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, wand in hand with a practised ease and speed. That, combined with his candor impressed Draco enough to entrust a bit more of himself to Ron's caring, despite the emotional risk.

"It's my mobile," Draco said, rolling nonchalantly onto his back and patting the space next to him. "At this hour it's probably my cousin Cassandra. She lives in New York."

Ron's eyebrows raised as his body slowly relaxed and he sat back down on the bed.

"Or it's Blaise, and he's drunk, or bored. Or both," Draco said dismissively. "I'll turn the ringer off. Didn't know I'd left it on."

Ron seemed to be absorbing and catalogueing those bits of personal information about Draco. He leaned over, one hand anchored to the bed, and kissed Draco on the cheek.

"Will you stay the night? I'd really rather you didn't rush off, but I'll understand if that's what you want. I know you and I are used to being solo, but I quite liked waking up with you last week. I make pretty decent tea and toast, too," he said, smiling hopefully.

Ron's bed was quite comfortable, and in his sated afterglow, Draco agreed. "Yes, though I hadn't planned to stay." Throwing even more caution to the wind, he continued, "I'm glad you asked. But I'll need to borrow a toothbrush, or transfigure one."

"I bought you one, just in case."

A low thrum of pleasure nestled in Draco's chest at Ron's gratitude, almost palpable in its concentration. It would take time, but perhaps he could find a way to get used to it.

* * * * *

An instructor from the Slade School of Art rang Draco the following Saturday afternoon while he and Ron had sought shelter from the pouring rain in a small pub. He agreed to go by the administration office on Monday in order to fill out some necessary paperwork, and even to stay and pose for a four o'clock figure drawing class. As he snapped the phone closed, Ron looked at him in disbelief.

Keeping his voice low, Ron leaned in over his pint and said, "I just can't believe how Muggle-ish you've become."

Draco sat ramrod straight, his gaze hard and his anger steaming.

"Just because I choose to use some of their gadgets and am quite content to earn their money and have it converted at Gringott's doesn't make me any less a wizard," he said, the words sharp in their attack. "I can't help it that my name isn't going to help me out in our world. It's not like I had a choice in doing some of the things I did that were… permanent." He paused, glancing down at his forearms before glancing at Ron again. "I'll never be anything but a wizard, Weasley, and a powerful one at that." He sat against the booth, picking up his tea and trying to calm himself down.

"Didn't mean to hit a nerve, Draco," Ron said, the guilt in his timbre encouraging Draco to believe him. "I just thought my dad would love to see your mobile. I wouldn't let him do anything other than hold it, though. His enthusiasm has broken more than a few things he's been taken with."

Draco scowled before forcing a more impassive look on his face. "You seem awfully keen on having me around your family. Need I remind you—"

"Merlin! I'm not suggesting we Apparate to the Burrow this afternoon, I'm not saying anything daft like that," Ron said, flustered. "But you're the first person I've actually wanted to do things with, share things."

"Don't you already have plenty of friends?" Draco asked, genuinely curious. He'd never seen Weasley do anything by himself, except that night when he'd cornered Draco after the banquet. He'd assaulted Draco completely of his own volition. Well, he was choosing to pursue him now without any outside support that Draco knew of. "I'd have thought Potter and Granger and your Gryffindor cronies would keep you with an active social life."

"They do, but what's wrong with wanting to add you to that?" Ron's expression was so full of entreaty that Draco admired his tenacity, if nothing else.

"Nothing, but I'm Draco Malfoy. That's probably wrong enough for them."

"Don't be a prick."

"It comes with the territory."

In the ensuing stalemate, Ron took a long pull of his ale. Draco flipped open his cigarette case, took one out and lit it. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the familiar heat in his lungs before letting out the smoke, relaxing as he did.

"Look, Draco, I know we have a past," Ron said, invoking no small amount of understatement. "I'd like to think that this thing we've just started could be really fucking good for both of us. Surely there's some reason why we kissed that first time, and why I couldn't get you out of my head."

Draco commiserated with him, though he found his memories taking him back to the places of quiet he'd discovered amid the bustle of Muggle Japanese life. He'd done some reading on Shinto and Zen, and had found himself resonating to some of the concepts, especially to do with the push and pull of conflicting or opposite desires.

"I'm sure there is some reason." Draco paused, trying to figure out how to express his thoughts. Malfoys strategised and dictated; being all touchy-feely was decidedly not a part of his upbringing, and he was atrocious at it.

"I don't do this well, Ron," he said, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray. "But I'll try. You're compelling, and you've become quite good-looking. You've managed to get under my skin in ways my other lovers haven't."

"Did you want them to?"

"No," Draco answered immediately. "They weren't bad blokes or anything, but our liaisons had only one purpose, and it didn't exist outside of Haitokukan."

Ron didn't recognise the meaning of the word, of course, so Draco elaborated. "It was a particular type of club. The name translates to 'House of Immortality.' I didn't meet up with any of them for dinner, or have relationships."

"You don't like…" Ron's expression again harboured a collection of emotions all at once, a feat which Draco found astonishing up close.

"Being pissed on? Having a fist up my arse? Being flogged? No."

Ron's relief was almost tangible.

"Though I find I do like your company," Draco said, the very words feeling comfortable and savoury on his tongue.

"I hope that's not half as scary to you as the things you just mentioned to me," Ron said with a smirk.

"I'm getting used to it."

"Good. Does that mean I can entice you to come over again tonight? And we're taking Teddy to London Zoo tomorrow. I'm sure he'd like to see you again, since you're related and everything," Ron enthused, ordering another pint.

