It wasn't until after the War had come to its decisive and shockingly brief end that Draco truly knew the taste of fear. Terror he had experienced, certainly, the kind that had banished him to crouch over bushes or even in his own bathroom, dry heaving because there was nothing left in his stomach to get rid of. He'd lived with a gnawing dis-ease and panic during his sixth year, as well as the endless frightening days in the Manor the following year while the Dark Lord and those on his side had spent their time planning the demise of Potter and the Order and everyone associated with them. During the fighting itself he'd been too dizzy and strung out on adrenaline and self-preservation to actually feel the horror behind every running step he took. The thundering roar in his ears had overshadowed even Potter's rescue from the all-consuming Fiendfyre and Crabbe's death and the bowels-churning realisation he might never see the sun rise again.

It was only later, in the relative hush of the Hogwarts Great Hall when he looked at his bedraggled, cowering parents that the faintest trickle of fear began its relentless seeping into his body and spirit. Again and again, he relived the moment of pleading with the Death Eater, seeing him rendered helpless by an invisible attacker. He felt the blow to his own face and heard the unmistakable voice of his saviour. Being rescued by Ronald Weasley was perhaps the most frightening thing of all; that and the fact that he wanted to thank him. And then belt him in the jaw for having settled, unasked and certainly unwelcome, into his memories. Weasley's irate yell had been the catalyst that had propelled him onward so that he now found himself alive, and utterly uncertain as to why.

He didn't deign to talk to Weasley at the few ceremonies that they both attended, though Draco did find himself having a lengthy conversation with Potter at one point. He'd thanked Potter for coming back for Gregory and himself when he could easily have left them both for dead.

"You didn't positively identify us when we'd been captured and brought to the Manor," Potter reminded him earnestly. He seemed full of good will and magnanimity now that Voldemort was dead and he spent nearly every waking minute with the Weasley girl.

No, he didn't seek Weasley out. Instead, Ron cornered him away from the crowd after a memorial banquet held on the ruined Hogwarts grounds, pushing Draco against an unforgiving slab of granite, his blue eyes blazing.

"You shouldn't have lived, you spineless bastard," he growled.

Draco's blood pounded in his head before traitorously sinking to throb between his legs. "Too late now," he snarled in return, trying to jerk his arms away.

The wrongness of being turned on by Weasley having him shoved against a wall made his head spin, but he forced himself not to let Weasley know. "Unless you're going to take me out right here. No one's watching— I'm sure you've thought about it. Go ahead," he spat, clinging to his dignity. He jutted out his chin as though he really thought Weasley would hold his wand to his neck and make Draco beg for his life. The scalding fear that Draco really had nothing to live for, nothing to aspire to, and that his prick was practically jumping out of his pants, hoping Weasley would grind against it, frissoned across his skin and came out of him in hot huffs of air.

Weasley's expression changed from loathing to confusion, his gaze eventually raking down Draco's face from his eyes to his slightly open lips. He seemed mesermised for a moment until something inside of him righted itself and his more usual defiant, smug look reasserted itself onto his features.

"'Course I've thought about it," he said menacingly, gripping Draco's wrists in a bruising hold. "Missed two perfectly good opportunities, thanks to Harry."

"So are you always going to do what he tells you to?" Draco sneered, feeling a triumphant jolt as the barb hit its mark. They were eighteen years old, but goading Weasley was still as easy as when they were eleven. He needed to get away, needed to hit him, needed something to happen so they were no longer nearly nose to nose, sharing the same potent air between their open mouths. Draco had resigned himself to the fact that he fancied men, though he didn't know quite how to cope with that. That self-knowledge was nothing compared to discovering that being trapped by a furious Ron Weasley was the most potent sexual maelstrom he'd ever experienced.

"No, Malfoy. I'm my own man," Weasley said in a low voice, glaring at him. Despite the animosity, Draco could tell that Weasley was suffering a similar agonising awareness that caused him to loosen his grip on Draco's aching wrists.

"Prove it," Draco said daringly, hoping beyond hope that whatever the punishment Weasley dealt out didn't involve kneeing him in the balls, which is what he'd do were their situations reversed. Or would he?

"I've lost my fucking mind," Weasley muttered as he bridged the gap, artlessly mashing his lips against Draco's, his tongue commandeering the kiss as Draco's own tongue surged into the fiery cavern of Weasley's mouth. The stubble on Weasley's jaw scraped Draco's skin as he kissed back with all of the ferocity he had until Weasley pulled back, panting. His expression was a shifting kaleidoscope of shock, desire and revulsion, his gaze boring into Draco's as though Draco somehow possessed an answer as to why in Hades they were snogging against a crumbling Hogwarts parapet.

"Why?" Weasley croaked before Draco leaned up, capturing his mouth again as though Ron were an oasis and Draco a dying man in the desert.

Their kiss grew less frenzied and more exploratory until Weasley forced himself back. He stumbled away from Draco with a look of profound bewilderment that normally Draco would have considered laughable. Now he himself was stunned, his chin raw from the copper hairs glinting on Weasley's jaw. As he cleared his throat, Draco wondered why his world had chosen this day to shatter into countless incomprehensible pieces, and he damned Weasley for being the cause. The thought of spending even another second around Weasley was unbearable. The Granger girl would show up, or Draco's common sense would return and be mortified, and he'd still be standing there with desperation in his eyes and an erection straining against his dress slacks.

"I have no fucking idea," Draco said hoarsely, shoving past Weasley with a bruising slam to the shoulder. He stormed off, his mind whirling like a typhoon as he let his feet guide him. After a time he found himself in a neglected loo where, in another lifetime, he'd poured out his heart to the ghost of a girl. Staring at his disbelieving face in the mirror, Draco took in his wild eyes and puffy lips, and realised he didn't recognise himself. Wrenching away from the porcelain, he pondered the only plan of action that made any sense at all.

He fled.

* * * * *

Wizarding London seemed positively spacious compared to Osaka when Draco returned, a little over three years after he'd run from the clutches of his homeland. He'd managed to take out enough of his inheritance from Gringott's before spiriting halfway around the world, so he'd not been forced to work. Still, he'd not been idle, either, learning to the play the slow-moving Muggle sport of golf, fine-tuning his tracking spells so that he wasn't easily found, and indulging in a panoply of erotic exploration that had eventually made him long for home. With his nearly white hair and sharp features, he stood out wherever he went, and he was always a favourite at every house of indulgence that he decided to enter. An avowed sensualist, he was surprised at how long it took him to discover that he got off on being bound. He never felt so free — ironically, so in control and unafraid — when tied up, especially in the complicated restraints of shibari.

And yet, for the parade of almond-eyed men with skin as pale as his whose bodies Draco shared intimately during his self-imposed exile, one man continued to haunt him. It happened most often when he was alone, wanking as he looked out into the sparkling sea of lights from his apartment window. He would close his eyes, and imagine a much larger, sturdy hand on his prick, fantasise the feeling of a growled rumble of possessive noise against the back of his neck. Continuing to think about Weasley at all was a depraved sickness, but Draco couldn't seem to will it away. When news reached him that his mother had come down with Bloodcurdle, he considered that to be the sign he should return home, though he gave himself permission to return to Japan at any point.

He arranged to rent a temporary room in London as he had no wish ever to live at the Manor again. A family Healer from France had been summoned and was staying with Narcissa; the Malfoys had never trusted the staff at St. Mungo's. In the few days it had taken Draco to pack up his life and return to England, she had recovered tremendously, though Draco was still shaken at how frail she appeared as he sat by her bed.

"You're not leaving again anytime soon, are you?" she pleaded with him, and Draco shook his head.

"No, mother."

Disapproval shone in her eyes despite his assurance that he was back for some time. "Your father and I could have used your assistance when the Ministry came to go through our things," she chastised. "So many family heirlooms are now locked away— and they seized well over half of our financial assets."

"But we're not poor," Draco clarified, holding his mother's china-like hand in his, caressing her fingers with the pad of his thumb.

"No, thank Merlin," she said with bite in her voice. "We'll never be that. Though I am worried about my legacy, Draco."

He couldn't help it, but he quailed under her piercing gaze. "I want you to look at me and tell me I have no reason to fear any dark-haired, half-foreign children showing up on my doorstep in seventeen years' time, or at any time," she said sternly.

A flush threatened to rise from the base of Draco's throat at the implication, and how far off the mark she was in her worries. "No, mother, you don't need to worry about that at all. I was very careful."

He knew better than to imply that he'd been celibate, but he also didn't wish to get into a discussion about the fact that the kind of sex he engaged in would never produce an heir, bastard or otherwise. Lingering questions and her need for reassurance hung heavily in the disquiet between them, but Draco remained mute. It was only a matter of time before she and his father would begin a ceaseless, one-sided dialogue about Draco settling down with the right witch. The only reason he'd been spared thus far, he was sure, was due to shock that rivaled his own in that they'd survived the War at all, much less that they'd not been personally escorted by Aurors to an Apparition point and told that returning to England would equate to a lifelong sentence in Azkaban.

After a time, her eyelids began to droop, and the Healer gave Draco a look that he knew to mean that he should let his mother get more rest. He squeezed her hand, turning it over and kissing the palm before he stood up.

"I'm so glad that you're recovering as quickly as you are," he said unreservedly. She'd told him what she had done, lying to the Dark Lord about Potter's death, all so that she could be reunited with her dearest, most beloved son. Draco had been absolutely astonished at her brazen courage, and it pained him with deep agitation that he was going to disappoint her so absolutely. But he would not marry, and refused to be bullied into it, even though he knew it would break her heart. At least he was alive, and maybe as the years went on, she would soften to the idea of an heir outside of conventional society. Though he highly doubted that.

"As am I. Please come and visit again in a few days," she said as the Healer busied himself with some potions at a small table nearby.

Draco agreed, taking his leave and heading outside without passing his father's office. He decided to go and take a walk, to reacquaint himself with the still strange-seeming verdant parks and leaden skies which used to be so familiar. After buttoning up his coat against the chill, he Apparated from the Manor grounds to a spot near Regent's Park. It was a relief to blend in as he was no longer instantly perceived as a foreigner, and he was content to watch the Muggles going about their day. At a small deli he bought a sandwich, crisps and drink, having become used to keeping a certain amount of Mugge currency on him. He took his food to a bench and ate it, chewing quietly as he observed with relative disinterest the mini dramas and happenings around him, decidedly not returning the pointed look from a pair of women as they passed.

An approaching tall bloke with ginger hair did pique his gaze, much to his chagrin. Weasley's distinctive colouring had managed to brand itself into Draco's psyche, and the rarity of red-haired people in Japan had only fueled his impulse to give them a second look. The man coming down the footpath had a young child riding on his shoulder, with another companion of shorter stature and a messy shock of black hair. Draco's tuna salad turned to clay in his mouth when the two men and boy drew close enough for him to see their features clearly. He didn't care about the impish smile beneath the pair of green eyes, but Draco choked, coughing and drawing deep breaths as he looked at the child now riding on the redhead's shoulders, his small hands clasped across the freckled expanse of Weasley's forehead.

"Malfoy?" Potter asked incredulously, stopping a few feet away. He tilted his head, staring, as though examining a new broom in a shop window.

"Still patron saint of the obvious, I see," Draco wheezed before taking a long swallow of lemon squash in an effort to clear his throat.

"Where've you been? You just vanished!" he went on excitedly as Draco took in Weasley's tall form and equally stunned expression.

Draco's lunch began to feel less like nourishment and more like lumpy rocks as he looked at the bushy-haired boy astride Weasley's shoulders. Apparently he and Granger had wasted absolutely no time in propagating the Weasley line, though dwelling on that thought for any period of time made him feel ill.

"Not that it's any of your business," Draco retorted once he could breathe freely again, "but I've been in Japan. Osaka." He forced his gaze to focus steadily on Weasley as he lifted his child up and over his head to place him gently on the ground. "Though I've obviously not been nearly as busy as some people."

Weasley's brows furrowed as he stood back up and shook his head. "You've been—" he began until the child tugged on the leg of his jeans, distracting him. "This is—" Again he shook his head, resembling an Irish setter with an irritating insect that refused to leave it alone. "Teddy," he said, talking to the child, "this man is Draco Malfoy. You're related to him, but I don't know exactly how."

