your girl and the two didn't necessarily have to be the same thing. And he was honestly a little more than surprised to find a kindred spirit in Malfoy, of all people.
Warnings: Mild bondage
Author's Note: See if you can spot the quotes I stole/mangled from (in sequential order): Stephen Sondheim, Thomas Keller, and David Wilcox. Much thanks and love to stephanometra for letting me be much, muuuuch too late getting this fic in and not being mean to me, and to my beta, M, for all her hard work and help, especially with that damned ferret.
Ron leaned against the mantelpiece, sipping cautiously from his glass of scotch. He grimaced as the warm amber liquid flooded his mouth, an expression not lost on the blond man occupying the plush armchair in the corner.
"Really, Weasley," drawled Malfoy, swirling his own glass airily, "One would think that a pureblooded wizard of nearly thirty years would have, at some point, acquired a taste for the finer things in life." He smiled lazily and drummed his fingertips on the carved wood of the chair's arm.
"I appreciate plenty," retorted Ron without anger, "For instance, I appreciate that armchair you're sitting in."
Malfoy snorted and eyed Ron sceptically.
"I do. Mahogany, isn't it? French, I'd say, from roughly eighteen…sixty-five?"
Malfoy's expression changed immediately. His eyebrows shot up and his disbelieving sneer turned into a reluctant smile.
"Sixty-three, actually, and I have the provenance to prove it, but that's impressive, Weasley. Where did you come up with that? Have you been reading through the Inventory of Confiscated Items that your father's men took when they raided my home?"
Malfoy's voice didn't tremble and his gaze didn't waver, which Ron found impressive, as he was certain his own would under such circumstances. In fact, had it not been for the two pink spots burning high on Malfoy's pale cheeks, Ron might have thought that recalling his arrest and subsequent imprisonment didn't bother Malfoy at all.
Ron hesitated only momentarily in choosing his approach. He could be gentle, could steer Malfoy away from what could only be excruciating memories, could smoothly gloss over that topic altogether—or he could be himself.
Naturally, Ron chose the second approach.
"Nah. I never saw that report, Malfoy. Too important to be passed to me, or something like. Too boring, besides, seeing how much they took. Stupid. But you got all your things back, anyway, didn't you?"
"Actually, no, I didn't." Malfoy's tone was pure ice. Ron was taken aback, and, lacking a quick response, downed the rest of the scotch in his glass. He gave a strangled cough, his eyes watering, and tried his best to look unaffected.
Malfoy shook his head in disgust.
"You're hopeless, Weasley. And you're wasting my good scotch. Can I interest you in something a bit less…assertive? Pumpkin juice, perhaps?"
"Funny, Malfoy. Funny. And no. I really shouldn't be drinking right now anyway. But…well…" he trailed off, glancing at the grandfather clock adjacent to Malfoy's chair. "Ah, fuck it. I've put in so much overtime already this week that I'm going to turn into Percy if I'm not careful."
"My older brother," said Ron with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Works too much."
"That's the one with the Veela wife? He works for Gringotts?"
"No. That's Bill, his wife's Fleur, and she's not his wife anymore anyway. Percy's Ministry."
"Oh, that one." Malfoy paused, then shook his head as if to clear it. "Another drink, then?"
Ron sighed. "I suppose. Not this, though. Got any ale?"
"It's in the kitchen, but you'll have to Summon it yourself. I still haven't got my wand back." Malfoy's face burned bright pink again, though he still held his head high. Ron turned and stretched, avoiding looking at the blond. He wasn't certain whether he was embarrassed for Malfoy or for himself at the moment, but Ron was never much for self-analysis, anyway.
"It's okay. I'll find it myself. I could use the exercise," he finished lamely, and set off down the hall.
The kitchen wasn't hard to find, and Ron returned shortly holding an unmarked brown bottle in his hand. He held it up in a gesture of silent thanks, and Malfoy nodded.
"Those refill," he said simply.
There was an uncomfortable silence, then both men spoke at once.
"If Moody was—"
"You still haven't—"
"Sorry, go ahead."
"No, what about Moody?"
"I was just saying that if, well, if Moody was…still alive, he'd kill me right now. 'Constant vigilance, Weasley! No drinking on the job, boy! You never know!'" Ron snorted and took a swig of ale. "You can't do anything to me, Malfoy."
"I wouldn't anyway," replied the blond man haughtily. "I cleared my name and I'm rather keen on keeping it that way, thank you."
Ron grinned. "Keep up the good check-ups, then, lad, and I'm sure the wizarding world will once again celebrate the good name of Malfoy!" It was an uncanny impression of Moody, and Malfoy twitched a little.
"Nice," he muttered into his glass.
Ron crossed the room and slumped gracelessly onto the dark green settee next to Malfoy's chair. He took a long draw from his bottle of ale, then cocked his head and looked curiously at Malfoy, who looked as though he might be about to go into one of his snits. Ron had certainly witnessed enough of those, and was in no mood for it tonight.
"Were you going to ask me something, Malfoy?" He drank again deeply from the brown bottle as Malfoy sipped almost delicately at his nearly empty glass of scotch.
"I was. Well, I did, but you never answered."
"Never answered what?"
"How the hell do you know so much about antique furniture?" Malfoy tapped the carved knob on the end of the arm impatiently.
"You don't spend seven years married to Hermione Granger and not pick up a few things here and there about, well, everything. Last summer—no, two summers ago now—it was antique furniture. One week chairs, the next tables, then wardrobes, beds, all sorts of things. 'Educational', she called it. I called it boring, but not out loud. It kept her happy. Which kept me happy. Maybe a few years ago, I would just have tuned her out, but when you're married…" Ron trailed off and gave a little shrug.
"Ah, Granger. I should have known. And how is the lovely Mrs Weasley these days?"
"I wouldn't know," said Ron indistinctly around the mouth of his bottle. He avoided Malfoy's gaze as he drained the last of the ale, then tapped the bottle with his wand to refill it. Malfoy was staring. Probably grinning. Ron could almost feel the excited curiosity emanating from him.