"I'm not a babysitter," Draco said pointedly, lighting another cigarette off the one he'd nearly finished. "And aren't you even the slightest bit worried that you'll get sick of me if we spend so much time together? Ah— more tea, thanks." He addressed the last sentence to their server, who nodded brusquely.

"No. Well, I've spent loads of time with Harry and we're still best mates."

"You weren't sleeping with him," Draco pointed out.

Ron looked a bit discomfited. Draco was certain he'd at least thought about it in his imagination, but he decided not to force the point.

"No, I wasn't. Say, why are you going to be getting your kit off at a Muggle art school?" Ron asked, quickly changing the subject. "That's…" he fumbled for appropriate words as Draco accepted the new cup of tea.

"Unlikely. Bizarre. Laughable. Yes, all of those things. I was just out for a walk, and saw signs. Literally. It's something to do, they don't know me from the Bloody Baron, and it won't interfere with my golf."

"You play golf?"

Draco was succeeding famously in making Ron utterly gobsmacked. He quite enjoyed it, the way Ron blinked and furrowed his brow before shrugging and muttering something inarticulate into his ale.

"Yes. Do you play?"

"No, but I know you hit a small ball around a vast lawn. And it's Muggle." He continued to work on his pint, evaluating Draco as he sipped his tea and finished his smoke.

"Well, maybe you'll play a round with me at some point in the future," Draco said at last, feeling awkward and wishing he didn't. "I'll come over later today, but I'll pass on the trip to the zoo. It's just a bit too domestic."

"No, that's fine, I understand," Ron said eagerly. Apparently he was happy enough that they could plan on another night of passionate fucking and cosying up afterwards. Draco wouldn't mind that at all, though he did want to spend some time in the quiet of his flat.

"I do want to spend this afternoon at my place, but I'll plan to come over at seven, if that suits. Shall I bring dinner?" Draco put a couple of pound notes on the table, readying to leave.

"Yeah, okay. I'll eat just about anything. There's a great fish and chips place a couple of blocks from my flat on Dulaman Street if you wanted to pick us up something from there. And Draco," Ron paused as a burly pair of men eased by, giving Draco a look of disgust as they passed.

Draco glared contemptuously at their backs. "What?" he snapped.

"Well, um, I'd like you to stay over again. I won't be sick of you, I promise."

Draco focussed his attentions back on Ron, at the shaggy waves of hair pulled behind his ears, and the inviting curve of his bottom lip. He couldn't think of a time since childhood when he'd been desired so much, just for being himself. It couldn't possibly last, but Draco decided he'd take advantage while it was there for the offering.

"All right. I'll get some coffee, too, then."

"Brilliant."

When Ron beamed happily at him, Draco couldn't help but smile in return.

* * * * *

They finally roused themselves out of bed around 11:30 the next Sunday. Draco had brought a small phial of pain potion he'd brewed, figuring if they were as athletic in their shagging as they'd been in the past, he'd probably need it. To his pleasure, he was right. They showered together and then Ron made a large pan of eggs, cheese and vegetables that wasn't an omelet, but Draco didn't know what else to call it. While Ron was cooking, Draco wandered over to Ron's collection of Muggle musical disks, looking at the strange names while blowing on his coffee.

"I'm not the only one who has more than a toe in the Muggle world," he said toward the kitchen. "You could open a music shop with all of these."

"I like music!" Ron called back, defensively. "There just aren't that many wizarding bands. C'mere and sit down. Breakfast's ready."

A rack of toast, mickleberry preserves, butter and a carafe of orange juice floated to his small table. Draco joined them, and then Ron. Draco's olfactory senses were in overload, between all of the comforting smells of breakfast, as well as the piquant crispness of cedar from Ron's soap and dash of aftershave. He'd been surprised to see that Ron preferred to shave with an actual razor, but didn't question it. Draco had found himself getting hard just watching Ron cut away the red-golden stubble with practised ease, drawing the blade down and across his jaw and up his succulent neck.

"Not bad," Draco said after his third or fourth forkful.

"Thanks." Ron had a large dollop of tomato sauce on the side of his plate and offered Draco the bottle, but he demurred. "Say, I really don't mean to pressure you, but I'm supposed to meet Harry and Teddy at one o'clock. Are you sure you don't want to come along? When's the last time you've been to a zoo?"

Draco carefully spread preserves on a piece of toast. "I've never been to a zoo. Why would I want to go and look at a bunch of animals trapped in cages?"

"You've never been? Draco, you've got to come." Ron's pleading was a shadow's breath away from a whine.

"No, frankly, I don't. But if it means you'll stop badgering me about it, and you don't get it into your head that I'm going to be a part of your babysitting partnership with Potter, I'll go. This once."

"Excellent."

Had Draco had other plans, he would have stuck to his principles and said absolutely not, but he didn't. His cousin Cassandra was going to be visiting in a few weeks, and he'd set up an appointment with a golfing instructor for the following Wednesday. Aside from going to the art school to model, a fact he still hadn't quite accepted to himself except to laugh at how surreal it was, he didn't have a packed schedule. Plus, he had a devilish anticipatory pleasure in seeing Potter's face when he showed up with Weasley. All of a sudden, he wondered if Potter's wife would be there, too. He really didn't want to spend the afternoon with her around.

"Ron, your sister won't be there too, will she?"

"No, just Harry and Teddy. Why?" he asked, pouring himself a large glass of juice and doing the same for Draco.

"I'd rather be out with just you and Potter. My instincts tell me she's going to have choice words for you, whenever you decide to tell her you're shagging a Malfoy on a regular basis."

"It's more than that!" Ron said vehemently.