"I'm what?!" Malfoy asked, flabbergasted. He stood up from the bench, his gaze darting from Weasley to the brown-haired child and then over to Potter, whose expression was still one of bemusement.

"First cousins, once removed," Potter said authoritatively, quite pleased with himself. "Teddy, your mum was Malfoy's cousin, so you're first cousins, one generation apart."

Draco gaped, the pieces sluggishly falling into place. "He's not," he said, jabbing his finger at the child while regarding Weasley's befuddled expression. "He's not yours?"

"Mine?" Weasley asked, his eyes widening. "No way! I mean, I love him, but Teddy is Tonks' and Lupin's child. He's Harry's godson."

It was too overwhelming, seeing Weasley after three years, simply strolling down the footpath in Regent's Park, Draco thinking he'd already had a child, only to discover to his tremendous relief that wasn't true. Instead, he was actually related to the rather scared-looking child now being comforted by Potter, who'd squatted down and was whispering something meant to be soothing into his ear.

"You mean to say that the werewolf had a son?" Draco said slowly. He was only too able to relive that moments of mortification when the Dark Lord had told his family and the Death Eaters present that his former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and his outcast cousin were married. "But he was killed. How—"

"Teddy was born during the War, obviously," Weasley snapped, though his anger appeared to be short-lived. "And he's not a werewolf, but he knows that only a few werewolves are bad, don't you?" he asked the boy. Teddy nodded, still clutching Potter's tracksuit jacket.

Potter ran his hand through the child's molasses-coloured hair, and Draco noticed the band of gold on his ring finger. No doubt he'd settled down with Weasley's sister; they might already have children of their own. That image set his innards back into an uncomfortable churning.

"Say, Malfoy, do you wanna go get a drink or something?" Weasley asked, fidgeting with the leather band on his watch and seeming almost nervous. "You don't mind, do you, Harry?" he continued on. Potter shook his head, looking as baffled as Draco felt.

"Why?" Draco asked, brushing crumbs off of the front of his coat. He picked up the crinkly paper that held the rest of his sandwich, balling it up and shoving it into the paper bag it had come in. "Don't tell me you missed me," he said snidely, wondering where the bite in his voice had wandered off as he sounded more curious than irritated.

"Because I'm thirsty. And maybe I did, or at least wondered where the hell you went," Weasley replied.

Draco let his gaze flicker to Weasley's hands. When he didn't see any similar jewellery to Potter's, he unclenched his jaw. He'd not realised he's been doing so until the ache eased from his teeth. "I don't drink, but all right," he acquiesced, chuckling to himself at the thunderstruck look stamped on Weasley's face. While Weasley got his bearings, Draco decided to introduce himself to this distant relation, even though he doubted they'd see each other very often.

"I'm Draco Malfoy," he stated, leaning down and holding out his hand. The boy bit down on his lip, but at Potter's encouragement, he grasped a hold of Draco's ring and pinkie fingers and shook them. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Don't drink?" Weasley finally spluttered as Draco rose to full height. Disappointingly, even at six feet tall he was still about three inches shorter than Weasley.

"No. Does the offer still stand?" Draco challenged. It was true; he'd chosen not to drink after several unpleasant experiences involving whisky and getting rather maudlin about a certain nemesis who wouldn't stay out of his system. Besides, Draco liked control, and drinking tended to lead him to feeling things he didn't want to.

"Sure. Um, well, see you later, Harry. Teddy, give me a hug, 'kay?" Weasley crouched down, and the child threw his arms around his neck as Weasley talked about the next time they'd get together. "I'll firecall you later on," he said to Potter, who gave Draco a last skeptical glance before shrugging.

"Okay. See you, Malfoy," he said, taking the child's hand.

After a few moments, Draco and Weasley stood alone, Draco wondering why on Circe's tits Weasley wanted to spend time with him. Not that he minded, if he was being honest; he was drinking in the view of Weasley, who'd filled out in the few intervening years. Just smelling him and the faint aroma of pine was enough to add too much realism into Draco's wanking life. They could go somewhere, Weasley could have his drink, Draco would have a smoke or two, and then they needn't see each other again. That was for the best.

"There's a place not far from here," Weasley said, gesturing vaguely.

"Sounds delightful," Draco said sarcastically.

"Look. If you're going to be a prick—"

"I've always been this way. What the fuck's going on with you? Isn't Granger going to have your bollocks for going out to a pub in the middle of the day with someone who used to be your sworn enemy?" Draco seethed, running his hands through his hair and wishing he'd tied it back.

"No; she's not my keeper," Weasley said, bristling. "Like I told you before you just fucking vanished, I'm my own man. Hermione and Harry are my friends, but I don't ask them permission to do things. I actually wrote to you, y'know," he muttered, his tone laced with self-deprecation. "But the owls came back."

"I didn't want to be found," Draco said smoothly, despite his heart beginning to thud more quickly against his ribcage. "What did you write to me about?"

"Look, you may not drink, but I'm desperate for one," Weasley admitted with a small shrug. "Can we walk while we argue, or whatever it is we're doing?"

"Suits me. And I think it's called having a conversation, which is rather unexpected." Draco was surprised at his own candor, but there was something about having been away for a few years that made their childhood animosity seem almost petty. That, or the faint stirring in his groin was persuading him to spend a bit more time with Weasley in the hope that they'd kiss again— or even more than that. Not that Weasley had given any indication that he'd be interested in such a thing, but as they meandered down the footpath, Draco went through their brief exchange and noted that Weasley hadn't brought up a girlfriend.

Once at the pub of Weasley's choice, they sat down across from each other at a booth, both taking off their overcoats. Weasley ordered a pint of something, while Draco asked for tea. He rummaged around his coat pocket until he found his cigarettes and lighter, lighting one before even thinking to offer the pack to Weasley.

"No thanks. Since when do you smoke?" he asked, appearing genuinely startled at Draco's habit.

"Since a couple of years ago." He took a deep drag, courteously blowing the smoke off to the side.

Weasley ingested that bit of trivia before seeming to come to a resolution inside himself. Draco breathed deeply on his fag, wondering what on Merlin's green earth was going to come out of the other man's mouth. He braced himself for something insensitive and unpleasant.

"I'm afraid I'm going to sound like a bit of a nancy," Weasley said apologetically before taking a deep pull off of his pint.

All of a sudden he just stared at Draco, who used every shred of self-restraint not to pat around the top of his head and make sure he'd not sprouted horns. Instead, he took another drag from his cigarette, returning Weasley's intense look. It gave him an opportunity to recognise just how handsome Weasley had become as a young man and how he, Draco, had again fallen for his physicality with total surrender as that fateful night over three years ago.

"It's really you, right?" Weasley asked, sounding terribly unsure of himself and not at all as Draco remembered him.

"It's really me, what?" Draco replied, exasperated and angry with himself because the fear was returning. It scared him to want Weasley like this. He wanted to need him, which could only lead to bad things like broken trust. He'd imagined this man knowing every inch of him, binding him and bringing him to that exquisite line between pleasure and pain, and Weasley couldn't even get out a single thought.

"Right." Weasley pulled himself together and took another swig before barreling on, newly galvanised. "I think I hated you after that night, after that banquet."

"You hated me for years before that night," Draco reminded him, tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette into the ashtray on their table.

"Don't interrupt," Weasley said, glowering. "This is really fucking hard to say."

"Apparently." Draco couldn't resist the jibe, though it felt tinny on his lips.

"I wanted you more than I hated you," Weasley said in a low voice. "It scared the piss out of me. I mean, what the fuck was that? I liked birds! Or thought I did — but nothing was the same after that. After you. And you'd buggered off. Nobody knew where you'd gone. Nobody who would tell me, anyway. I wrote to you to tell you how much I hated you, and…"

His voice trailed off as his gaze sank to his glass where he drew a pattern in the condensation. After a few seconds, he raised his head, looking Draco in the eye. "I wanted you to come back. If you were going to ruin everything, turn my fucking world inside out and make me question everything, I wanted to know why."

The ensuing thick silence smothered Draco. The pub itself wasn't all that busy, but there was enough ambient noise to convince him people weren't listening in, which was a relief. He didn't have any answers, only a buzzing increase of panic and bruising hope because Weasley seemed to have been affected as profoundly as he had. Which meant that maybe they could get together again. The heat in his groin felt like a furnace and he shifted, pulling down on his trousers so the tightness was less uncomfortable.

"You fancy blokes?" Draco asked carefully, inhaling deeply on his cigarette before putting it out, mashing the stub in a semicircle.

"Apparently." The word dripped with sarcasm, but Draco could sense the rightful fear behind it.

"So what have you done in the meantime?" Draco picked up his tea, burning with self-awareness under Weasley's greedy gaze.

"What've I done? I've become an Auror." Weasley finished his pint and waved over the server, asking for a glass of scotch for his second round. After it had been placed on the table, Draco decided it was time to quit arsing around.

"Weasley," Draco said in what he believed to be a seductive tone. Given his companion's lean toward him, it appeared to be effective. "I didn't mean your career. I meant what have you done to explore this part of yourself? And before you answer, I want to say one other thing." He placed the cup into its saucer, ridiculously pleased that he'd kept his hands from shaking.

"I've been thinking of you while fucking other men for a long time."

He'd waited until Weasley had swallowed to say that, but Weasley managed to choke for a moment nonetheless. "Now that I've seen you again and discovered you've not, in fact, married and reproducing at an alarming rate of speed, I'd very much like to know what it's like actually to be with you. If you're interested."

Weasley's eyes were huge. The relative dim of the pub had encouraged his pupils to widen, and much of the sky blue was swallowed by black. He nodded solemnly before disbelief flooded his features and he tossed back the rest of his potent beverage.

Draco leaned in, pushing his cup and saucer to the centre of the table so the backs of his fingers bumped into Weasley's. "I'm not sentimental, and I don't date. This is about lust and fucking. And I won't let you near my arse if you're drunk, so I'd not order another round, were I you."

"Okay," Weasley said, his voice raspy with something Draco was pretty sure was arousal. "Fair enough."

Draco eased back, picking up his tea and swirling it around before finishing it. "My current apartment is tiny, and not set up for company."

Weasley's face contorted into a mask of embarrassment. "My flat's a fucking mess," he admitted, his eyes seeming to search for something in Draco's expression.

"Perhaps someplace less personal isn't a bad idea," Draco said silkily, running his tongue across his lips and relishing the imperceptible moan Weasley made as he did. "I'll pay, this time. Let's just see how things go. No expectations. But you have done this before, right?"

It was suddenly very important to Draco that he not be Weasley's first foray into queer sex. It would be awkward enough without Weasley fumbling and nervous because he'd never actually fucked a man before. A rosy hue flared at Weasley's neck as he nodded.

"Yeah. I've done my share of that. Not with any one person. I went to Muggle places. They don't seem to care as much."

The flush finally faded from underneath his freckles. Draco tried not to let his imagination run away with him in the public space of the pub, but in his mind he was already tasting each tawny spot and marking the skin as his own.

"Even better." Draco's cock was stiff, his pulse pounding against his skin. The thought of sinking down on Weasley's rigid shaft caused his mouth to water and he had to press his fingers against the corners of his mouth. "Shall we go, then?"

Thankfully it didn't take long for Draco to get a room for the night at a decently plush hotel, using a Muggle credit card he kept for unexpected expenses. He was also absurdly grateful that it was a Saturday and Weasley didn't need to be at work until the day following. As they took the lift, Weasley tapping his fingers into his palms, Draco turned to him with a leer.

"Are you going to tell Potter what you're up to? You did say you'd firecall," he reminded him, feeling a spark of satisfaction at Weasley's discomfiture. Yes, he wanted Weasley desperately; wanted to be fucked until he was sore and have Weasley spread on a healing salve afterwards, but the appeal to humiliate and torment him was still too delicious to resist.

"I don't know. No, I'm not going to tell him," Weasley groused, scowling. "But he's not stupid. He'll know what's going on."

"Hmmmmm."

The lift deposited them on their floor and Draco briskly walked down the corridor, following the arrows to their room. After getting frustrated with the pointless Muggle plastic card, Draco looked swiftly around them and used his wand to cast an Alohamora, enabling their entrance into the room.

Once inside, Draco found himself pushed bodily against the door, his arms held at shoulder height much as they had several years prior. Weasley's face was inscrutable— lust sizzled beneath the surface, but Draco could just tell some noble Gryffindor-like chivalry was trying to demand its place, too.