He waved his hand in a circle. "Go ahead. I know you're dying to say something."
Instead of the gleeful explosion that Ron had anticipated, Malfoy rose slowly and walked to the end of the settee. He stood and waited. Ron lifted his eyes to meet Malfoy's steely grey ones, then raised his chin defiantly.
"You. And Granger. Divorced?"
"That's right," said Ron calmly, "Sit down and I'll tell you your bedtime story. You love this, don't you?"
Malfoy sat, smirking. "I wouldn't say I love it, but I do love being right. I always said the two of you would never last." Malfoy thrust his glass at Ron. "Pour me another, won't you?"
Ron handed his ale over to Malfoy and refilled the glass, slopping a little Scotch from the crystal decanter onto the engraved drink tray as he did so.
"Irish. Pewter. Turn of the century."
"We never did get into metalwork," Ron replied dryly, handing Malfoy the glass and taking back his bottle, which he again refilled with a tap of his wand.
"Apparently not, as that one's fairly obvious. Pity. Tell me, Weasley, did you ever get into Granger at all, or was she still as frigid as she ever was in school?" Malfoy smirked, and Ron felt his mouth drop open in shock.
And then Ron couldn't help himself. He burst into peals of hysterical laughter, shaking and gasping for breath while Malfoy's eyebrows rose ever higher.
"Nice one," gasped Ron, clutching at his stomach, "'Course, I did, though. Seven years, I mean…right good fuck she was, too. Smart, you know. Into all these exotic mystiques. The Kama—something? And Chinese—"
"You can spare me the details."
"Right." Subdued, Ron drank again, then shrugged and smiled ruefully. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. She's gone. Living in Wales now, I think. Last I heard she was in some town with a bunch of Ls in its name. She's fine." Ron paused. "I'm fine."
"You miss the sex, though."
Ron chuckled. "Well, yeah. I miss her. But that, too."
"Why'd she go, anyway?"
Ron drew a deep breath. "It just…we weren't right. In a lot of ways. She—wait, Malfoy, your stupid Refillable Ales are making me talk too much. I am supposed to be the one questioning you."
Ron Summoned a piece of parchment from his case where it lay open on the coffee table.
"We're almost done. Just a few more questions and I'm off." Ron read from the parchment. "'Do you currently drink alcoholic beverages?' I'd say that's yes."
"Did she cheat on you?"
"'Do you take any prescription potions?' Last time you said no. That's still no?"
"No. Did you cheat on her?"
Ron felt a blush beginning to rise behind his freckles.
"Is that 'no, I don't take any prescription potions', or 'no, the answer's not still no'?"
"I don't take any. You cheated on her, didn't you?"
Ron closed his eyes and regained control of his breathing, which he hadn't realised had grown so ragged. He opened his eyes again and concentrated on the parchment, trying to find where he had left off.
"There's no shame in it, Weasley. I can't remember a time when my father didn't have a mistress. We're—" Ron looked up. Malfoy glanced at him appraisingly and shrugged. "—as hard as it may be to believe sometimes, we're both purebloods. And that's something purebloods just do."
Despite himself, Ron grinned a little. "It's what we do, eh, Malfoy? Maybe in your family, but not in mine."
"It's the same family if you go back far enough."
"I'm talking about now. It's not something that happens in my family. My dad's absolutely devoted to my mum, and as for—"
"Bill and the Veela?"
Ron felt rage erupt suddenly inside him. No one outside his immediate family—not even Harry—knew what had really happened between Bill and Fleur, and it certainly had had nothing to do with infidelity. Not a week after Moody's death at the wand of Augustus Rookwood, their son, whom Bill had insisted on naming Alastor, was born with fur on his face and what Fleur swore was the hint of a tail. The Frenchwoman disappeared, presumably fleeing to her family's home. Bill was doing fine raising Alastor on his own—or as close to "on his own" as Molly would let him be. The fur, which was really just fine hair and which apparently wasn't entirely uncommon, had completely fallen off within a week of Alastor's birth, and as for the tail, everyone thought it must have been a figment of Fleur's imagination, for no one else had ever seen it. After all, there was no reason, genetic or otherwise, for it to be there. The general assumption in the Weasley family, though no one ever brought it up around Bill, who was still upset about the whole thing, was that Fleur had been looking for an excuse to leave and had found one in Alastor.
But Ron wasn't about to go spilling family secrets as casually as Malfoy had.
"What happened there is none of your business, but I will tell you that there was no mistress, all right?" Ron nearly spat his words through his clenched teeth, though he tried his hardest to remain calm.
Malfoy held his hands out in front of himself as if for protection. "All right. Apparently that's a sore subject."
"Apparently," retorted Ron, and he ran a long, freckled finger down his parchment. "Next question, Malfoy."
"Oh, all right. Let's see…who was yours?"
"I meant my questions," said Ron, shaking the parchment, "And who was my what?"
"Your mistress. For lack of a less uncouth word."
Ron sighed. "If I explain, can we get on with it?"
"Certainly," replied Malfoy, the picture of civility. "Let's have another drink."
Ron refilled his bottle and Malfoy's glass and settled back into the green velvet cushions, sighing again. Malfoy sat at attention, waiting.
"She wasn't a mistress, exactly, first of all. More of a…well, I don't know what. But not that. Hermione was gone a lot. She worked with kids. War orphans. Finding homes for them and things like that. She travelled all over, sometimes for weeks at a go. I'm not trying to make excuses for myself—" (though he was, and he knew it) "—I'm just explaining." Malfoy nodded and gestured for Ron to continue.
Ron rolled his bottle between his palms as he went on with his story.
"So Hermione was gone. And the war ended. And I got reassigned to Parole Division, and that's where we met. It was just over a year ago now."
"No. No, I'm not telling you her name. I'll tell you the rest—I don't care anymore—but that's not negotiable." Malfoy seemed to understand, since he didn't press the issue.