"Even more reason for me to keep my distance. I might not even be able to recognise you after the hexes she could well cast on you if you tell her you're actually head over heels and infatuated with a Death Eater's son and former sworn enemy."

"Maybe I can think for my bloody self!" Ron's face was turning scarlet under his freckles, and Draco suddenly wondered whether or not Ron had ever experienced uncontrolled, wild magic in his life. "I'm not embarrassed or ashamed that I fancy men, and they can all just fucking piss off if they don't like the fact that I really like you. A lot." His anger tapered off at that comment, and Draco slowly nodded, taking a deep swallow of coffee.

"You don't really date either, do you?" Draco asked carefully. "Since the end of the War, and once you realised you weren't going off into the sunset with Granger, once you knew you were different and your sex life would be full of cocks and arse, not jiggly curves?"

Ron slowly shook his head, pushing a triangle of toast through the eggs and tomato sauce. "I didn't really know until you. And I kept trying, some, with girls. And guys. But that's what got me off."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Draco reminded him.

"I know. That's what I'm saying," Ron agreed, through a mouthful of food. "But I don't know many other wizards like us. I've had some sex, obviously, but there wasn't anybody I wanted to settle down with." He let out a low, rueful laugh. "There was a Muggle bloke who was pretty cool, and we were together for a couple of months, but I wasn't being myself. I couldn't even tell him what I did for a living, and I'm really proud that I'm an Auror."

Draco munched on his toast and gave himself another helping of the egg mixture, which made Ron's demeanour brighten. "Well, this wasn't at all what I expected when I came back, but I can't say that I'm sorry." He tapped the salt shaker in a small circle above his eggs. "The wizarding world isn't some fairy land, though. People hold grudges. Not you," he said quickly, as Ron had opened his mouth, no doubt to defend himself unnecessarily. "I just think that it's probably for the best not to make any grand pronouncements to your family. My history with Potter goes back as far as mine with yours, and a couple of hours at the zoo with him around will probably be fine. I just see no need to rush anything."

Ron mulled over Draco's commentary and let out a deep breath. "Yeah, you're probably right. And don't worry about Harry; I know he's bloody curious about what you've been up to, and like I said, he can seem overly interested in my sex life. I told him I wasn't telling him anything about us, not about that topic."

"Good. It's not his bloody business," Draco said, spearing the last of his eggs. "The last thing I want is him thinking about my arse. That's for you alone."

A predatory look settled onto Ron's features. "Yes, it is. I wonder if we have enough time…" He glanced down at the watch on his wrist. "Fuck! No. No time. Are you finished?"

Draco smirked. "Yes. Do we need to go?"

"Yeah. Bloody hell, I wonder where my umbrella is. Can't believe it's still bloody raining," Ron said hurriedly, pushing away from the table and taking his wand off the table to levitate the dishes into an orderly phalanx into his sink where they began washing themselves.

"I brought one. I'll be right back."

Draco went and used the bathroom and found Ron standing at his front door, looking agitated.

"Ron. We'll be there in just a couple of minutes."

"You're right. I just—"

Draco shut him up with a deep kiss, waiting for Ron to relax a bit so he could slide in his tongue, tasting the sweet tea and tang of the preserves still in his mouth. Seconds later Draco was pinned against the wall, Ron's weight pressing insistently against him. Ron drew back after a moment, his expression apologetic.

"We've got to go. But maybe we can continue that later."

"Hope so."

Draco's large umbrella in tow, they left Ron's apartment, Ron casting a locking spell and taking the spiral staircase nearly at a run. They Apparated to a point not far from the zoo and saw Harry and Teddy standing at the entrance, looking in their direction. Harry waved, and Ron started to jog down the path. Draco believed running was only appropriate when being pursued, so he opened the wide umbrella against the drizzle and walked at his own pace over to the small group.

"Malfoy! Ron said you might join us. Glad to see you again."

Draco had to bite his tongue to keep from saying anything impolite, and shook Potter's hand. He looked down at his first cousin, once removed, this child of a werewolf and a family outcast, wearing a bright orange Chudley Cannons t-shirt under a bright yellow rain slicker.

"Hi Teddy. I'm Draco. Do you remember me from the park last week?"

The boy nodded, his brown hair a riot of unbrushed curls around his face.

"I guess I shouldn't even ask where his shirt came from," he said sardonically, looking at Ron.

Ron grinned. "Nope."

Draco turned to look back at Teddy. "I think you and I should have a talk about Quidditch and what teams to support."

"Cannons!" he said brightly.

Draco groaned. "For Merlin's sake."

"Harpies!" he shouted, a bit louder and Harry laughed.

"That's my godson," he said proudly. "C'mon. Let's go in. Teddy's been looking forward to this for days."

Ron draped his arm around Draco's back for a moment, and spoke quietly in his ear. "Thanks again for doing this."

"Trust me, you'll be making it up to me later," Draco said, arching an eyebrow.

Feeling Potter's inquisitive gaze on them, Draco nudged Ron gently away, though he'd quite liked feeling Ron's arm curled comfortably around him. The zoo didn't have many other people in attendance, and the drizzle turned to a steady, slow rain. While wandering around, Ron and Potter talked a bit about some of their recent Auror assignments, and Potter let slip that Ron had recently been awarded some kind of honour for work done with kelpies in Scotland. He seemed genuinely embarrassed, but proud as well, and Draco wished irrationally that somehow they'd crossed paths weeks before so he could have been in attendance.