"Do you really want this? Really want me?" he rumbled, grinding his hard length into Draco's hip. "Did you really mean what you said in the pub, or do you just want to dick about with my feelings and get a fuck out of it on the side?"

Draco pondered the barrage of questions while rolling his hips against Weasley's, revealing his own trapped erection. Rather than answer, he leaned up, flicking out his tongue to trace along the bow shape of Weasley's top lip before devouring his mouth in a possessive kiss. He savoured the heated taste of him, the residual burn of the alcohol, the fact that their tongues sliding in a sensual dance made his cock so hard it pained him.

He drew back, needing to catch his breath, but also wanting to give Weasley some honest answers. "Yes, I want you. I really, really want this," Draco emphasised, dragging his hands down and grabbing Weasley's arse through far too many layers of fabric. "I won't intentionally mess with your feelings, but if you're hoping this will be some grand romance, I'll just remind you that I'm Draco Malfoy."

Weasley was trying to catch his own breath, and he gave Draco a hard look. It surprised Draco; for all of Weasley's bravado, he'd always seemed like a hanger-on and follower, and someone who would go overboard with sentimental tripe if given half the chance. His gaze was disconcertingly familiar— it was calculated.

"Well, you said no expectations," Weasley murmured, easing his grip on Draco's arms to unbutton his coat and slide his hands down to cup Draco's arse. "I've thought about you, too, while I was, um, trying things out. But I'm my own man."

"So you've said," Draco observed, knowing Weasley could hear the implied 'so prove it' which remained unspoken.

"And I don't know how to date," Weasley went on, "not really. I think it'd bloody stupid to say we'd never do so—"

At that Draco thrust their hips together, reminding Weasley that they were together after these years to shag, not talk. Even if the idea of seeing Weasley on a semi-regular basis wasn't nearly as offensive as it should be.

"Look; don't treat me like shite, and I won't buy you flowers," Weasley growled before bringing their bodies together with a jerk and burying his face into the sensitive skin behind Draco's ear.

Draco moaned at the contact; he wanted out of his clothes and on the bed and Weasley's cock in his mouth and he wanted it NOW. "Deal," he gasped, baring his neck as Weasley kissed and sucked hard, no doubt leaving a lilac trail of bruises as he nipped down the column of skin.

The need for words had passed. Weasley's technique wasn't as clumsy as Draco had feared, though it was very different from the ritualised couplings and triplings that Draco had become used to in Japan. Without much preamble they undressed each other. Weasley cast a silencing charm and laid himself out on the bed, refreshingly at ease in his nudity and even seemingly proud at putting himself out on display. He'd filled out quite a bit since the War, and Draco planned to indulge in every contour and valley of his toned topography. Draco wasn't in bad shape himself; golf wasn't exactly a workout, but he'd also taken up swimming. From the appreciative fires smouldering in Weasley's gaze, Draco felt even more assured.

"C'mere," Weasley demanded, his thick cock bobbing up from its thatch of auburn curls.

It was ridiculous how untroubled Draco felt about crawling on top of Weasley's body; how his blood sang wildly as it coursed through him, all of his senses howling in a chorus of raging desire. He kissed and suckled down Weasley's chest and abdomen, discovering that unlike himself, Weasley actually enjoyed having his nipples teased and tortured with his teeth. Crouched over his prize, Draco inhaled deeply of musk and dry leaves captured in the sweaty realm between Weasley's legs. Saliva rushed into his mouth as he eased back the foreskin, sucking gently around the crimson head. His tongue darted out to the slit, tasting the vinegarsweet fluid like a hummingbird darting into a favourite flower.

Giving head was a skill Draco had spent hours honing. He loved the soft flesh over steel in his mouth, and Weasley's waves of moans and praise made Draco's heart batter happily in his chest. He didn't know why it was so important to please his former enemy, but he did owe Weasley a life debt. That brought Potter to mind, an image which he banished with distaste. Instead, he focussed on widening his jaw, feeling the dome of Weasley's prick at the back of his throat.

"Oh gods, fuck Draco," Weasley chanted again and again until his sounds became tinged with distress. He tugged on Draco's hair, pulling him off. Draco had been so single-minded in his euphoric task that it took him a few seconds of looking at Weasley's yearning expression to realise he'd been called by his first name. It seemed presumptuous — unthinkable, really — but he didn't press the point, not when he was moments away from one of his many fantasies actually coming to life.

"Don't want to come yet," Weasley said plaintively.

"I don't want you to either," Draco agreed, slowly taking himself in hand and rewarding his neglected cock with some friction against his palm. "Though we have all afternoon. And night." He felt the side of his lip curl in anticipation of hours of this kind of activity.

"Do you usually—" Weasley got up onto his elbows and Draco found himself utterly captivated. Despite himself, Draco knew he'd stumbled and was now sliding helplessly down the slope of caring for him. This was just supposed to be about sex. They'd been at each other's throats in school, the passionate anger undeniable. Now the feral attraction remained, but the bite to it had transformed into the raw need to join, not rip apart.

"I prefer to be fucked," Draco said casually. He suspected his bluntness would make Weasley blush. To his credit, it didn't.

"We're a good match, then," he said, a wicked grin of his own easing onto his lips. "You've no idea how many times I've thought about this, and wondered when exactly I'd obviously gone mad," he said with a small snort.

He stroked his prick while Draco Accio'ed his wand to cast a cleansing spell inside his body. All of a sudden he realised a necessary element he'd certainly not thought to put in his coat pocket before going to the Manor to visit his mother. That meeting seemed like a lifetime ago, but he still needed some lubricant.

"I'll bet you never thought of us being this close to your cock in my arse with no lube lying about," Draco sighed heavily. Fuck. There were spells, of course, but he really preferred his own slick, a tea tree oil-infused viscous potion he made himself.

"I'm not bad at spellwork for that," Weasley said unabashedly. "It's not as good as some others, but I really, really don't want to stop now. Next time we'll plan ahead," he promised. He held out his arm, fanning his fingers across Draco's sternum in a gesture that caused tears to prick rebelliously at Draco's eyes.

Draco nodded, not trusting his voice, or really any part of himself, aside from the muscles of his channel. They were clenching and loosening, so very ready to be stretched and filled. Weasley conjured enough lubricant to effectively cover his prick, offering to use his fingers to coat the inside of Draco's entrance as well.

"Just want to ride you," Draco said hoarsely. He loved being rimmed if the other person got into it, but he didn't like being fingered unless faced with someone of extraordinary girth.

"Fuck, Draco…" Weasley held his palms up as though to hold Draco's hands, but Draco wanted them on the bed for leverage. "Kiss me, first."

Draco couldn't resist the entreaty. His whole body was taut, nerves sparking in anticipation of feeling Weasley slide inside of him, but the unhindered desire in his new lover's kiss took away some of the edge. Their tongues parried, delving into each other's open mouths with newly learned skill.

"Now," Draco said at last, scooting back and positioning himself over the glistening shaft. He felt the familiar and yet unique seasons of burning heat and muscles pushed apart until he was fully seated, squeezing around Weasley's cock as Weasley let out a barked moan of pleasure.

"So fucking good, and tight, hot, oh gods, Draco, so fucking good…" Weasley babbled in a low voice.

Draco was in his own world where all of his sensations had shrunk to the fullness deep below his guts, rising up and down at a heightening pace until his thighs burned at the effort. Weasley was panting and swearing, eventually holding Draco's hips and pulling him down so Draco lay on top of him.

"We're rolling over," he growled.

Though Draco had somehow known he'd respond, a part of him was livid that he complied so readily, and so eagerly. He held his thighs tightly around Weasley's hips as they switched positions. Once Draco was on his back, Weasley leaned down, kissing him with renewed vigour as Draco wrapped his legs around his lover's waist.

"You feel amazing," Weasley said raggedly, pulling out only to slam back into Draco's willing body.

"Fuck, Weasley," Draco groaned, the low fire building again in the stretched muscles of his arse. His feet bumped against the expanse of skin at the base of Weasley's spine as his thrusting regained its deep barrage into Draco's body. Moans and wounded sounds tumbled out of Draco's lips; one arm he threw over his head, sparing a brief thought for one of his silk ropes, his other hand anchored around his throbbing shaft.

Weasley was sublime. He shifted his positioning and began rubbing past the nerves deep inside Draco and he let out a burst of profanity. His hand pistoned on his shaft, his eyes locked on Weasley's, falling further and further into his wild gaze. When Weasley's brow furrowed and he began making rough, pained gasps, Draco knew he was close to coming and tried to squeeze more around him.

The thrusts stopped and Weasley's mouth hung open, sounds of broken relief punctuating the room as Draco felt his cock pulse far inside of him. He'd wondered whether his new lover would be loud or quiet, and he was gratified that Weasley gave his pleasure voice.

Still panting, Weasley lowered his head before returning his attentions to Draco. "What about you?" he asked, licking his dry lips.

"Stay in me," Draco said. Weasley rolled his hips a bit, still hard, at least for a short time. Draco resumed his frantic pulling on his cock, the over-sensitised flesh making indecent squelching sounds as he stroked himself.

"Let go," Weasley said. "Come for me."

The low purr in his voice was enough to take Draco to his edge and crash far beyond. He shut his eyes as the tension roiled up from the tightness in his sacs, bursting out of him in creamy rivulets on his stomach. Flashes of black and white fireworks danced behind his eyes and his shaft jerked in his hand as aftershocks continued to assault him. Subdued normalcy finally drifted around him and he opened his eyes to see a beatific grin gracing Weasley's face.

"Better?"

"I'm the best," Draco retorted before snorting in his blissful post-fabulous-orgasm haze.

"I'm certainly not complaining." Weasley eased out of Draco and he lay down beside him, brushing some of the damp fringe off of Draco's forehead. "In fact, that may well be the most memorable sex I've ever had."

A thousand cutting remarks clustered on Draco's tongue— he couldn't help it. He wasn't a warm cuddly person or lover. Weasley captivated him, but he wasn't a bloody girl and he wasn't about to let Weasley know that the shag had been pretty amazing. Not yet, anyway. Most of the bruises he'd find on himself were intentional; Weasley hadn't flailed around as Draco had first anticipated.

"I've done worse," Draco said, wiping his sticky hand on his thigh before reaching across Weasley's pelvis to hold a firm arsecheek.

"Pretty sparing with the compliments, eh?" Weasley joked, leaning in to press a small barrage of chaste kisses on Draco's lips.

"Just leaving the door open for improvement."

Weasley groaned, shaking his head as Draco shifted out of their embrace and eased off of the bed. "You're a piece of work, but I guess I— fuck! You have a—" He gestured at Draco who stood, confused, holding his wand.

"A what?" he asked before casting a cleansing spell on himself and Weasley, now pointing excitedly at him.

"A tattoo! But you were always so prissy."

"If you want to keep having mind-blowing sex, I'd stop there with your juvenile assumptions about me," Draco threatened, defiantly raising up his chin. "Yes, I have a tattoo. But it's unique." He turned so his back was to Weasley, and he peered over his shoulder, but the angle was awkward. "What's he doing?"

"Doing? It's… well… cleaning its claws. No, ruffling out its wings. You do know his tail is pointing straight down to your—"

"It's a sexual tattoo," Draco said with no small amount of pride. "Paid a fair amount of galleons for it, too. Scorpius will fade pretty soon. He only appears if I'm really turned on. Otherwise my skin is as flawless as ever. Well, except for this, of course." He turned back around, tracing the faded but visible jagged scar from Potter's Sectumsempra.

"Did you get into really kinky stuff? Sexually?" Weasley's naïve curiosity was almost endearing, but Draco had no intention of giving away his profound desires the first time they shagged. Maybe never.

"Things you wouldn't even dream of," Draco taunted in a sultry voice before turning businesslike. "I need a smoke. Fuck! I didn't even ask to get a room with a balcony— oh, thank Merlin." A quick glance at the sliding glass doors across from their bed revealed a small balcony. He thoroughly enjoyed his cigarettes, but he despised the lingering smell. Even his advanced spellwork couldn't seem to totally eradicate it, so he smoked outdoors.