Ron continued. "She was married, too. Or had been. Her husband died in the war. I'm not sure how—we never really talked about it. Him. She knew about Hermione. It wasn't a relationship, really, not beyond friendship. No love stuff. Just sex, once in a while, on lonely nights. That's it."
There was a brief silence, which Malfoy finally broke.
"And Hermione found out?"
Ron sharply let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "Yeah, she found out all right. Found us in bed together. In our bed, mine and Hermione's. It couldn't have been more of a cliché if I'd tried. At least that's what Hermione said." Ron smiled a little at this.
"She left the next morning. Packed her books and some clothes and just…left. She sent Harry after the rest of her things a few days later. He didn't want to do it; I could tell he felt badly. For both of us, you know."
"And do you ever hear from her?" Malfoy's voice had lost its usual icy edge; he sounded curious, almost sorry.
"Nah. Just through others—'Tell Ronald I said hello' at the end of letters to Harry. She still writes my mum."
Malfoy looked thoughtful. "If I'd been there, I'd've explained things to her."
"Oh, really," Ron laughed, "And just what would you have said?"
Malfoy gave Ron an isn't-it-obvious look. "I'd've explained to her, as I explained to you—as I shouldn't have had to explain to you, you disgrace to the name of pureblood—that it's accepted, that it's what's done, and that the wives, they look the other way. That it's practically expected. My father had his mistress, my mother had her gardener, and nobody spoke of it, and nobody cared. They still loved each other—at least, as much as they ever did—but they fucked other people." Malfoy shrugged and sipped his drink.
Ron stared at Malfoy for a long time before he responded, weighing his next words carefully.
"I'd never tell anyone else this, you understand—god, I can't believe there's something I'd tell Draco Malfoy that I wouldn't tell anyone else—but now that I've thought about it a little, well, I kind of like that idea. Not that I'm some sort of elitist—"
"Like me," Malfoy said unabashedly.
"Like you," Ron nodded, "But, well, maybe you've got the right idea."
"We've got," corrected Malfoy, "We are purebloods."
"You're willingly associating yourself with me?"
"Why not? What've I got to lose?"
And it was true. Malfoy had nothing to lose—and everything to gain—by dropping the routine of hatred he'd practised for so long. Naturally, it was too much to expect him to drop the elitist pureblood attitude entirely, for some things were simply too ingrained to change. And besides, Ron thought he might not mind so much after all. There certainly was something to at least this one aspect of pureblood elitism. Ron himself had always maintained that a fuck was a fuck and your girl was your girl and the two didn't necessarily have to be the same thing. And he was honestly a little more than surprised to find a kindred spirit in Malfoy, of all people.
"That makes things easier, then," said Ron, picking up his parchment once again, "We don't have to go through the whole bloody bitch routine every time I come to interview you."
"Ah, but it's so much more fun this way," said Malfoy, grinning.
"Have it your way." But Ron smiled. This tentative truce, based on nothing more than Ron's new-found understanding of pureblood mores and Malfoy's desperate desire to keep his name clear, was something he could live with. At the very least, it made Ron's job a hell of a lot easier.
"Right, let's finish. You should have these questions memorised by now; I'm surprised you don't."
Malfoy sighed. "All right. No, Yes, Yes, Occasionally, None, Twelve, and Yes."
Ron scribbled frantically on his parchment, then looked up, grinning, at Malfoy, who sat with his arms crossed over his chest, a triumphant gleam in his eye.
"I did not!" Malfoy was indignant.
"You did. It's a new question, though. The forms were just revised."
"Fine. What's the question?"
"'Do you have any current sexual partners?'"
Malfoy blinked. "Well. Not that I see how that has anything to do with anything, but no."
Ron noted Malfoy's answer, drained the last of his ale, placed the parchment neatly in his case, and stood to leave.
"That's all, then. I'll see you next week." He strode to the hallway, case in hand, and donned his grey wool cloak, a Christmas gift from Hermione two years prior. The weather was just beginning to turn, and something in the back of Ron's mind—no doubt his ex-wife's lingering influence—had insisted he wear it.
As he fastened the ridiculous number of clasps on the front of his cloak—he'd have been content with the standard three, but Hermione had insisted that ten would keep him much warmer—Malfoy mumbled something indistinctly.
Ron turned. "What's that?"
"I asked what happened to the girl."
"To the—ah." Ron shoved his free hand inside the pocket of his cloak, fumbling for the champagne cork that was his Portkey. "Well, after Hermione left, she did, too. Said she didn't want to be with a man who couldn't properly manage his affairs."
Malfoy smiled. "I hate to say 'I told you so'—"
"No, you don't."
"You're right. I don't." He shrugged. "You have to know what you're doing with these things. They're delicate."
"I suppose so." Ron fingered the cork and looked quickly over at the grandfather clock. He was a few minutes early yet; the Portkey was set to activate at precisely 8:17.
"So it's been a while, then?"
Malfoy's question took Ron off guard. "A while since what?"
"You said it's been a year, or nearly, so, since both of them left you. So it's been a while, hasn't it, or have you got someone else now?"
"No," said Ron, an edge of regret to his voice, "There hasn't been anyone else."
"But a fuck's a fuck."
"I suppose so, at this point." Ron wondered vaguely exactly why Malfoy was looking at him like that. He checked the clock again. Only ten past, and this conversation was starting to feel decidedly odd.
"Well, then." Malfoy stared at Ron as if Ron was supposed to know what to say next.
"Well, then, what?"
"Gryffindors," said Malfoy, half under his breath. He shook his head in disgust and continued, louder. "You're as clueless as ever, aren't you, Weasley?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'll spell it out for you, shall I? If a fuck's a fuck, and if neither of us has had one in a while, and if you haven't anything else to do tonight—"
"I have to file this report—"
Malfoy didn't even pause, but spoke right over Ron. "And since nor do I, then…why not?"