The animals for the most part looked displeased or bored in their cages, and Draco couldn't help but feel sorry for them. Teddy was particularly taken with the penguins, which seemed to be having a smashing day, and then the bats in the area for nocturnal animals. After an hour or so they stopped and had something hot to drink, then headed to the children's zoo, but the petting paddock was closed. Teddy began sniffling, so Potter said he'd show him something special in the reptile house. Ron got a queer gleam in his eye at that, which made Draco wonder they were in for.

Potter had been holding Teddy on his back, but he let him down as they looked at the glass cages, moving them along until they got to the cases with large snakes. He stopped in front of one that supposedly housed a Burmese python, but it was nowhere to be seen. Potter glanced about and saw that they were alone, turned to the cage next to it where a cobra was sleeping in a thick bundle of coils, which caused an erotic thrill in Draco. He let the feeling pass. After looking at the cobra for a moment, Potter turned back to the python cage and began speaking in an inhuman sound of hisses and undeniably sexy sibilants.

"What the fuck is he doing?" Draco asked tersely.

"He's a parselmouth," Ron said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Don't you remember? From that duel in second year? I can do it, too, but not very well at all. It comes naturally to him. He wasn't sure whether or not he'd still be able to talk to snakes after killing You Know Who, but he can."

Teddy was mesmerised, demanding that Ron pick him up so he could see as the vast snake slithered up to the glass of the window, tongue flickering out and in. Draco was still trying to absorb what Ron had told him.

"You can make those sounds, too? How?"

"Well, I did, once. Hermione and I went down to the Chamber of Secrets in the middle of the fight in the Great Hall before Harry…" he paused, obviously not wanting to say too much in front of the child in his arms. "I'll tell you later."

"It's a big snake!" Teddy said delightedly.

The stream of s-sounds had stopped coming out of Potter's mouth and he looked over at Draco, his expression cheery. "The python is bored. He'd like to be let free, of course, but I told him I really shouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't imagine the zoo staff would be particularly pleased about that."

Potter seemed caught up in a memory and absentmindedly rubbed at his forehead, shaking his head as a wistful look settled on his face. "No. I doubt they would."

Potter summoning the python for Teddy to look at proved to be the highlight for the young boy— Draco, too, though he was a bit displeased that he'd found hearing anything out of Potter's mouth erotic. After Teddy tired of the snake and not being able to touch it, he started getting cranky, so they made their way to the exit. Teddy had to be carried again as he was half-asleep. When Potter mentioned going back to Andromeda's for a nap, however, he threw a small tantrum.

"I think we'd best head off," Potter said, letting the child sit on the ground and cry, splashing his hands in a puddle. "I enjoyed your company, Malfoy. I'd like to hear more about your adventures in Japan sometime. See you at the Burrow for dinner?" he asked Ron, purposefully looking over at Draco and then back.

"I'll be there," Ron said, resignation in his tone. "I haven't missed any Sunday dinners unless I've been out of the country."

"D'you have obligations like that?" Potter asked Draco before tugging Teddy up from the ground, now wailing because he was cold and wet.

"Now that I'm back in England, yes, I'm certain I'll be expected to visit my parents regularly. But we don't have a schedule like the Weasleys apparently do."

"Hmmmmm."

Draco could only imagine both Ron and Potter's thoughts about the Manor, since their only experience of it would have been the awful events when he'd nearly wet himself trying not to give them away, and then Bellatrix torturing the Granger girl.

"I don't live at the Manor," Draco said pointedly. "I have my own flat."

"Can't say that I blame you. Having your own place to live really is priceless. Well, I've got to get Master Lupin home. Ron, I'll see you around six, then?"

"Yeah. Bye, Teddy. Give me a hug."

Pouting and wiping the snot under his nose with his hand, Teddy finally walked over the few steps to where Ron had crouched down. With a thunk, he dropped his head on Ron's shoulder. It was a surprisingly endearing moment, and Draco couldn't suppress the smile that unfurled from somewhere in his chest.

"Say good-bye to Draco, too," Ron prodded gently.

"Bye," came the muffled voice spoken into Ron's jumper.

Teddy went back to Potter's side. Ron stood up and waved Potter and his godson along. He yawned widely and Draco looked askance at him.

"Am I boring you?"

"No, you know you're not," Ron murmured, standing close but not actually touching. Draco wasn't sure how Ron felt about public displays of affection, but Draco thought it wasn't worth the stares and attention.

"I think I'll take a nap before the family dinner, though. Care to join me?" Ron asked, letting his hand rest on Draco's hip.

It wasn't at all an unpleasant invitation, and Draco very nearly surrendered to the promise sheltered in Ron's eyes. His own bed called to him, though, and he really did need to catch up with Blaise and Pansy and just spend some quiet time alone.

"Thank you very much for the offer, but my own flat calls." He continued to hold his umbrella over them, lowering it so they had a bit of privacy, not that there was a lot of footpath traffic. "I'll owl you later on this week."

He leaned upwards just a bit to kiss Ron chastely on the lips, the low fire kindling quickly when Ron's hand slid to the middle of Draco's back. Ron mouthed tiny nipped kisses on Draco's lips without deepening the intensity before stepping away.

"Please do. I'd like to meet you for lunch one day," he said quietly, putting his hands in his corduroy jacket pockets. "And show you my office. If you don't think that's too much."

"The Ministry isn't exactly a place where I'd like to spend a lot of time."

Ron nodded, knowing Draco had had to spend several days being interviewed and cross-examined about his role in the War before he was allowed his rights and privileges again. Potter had even returned his wand to him, thankfully without Rita Skeeter and a media circus. "Owl me the details. Any day but Monday. Or Wednesday."