"May I join you?" Weasley asked, unfurling from the bed and stretching up on his toes, his arms pushing up toward the ceiling. Draco really was astonished at how nicely Weasley had turned out. His softening but still heavy cock was a beautiful sight to behold, and the large bollocks hanging behind were an additional pleasant surprise, in all their ginger-furred glory.

"Certainly."

Draco went over to his pile of discarded clothes and pulled on his briefs, slowing when he felt the warmth of Weasley's palm against the small of his back.

"Scorpius?" Weasley asked, and Draco nodded, a smug grin on his face. "He's already fading. Next time I want to be behind you, to see what else he does."

Draco turned, a prurient, closed-lipped smile on his lips. "A little later on, then. I suspect he'll enjoy the attention."

* * * * *

Weasley sent him an owl on Wednesday. Draco could only shake his head when he saw the overactive, agitated little owl, hovering around him before settling on a chair back and hooting importantly at him. The parchment Draco took off the owl's leg had to be from Weasley; he'd have recognised anyone else's note carrier, and this one seemed only too suited for the sixth Weasley son. He padded into the spacious kitchen of the flat he was now renting, having made finding his own place the highest priority since he and Weasley had parted ways late Sunday morning. He'd also told himself he'd wait for Weasley to make the first post-shag contact, though if he were honest, he knew he would've buckled had he not heard anything by Friday. Weasley had spared him that, and with a sense of relief, he gave the excitable owl a few small tidbits of uncooked sirloin. The owl gobbled them up with relish, but continued to linger, so Draco assumed it was waiting for a response.

Taking his cup of tea, he walked into the sitting room and sat down at a small mahogany desk. Draco was dreadfully curious as to what Weasley had written; he himself had mulled over all sorts of commentary and discarded all of it well before putting ink to parchment. He and Weasley had — at least sexually — been as perfectly suited and effortless together as fish to water. It made him nervous, how quickly and absolutely he wanted to get together with Weasley again, though he kept trying to convince himself it was only about the sex. That the two of them could get along and have meaningful companionship outside of that, given their history, was highly improbable. The last thing he should do was to add in problematic and potentially devastating things like emotions into the mix. And then there were Draco's truest, most profound desires, involving bondage, trust and dominance, none of which he believed he should share with Weasley anytime soon, if at all.

"But you want to, anyway," he murmured deprecatingly to himself, turning his head in surprise when the small owl hooted in question, flying over to him. "Not yet. I've got to read this first," he said, waving the still rolled up parchment at its wide brown eyes.

He slid off the orange thong, hoping to Merlin he wasn't being invited to a Chudley Cannons match. He wasn't sure that any sex was reward enough to warrant that as punishment first. The scrawl was uneven and printed, but Draco was able to figure out the contents.

DEAR DRACO—

"Again! Using my first name!" Draco thought, incredulous. "Oh well."

I HAD A REALLY WONDERFUL TIME WITH YOU SATURDAY, AND I HOPE THAT YOU FEEL THE SAME. GIVEN OUR PAST, YOU MAY FIND THIS HARD TO BELIEVE, BUT I'M REALLY GLAD YOU'VE COME BACK. I'M ESPECIALLY GLAD YOU JUST HAPPENED TO BE SITTING ON THAT BENCH, AND THAT THINGS WENT ON FROM THERE. I ADMIT THAT I'VE BEEN THINKING OF YOU AND OUR MEMORABLE EVENING A LOT.

"I'll bet you have," Draco said sagely to himself. Given some of the noises and things Weasley had said during the three shagging extravaganzas they'd had from afternoon to night and once again in the morning, nobody had made Weasley feel some of the toe-curling experiences Draco had gifted to him.

I KNOW I'LL ALWAYS HAVE THE MEMORIES, BUT I DON'T WANT THIS TO BE A ONE-OFF, LIKE THREE YEARS AGO.

HARRY'S GOT TICKETS TO THE HARPIES MATCH FRIDAY NIGHT— GINNY'S ON THE TEAM, SO THE SEATS ARE GREAT. THEY'RE PLAYING THE PRIDES AND IT SHOULD BE A PRETTY EXCITING MATCH. PLEASE SEND A REPLY BACK WITH PIG PIGWIDGEON. THE MATCH IS AT 7:00 AT THE STADIUM NEAR SHEFFIELD. YOU COULD COME OVER TO MY PLACE FIRST, SAY AROUND SIX, AND WE CAN GO FROM THERE.

HOPE TO HEAR FROM YOU SOON,

RON

P.S. WHAT COLOGNE DO YOU WEAR? IT SUITS YOU, WHATEVER IT IS.

Draco let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Weasley was fucking smitten with him already. One night of, granted, passionate and marrow-melting sex, and he was mooning over him, even wanting to know what scent he wore. An image of Weasley at a cologne counter, trying to describe the distinctive notes of incense and cypress, traipsed across his mind. A shudder of desire caused gooseflesh to prickle on his arms as he remembered Weasley taking him from behind, curved protectively over him while he slammed relentlessly into his arse, Weasley's face buried against his neck. Yes, Weasley would have had plenty of time to try and commit that scent to memory. He wasn't going to admit it as transparently as Weasley, but Draco knew he'd been infected by his lover's earnestness. Weasley was willing to please, and an erotic powerhouse. Draco's cock twitched at that thought and he scowled. He needed to reply to this note and get on with his day. He could wank later after he'd taken care of his errands.

Opening a drawer, he found a quill and a sepia ink pot. For a moment he chewed on the quill. Of course he'd go, though the idea of an evening with Potter there as well, cheering on his girlfriend, no, wife, didn't excite him. He'd not been to a Quidditch match in over four years, however, and the Prides were a good team. Surely Potter would want to go off for either celebratory or consoling time with her afterwards, and he and Weasley could get down to whatever it was that seemed most appealing. The only element of this that he didn't like was being seen and pointed out; he'd not kept up with many people while living overseas, and that had suited him well. He stood out in a crowd, and he knew it, but at the thought of the opportunity to have Weasley's hard shaft in his mouth again, he decided it'd be a risk worth taking.

Dear

Draco paused. He'd been Weasley all his life, or Weasel, or ginger-haired-Mudblood-loving-bastard. Until that moment when Draco's understanding of Weasley had burst into fragments all around him, and he became… something else. Someone else. He'd signed his note as Ron, and Draco wasn't going to call him Auror Weasley, which he supposed was his proper title. Fine.

Dear Ron,

I was pleasantly surprised to receive your parchment. As it turns out, I do have Friday evening free, and I'd be happy to join you and Potter at the Harpies match. Being in Japan, and of course, the events the year before I left, I've not seen any Quidditch for some time. I'll need to know the location of your flat. Should I bring something to eat?

Until Friday,

Draco Malfoy

In a fit of generosity, he added a postscript.

p.s. Eau des Baux.

He'd not been as effusive as Weasley, but he'd not been standoffish, either. He opened the desk drawer again to get some sealing wax, lighting a small candle in a stand so he could distinctively mark the parchment. A few bulbous pine green blobs fell onto the paper and he took off his signet ring, pressing it into the small mass before it hardened. It was probably going to the Ministry or wherever Weasley's office was, given the time of day. He didn't know whether he shared an office or had his own; he'd not thought to ask that. Something for later, if it came up. Draco retied the note to the owl, who'd been watching his activities with unblinking curiosity, though its body was in a constant state of motion.

"Take that back to Weasley," Draco said, unable to resist running his thumb down the soft feathers of its wing.

After a series of what sounded like hooted hiccoughs, the owl flew in a few circles around the ceiling before zooming out the window.

As it turned out, his day became full of activity. He went to the shops, stocking up on tea and indulging in a pungent brie. A sushi bar enticed him in and he had a delicious sampler, though it couldn't compare to what he'd become used to in Osaka. Feeling oddly homesick for the country that had been his home for several years, he bought a bottle of sake. It wasn't that he'd lied outright to Ron about not drinking; most of the time he didn't, and he'd never been one for ales or other pub standards. But sake on occasion was a succulent treasure, and it had become an integral element to the shibari in which he'd engaged.

Once he returned home he discovered in his sole piece of owl post that he'd been invited — just a shadow's width from commanded — to dinner with his parents that night. It wouldn't be that traumatic, and if he went early in the week, the obligation wouldn't hang over him at the week-end. Plus the Manor did have acres of manicured grounds… With practised efficiency, he put away his groceries, gathered up his golf clubs, and Apparated to the Manor.

He was able to get in nearly two hours of hitting practise before dinner, even sharing some conversation with his father on the modified greensward while Lucius had a pre-dinner cocktail. The topic focussed on the movement of monies and continued disguising of estate ownership, most of the homes in the hands of rather distant relatives or of trusted allies, who were few.

"So what are you going to do, Draco, with your life?" Lucius asked pointedly as Draco summoned the distant golf balls before they headed back to the house. "I know you're still relatively young, but I should hope that you've quite finished with these flights of fancy, living halfway around the world, for Merlin's sake. I do still have connections in Provence and London, though not as I once did."

Anger saturated the last words, though he spoke with far less malice than he had before the War. His father's pride was as intimate and inextricably a part of him as his pale skin and crystal blue eyes, but the constant scrutiny of the Dark Lord's presence for months on end, and his fear that Draco had been killed had tempered his righteous indignation— to a degree.

"I'm not sure yet," Draco answered, placing his bag and clubs gently inside the French doors. "I might take golfing lessons. I don't believe I'm good enough to play professionally, but otherwise I don't know. I may look around at opportunities in the Muggle world, where there's no ridiculous bias against the name Malfoy."

Lucius looked both startled and taken aback. "I didn't mean you needed to work— for money," he said haughtily. "We're not peasants; your mother and I have talked and we are of the same mind in providing you the finances to live on, within reason. You've been surprisingly frugal, actually," he mused as they took their places at the shortened high table. "Though I really don't understand your fascination with that tedious activity you call a sport you've taken up with."

Draco tried not to roll his eyes. Dinner proved to be uneventful, though the topic of when Draco might settle down with an appropriate pureblood witch did rear its head. His father squelched it effortlessly, for which Draco was grateful, though the blatant undertones didn't make him feel any better.

"He shouldn't rush into anything as binding as marriage," Lucius said reassuredly as Narcissa's delicate eyebrows knit together. "There is much to think about in regards to the Malfoy legacy. I'm certain that Draco will choose well, when the time comes."

Draco looked up from the remains of his braised lamb to look at his father, nodding slightly. He kept his composure as impassive as possible, but without seeming too guarded, lest he raise his parents' suspicions. There was a time and place for everything. Tonight was most decidedly not the one to explain that not only did he prefer men — which he suspected on some level they already knew, even if they couldn't acknowledge it outright — but he wasn't engaging in a sham marriage either. Oh, and he had plans on Friday for another heavenly night of potentially furniture-breaking sex with the youngest Weasley male.

He stayed on for a cup of tea before begging off and Apparating to his flat. His mother, thankfully, was nearly completely healed from her case of Bloodcurdle, and her farewell embrace was strong and warm. He bid them both a good night and went out a few paces away from the Manor walls; the Ministry still had several safeguards on the house, including anti-Apparition wards. Even if Potter himself became Minister for Magic, Draco doubted those restrictions would ever be lifted, but it seemed a small price to pay for their lives and some of their fortune.

Once back in his flat, with a contented deep exhale, Draco put away his golfing paraphernalia and lit a thin coil of incense. The solitary life suited him; he didn't need much, just a few rooms, a desk, a bed with a sturdy mattress, and quiet. Rather than have to wait on the Muggle heating unit, he cast a heating charm on the living room, stripping to his boxers and a long-sleeved silk undershirt. He picked out a short, heavy glass, retrieved his bottle of sake and placed them on the coffee table. Frowning, he padded into the tiny guest room to turn on his computer. Three years in Japan had made him a convert to a few items of Muggle technology, and a computer was one now key necessity in his life. He quickly configured a mellow mix of songs that would last a couple of hours before walking back to the living room. He scanned his bookshelf and picked out the elegant black photo album that was there, running his fingers reverently over the buttery leather cover.