Besides the obvious answers of I'm not a poof, You're Draco sodding Malfoy, and My Portkey leaves in five minutes, Ron could think of about a thousand other reasons why not. He stared incredulously at Malfoy as the blond continued.
"I know, I know: you're not queer, right?"
"R—right," stammered Ron.
"Well, nor am I, but as we've established, a fuck's a fuck. We are in agreement on that, correct?"
"But how do you—"
"Know we'll like it?"
"Among other things."
"You don't have to stick your hand in fire to know it's hot."
"I don't have to try this to know it's a bad idea."
"Give me one good reason why it's a bad idea."
Ron squeezed his hand even tighter around his Portkey, hoping it would miraculously activate early, preferably at that exact moment. Disappointingly, it did not.
"I'm waiting." Malfoy folded his thin arms over his bony chest, looking every inch the spoiled, petulant, pureblood brat Ron had known at school. Malfoy threw back his shoulders and jutted out his pointed chin, and Ron knew that the smaller man could—and would—wait him out. Ron only hoped that he could stand the horribly awkward silence until the Portkey decided to fucking activate, you stupid fucking thing! and whisk him away.
But under Malfoy's steely glare, it proved rather difficult.
"My Portkey—" Ron began.
"So take off your cloak."
Ron didn't, but he drew the cork from his pocket and laid it on the small table next to where they stood.
"I'm only doing this," he said, gesturing to the cork, "Because I'm curious to find out just exactly what you mean. I'm not interested in your proposal. I just want to know what you're playing at, and I don't want to be yanked away in the middle of what should be a fascinating explanation."
Ron knew he could always Apparate to the nearest Portkey Station when Malfoy finished explaining. He'd done it once before, after their first interview, which had run overtime due to Malfoy's apparent inability to co-operate. Though the house and the Floo were warded against Malfoy (or, indeed, anyone without proper security clearance) coming or going without permission, Ron and a few other Aurors had free passage.
"So what you're saying," Ron said slowly, "Is that you. Want to have sex. With me."
"Not particularly; you're not exactly top of my list, but you're here. That's the thing."
"I see." Ron nodded cautiously, and paused. Then he surprised even himself with the next words that came out of his mouth.
"All right, then."
Malfoy gaped at him, but quickly recovered and twisted his mouth into his trademark smirk.
Excellent was honestly the last adjective that Ron would have chosen to describe the situation. He found himself wishing desperately that he had grabbed the Portkey sixty seconds ago when it had disappeared with a soft whoosh.
Ron cleared his throat. "Right, then. Listen. If we're going to do this, then we're going to do it my way."
Malfoy nodded once, sharply, and Ron continued, taking off his cloak and hanging it back on the hook.
"I'm not sucking you off."
"I'm not taking it up the arse."
"Fine. I will."
"And I'm not—you—what?"
Malfoy shrugged. "I've done worse than you. I think I can manage."
Ron took a step back and placed a hand over his eyes. This was just getting too weird.
Not looking at Malfoy, he exhaled sharply. "Then you've done this before."
"A time or two. It's not a regular occurrence by any means, but I don't mind it, if that's what you're thinking. Do I have to tell you again? A fuck—"
"Is a fuck," finished Ron, looking up, "So you're serious, then."
"And this won't get out." It wasn't a question.
"Of course not," sneered Malfoy, "Do you really think that I would go around telling people I let you bugger me? Not that I can go anywhere, of course, without permission. But you must understand at least that much."
"All right. And we play by my rules." Ron's knew his voice was shaper than perhaps it needed to be, but he had to be in control. If he stayed in control, stayed strong, stayed dominant—and that word was unbearably sexual at this point, and Ron's cock twitched a little at the thought, though he tried to ignore it—then it would be all right, because he'd still be Parole Auror Weasley, controlling the actions of his charge.
"That's fine. Hell, you can tie me up if you like. That way I can't steal your wand when you fall asleep, which I don't doubt will happen immediately post-orgasm."
"You like that, don't you? You'd like to tie me up?" Ron was blushing, he knew it, and his cock was aching now. There was something so sexual about Malfoy—sensual, even—despite the fact that he was so bony and prissy and snotty, but Ron couldn't put his finger on it.
Not that he needed to think about putting his fingers on any part of Malfoy—oh, god. Ron pressed his thighs tightly together to alleviate some of the pressure in his groin.
"Shall we go upstairs?" Malfoy's tone was frank, as if he'd asked for the time or whether there was any more tea.
"I'll just leave this here, then." Ron gestured to his case, trying to match Malfoy's casual tone.
"Fine." Malfoy started up the stairs. Ron followed, initially trying hard not to think of what they were about to do, but then, he reasoned, why shouldn't he? It wasn't entirely an unpleasant arrangement, after all. Malfoy was fairly attractive, as far as blokes went (and Ron ignored the part of his brain that seemed to scream you don't like blokes, most especially not Draco Malfoy!), and Ron hadn't had contact—real physical human contact—in so long.
Ron knew from past inspections that Malfoy's bedroom was to the left at the top of the stairs, a smaller room than he'd expected, unfussily decorated and containing only a bed, table, and wardrobe. But Malfoy turned to the right when the two men reached the landing, leading Ron into a much larger room, where a massive bed, sheathed in deep green silk, took up much of the floorspace.
"Guest room," Malfoy said simply. It was preferable, Ron thought, to Malfoy's own room. That would have been too personal, too intimate. In this entirely impersonal room, bearing no mark of Malfoy's ever having occupied it, they could preserve the image of an agreement between gentlemen.
Once inside, the two stood awkwardly until Malfoy stepped towards Ron, who held his hands defensively in front of him.
"I said no kissing."
"I'm not going to kiss you, you great sodding twat. I was going to close the door, since you appear to have been born in a broomshed."
"Er. Right." Ron moved aside to allow Malfoy to reach the door and close it. As soon as he did so, the room immediately felt smaller. Closer. Warmer.
As Malfoy moved towards the bed, he began to unfasten his robes. Ron reached out a hand quickly to stop him.