"All right." Ron hesitated, and Draco feared their parting would go on all afternoon if he didn't just go ahead and leave.

"Bye, Ron. I'm taking the umbrella. Were you going to Apparate?"

"Yeah. Do you mind walking me over there to those trees?"

Away from any passers-by, Ron Apparated back to his flat, presumably. Draco did as well, casting a drying spell on the umbrella and putting on water to boil for his tea once he was at home. It felt strange to realise that except for a couple of hours the day before, he'd been gone since Friday late afternoon. He'd spent nearly the entirety of his weekend with Ron, and the time had flown by. It was astonishing.

Once made, he took his tea outside under the overhang on his porch and drank it while having a cigarette. It occurred to him that he should check up on his owl, Gabriel, at the owlery at the Manor. He found himself yawning, the late nights of conversation and sex catching up with him. He put up a set of low-grade wards and locked his flat, made certain the ringer on his mobile was off, and crawled contentedly into his bed for a nap. He drifted off in minutes.

* * * * *

Monday arrived, chill and slick with sheets of rain. At the appointed time in the afternoon, Draco went back to Slade School. He was taken to the appropriate administrator by the Pansy-like woman with the look-at-my-chest tattoos. He filled out the required paperwork and was told when and where the classes were held and how glad they were to have a male model. Draco took it all in stride, saying little. The figure drawing class was led by a junior professor, who showed him a corner space with a tri-fold screen. Behind it was his changing area, where he could come out in a dressing gown, if he wished.

"I didn't bring one," Draco pointed out.

"That's shoddy preparation, my apologies," the man said, waving dramatically as Draco headed for the corner.

"It's fine."

He did realise the infinitesimal potential for disaster in that he'd need to hide his wand. He tucked it into his jeans pants leg once they were folded up and rationalised that the likelihood of him needing it was nearly none.

Out in the centre of the room, he stood and sat for a series of fifteen-minute poses over the next hour and a half. It was a pleasant enough time; his mind wandered, though he had to be careful about it straying to his weekend's activities as that could have created something other than a still life in his posing. Once the class was over and he'd dressed, the professor thanked him, gushing again in gratitude to a male physique for his students to draw. He also complimented Draco's creative stances and his ability to stay still. Draco merely thought of his experiences being bound and smiled, accepting the accolade. Several of the girls and a couple of the boys — youths, not much younger than he was — asked him a few questions. No, he wasn't a student. Yes, he lived in London. No, he wasn't available, yes, he was seeing someone, no, he wasn't giving out his mobile number.

He was still smiling to himself at his new notoriety when he decided to pay Gabriel a visit and have dinner at the Manor. Despite all that had been stripped from them, his parents still believed in having a routine, and in keeping as much normalcy as possible. Dinner was always at seven o'clock. Ducking into a public toilet he'd found during his initial walkabout, Draco Apparated to the grounds just outside the front door. He let himself in, as the locks opened to his voice. Doubtless they'd open to anybody the Ministry sent calling as well, but the Malfoys were allowed at least the appearance of sanctity in their own home.

"Hello, mother," he called out, figuring she was in the sitting room.

"Draco! What a splendid surprise."

He pulled her to him, grateful to see that she appeared to be nearly back to full health, her skin luminous in the candlelight and her beauty flawless. She'd proven to be braver than he'd ever believed possible, and being around her now humbled him.

"I'm going to the owlery to spend a little time with Gabriel, then join you and Father for dinner, if that's all right."

"That would be lovely. I'll let Flissy know."

Dobby, of course, had been freed by Potter years before, and he'd heard he was dead now. Another distant relative had taken pity on them, however, and bequeathed them a different house-elf. Once the dinner plans were settled, Draco headed outside. He went out to the small owlery where his eagle owl sat, perched on a stand that resembled an upside-down tree. He was asleep, and Draco called to him softly before he awakened.

"Hi, beautiful," he said, petting the owl's soft plumage as Gabriel hooted sociably at him. He'd had Gabriel since his first year at Hogwarts, though he'd not taken him to Japan. Draco quite missed him, but even now that he was back, he knew that his flat was no place to keep such a magnificent creature as Gabriel.

"But you like it here, don't you," he said soothingly, pleased when the owl nipped playfully at his fingers. He soared off and circled once before landing on his shoulder. One of his father's few remaining white peacocks began to strut into the owlery, its neck dipping forward and back like a camel's. As a child, Draco had always wished they'd had proper peacocks with rainbow feathers, but the albinos were more rare, more costly— ergo, they had more worth. Draco still believed in that tenant applying to a good many things, though not to the extreme his father had taken it.

Suddenly Gabriel bristled, hooting irritably as a diminuative owl Draco immediately recognised came barreling into the owlery, diving and flying in loop-de-loops, chittering away.

"Pigwidgeon? What're you doing here?" Draco asked, though of course the reason was obvious. Weasley hadn't been able to wait for Draco to owl him first. It was a good thing he'd not told Ron where he lived, or he suspected he might have come home one afternoon to find Ron lounging around his front door. Not that that was a horrible thing, but honestly. Even the Grandest Passions had rules and decorum, of a sort.

Gabriel hooted in greeting to the little owl, who seemed not to know where to land. The peacock had walked hastily away when Pigwidgeon had first arrived, dropping a few white downy feathers in its wake. Draco pointed at the stand.

"There," he said and the owl swooped down. It grabbed hold of one of the twisted branches, nearly toppled over, righted itself, and then started to preen. Draco turned to look at Gabriel, still perched on his shoulder, who seemed unimpressed by their visitor. "It's a Weasley owl," he confided. "Doubt you've ever seen one of theirs before."