Since the afternoon, probably since he'd been at the sushi restaurant, the images in this album had been beckoning to him. Unable to resist their call, he poured himself a respectable serving of sake and began sipping on it, legs stretched out on the table and the photo album in his lap. They were Muggle photos, from one of the particular clubs he'd frequented. On this particular night he'd arranged for a few of his favourites to join him, and one to take photographs, black and white. By this point in his time in Japan, he'd discovered shibari and how much he loved being trussed with such care and ritual. He hadn't actually fallen for any of the men who did this to him, though a couple of them had become regular fuckbuddies, for lack of a more refined term. This night he'd asked to be put in one of the suspended poses, the ropes lovingly wrapped around him in their artistic pattern, his body bowed back with his wrists and ankles brought together. He hung securely above the floor, an additional restraint around his cock and balls as the three men took him, one after the other. It had been sublime, other-worldly, even, the way Draco had felt both so bound in his own flesh and also so disassociated from it at the same time. And there were photos documenting it, though they didn't move. Still, they captured the chiaroscuro of the room, bare except for a low couch and samurai sword hanging on the wall. His body hung in a delicate web of rope, surrounded by the thin, startlingly beautiful Japanese men with their equally pale skin. In the collection of pictures, they kissed him and tormented his restrained shaft, worshipping with their cocks at the altar of his own spread arsecheeks.

As he journeyed through the album, he felt arousal well up slowly in him, his body remembering the pull of gravity, the soft fingers and the slide of the silken cording as it was tied and knotted around him. He'd allowed himself a decent buzz from the two glasses of sake, a very rare indulgence of letting his focussed mind grow lax and muted. His cock was semi-erect, though he'd not touched himself at all between his legs. So much of his erotic life was chanelled from his mind, in his vivid imagination and memories of many memorable nights, of which only this one was documented.

"Accio rope."

A melancholy smile settled on his lips as the black cord came flying down the corridor to drop in a large heap at his feet. He poured himself a final glass before moving the album off of his lap to the table, leaning down to pick up a coil of the thin rope. He'd learned a couple of spells to tie himself up; he could bind his wrists behind his back, or kneel on the floor to tie his ankles and thighs. But so much of the appeal was in the allowing someone else to do the honours— and it was an honour for the lover, the binder, the one to reassure and restrict the body of the beloved. He'd felt absolutely adored when he was on display, the ropes holding him with their patterns, his body there to be admired and fucked as he basked in the attention. He took a deep swallow of the rice wine and then sat up, pulling his shirt over his head. He made a simple X-shape across his chest with the rope before sinking back against the couch, pulling the cords tightly so the satiny surface pressed into his skin. The small nubs on his chest stiffened in the exposed air and his cock nudged up against the waistband of his boxers.

It wasn't that he wanted this all the time, or even that often, he mused, giving into the aching tension at his groin. He let go of the rope to pull off his boxers before tugging the X taut again, the other hand cradling his soft, fuzzy sacs. A smirk lit his face, his thoughts clear enough to remind himself to shave his balls and cast a careful shaving spell around his hole tomorrow. Merlin, but Weasley had luscious bollocks, heavy and palm-sized. He'd loved rolling them in his mouth, and planned on doing so again after the Quidditch match. Or before. What would Weasley make of him now, Draco wondered, sprawled open-legged on his couch, incense wafting through the room. He was sloppy enough from the sake to be disappointed Weasley wasn't going to suddenly appear and find him naked except for a rope wrapped across his chest. Knowing Weasley, he'd want to do something totally unimaginative, like tie Draco to the bed. Which would be okay, but there was no finesse to that.

He let his mind wander to what he might get to do on Friday. Eyes closed and shaft in hand, he imagined Weasley with his head pressed against a pillow and his rugged, squarish arse in the air, slightly embarrassed but telling Draco in no uncertain terms to fuck him. Draco liked topping from time to time, the hot velvety grip on his cock unlike anything else he'd ever experienced. Weasley's rough groans and waves of needy, low whines were such a fucking turn-on. But really, he loved Weasley's cock, couldn't wait to get his lips wrapped around the saltymusk skin, teasing his tongue into the slit — ohgodsfuck —

With a shudder and gasped cry, Draco came all over his stomach, somewhat to his surprise. He'd been self-pleasuring almost without thinking, so caught up in his fantasy he'd spurted on himself when Weasley in his mind had shot his orgasm into his mouth. He wetted his dry lips, mouth open as his breathing slowed back to normal and he looked down at the pearly fluid decorating his skin and rope.

"That was unexpected," he muttered to himself.

After a few minutes of wondering just how awkward it was going to be with Weasley and Potter at a public event and whether it was worth it after all, he reached out and retrieved his wand from the coffee table. He cast cleansing spells on himself and the couch, irritated with himself for reliving the conversations he'd had with Weasley between their bouts of shagging. It wasn't as though they had anything in common, aside from Hogwarts and being pureblood Wizards and queer. Except that Weasley had gone along with Potter to save him, twice. And Weasley's hatred for Draco as a Slytherin and Malfoy in general seemed to have dulled over the past few years. Nobody cared anymore what House they'd been in; well, they cared, but being alive and whole mattered more than the particular colours of ties they'd sported while in that cavernous stone castle.

"He doesn't really know you," Draco said to his reflection as he brushed his teeth, going through his usual evening rituals to get ready for bed. He'd tidied up the living room, restoring a less decadent air to the place and putting the sake in the back corner of his pantry. "And you don't really know that you want him to. The sex is good. You don't date. Especially not Weasley."

It did give him a glow of perverse pleasure in that Weasley seemed so taken with him, though. Draco enjoyed having the upper hand in all things, feeling most comfortable when in control of the world churning around him. Only in that one aspect did he have any willingness to surrender, and the circumstances had to be very particular. He'd known Weasley for a long time, and he really didn't believe that the impetuous man had the qualities necessary to be a respectful, attentive but domineering sexual partner. His heart sank a bit as he tried to give up on that fantasy. Weasley was many things, including annoyingly eager, a lush, and best friends with Potter. What he wasn't was experienced, self-confident outside of being an Auror, or subtle. But he did seem to be a fast learner…

Draco slid into his soft sheets, and thanks to the alcohol and vivid wank, fell quickly into sleep.

* * * * *

Friday arrived and Draco decided to go on an exploratory walk to wile away a couple of hours in the early afternoon. London had never been his stomping ground before he'd fled Britain, and he continued to feel like an outsider despite being home. He felt rather like a turtle in its protective shell, only sticking his neck out to evaluate what was going on out of necessity before hurriedly retreating back into his safe haven. Weasley's follow-up parchment to Draco's acceptance was rife with enthusiasm, and had included his address. Apparently he lived in what was ostensibly a Muggle block of flats, but there was an entire floor just for wizards. How they managed that without scores of precautions Draco wasn't sure, but he'd seen his share of seemingly impossible wizarding activity in the midst of Muggle Japan, so he pushed the logistical aspects out of his mind. A quick online search on his computer gave him a route to get to Weasley's flat, providing him the option to Apparate or venture there by less magical means. Draco's later afternoon would be devoted to getting ready for the evening— shaving, both face and his nether region; a thorough cleaning of his inner plumbing, and some dedicated time to sit calmly with his tea and cigarettes.

He'd decided to wander around University College London, to be around people his own age or thereabouts, and mingle undetected and unknown. Draco had spent so much of his youth and school years determined to be at the centre of anything meaningful, but some of his failures — killing Dumbledore — and successes — surviving the War, albeit with help — had made him value being far away from the lamplight of attention. And besides, he still turned heads, a lot of them, of both genders. That he found highly satisfying and remarkably soothing to his ego.

The bright autumnal air crackled around him. It was a rare October day with an expanse of cerulean sky overhead, the jewelled leaves of trees on display in the sun with the pride of peacocks. Draco felt superb, drifting among the stone buildings in a black cashmere trench coat, a shimmering silk scarf around his neck. As he began walking back toward the Tube station he'd chosen to get home, he saw sign after sign posted that proclaimed MODELS NEEDED. Scrutiny of the vivid yellow piece of paper indicated that the Slade School of Art's figure drawing classes were in need of nude models, both male and female. For a moment Draco stood, thinking of the reasons why it was silly even to consider standing or sitting naked on display for young university students to learn how to draw.

"Why not?" he said quietly to himself, figuring it'd be a few hours a week, and it would make him get out and provide him with some mad money he could spend without any familial strings attached to it. He memorised the building and room for the department contact and looked it up on the campus map in his pocket. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was coming up on 3:00 and he needed to be getting home, so he quickened his stride as he walked toward the school. The contact on the flyer wasn't there, but a woman with a short black bob who reminded him momentarily of Pansy — though without the tattoo stretching up her chest viewed easily with her plunging blouse — took Draco's mobile number and said the instructor would contact him.

"You do know it's nude modelling, yes?" she asked pleasantly.

Draco felt as though she'd already quite efficiently undressed him with her eyes, and shrugged. "Yes. Suits me. I've got nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm sure you haven't. Thank you for your interest. Someone will ring you soon."

With a nod, Draco left the office and headed home. He'd succumbed and purchased a mobile phone while in Japan to keep up with the few companions he'd had there. It was also a concession in order to have the occasional chat with his cousin Cassandra who lived in New York City. Blaise also had the number, but that was about it. Still, it did make communication easier when dealing with the Muggle world. As he strode the few blocks to his flat from the Tube station, he passed an off-license and, on a whim, went inside. Weasley hadn't answered Draco's question about whether or not to bring any food, but Draco had no doubt that a gift of spirits would be met with enthusiasm. Not being much of a drinker at all, he glanced at the different aisles and found himself drawn to a shapely bottle with a distinctive name: Goldschlager. It appeared to have flecks of gold in it, and in looking at the description, it was cinnamon flavoured. It was also reasonably expensive, which pleased him, so he bought it. Even though this technically wasn't a date, because Draco didn't do that, he'd been raised to bring a gift to a person's house when invited for the first time— even if the person was a shagging partner and a Weasley.

"You could let him be more than that, you know," an inner voice chided him. The thought was just so unsettling. Allowing emotional investment in anyone, especially Weasley, was contrary to his nature. He'd simply continue on with things as they were; there was no point in projecting to an unknown future.

At Weasley's flat block, he went into the stairwell as he'd been instructed and after making sure he was alone, he tapped his wand on a small sign that said "Frodo Lives." A panel silently appeared and sank backward, revealing a small lift. A few moments later he was standing outside Flat Elevenses. The number made no sense to Draco, and Ron had said he didn't get it either. Apparently the wizard who'd set up the place in the 70s had been really fond of some Muggle author and it had to do with a book of his. The time was 5:57; Draco was slightly early, as he'd hoped. He knocked on the door, ignoring the fluttering moths which had seemed to lodge in his stomach. There was a thudding of large feet and the door opened.

"Hi! You're here!" Weasley said, appearing slightly out of sorts, his hair still damp from a recent shower. "Come in."

Draco took a deep breath of the faint spruce scent that emanated from Weasley and smiled. "Thank you."

He stepped into the small but tidy room as Weasley closed the door behind him. A quick scan revealed simple decorative tastes, rather a mishmash of probably hand-me-down furniture, and a surprising number of healthy looking plants.

"Can I take your coat?" Weasley asked, having pulled his wits about him again before his eye alighted on the shiny gold wrapped package cradled in Draco's arms.

"Yes, thank you. And this is for you," Draco said graciously while trying to glean as many clues about Weasley's life from his flat without being obvious about it.

"I— Oh! You didn't need to do that, that's awfully generous of you," Weasley said, tripping over his words as he accepted the proffered bottle. Draco unbuttoned his coat and handed it over. Ron hung it up in what appeared to be a tiny closet but was quite spacious on the inside. Niceties out of the way, Weasley seemed slightly unsure what to do with himself, but he also appeared eager and relieved that Draco had shown up, and on time.

"Why don't you open your gift, and then you can give me a tour?" Draco suggested, which caused an appealing flush to bloom at the base of Ron's neck.

"Right! Great idea. You really didn't need to, I mean, after last weekend, I should be getting you something," Weasley said sincerely. His fingers toyed with the curling ribbon before he trapped Draco in a full-on look of wonder. "This'll sound mad, I know, but I still can't believe I just went off with you some hotel after you'd suddenly reappeared after three years. I've been thinking about you ever since. My concentration's been for shite. I'm so glad you agreed to come to this match with me…" His voice drifted off as his busy hands had unwrapped the package and his eyebrows furrowed. "Goldschlager?"

"Cinnamon schnapps. I didn't know if you'd like it or not, but we can both try it."