"I'll do that," he snapped. Control, he told himself, you're in control.
Malfoy seemed glad to acquiesce, and as Ron's fingers methodically unfastened the multitude of ridiculously small hooks (stupid fucking arsing pureblood affectation) down the front of Draco's robes, the blond closed his eyes and tipped his head back, exposing his pale white throat. It was so slim—almost feminine—and Ron had to resist the sudden, strange urge to lick it.
Instead, he focused on the fussy robe front. He'd never realised just exactly how many hooks a set of robes could have. Malfoy stood stock-still as Ron bent, then finally knelt to undo the last few fastenings.
Ron straightened and pushed the robes back from Malfoy's shoulders. He surveyed Malfoy's clothing as if taking an inventory. One plain white shirt with buttons. One pair of grey wool trousers (softer than normal wool, what in sodding hell), with buttons. One pair of slim black boots (Ron lifted Malfoy's trouser leg with the toe of his own boot) with—
"Malfoy, you fucking poof, you have buttons on your boots."
"I do," drawled Malfoy, head still back, eyes still closed, throat still exposed.
Ron huffed in disgust at the number of buttons he was going to have to undo, and pulled Malfoy's robes the rest of the way off. He tossed them over a (green, everything in this house is fucking green!) chair by the bed and set to work undoing Malfoy's buttons.
It was odd, Ron reflected, to undo someone's shirt like this and for there to be no breasts underneath. He tugged the sleeves from Malfoy's arms, pulled his vest over his head, and surveyed the other man. Malfoy really was frightfully bony, even more so then he had been at school—he'd never really recovered physically from the time he'd spent locked away. His collarbone jutted sharply above his too-thin chest, and Ron felt a momentary twinge of pity for him as he draped the shirt and vest over the chair where Malfoy's robes already lay.
But he knew Malfoy wouldn’t appreciate the emotion, and he honestly would rather not have been bothered with it, so he distracted himself by focussing on Malfoy's impossibly fussy boots next. At first, Ron tried forcing the buttons through the tiny loops with brute strength, but he soon gave up and flicked his wand over them so that they unfastened themselves. Malfoy allowed Ron to lift his feet out of the boots, first the left, then the right, and Ron methodically peeled his socks off as well, tucking them inside the boots, which he placed next to the bed. His systematic actions went against every instinct Ron possessed, which had always led him unerringly to the throwing of his socks onto the floor of whichever room he happened to be in at the time, but anything that helped Ron stay in control was a welcome business.
Ron stood and looked Malfoy over once again. He looked so much smaller and so much more vulnerable now that he was practically naked. Ron grabbed the front of his trousers and yanked Malfoy forward. His head gave a little snap as his body was jerked towards Ron, and Malfoy grinned widely.
Ron's fingers wanted to fly over the buttons on Malfoy's trousers, but he forced himself to go slowly. Control, he reminded himself, means control of yourself as well.
One, two, three, four, five, and the trousers were undone. Ron pushed them down Malfoy's legs, and Malfoy stepped out of them when Ron touched each foot with his own. Ron kicked the trousers to somewhere in the vicinity of the chair.
Malfoy stood, his arms by his sides, throat still exposed, pale and thin and clad in—well, Ron didn't know what exactly they were, but he did know that they were suspiciously girly-looking pants that probably cost more than Ron's entire wardrobe.
Ron couldn't bear to look at them. "Take those off," he snapped dismissively, and watched as Malfoy bent willingly at the waist and eased the pants down. Ron nodded to the chair, and Malfoy tossed the pants gently upon it.
The two men locked eyes. There was nothing methodical left to do, and Ron felt himself tense all over. He was going to have to touch Malfoy. And the only problem with that was how very much he found himself wanting to touch Malfoy, to throw the blond onto the wide green bed and cover that smaller body with his own larger one, to feel skin and life beneath him, moving and sweating and pulsing and breathing hard.
Ron wasn't certain he could trust himself entirely (Control, control, control) and so he gestured to the bed, meaning for Malfoy to get on it.
And Malfoy did, his eyes never leaving Ron's. He lay back on the many pillows and stretched himself over the coverlet, his arms flung wide, his legs slightly parted.
Ron moved around the bed, finally taking his eyes from Malfoy's. He knew the other man was watching him as he took in the pale expanse of Malfoy's skin, marked here and there with faint scars. He studied Malfoy's cock, which was decidedly smaller than Ron's own, though it was almost completely hard. As pink and pale as the rest of him, it lay stiffly near his stomach, and Malfoy seemed to be pressing his hips upward just the tiniest bit, for it bobbed slightly with the almost undetectable movement.
"Stop that," Ron heard himself say, and Malfoy relaxed into the mattress. Ron walked to the edge of the bed and studied Malfoy's chest, criss-crossed with pink scars that had healed but not faded. Whatever had caused them had to be brutal.
"What are those?"
Malfoy looked up. "You don't know?"
There was a pause, then: "Your best mate gave them to me. You don't remember sixth year?"
Sectumsempra. Of course.
But the very thought of it, the hissing, elongated word, brought Ron dangerously close to reality, and so he let his eyes wander over the rest of Malfoy's body for something to distract him.
There was a long, jagged scar running up the calf of the left leg, angrily pink against Malfoy's light skin.
"What's this?" asked Ron, pointing to it, almost touching, but not quite. He could feel the heat of Malfoy's body and an electric warmth shot straight through him, causing a nearly imperceptible tremor to course through his body. Ron closed his eyes, riding the sensation, and awaited Malfoy's response.
"Azkaban," Malfoy said, his voice a harsh, quiet rasp so different from his usual drawl. "When they threw me in the cell, I cut it on a rock that stuck out from the wall. They don't have healers in prison." His voice was cold, almost distant. Ron had never heard Malfoy say the name of the prison before. It was such an unforgiving word, grating and dissonant, and the coldness of it clashed with the heat flooding Ron's body. He jerked his eyes open and stared at the scar, at his freckled hand above it, and finally into Malfoy's eyes once again.