After a couple more endearments, Draco shook his shoulder and Gabriel flew up to one of the set-in cloisters, looking down on Ron's owl.

"You just couldn't wait," Draco said to Ron in his absence, taking off the note from Pigwidgeon's leg. He ambled over to get him an owl treat from a secured box when he heard his mother call him for dinner.

"Oh. Just—" he waved at both owls, their wide eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. "Talk. Or something. I'll be back after dinner."

Shaking his head at this newest absurdity, he pocketed the parchment and strode quickly to the Manor. Draco greeted his father, who appeared pleased to see him, but also preoccupied. As they sat down to a dinner of cornish hens, Draco watched his father drink most of his glass of wine and summon Flissy for the bottle before he started in on his food.

"Is something the matter?" Draco asked, sliding a piece of colourful stuffed pasta in its sauce, trying to figure out what made it look purple. Once he tried one of the little pillowed morsels, he figured out it had beetroot mixed in the dough, and a rich cheese filled centre. Flissy had really outdone herself.

"Yes. I want to take your mother on holiday and the asinine Ministry is making it beyond impossible. The only way they will even consider letting us go to our summer home in Antibes is if we agree to wear bands." He fumed, pouring himself another full glass of wine and taking a healthy swallow. He made a low, displeased sound when Narcissa gently tutted in his direction.

"What kind of band? It sounds like they're putting the Trace back on you again, or something ludicrous like that," Draco said in disgust, his sympathies very much with his father. Lucius had wanted power, it was true, and believed that wizarding lines should stay pure— very nearly to the point of extinction. But he'd never been as psychopathically swayed by the Dark Lord like Draco's aunt Bellatrix. Lucius loved his wife, and he loved Draco.

"That is essentially their order," his mother agreed, delicately eating some glazed carrots. "Not that there are any alternatives. But I feel it would be worth it to get away, just for a little while. I am grateful to be allowed to stay in our home, but it's been a long, long few years."

With natural elegance she drank from her water goblet. Draco sat, feeling no small weight of guilt lowering onto him. He possessed freedoms they didn't, and had taken advantage of that. Still, it wasn't as though his father would go running away while out of the country… or would he?

"You wouldn't leave Britain forever, would you? If you could?" Draco asked, suddenly unsure of the answer.

His parents looked at each other, their wordless communication as effective as Legilimency, at least to Draco's eyes. Lucius cut a piece of meat and chewed it before looking back at him.

"This is our home. The idea of starting over elsewhere is quite unappealing, but your mother and I have discussed it. Our memories and history is here, both the wonderful and the grotesque. If I must be constantly under surveillance wherever I am for the rest of my days, I'd prefer it to be in the country I know best. I'm somewhat free, I suppose; I'm not dead, nor in Azkaban. A second time," he said menacingly, jabbing at the fuchscia ravioli.

"Well, it doesn't seem fair to have you Traced, but if it means that you and mother can spend some time away, I'd think it'd be worth it," Draco said, helping himself to his own goblet of water.

"The Healer says I'm recovered, and now that you're no longer halfway around the world, I would very much like a month or so at the Mediterranean," Narcissa stated in her subtle, but commanding voice. "I've never liked autumn, not since you began going off to school," she said, looking ruefully at Draco.

That comment came as a surprise; he'd corresponded with his mother and she'd always seemed to have plenty of social activities and gatherings, though he supposed she'd spent a lot of time by herself in the house. She wasn't really the hobby-pursuing type, either.

"Then you two should go. If the Ministry knows where you Apparate and what spells you're casting, well, who really cares? You weren't thinking of doing anything that would get you in serious trouble, were you?" Draco asked, eyebrows raised.

"The time for that has passed," Lucius said with a forceful breath, his eyes betraying more thought on the matter than he chose to say aloud. "What have you been doing this week?" he asked instead as he changed the subject.

Draco filed away the snippet of barely-disguised rebellion to ponder at another point. "I took a job," Draco said smartly, determined to keep the topic as far away from his new, quite particular social life as possible. Weasley's unread note crinkled in his pocket as he shifted, adjusting his serviette over his lap.

"Really?" His mother's gaze, bright and curious, latched onto him.

"Yes. I'm nude modeling for some drawing classes at a Muggle art institute. Rather spontaneous, how it all happened, but I've already posed for one class. It doesn't take a lot of skill, unless you're unable to sit still."

Narcissa's light eyes grew wide and she slowly lowered her fork to the table. Draco's father also sat in stunned silence until a darkly droll expression rose on his features.

"You mean to tell me that there may end up being framed portraits of you, naked, in Muggle households?" He seemed amused by the concept.

"I doubt it," Draco said, smirking a bit himself. "They're just learning how to draw the human form with an actual person in front of them. Nobody's painting actual portraits."

His mother had regained her composure, but her disapproval was evident in her lips, now set in a thin line.

Draco managed to get through the rest of the meal without any other invasive questions, and he begged off a post-dinner cup of tea to get back to his flat. He made up some excuse about having dropped something at the owlery so he could return without suspicion. Once there, he saw Gabriel and Pigwidgeon sittting next to each other on one of the stand branches, apparently fast friends.

"Oh, for Circe's sake," Draco half-scolded his owl. Gabriel merely looked at him with his wide amber eyes and let the small owl continue its high hooting and occasionally stroke its feathers with its small curved beak. Draco cast a Lumos in the dim room to read Ron's parchment at last.