Weasley's expression continued to be one of bewilderment. "But you said you don't drink."

"Usually I don't. Only on special occasions."

"Oh." Weasley's face lit up and he walked the few steps to his kitchen, taking two tumblers from a cabinet and bringing them to the table. "So are you celebrating?" he asked hopefully. He was obviously itching to touch Draco, but he seemed to be cautious since he'd admitted his infatuation and Draco hadn't commented.

"Actually, I am."

Draco enjoyed Weasley's inability to mask his emotions. It had seemed pathetic when they were in school, but now Draco loved the effect his presence had on his companion. He took the glass Weasley handed him and clinked their glasses together before taking a sip. It was cinnamon all right, and it burned a pleasant but fiery trail down his throat. "I got a job today."

"You what?" Weasley spluttered, his slightly hurt expression revealing that he'd hoped he'd been the reason for Draco's celebrations.

"I got a job. Modelling nude for some Muggle art classes," Draco said smoothly, stepping closer so that they were nearly touching. The tension between the pleasure of toying with Weasley and wanting to kiss him into oblivion was curling low in his belly.

Weasley simply stared at him for a moment, his attention broken when his little owl came swooping in, hooting with excitement. Suddenly he broke into a laugh. "You're taking the piss!" he said, shaking his head.

"Actually, no I'm not," Draco said defensively. "It's not that I have to work, I don't. But I wanted some money that didn't have any strings attached, and the name Malfoy doesn't have the negative connotations in the Muggle world that it does in ours."

Weasley's face paled a bit and he brushed in irritation at Pigwidgeon, who had tried to land on his shoulder. "Oh. But… okay." He took a long swallow of his liqueur and poured himself another serving. "This is good stuff," he said, offering the bottle to Draco, who shook his head. "You've really changed a lot since Hogwarts. Was I— That one time, after that banquet…"

The words seemed to stick in his throat until with a decisive movement, he stepped over and wrapped his arms behind Draco's waist. Draco's pulse quickened at the contact and the heat of Weasley's breath as the potent tang was exhaled inches from his mouth.

"Was I that bad?" Weasley went on, his voice rough. "I know I'd said you didn't deserve to live, and I'd half meant it, but I'd never felt anything like I did when you kissed me, and then you were gone."

The last syllables were murmured directly onto Draco's tingling lips. "You weren't supposed to be that good. I panicked," he said quietly before sending out his tongue into Weasley's slightly open mouth.

Weasley mashed their lips together, kissing him aggressively and with a passion easily matched by Draco. As though directly linked to his mouth, Draco's cock began to stiffen as the kiss went on. Their hands roamed and Weasley made desperate moaning sounds as their tongues plunged into each other's mouths. These kisses weren't delicate or at all tentative; Draco was being claimed and possessed. It thrilled in his blood, sending throbbing shocks into the erection trapped in his tight slacks. He pulled back after a few moments, biting and kissing across the smooth skin of Weasley's jaw to breathe hotly in his ear.

"I've wanted your cock all week," he said in a low voice before rolling the sensitive skin of Weasley's earlobe in his teeth.

"Oh fuck, Draco." Weasley's hands held Draco's arse in a vice like grip and he arched against Draco's pelvis. A steely length was pressed into Draco's and he let out a moan at the friction.

"No. Sucking first," Draco insisted, branding Weasley's lips in a hard kiss before sinking down to his knees and making quick work of undoing the leather belt and buttoned fly of Ron's jeans. He looked up to make sure Weasley was watching, his heart absolutely pounding against his ribs at the intensity of his hungry gaze. He pulled down the tight jeans and boxers all at once past Weasley's muscled thighs, his reddened cock springing free and up, ready to be devoured.

He took a long lick up the underside of the shaft along a prominent vein, inhaling deeply of the leafy musk scent of Weasley's groin before throwing himself into his task. Licking and sucking, he hollowed his cheeks, encouraging Weasley to set a pace as he took him as deeply as he could. The wide fingers of Weasley's hands curled protectively against the back of Draco's head, anchoring Draco as he enthusiastically gave Weasley the blowjob he'd been thinking about all week long.

"Draco, fuck, oh you're so good, been wanking and thinking of you and your mouth oh fuck…" The words transposed into a raspy whine and short, huffed groans. Draco was relentless; he would have more time later tonight for more drawn out sex, but right now he wanted to suck out Weasley's very soul through the slickhot flesh in his mouth. Experimentally, Draco let the fingers fondling Weasley's balls spread back along the path of his perineum, nudging gently near the puckered flesh. The stocattoed sounds of pleasure ratcheted up a notch, and Draco could tell Weasley was going to come, and soon. And hard. Seconds later, the fingers in his hair gripped tightly and Weasley let out hoarse, low chorus of "oh"s. The lemonyvinegar taste of his come filled the back of Draco's throat until he swallowed around it, moving both of his hands so he was holding Weasley's lightly furred arsecheeks. He swirled his tongue around the shaft with a goodbye lick before sinking back onto his heels, his own pulse racing as though he'd had the orgasm, not Weasley.

Weasley's head was tipped back, his mouth hanging slack, eyes closed. Eventually he came back to himself, slowly tilting his head forward and licking at his chapped lips, his hooded eyes brimming with satisfaction and gratitude.

"I don't want to know how you got so good at that," he said, his voice still gravelly. His wide fingers slid around to curve under Draco's jaw, his thumb caressing a short path across his swollen lower lip. "And I know you don't date, but you don't drink, except that apparently you do, so maybe we could date, but I don't share. I could never share you. You're fucking amazing."

Draco rose gracefully to his feet, took a handkerchief out of his trousers pocket to wipe the tip of Weasley's cock, and then put his arms around Weasley's waist. "I'm flattered. I'm also not yours to share; no-one owns me." His tone was warm, but he tried to keep it commanding. "I don't mind exclusivity, however. You and I… this, whatever it is, is very new territory for me. I loathe labels, and expectations being put on me that I've not put on myself." He leaned in, placing a slow, chaste kiss on Weasley's lips. "We both like this, so let's keep enjoying it until something changes."

Disappointment flickered in Weasley's eyes, which stirred a warmth in Draco's chest. They'd had so many years of despising each other. And yet with such different circumstances, and Draco's distinctively changed outlook on what was meaningful in life, he was in danger of really opening up to Weasley. Ron. It scared him shitless. But Weas— Ron knew the risks, too. Draco sure as fuck wasn't about to profess undying love or anything ludicrous like that, but perhaps the regular punctuation of Ron's companionship in his independent life would be okay.

"I hope that doesn't happen for a long time," Ron said at last, nuzzling against Draco's temple. "Can I do anything for you?" he asked, a sultry quality threading his voice as one hand slid down Draco's torso to palm the mound below his belt. "We've still got some time before the match."

"I'll wait, but thank you," Draco replied, angling his hips as Ron squeezed his erection. "Wouldn't want to rush."

"It'd probably be good to get some takeaway," Ron said thoughtfully, pressing two dry kisses on Draco's cheekbone before shuffling back a couple of steps. "D'you like curry?"

"Curry's fine."

Ron took a moment to pull up his boxers and denims and tuck his shirt back in. He poured himself another small serving of the schnapps before glancing at Draco and his glass. Draco shook his head.

"Maybe later tonight. Mind if I use your loo?" It would take a few of minutes for his cock to soften up before he could go anyway, but he was buzzing with curiosity about Ron's toiletries. There was something tree-like and earthy around him that was unexpected, but very appealing.

"Sure. Second door on the left."

Once in the bathroom, Draco quietly cast a silencing charm and took a peek in Ron's shower. He glanced at the bottle of traditional shampoo and lifted the soap out of the dish, sniffing at it. That was the woodsy scent, but he couldn't place it. Opening the below sink cabinet, he saw a wrapped bar of Scandinavian Skies and held it to his nose. Voila. Smirking, he placed the soap back where he'd found it before a familiar bottle caught his eye. He squatted down and reached in, pulling out a new bottle of Eau des Baux. Apparently Weasley really did have it bad for him if he'd gone out and bought some of Draco's cologne. Draco gently placed the bottle on the counter, unable to wipe the elated look from his face as he relieved himself. When he was done, he unscrewed the stopper to dab a tiny bit on his fourth finger and then rubbed it on the smooth skin of his sacs. It'd be a surprise for Weasley in a few hours, depending on how the match went. He placed the cologne back under the sink and flushed the commode. He washed his hands thoroughly to be sure he couldn't smell the scent on his finger anymore, cast an air-freshening spell, uncharmed the Silencio and went back to the living room.

"I'll just do the same," Ron said, ambling to the bathroom while Draco went to the hall closet and retrieved his coat. There were a couple of framed photographs on the fireplace mantle that he'd glanced at but hadn't investigated, so he walked over to look at them more closely. Unsurprisingly, there was one of Ron, flanked by Granger and Potter, Weasley's sister plastered to Potter's other side. It must have been taken not long after the end of the War, as both Ron and Potter's hair was no longer below their shoulders. That was a pity; Draco had really been taken with Ron's ginger mane, even when he'd so shockingly appeared at the Manor in the thick of the nightmare. The other picture was slightly older, one of Ron in front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, both twins present and making lewd gestures. Draco hadn't thought to ask Weasley how his family was doing; there had just been more enticing things to do with that tongue than merely talk.

"You ready?" Ron asked, his body language again one of tension between wanting to hold Draco and feeling he should keep his distance. Draco was very uncomfortable with the idea of walking down the street holding hands with anyone— unless he were with his mother, in which case she'd hold his arm, but that was quite a different situation.

"Yes."

Draco opened the door and stepped out into the corridor before putting his hands in his pockets. "Do we get out the same way I came in?"

"We can, or there's a spiral staircase that lets out into what looks like a closed bookshop. That's usually the way I go."

"I'll follow, then."

Ron took the lead and a few minutes later they were out on the busy streets of London. Draco pulled out a silver case and flicked it open, taking out a cigarette and offering the container to Ron.

"No thanks."

Draco shut the case and pocketed it, feeling about for the dragonhead lighter he had. Once lit, he took a drag off the cigarette, thinking momentarily of how striking they must look going down the street, two tall men with distinctive hair, and Weasley's constellations of freckles were hard to miss.

"How's your brother? George, I mean?" he asked, still mulling over the picture on Ron's mantle. His most memorable run-in with the Weasley twins had, of course, been when he'd engineered the capturing of them as they'd been pouring that insta-swamp thing toward the end of fifth year. Draco had had his wand at one of their throats, but he bloody well couldn't have told them apart. After the War, that was now only too easy.

"He's okay. For the most part, I guess." Ron's voice held surprise echoed in his expression. "Nice of you to ask. I try to go to Wheezes' once a week or so— you could come with me at some point. Only if you want."

Draco nodded, inhaling a warm breath of smoke before exhaling with a low hiss. "Maybe so. Do you have lots of family obligations? I've only been back a fortnight, but it was my mother's illness that was the impetus for me to leave Osaka."

Ron appeared thunderstruck, and then curious. Draco could only imagine he'd not expect to be invited to the Manor for dinner, not after his father's actions in years past had nearly caused Ron's sister's death, not to mention all the outright contempt that had remained between their families their whole lives.

"Is your mum okay? Harry told me what she did, lying outright to You Know Who. That was pretty fucking brave," he said, glancing up at the signs and pointing down the footpath. "I usually get takeaway up here, at Taste of Bombay."

"I'll trust your judgment." Draco took another drag, admiring the more hardened line of Weasley's jaw as he'd become a bit older. "As for mother, yes, she's very nearly recovered. She came down with Bloodcurdle, but it was caught early on. A family Healer took care of her. And yes, she's astonishingly brave. Tremendous woman."

Ron opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then went on anyway. "Does she know? They know? Your parents?"

"Know what?" Draco tapped at the cigarette and ash fell to the ground.

"About you."

There was a pleading timbre to his voice; it was obvious he didn't want to be forced into spelling it out. Since they were nearly at the restaurant, Draco obliged him.

"That I like being buggered up the arse? No. Do they suspect? Quite probably. Is it relevant to them? Only if I refuse to get married and procreate, which I do. But it will break my mother's heart," he said more to himself than Ron, dropping the cigarette and grinding it out under his shoe.