They stayed this way for a long moment until Ron clamped his hand suddenly down onto Malfoy's leg, curving his tight fingertips into soft flesh. Malfoy's body was every bit as alive as Ron had known it would be but hadn't fully allowed himself to realise. Malfoy gasped at the touch and arched up from the bed, his leg going stiff under Ron's forceful grip.
The immediate and powerful effect that the simple touch had on both men finally propelled Ron into action. He kicked off his boots, shed his robes, and crawled onto the bed, holding his clothed body only inches over Malfoy's naked form. He lowered his head to speak into Malfoy's ear.
"I'm going to fuck you. I'm going to fuck you," he repeated, just to hear himself say it, to make himself believe it. He hadn't the first idea exactly how he was going to fuck Malfoy—oh, he knew what went where, technically, for it didn't take a genius to know that sex consisted of Tab A and Slot B, even though the slots sometimes differed by a few inches' distance. But the idea was so foreign to him—that was one thing Hermione had never, in all her sexual experimentation, been willing to try—and he was privately nervous as hell. He licked his lips next to Malfoy's ear and spoke again. "Would you like that?"
Malfoy nodded beneath him, and Ron knelt on the bed, straddling his chest. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, shucking them both as one, to reveal his freckled chest, brown nipples hard, ginger hair leading downward from his navel.
And it wasn't enough—it wasn't enough. Ron needed the contact, he needed it so badly, but control bobbed through his mind like a skiff on stormy waters, and he struggled against whatever it was that was telling him to press his body to Malfoy's now now now.
Ron unfastened his belt and trousers (and a zip was fine for Ron, no silly, fussy buttons to get in the way when it was time for a piss or a shag) and pushed them down as far as they would go. His belt buckle scraped against Malfoy's chest, abrading a nipple, but Ron paid it no mind. He pulled out his cock, fisting it slowly, and stared into Malfoy's grey eyes once again, an unspoken command in his own blue ones.
Suck it, he thought desperately, but Malfoy only smirked.
"You want to hear me say it, don't you?" The blond man nodded. "Fine. Suck my cock." When Malfoy didn't move, he added, "Now."
Malfoy sat up, his sudden movement rather unexpected, and Ron lost his balance for a moment, recovering when Malfoy stabilised him by filling his small mouth with Ron's cock.
And that was it—that was contact. Wet and hot and close around his cock, Malfoy's mouth, with its tongue curving and tiny white teeth covered by soft pink lips, was the beginning of the contact that Ron had so desperately craved. He'd been afraid that at the moment it happened, he'd lose the control he had worked so hard to keep thus far, the control he'd demanded of himself, demanded of Malfoy, but if anything, the contact compelled him to carry it further. He grabbed the back of Malfoy's head, threading his fingers in the surprisingly fine hair, downy and softer than he'd expected. It slipped through his fingers and he gripped tighter, forcing Malfoy's head forward, revelling in the sensations of Malfoy's mouth around his cock and Malfoy's head in his hands.
Ron canted his hips forward and moved his hands down to Malfoy's neck, his fingers tense and pressing and, he thought, probably bruising. He kept himself in Malfoy's mouth a few moments longer—it was just so good; there was just not another word for it—before pulling out, pushing back hard on Malfoy's shoulders. He looked down at Malfoy, whose mouth opened and closed a few times soundlessly after Ron pulled his cock away. Malfoy's lips were swollen and spit-slicked, his eyes heavy-lidded, his cheeks flushed bright pink, and he was breathing hard. Hot puffs of breath hit Ron's cock, and the sensation was not nearly enough after the close, sucking heat of Malfoy's mouth.
Ron laid Malfoy back onto the bed, not letting him fall, but pressing him firmly down onto the mattress. He pulled his trousers the rest of the way off and toed off his socks, tucking his cock back into his white cotton boxer shorts.
Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself onto Malfoy, knowing somehow that no moment would be as good as the moment just before contact. When their two bodies were only millimetres apart, he stopped, holding himself up by his trembling arms. Malfoy's face was too close, his parted lips too tempting; Ron had never fucked anyone he hadn't kissed before. He turned his head to the side and squeezed his eyes shut, determined to enjoy the sensation of touching another's body to the fullest.
Ron lowered himself down and pressed himself to Malfoy, covering that smaller body with his own, meshing feet and legs and arms, pressing their chests together, and Malfoy sighed beneath him, his thin frame shuddering. Ron almost lost control as he felt himself start to shake all over. There was something about touching another person this way, pressing chest to chest, groin to groin, everything to everything else, that was so bizarrely intimate and filling.
Ron breathed hard into the crease of Malfoy's neck, drinking in his scent—sweat and scotch and something uniquely Malfoy, something not half bad—and just revelled in the sensation of covering someone so completely. After a moment, he felt Malfoy move slightly beneath him, felt smaller arms than his own encircle him, fingers splaying over his back, each fingertip coursing currents through his skin. He moved against Malfoy, rubbing his thin chest over Malfoy's thinner one, pressing his clothed cock onto Malfoy's naked one. He copied Malfoy's movement, curving his arms under Malfoy's back, enclosing him in a tight embrace not entirely unlike that which a real lover might give.
The two men rocked against each other for a minute more, and Ron was certain he could come just like this, just from sweat and pressure and scent and contact, just from feeling someone all over like this.
But he remembered what he'd said, then what Malfoy had said, and a chorus of I'm going to fuck you and I'll let you tie me up began in Ron's head. He sat up, breaking the contact, and the jolt of the bedroom's cool air after so much warm skin was shocking.
"Don't move," Ron commanded hoarsely, and he left the bed in search of his wand. Finding it where he'd left it in his robes, he turned back to the bed. Before Malfoy had a chance to move or even to react, he hissed Incarcerous, and thick ropes bound the smaller man's wrists to the bedposts.