DEAR DRACO—

I DID BELIEVE YOU WHEN YOU SAID YOU'D OWL, I PROMISE, BUT I WONDERED IF YOU MIGHT WANT TO MEET ME FOR LUNCH TOMORROW. I'D LIKE TO HEAR HOW YOUR MODELING WENT. I CAN'T IMAGINE STANDING STARKERS LIKE THAT IN FRONT OF PEOPLE I DON'T KNOW — THE WAY YOU'VE BEEN ON MY MIND, THAT COULD LEAD TO SOMETHING EMBARRASSING IF I JUST STOOD AND THOUGHT. ANYWAY, PLEASE GIVE A REPLY TO PIG, AND I'LL HOPE TO SEE YOU TOMORROW. I'M ON THE 2ND FLOOR IN THE JUNIOR AUROR WING. I'VE AN OFFICE THAT'S REALLY MORE A CUPBOARD THAN ANYTHING ELSE, BUT IT'S NICE NOT TO HAVE TO SHARE. IF YOU CAN, COME AROUND 12:30.

FONDLY,

RON

"You're unbelievable," Draco uttered quietly into the room, breathing in the air pungent with decades of bird dander. Still, what was the harm in being so avidly pursued by the person who had made an undeniably permanent mark on him? He glanced again at Ron's miniature owl, continuing to cosy up to Gabriel, and shook his head. Cassandra would find this whole situation adorable; Blaise— he'd need to tread lightly, there. Gabriel trilled a low cry of contentment, which spurred Draco into action. Luckily he kept a Muggle biro in his overcoat and he found a clean enough surface to write on. Holding his wand over the parchment for light, he wrote a hasty response.

Ron—

My apologies in taking so long to reply— I was just about to have dinner with my parents when your owl arrived. I'll meet you at your office at 12:30. There's a good Ethiopian restaurant not too terribly far from there, the Blue Nile. It's my suggestion for lunch.

Getting my kit off isn't all that exciting. Besides, you've seen it all before. A few of the students tried to chat me up afterwards, both sexes. That's more interesting conversation, though of course I turned them down.

Until tomorrow,

Draco

He wound the parchment into a tight roll and tied it to Pigwidgeon, who now seemed quite reluctant to leave.

"Go on!" Draco said reprovingly. "Take that back to Ron. He'll think you've been in an accident, most likely, since you've been loungnig about here with Gabriel for so long."

The little owl spun its head at a disconcerting angle as Draco smoothed the downy tufts on its head before commanding it again to get home to its owner. Draco made his goodbyes to Gabriel and Apparated home, relaxing with his usual cups of tea and cigarettes before spending some time at his computer. He lurked at an online community of amateur haiku writers, entranced by the simplicity and power that could be held in such a contained piece of poetry. In a slim red notebook he held a collection of his own attempts at haiku, but he had yet to share any of his with even the faceless people in this virtual community. Frankly, he was intimidated, as some of them were very talented.

At last he tired of staring at the unnatural beaming glow of the screen and he went to bed.

* * * * *

Draco was willing to feel an inappropriate amount of smug superiority in the fact that he continued to turn heads wherever he went. He strode confidently across the marble floors of the Ministry, raising his head slightly higher as he heard the unmistakable commanding steps he made, the sound unique to the soles of the expensive shoes he wore. He'd dressed to the nines and pulled his shoulder length hair back into a ponytail. Draco adored this particular suit; it was made by an exquisite French wizarding designer, whom the Japanese practically as a culture seemed to love. Draco had splurged on this when he'd seen the colour: black, with a lustre of a primordial evergreen, like the recessed depths in a woodland lake. The slim trousers showcased his long legs, and the fit of the jacket enhanced the vee shape of his torso. People couldn't keep their eyes off him, and he gloried in it. In a fit of true vanity, he'd even polished his signet ring, which gleamed in the light cast by the torches lining the corridors. He was a Malfoy and proud of it; he shone, burnished with an inner glow, the legacy of his ancestry of powerful wizards.

As he stepped into the lift, barely acknowledging the presence of the other people with him, the succulent irony that he was meeting Ron Weasley for lunch seeped into his mouth and he licked his lips. The lift seemed ancient and faulty, but he managed to disembark on the second floor, snapping his head to the right and left to figure out in which direction to go. He was passed by a pair of Aurors, looking eager and cocky. They could have been his age— maybe they'd even gone to Hogwarts. A distinguished older witch in aubergine robes blew past him from behind as he resumed his search for Weasley's office, though he smirked to himself when he saw her pause in a doorway down the corridor to give him a surreptitious second look.

Finally he was in front of what could aptly have been called a broom cupboard, or perhaps a place to house cleaning supplies. "Ronald B. Weasley, Junior Auror, Second Class" illustriously proclaimed his title from a placard placed on the door, which was open. Draco placed a hand against the doorjamb, revelling in Ron's expansive gaze of awe and raw lust. Drips like hot oil slid to Draco's groin as Ron slowly stood up from behind his small desk, his attentions locked on Draco like a hawk diving for its prey.

"Malfoy," he said, finally coming to himself and brushing some crumbs off of his slightly worn work robes on to the floor. As he glanced around the tiny offce and then back at Draco, now standing just inside the threshhold, an expression Draco knew well floundered onto Ron's face. Draco could tell the instant it happened, when Ron's sense of inferiority flooded through him. That hadn't been Draco's intent, not now, not when he'd already been making plans for a grand seduction this upcoming Friday, hopefully to culminate in him rogering Ron silly.

"Ron," Draco replied purposefully, stepping forward to clasp Ron's hand in his before letting go. "Thank you for your owl. So this is your office, is it?"