"Oh." Ron clearly didn't need to worry about a similar fate with his family. There were probably half a dozen Weasley children already, all born since the War. "Don't you want to have kids?"

Draco looked at him, shocked. "Do you?"

"Well, yeah! I thought everybody did," he said, opening the door as they went inside. There was a large chalkboard with dishes and prices listed on it. Changing topics, Ron pointed at it. "I usually get one of the combos, but you really can't go wrong. It's all delicious."

Draco scrutinised the menu, feeling Weasley's gaze intently on him. He'd not imagined having children, and the thought of what it would require to create offspring wasn't at all appealing. He glanced at his watch and saw how little time they had, so he quickly made up his mind and told Ron.

"Sorry we had to eat on the run," Weasley apologised a while later as they walked quickly to the closest Apparition point.

"It was worth it," Draco said, raising his eyebrows. He was gratified to see an impish smile settle on Ron's lips.

"You wrote that you hadn't seen any Quidditch in yonks. Did you watch some other sport while you were in Japan? And why on Circe's tits did you go all the way to Japan, anyway?" he asked in a rush as they went around a corner, getting ready to Apparate to the stadium entrance.

"I'll tell you all about it later, if you want," Draco promised. "As for this match, don't expect me to be all chummy with Potter just because he's your best mate. You and he are very different."

"I'm glad you chose me," Ron said a bit breathlessly, leaning in to suck lightly on Draco's neck just below his ear.

"I would never have chosen Potter for anything," Draco said with a shudder. "Not appealing in the least."

"But you hated me," Ron murmured before stepping back.

"I've always had strong feelings for you," Draco admitted with a smirk.

He focussed his thoughts until the world squeezed in and he vanished, reappearing in a noisy crowd. Ron appeared with a barely discernable crack! next to him and began rummaging through his jacket pockets for their tickets. He handed one to Draco and they followed the queue into the stadium. Ron was right; they were excellent box seats. Potter's smile blazed when he saw Ron and grew impossibly wider when he saw Draco behind him.

"You made it! Wondered if you might get held up," he said, the words dripping with innuendo.

"Piss off," Ron muttered. Though Draco couldn't see his face, he just knew there was a flush creeping up his throat yet again.

"Pleasure to have you here, Malfoy." Potter radiated excitement, and Draco was quite taken aback by it. He couldn't imagine he was thrilled that Ron had invited him, but maybe Potter was so sickeningly full of love for the world that he didn't care who Ron was with as long as he was happy.

"Thank you," Draco said obligingly, grateful to take his seat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Potter lean his head over and speak so only Ron could hear him, and sensed Ron's discomfort at whatever was being said. No doubt Potter was making commentary about when he and Draco had been up to, which was really none of his bloody business. He'd have to have a chat with Ron that in no uncertain terms was he to go mouthing off to Potter about their personal activities. He didn't care that they'd been best friends since first year; what he and Weasley did behind the privacy of a closed door needed to stay there. A strange calm settled on him when he saw Weasley shake his head, and he had the sense that he shared Draco's sentiments. Good.

The match went on for a couple of hours and was actually quite gripping to watch. Ginny Weasley-Potter earned her metal, and the Prides played full-bore, making the time fly as the game went on. Potter stood and shouted and gestured wildly; he turned and smiled or made despairing groans as the plays went for or against the Harpies. Ron got into it too, rooting for his sister and leaning over to Draco to make commentary throughout the game. The Harpies were down when Potter began alternately gesticulating and pulling on his jeans at the knees, saying, "She's seen it! She's seen it!"

True enough, Weasley-Potter caught the Snitch after an impressive dive, and the match came to a close with a roar of approval on their side of the pitch.

Potter grabbed Ron in a celebratory bear hug, though with their height difference, the effect to Draco's eye was comical more than anything. That they won boded well for just he and Weasley to go back to Weasley's flat, or out to a pub if that was what he wanted to do. No doubt they'd be spending the rest of the evening together, but Draco was uncertain about whether or not an overnight stay would be in the cards, or if he even wanted that. As Potter continued to whoop and Draco nodded and smiled, he let his mind ponder the different possible scenarios. It was one thing to spend the night in neutral territory, quite another to wake up in someone else's actual bed. Not that he knew what that was like; he'd never stayed with any of his fuckbuddies, and he'd certainly never asked any of them to stay with him until the morning— unless they'd literally been at it all night and the man in question left in the morning. Would he feel slighted if Ron didn't ask him to stay? Would he be inclined to ask Weasley to stay at his place, were the situation reversed? He really wasn't sure, and between that uncertainty and the deafening noise around him made him feel slightly queasy.

"You okay?" Ron yelled worriedly.

"Yes. But I wouldn't mind moving on," Draco shouted back. "Do we have plans with Potter?"

With a wide smile, Ron shook his head, getting as close as Draco suspected he dared in a public place so he could speak into Draco's ear. "No. But it means a lot that you asked. I know he's not somebody you think you'd want to hang around with, and I wouldn't push it. He's going to go to the Belligerent Badger with the team, though. We could go for one round, if you'd like."

"I'd rather have you to myself for a while, but if you're really keen, I'll go along. I won't stand for any negative comments about my family, though. Don't you think I'll be rather unwelcome, especially by your sister?"

Ron's face twisted into a look of genuine consternation. "Oh. Yeah. Ginny."

Draco let out a dark chuckle. "Yeah. Ginny. Potter may be reasonably open-minded, but I have the distinct feeling that you may want to keep our liaisons quiet or deal with the accusations that you're being mind-fucked by a Malfoy."

"They wouldn't do that!" Ron exclaimed, his expression thunderous.

"Why not?" Draco retorted. "You weren't the first to tell me I'd no business surviving, but no doubt the rest of your family would've been right in line behind you to do the same." He wasn't angry, not exactly, but he felt that this needed to be brought out in the open and dealt with sooner rather than later. If Weasley really thought his family would be jumping for joy at the thought that he and Draco had begun shagging like rabbits, he was utterly delusional.

"They can change their minds," Weasley insisted, reaching out to put his hand around Draco's wrist. "Don't judge them or you'll be just as narrow-minded as you're saying they are."

"I'm not judgmental, I'm a realist," Draco snapped. "And I need a cigarette. I'm going to the gents and then outside the front gates to get out of this noise and have a smoke. But I'll stay there until you come out. You have my word."

He added the last sentence as a reassurance. Draco had somehow recognised the look that flitted onto Ron's face; he thought Draco might ditch him. Ron finally nodded and released Draco's wrist. Draco leaned around him, yelled toward Potter his thanks for the match tickets and that his wife had played superbly, and then turned and left the stadium. When he was finally outside, bladder relieved and nicotine thankfully back in his bloodstream, he felt far more calm. He felt no guilt whatsoever in bringing up the fact that Weasley's family was going to think Ron was insane or under some kind of Dark Magic spell. Of course they would! Just as he and Ron had hated each other until that passion had suddenly turned inside-out into something even more potent, their families had no shortage of reasons to hold grudges against each other for eternity. Any other thinking was totally fanciful.

As a few more minutes went by, he indulged in a second fag, tightening his scarf around his throat and leaning back against the curved wall as people continued to straggle out. Just as Draco was beginning to feel unpleasant curling fingers in his gut as though he'd been stood up, Ron walked out, looking right and left until he saw Draco and his face relaxed. Draco sauntered over to him, keeping his comments to himself in case Weasley had something illuminating to say.

"I'm sorry," Ron said, his hands jammed into his pockets. "I needed to talk to Harry for just a little bit. I think you were right about not being around Ginny right at first. And I've told Harry to keep his mouth shut about me and the person I brought to the match."

"So that's how I'm being referred to?" Draco said dryly, taking a final hit off of his cigarette before flicking it off to the side.

"No, Draco. Well, yes, for now. Harry just wants me to be happy, he's my best mate after all. And he wants to know all kinds of details; he's really a bit pervy when it comes to my sex life. Which hasn't exactly been much to comment on," he said quickly.

Draco was highly amused. Amazing how much of an innocent Weasley still seemed to be, but better that than jaded. Draco could already feel that creeping in, and he couldn't stand it. "It's okay. Mine would make his eyes pop out, and we don't want Rita Skeeter putting that in the Prophet, do we? C'mon, why don't we go to one of the dozens of pubs you frequent. It's obvious you want a drink."

Ron began to put on a show of being contrary, but Draco knew it was an act. "It's fine. But we'll need to side-Along as I won't know where we're going. And my rule still applies," he said silkily near Ron's jaw. "If you get smashed, I'm going home to have a leisurely wank by myself. Pigwidgeon may know where I live, but you don't."

"One round it is, then," Ron said stoutly.

* * * * *

Back at Ron's flat, Ron headed for the bathroom while Draco poured himself a small helping of the schnapps. It was tasty, though he wouldn't be getting into the habit of drinking every night, as he suspected Ron did. Not that Ron had any kind of gut on him from doing so; he was in admirable shape. They were both in their sexual prime, too, a thought which made Draco very pleased as he drank the liqueur and waited for Rom to reappear, which he did mere moments later. He cast a knowing look at Draco's glass before standing directly behind him, wrapping his arms around Draco's midsection.

"D'you mind if we go straight to the bedroom?" Weasley asked, his now-minty breath tingling against Draco's temple.

"Thought you'd never ask," Draco drawled.

"Your voice," Ron moaned, his hands fanning downwards to seek out Draco's cock, only just thickening due to Ron's proximity. "Good thing you didn't sound so much like sex on toast in school or I'd've been a mess."

"Would've been?" Draco said snarkily as Ron growled into his scalp.

"C'mon. I actually have a gift for you, too," Ron said, suddenly sheepish.

He tugged Draco down the corridor, back to his bedroom. It had a bit more personality than the rest of his flat; more pictures, for one thing, the expected coterie of Gryffindors and family. On his tidily made bed there was a surprisingly high quality royal blue quilted bedspread, and two plants hanging from hooks in the ceiling, their scarlet trailing tendrils waving sinuously without a breeze. Against the far wall were two small bookcases at whose titles Draco could only glance furtively. The bed itself was large and roomy, modern-looking with a metal olive frame. There were curved stanchions at the base of the frame, and the headboard had elegant, abstract cutouts. Draco absorbed the startlingly modern style as Ron went over to an olive painted table and picked up a small box covered in black wrapping paper. He glanced around the room before looking back at Draco.

"It's not much—"

"I've no doubt it suits you. The only context I've had thinking about you in bed was Hogwarts. I'm glad you've outgrown Gryffindor maroon or whatever colour that was."

"Yeah. I like blue. It's soothing," Ron said, tapping his thumb nervously on the box.

Draco's attentions went to it before his gaze flickered back up to Ron's cobalt eyes. "So this is for me?" he asked, curious at what on earth Weasley might have been inspired to purchase after last weekend— aside from Draco's cologne, evidently.

"Yeah." With a slightly trembling hand, he gave it to Draco, who began unwrapping it immediately. "I'm not even sure why I got it, but after you said you'd come to the match, and I couldn't stop thinking about last weekend, and I'd never even been into a shop like this before…"

Draco took a sharp breath through his nose. His eyes lit up at the small strap of red leather with snaps. He lifted it out, turning it around before fixing a feral smile on Ron. "A cock restraint? Very interesting."

Weasley looked relieved, but also apologetic, which ruined the effect. "If you don't want to wear it—"

"Weasley. Ron," Draco said, emphasising the use of his first name. "If you're going to be at all dominant, do it. Don't be a nancy."

"Would you like that? I mean, you've talked some about kinky stuff, but I didn't know if you were just taking the piss."

Ron's consternation was deflating Draco's libido. He wasn't in the mood to teach Weasley how to be domineering in bed. Ron had been wild and possessive before, and Draco had loved that. Now Ron was being docile. It frustrated him, dampening the fire that had been kindling in his groin. Draco was annoyed, but he decided it was worth it to spell things out, this once.

"What I want is for you to be unable to keep your hands off of me," Draco said in a low voice, rubbing the leather between his fingers and staring Ron down. "I want you to want to see me spread out for you, not to beg me, but to demand because I do things for you no-one else does, and you can't stand for my answer to be no. Unless you've betrayed my trust, at which point there would be no sex anyway."

He stood his ground, thin icicles of fear that he'd put too much on the table at once sliding into his gut and making him clench his jaw. Ron seemed to be paralysed, but after a few moments a change came over his face.