"Your ankles I'll leave free," said Ron, musing, "for now, anyway." Seeing Malfoy captive like this, struggling half-heartedly against his bindings, brought to mind the time Hermione had let Ron tie her up—which he had loved—and then insisted that she get to do the same to him. Ron had hated it, hated not being in control of his own actions, hated having to wait and strain and ache until she finally took pity on him.
But Malfoy seemed to like it—really like it. He squirmed on the bed, his hands in fists, wrists tugging at the ropes that secured him, his eyes screwed shut, and an almost silly grin on his face.
Ron crawled back onto the bed, wand still in hand, right up to Malfoy's ear.
"You like this," he whispered, and Malfoy nodded and let out an almost imperceptible whimper. "You like being tied to the bed, not knowing when I'll touch you, just giving yourself up completely." Malfoy nodded again, pushing his hips up to meet Ron's, and Ron ground down, their cocks separated by only the thin, worn layer of cloth that comprised Ron's pants.
Malfoy was tied to the bed; that had been easy. What wasn't going to be so easy was the tiny technicality of actually fucking Malfoy. He wanted to—he wanted to very much, as his swollen cock could attest, and he'd heard talk of a lubrication spell that he was fairly certain he should use, but he didn't know it, and he was growing more frantic by the moment.
Ron continued to rub himself against Malfoy, meanwhile mentally running through every sexual conversation he'd ever had in his life in the hope that there was a useful tidbit somewhere that his brain had stored away that might decide to reveal itself any fucking second now!
Malfoy was squirming under him, pushing upwards with his hips and pulling Ron's legs downwards with his own. Ron knew bloody well what he was trying to do—he had to want to fuck as badly as Ron did at this point—but Ron wasn't sure what was going to happen when he finally got that far.
Malfoy began to whine, a quiet, high-pitched wail that Ron couldn't bear.
"Stop that," he said at once, and Malfoy did, but he looked up at Ron with absolutely pitiful eyes.
Ron knelt between Malfoy's obscenely spread legs, studying the layout of his anatomy. Not surprisingly, it was the same as Ron's own, and he pointed his wand at Malfoy's hole and murmured "Lubricus" hopefully.
Malfoy's head snapped up. "What the hell was that?" he demanded.
"'Lubricus’? Is that what you said?"
"My god, Weasley, it really has been a long time, hasn't it? 'Lubricus', really!" Malfoy was close to laughter, Ron could tell.
"What is it, then?" Ron's tone was imperial, demanding.
"You don't know?"
"Obviously I don't know, you fucking twat! Why else would I be asking? D'you really think I've needed it before today?" Ron lowered his face to within inches of Malfoy's, breathing hard. "Tell me the spell, Malfoy, or I'll go in withou—"
"'Demadesco'," Malfoy said frantically, and Ron sat back up, once again aiming his wand at Malfoy's arse.
"Wait," said Malfoy, and Ron looked up at him, exasperated. "You have to…put it inside."
Quirking an eyebrow, Ron pressed the very tip of his wand to Malfoy's hole. Malfoy nodded, and Ron pressed a bit harder, and his wand slid inside. Malfoy closed his eyes tightly at the intrusion.
"Say it," he whispered, pulling at his bindings.
"Demadesco," said Ron, and though he couldn't see the result, he was certain from Malfoy's pleased moan that indeed the spell had worked. He began to remove his wand from Malfoy's arse, but the blond clenched around it.
"There's one more. Spell. For…stretching."
Ron tried in vain to keep from smiling; one corner of his mouth kept twitching upwards.
"What is it?"
"'Protendo'. But you have to put the wand…ahh. There."
Ron tried again to remove his wand after he'd cast the spell, but Malfoy stopped him again.
"Er…" Ron turned a little pink at this. "I never…I mean, girls usually take care of that sort of thing, don’t they?"
"There aren't any girls here, Weasley, or haven't you noticed?"
"Er. Right." As Ron felt his blush deepen, he reminded himself once again that he was in control. He repeated the protection spells after Malfoy, but in a louder and more forceful voice, as if that somehow made everything all right in his mind.
Ron removed the tip of his wand from Malfoy's arse, deliberately not looking at it. He moved forward, placing his wand on the bedside table, making sure it was out of Malfoy's reach. He finally took off his boxer shorts and lobbed them behind him in the general direction of where he thought his clothes probably were.
Malfoy spread his legs wider as Ron settled himself between them and pressed the tip of his cock to Malfoy's ready hole. He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, only to open them wide a moment later when his cock was finally inside Malfoy, sheathed in warm wetness tighter and more alive-feeling than any girl he'd ever fucked before. He pulled back slowly, savouring the way Malfoy clutched around him, and let out a soft hiss as he pushed back in.
"God…" Ron was lost for words. He moved carefully, deliberately, fucking Malfoy at a maddeningly slow speed. He wanted to go faster, and every fibre of his being was urging him to do so, but he just couldn't, not yet, not when there was so much already, such bizarrely intimate, amazing contact.
He pressed himself to Malfoy once more, craving again the feeling of body on body, still fucking him, but a little bit faster now as he felt Malfoy's cock rubbing against his own stomach, small and hard and leaking precome.
"D'you want to touch yourself?" he asked between grunts and laboured breaths, and was answered only by a pained moan. "You do, don't you? Feels good when I—unh, god, Malfunhhh!—when I fuck, you, like, this—makes you want to touch yourself, makes, makes, makes—"
He was repeating himself, and in some part of his mind, he knew it, but all attempts at coherence were useless now, for Ron had found a rhythm, had found what felt the best, and he was so close to coming that he didn't care about anything else at all.
"Been too long," he managed through gritted teeth, "Gotta…gonna…fuck!" And he was coming hard inside Malfoy, filling him with the come that he'd been aching to release, letting himself fall through the screaming solitary silence of orgasm until he collapsed onto Malfoy, who all the time had been pushing up, up for contact with Ron's stomach. When Ron fell onto him, Malfoy keened loudly and came, and the sticky spread of his seed in between their bodies only barely registered with Ron as he descended into sleep.