"I've never wanted anyone like I do you. I don't want to play-act, though." His bushy eyebrows knit together.

"I'm not saying we should get leather and a crozier and act out the Biker and the Shepherdess," Draco said, his voice raised but not angry. Why did this have to be so hard? Ron looked more uncomfortable than before, making Draco wish they'd just started kissing and taking off their clothes instead of talking. This was the problem; Weasley wouldn't get it, he wouldn't be able to fathom Draco and his desires. He let out a strained breath through his nose.

"This is all really simple," he went on. "I like your cock, you like mine. You obviously like my arse, and I'm looking forward to spending quality time pleasuring yours if you'll let me."

Weasley nodded vigorously. That was small comfort, but it was something.

"There are times when I like my lover to be in control. You putting this lovely restraint on me is a start. But do it because you're driven to, because you want to ravage me and not let me come until you've decided I can. At times, I'll want to feel that my body belongs to you and you'll take it to the limits of what pleasure I can bear—"

"Strip for me."

A fierce look blazed in Ron's eyes, sending a molten throb to pulse in Draco's cock. Weasley didn't seem to be putting on airs— he understood. On some level, anyway, Draco had said something that had clicked in Ron's more primal, untamed sense of self. Instead of pacing, the feline lust in Draco's marrow now purred, feeling Ron's words like sensual hands, making him ache for Ron's literal touch.

"Strip and lie on your back on the bed, arms and legs out. I don't want you going anywhere."

Draco's shaft leapt against the confines of his slacks at Ron's comment. He stepped closer to return the cock ring to Ron, who'd obviously noticed the flush of arousal radiating from Draco's skin. He ran his fingers behind Draco's neck and kissed him deeply, their tongues sliding in an increasingly familiar dance until he pulled away. Ron's demeanour had wholly transformed: he was intense and hungry, though a phantom uncertainty flickered across his face before vanishing. He leaned in until their foreheads touched, his baritone rumbling in his chest.

"I know this is new, you and me not hexing or trying to kill each other, but you've got to believe me when I say I want you. With your body, and our sex, I only want you to think of me. I want to earn that."

"You're off to a fucking good start," Draco murmured.

He licked a wet path across Ron's bottom lip before stepping back and making short work of getting undressed. Draco lay on his back, arms and legs reaching out for the bedposts. He couldn't tear his gaze away from Ron's face, at the expression of power, and the tension brewing in his dilated eyes. Ron thought for a moment, then cast binding spells on Draco's wrists. When he felt the ironwisp of satin cord, Draco arched into the restraints. His body was zinging with exhilaration, his desire purring ferociously like a panther after a kill.

"Fuck, Draco, I really didn't think you could be any sexier than last weekend."

Draco arched an eyebrow in response, taking smug pleasure at the craving suffused on Ron's face. Ron pulled his rugby shirt over his head, toeing off his trainers so he could get out of the rest of his clothes. Draco's cock danced in jerks from his groin, watching avidly as Ron stripped down. At last he stood, wanking himself slowly and devouring Draco with his gaze.

"I'm not the most experienced guy around, but you won't be forgetting tonight for a long time, I promise."

Ron absently lit a few candles in the room and cast a Nox on the main light. "Oh. Need something that's pretty important," he said, his predatory smile a slow burn on his lips before he left the room.

As Draco watched him go, admiring the lush smattering of freckles on his arse, he felt that his skin was too tight; the blood pounded in his head and cock. He was greedy, he knew it; he was melting under Ron's visual attentions, but he needed to be touched. No doubt Ron would make the most of this, which warmed Draco's spirit in a manner totally separate from the carnal pyres Ron had lit in him. Ron reappeared, a tube of lubricant in his hand. Draco didn't recognise the brand, and he looked questioningly at Ron.

"Got it from Charlie. Has some sage in it. It's something they use at the dragon reserve. And no, fuck, I didn't get it from him because he and I needed it!" Ron exclaimed as Draco laughed, from deep in his belly. Ron's indignation at where Draco's mind had jokingly wandered was priceless.

"I thought you were a tight-knit family, but that would've been unexpected, to say the least," Draco said as Ron mock glowered at him, unscrewing the cap and waving it under Draco's nose.

"Very funny. It smells good, see?"

Draco nodded. The faint herbal, exotic scent only added to his overall pleasure, especially when Ron tossed the lube aside and straddled Draco's thighs, fastening the strap on Draco's hard shaft with care.

"You'll be begging me to let this off of you," Ron said in a low voice, combing his fingers through Draco's trimmed hair.

"We'll see about that."

Draco couldn't help his reply, even though Ron was probably right. He tested the bindings at his wrists, lifting up his neck a few inches before sinking luxuriantly down against the soft coverlet.

"You will. You—" Ron's fingers had ventured further down, discovering the shaved skin on Draco's bollocks. He looked up at Draco, an almost childlike delight in his face before he scooted down, poising his mouth over Draco's straining prick. "You shaved for me." His tongue lapped around the rosy dome and Draco groaned at the touch.

"I did. It's something I indulge in on occasion. Glad you like it," Draco rasped.

Ron began sucking on his cock in earnest, his head bobbing up and down as saliva seeped from his mouth, slowly trickling into Draco's pubic hair. "Fuck, Ron, feels so good. Gods, I fucking want you in me, on me…" his words transformed into inarticulate whines and gasps until Ron stopped and sat back on his heels. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his own shaft jutting up with a curve toward his abdomen.

"There's another part of you I want to taste," he said, his meaty fingers massaging Draco's inner thighs. Draco clenched his arsecheeks, the anticipation of Ron's intent showering a rush of heat down his spine.

"Oh fuck, yes," Draco moaned, planting his feet on the bed and splaying his legs wide, no longer caring how eager and desperate he seemed. He was. "Fuck, I want you in me from the inside out, everywhere—"

Ron's expression was one of a starving man settling down to a feast. A flush clouded his features as he circled Draco's puckered skin, and he asked, "Should I cast—"

"There's no need. I was quite thorough in my preparations for tonight."

Relief chased away the twinge of embarrassment on Ron's face and his enthusiasm returned. He frowned at the angle of Draco's positioning and looked up at him. "I'm taking a couple of those pillows."

Moments later, Draco's arse was raised up, and with a last scorching look, Ron buried his face between Draco's spread legs. Draco chanted a litany of moans and whimpers as Ron licked and jabbed into his channel with his clever tongue. He even hummed a bit, and pushed in a finger to nudge alongside his tongue while Draco pressed against him, wanting him as deep as possible. After a time, Ron sat up, his lips slightly swollen and purpose written on his face. Draco met the challenge in his eyes, wordlessly daring Ron to fuck him for all he was worth.

"Accio lube," Ron said throatily, squeezing a generous dollop into his palm. He slicked his cock until it glistened in the dim light.

"Fuck, yes, now, ohfuck," Draco murmured as Ron pushed into him, deep and steady. Draco encircled Ron's waist with his legs, crossing his ankles while Ron started thrusting. He set a forceful pace, his hands planted alongside Draco's chest. The room seemed warmer now, and with the sharp, organic scent of the lubricant, Draco was suddenly reminded of an ancient Shinto shrine he'd visited one day, deep in a forest during one of his long walks. The memory was incongruous with the current environment: Ron's bollocks swinging against his arse with slapping, moist sounds and the grunts they both made. And yet, as Draco's arse was pummeled and he grasped at the black cording that tethered him to Ron's bed, jerking at the fast tattoo of Ron's thrusts, he thought of how appropriately erotic and earthy they smelled.

Ron paused for a moment, and muttered, "Put your legs on my shoulders."

Draco did, bent nearly in half as Ron leaned in, kissing roughly against his mouth. Ron's cock slid in and out, the initial burn long having changed to the aching fullness Draco loved feeling in his tight muscle.

"Fuck, you feel so good," Ron panted, raising up and changing his angle so he was impossibly deep as he rammed into Draco's arse. Draco cried out at the intensity of it, wanting everything Ron had and more. For the blink of an eye he imagined having Ron's cock and a dildo at the same time, and clenched around the shaft so intimately joining them.

"Gonna— come—" Ron said before he let out a low moan that rolled over Draco. Ron's face was a grimace, his eyes squinched shut, a tear of sweat traipsing through an auburn eyebrow.

Draco's arse burned; his cock was in misery. A string of sticky pre-come joined the crown to his belly where it had been bouncing as Ron had pounded into him.

"You're— fuck," Ron gasped, shaking his head and causing a few drops of sweat to splatter on Draco's face. "Bet you're dying for me to take that thing off. Don't you want to come, to just explode all over?" he rumbled, regaining his breath and nosing gently at Draco's eyelids.

"Yes, fucking hell, so close," Draco whined, trying to get some friction against his steely prick.

"I could leave you here, like this," Ron taunted with no conviction.

Draco nearly rolled his eyes, but his body was desperate. "Let me come, Ron," he pleaded as Ron eased out of him, leaving Draco feeling bereft and a bit sore. The ghostly imprint of Ron's shaft in his hole lingered, and Draco wriggled his arse at the loss.

"Beg me," Ron said, drawing circles on Draco's quivering abdomen. All at once he grabbed Draco's tender sacs so that Draco shouted.

"Fuck! Please, Ron, need to come, wanted to come with you still in me," he said, his whole body tense and in near agony at the tension battering against the tight strip of leather.

"Well, since you asked so nicely…"

Ron gazed at him, heavy-lidded and sated. He dragged his fingers through the sweaty curls between Draco's legs until they reached the strap. He toyed with it and Draco groaned, arching his hips. He was going to fucking explode— it wouldn't take much of anything for Draco's release to be let loose. The band was unsnapped and Draco made an anguished sigh, begging Ron with his eyes to do something.

With surprising tenderness, Ron ghosted his fingers over the sensitive vein from base to tip, drawing a circle at the ridged foreskin. Draco yelled as his orgasm thundered through him, thick gouts of fluid spilling onto his stomach as he writhed and bucked until the aftershocks subsided. His whole body quivered. He felt as boneless and jelly-like as he had after a relatively mild earthquake had passed through Osaka. It had shaken him to his knees. At last his breathing slowed and he was able to focus on Ron, who looked exceedingly proud of himself.

"I wonder how Scorpius reacted to that," he said, amused, glancing down between Draco's arsecheeks.

"Probably belched fire," Draco replied, only half-joking. The truth was, he wasn't certain. He did love the tattoo and what it symbolised to him, but it was rather an odd choice for someone as enigmatic as he was. He was dependent on a partner to tell him what the dragon did, though he'd watched it some with mirrors while self-pleasuring. Scorpius tended to appear only at another person's touch, or thought, however.

"I may have to get one," Ron mused, undoing the binding spell on Draco's wrists and lying beside him. "Though I don't know about getting a lion or whatever with its tail curled around my bits or something."

"How dare you call those gorgeous balls bits," Draco scolded, rubbing at his biceps in slow circles while Ron laughed, low and warn.

"You're not at all how I would've imagined in bed, or out of it," Ron said, shifting his heavy but quiescent cock against Draco's thigh while getting more comfortable. "I could really get used to this."

Draco gave him a wan smile. "This? Shagging on weekends?"

Indignant hurt bruised itself on Ron's features. He really did seem incapable of keeping his feelings shuttered off, as Draco did without a second thought.

"No," Ron said, his voice frayed with frustration. "Not just that, and you know that's what I meant. Bloody hell. You put up a bloody thick wall, but don't forget you already have a crack in it. You've told me you thought about me while you were in Japan."

"I did," Draco acknowledged with a tiny nod. Still, he couldn't believe they'd simply fall into some peaceful routine, not this quickly, no matter how astonishing the sex. It wasn't like they had any friends in common, or hobbies, or anything else, for Merlin's sake.

"And here we are," Ron insisted, draping an arm over him. "We're great together."

"We have nothing in common, your family loathes me, and I don't date."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Fine. We won't date. Surely you're not so busy that we can't keep seeing each other? I'm a pretty interesting guy, myself. I've done some traveling and have tales to tell, too."

Draco knew he was surrendering to the inevitable when he was taken in by the endearing furrow on Ron's forehead. "I suppose—"

The sound of his jangling mobile cut into the relative hush of their conversation.

"What the fuck?!" Ron was on his feet, wan