The Portkey Station was nearly deserted at this late hour. Ron nodded his thanks to the witch at the ticket window and trudged down the corridor towards the departure gates. He rechecked the slip of parchment the witch had given him in exchange for his galleon and twelve sickles. It read "Gate C3, 10:59 p.m. Biscuit tin. One Passenger. Seven Sisters, London."
He reached Gate C3, a small, shabby, white cubicle exactly like all the other gates, with two minutes to spare. He fed the slip of parchment to the slot in the wall to the right of the gate, and a spotlight shone inside, illuminating a rather banged-up biscuit tin.
Ron stepped inside the gate, his case in one hand, and picked up the biscuit tin in the other. He barely had time to notice the triple W logo on the lid of the tin, grinning weakly at the unexpected appearance of something so connected to his family, before he was spinning, the world blurred before him, on his way to the Seven Sisters Portkey Station. Ron hated travelling by Portkey. It always made him nauseous.
It was only a short walk from the station to the flat that Ron occupied alone, and he thought the night air might clear his head a bit.
Bone-weary, chilled, and mildly regretting the decision to walk, Ron reached his building, climbed the staircase which seemed to have grown taller since that morning, and finally entered his flat. The WWN was playing in the kitchen—odd, since he didn't remember having left the radio on, but the morning seemed so far away at that point that anything was possible, really.
Ron shook his head and hung up his cloak, placing his case upon the small table just inside the door. He wondered if he would make it as far as the bedroom and was pondering just sleeping on the sofa, when there came a sudden crash and muffled curse from the kitchen. Ron whipped around, senses flaring, and tore his wand from his robes.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
A moment later, a sheepishly grinning Harry emerged from the kitchen, a broken teacup in one hand, his wand in the other.
"Sorry, mate. I didn't hear you come in. Didn't mean to scare you. I was on my way out and stopped to see if you wanted to come along. Your case was gone so I reckoned you were still at work, and I thought I'd have some tea while I waited for you. Then I broke this—" Harry waved the teacup in Ron's direction "—and I was just about to fix it when I heard you. I'm sorry I broke it, I just—"
Harry was chattering far too cheerfully, and Ron cut him off with a wave of his hand. "'Sallright," he muttered, collapsing onto the sofa.
"You look tired, mate," said Harry, finally taking notice of Ron's condition, "Who'd you have tonight?"
"Malfoy," said Ron, lying back and flinging an arm over his eyes.
"What kept you so late, though? I thought he was co-operating lately."
Ron momentarily considered fabricating an elaborate lie, but, in his exhaustion, settled for a (greatly) modified version of the truth.
"I had to restrain him. Stupid little bloody bugger was asking for it."
"Huh," remarked Harry disappointedly, "Guess you're not much in the mood for the pub, then?"
"Not in the slightest. I'm fucking knackered, mate." Ron hadn't moved; his arm still covered his eyes. His boots were horribly uncomfortable, but he hadn't the energy at the moment to sit up and take them off. And he really, really wished Harry would just shut up and go away and leave him to himself.
"Go ahead, Harry. Maybe tomorrow night. I'll owl you in the morning, okay?"
"Right. Have a lie-in tomorrow, all right? You look a mess." Harry chuckled as he reached the door. "Can't wait to read your report on Monday. I love it when you get to fuck with Malfoy."
And with that, Harry was gone.
Ron grimaced. Shit. His report. He'd meant to detour to the office on his way home to complete and file it, but, overcome with all that had happened that night, he had forgotten.
"Bugger all," he decided aloud, "I'll file it tomorrow morning." Ron absolutely despised the idea of going into the office on weekends, but it was definitely the more appealing alternative at the moment.
At least he could finish his report now, though, so that he could just pop in, file it, and pop right back home again in the morning. Ron sat up, Summoned his case, and extracted the final page of the Official Report of Parolee Activity, Form 129-6Z, a blank sheet but for the header and instructions: Notes from Parole Auror (include arrival and departure times, health and appearance of Parolee, unusual activity, etc.)
Fifteen minutes later, Ron was reasonably certain that he had created a believable report, accounting for every moment he had spent at Malfoy's home. Satisfied, he put the form away and closed his case with a sigh of relief.
As he undressed in his bedroom, far simpler and smaller than the last one in which he'd been naked, Ron finally allowed himself to reflect on everything he had omitted from his report.
He had slept for a good thirty minutes and, according to Malfoy, had snored rather loudly. It had been an odd awakening, Malfoy's small, sticky body beneath him, still bound to the bed.
"It's about bloody time," the blond had sneered, "You sleep like the dead." Ron peeled his body from Malfoy's and spoke the countercharm to free Malfoy's wrists. He immediately turned to find his clothes, not looking at the man on the bed whom he had just buggered senseless.
The two men had dressed in silence, Ron with his back to Malfoy, and then descended the stairs together. When they reached the front door, Ron collected his cloak and his case and stood awkwardly for a moment.
"What is it?" asked Malfoy, his voice harsh and jarring after long moments of silence.
"I, er…" Ron wasn't exactly sure what it was he needed at that moment. Closure, certainly, of some sort, but nothing that sprang immediately to mind seemed even remotely appropriate.
"What do you want?" asked Malfoy again, his eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted into a smirk. "Waiting for a kiss goodnight? You'll be waiting a while, I'm afraid."
And that was it. That was what was missing, but Ron didn't want to kiss Malfoy, and once he realised that he didn't want the thing that was missing, it was all right.
"Funny, Malfoy," he managed finally, "My rules, remember?" Ron turned to Apparate, and just before he did, he looked back over his shoulder at the still-smirking blond.
"See you next week, Malfoy."
When Ron Apparated into the mostly-empty Portkey Station, he walked directly up to the nearest ticket window.
"Where're you headed, dearie?" asked the old blue-haired witch behind the window, setting down her book of Rearranging Crosswords.
Ron looked at her for a strangely long moment before he found his voice.
"Home," he replied, "I'm going home."