Ron barked a short, mortified laugh. "Yeah. Merlin, Draco," he said, lowering his voice and furtively glancing at the open doorway before back at Draco. "You look fucking amazing. You dressed like that for lunch? I'm just in my bloody work robes, and you're sex in a suit."

His words were complimentary, but the dejection and sense of worthlessness in his voice was equally stamped on his face. Somehow Draco knew this was a pivotal moment; the sails of destiny were snapping as his course stood poised to charter one way or another. At a different point in his life, he might have believed he'd been put on the earth to effectively shatter Ron's ego to its core, but that time was long gone.

"I dressed for you."

Disbelief hung in Ron's eyes before transforming to gratitude.

"Oh. Wow. That's… Thanks." Ron blinked a few times, seemingly not trusting himself to speak for a few moments.

Draco nodded and turned to investigate the books of spells and laws on a nearby shelf, giving Ron a chance to collect himself. Here on the wall was the obligatory Chudley Cannons poster, as Draco had noticed there wasn't one in Weasley's flat.

"Well, I'm famished," Ron said, clearing his throat and trying to sound matter-of-fact.

Draco could still see the joyful incredulity in Ron's face and felt something infinitely taut deep within himself stretch past its breaking point and snap. His knees wanted to give way and he had an irrational wish to shut the door, lock it, and have Ron take him on top of his desk, certain that the tattoo on his back would fly all over his fucking body if they did. Instead, he took a deep breath, placed his hand on Ron's hip to give it a small squeeze, and tilted his head toward the doorway.

"Let's go get some lunch, then."

Ron's attempts to curb his beaming smile were laughable, but Draco didn't make any snide comments as Ron shed his robes and put on an overcoat instead. On their way out he placed a note on his door that indicated he'd be back in about an hour. They walked back toward the lifts, keeping a respectable distance, but Draco could tell Ron was using everything he had not to grab his hand and clench it tightly into his own. Draco made a bit of small talk about Gabriel and Pigwidgeon, trying to keep topics in fairly neutral territory as they were swept up into the hive of activity in the Ministry. Finally they were spat out into the world above ground, another sodden day with blustery wind.

"I hate this weather," Ron grumbled as Draco quickly engorged his umbrella and hefted it over them, shielding them from the rain, at least when it wasn't blowing sideways.

Draco led the way to the restaurant where they ate a delicious and unpretentious meal with their hands. Ron found it rather disconcerting at first, but once he got the hang of scooping things up with the injera and eating without utensils, he happily scarfed down the meal. Once they'd finished and were in the process of paying, Ron looked down at his watch and then over at Draco with apology in his eyes.

"I wish I could just nick off for the whole afternoon," he said, the words heartfelt.

"Well, Friday is a couple of days away. Perhaps you'd like to come over to my flat this evening after work?" Draco found himself suggesting, even though he'd not planned at all for that. It wouldn't take him long to tidy up, though, and he could throw together some pasta and salad without too much effort. Mostly he wanted Ron there, in his own space, in front of the fireplace. Naked.

"Really?" Ron slid his hand behind Draco's back as they made their way out into the chilly drizzle. "I mean, I'd love to see your place. No doubt it's swankier than mine."

He pulled Draco closer to him so they were hip to hip as they walked down the footpath. "Have I told you recently how amazing you look?"

"Yes, Ron," Draco said, feigning irritation. "You're quite a looker yourself. And my flat isn't at all posh, it's a small place. But I've just had a thought…"

He let the words fade away as he'd spoken without thinking, a rarity for him these days, at least until Ron had suddenly shown up into his life again. It had occurred to him that Ron might wish to see the Manor now, not as a prisoner of war, but as Draco's— companion.

"Yes?"

"In the near future my parents are, in all likelihood, going to be spending a few weeks at our summer home in Antibes. I'm guessing you don't have very good memories of the Manor, given all that happened there, but it does have some amenities my flat doesn't. A huge bathtub like the Prefect's bath at Hogwarts, a sauna, grounds to practise golf on, or go flying… but only if you'd find that at all appealing. It's been stripped of the Dark artifacts, though I'm certain there's still some nasty spellwork in the very stones of the place."

They were approaching the phone box to enter the Ministry from the Muggle street. Ron looked over at him, disengaging his arm.

"I'd— Yes. And I'm not taking my arm away because I'm embarrassed, it's that I don't want to be showy, and yes, I'd love to come over, to your flat," Ron rambled on as they stood in front of the red box. Ron cast a Disillusionment charm on them as an extra precaution, Draco assumed. "Will you come back to my office, just for a few minutes?" he pleaded, intertwining their fingers. "I've been dying to kiss you without being stared at, and I'll go fucking nuts if I have to wait until tonight."

Draco grazed his thumb along Ron's palm and wet his lips with his tongue. "Certainly. I'd rather not wait until tonight either."

Ron pushed in the fold of the door and they squeezed in together before the carriage descended into the bustle of the Ministry. "I think I wouldn't mind visiting the Manor. It'd be good for me to get some different memories of it. You haven't told your parents—" he asked, leaving the implied question hovering between them as they walked into the busy entranceway, yet again.

A very handsome, European-looking man came towards them, his gaze fixated on Draco. Draco had no idea who he was, though given the cut of his dress robes, he was aristocracy of some kind. He gave Draco a thorough going-over and then nodded, and then glanced at Ron and back again. He raised his hand so that Draco paused.

"Le Paon?" he asked.

"Bien sûr," Draco replied, arching an eyebrow. He could sense Ron glowering at his side, but he couldn't resist engaging in the brief reparte.

"Ah. Yes. Well, good day," he continued in a heavy French accent as Ron pulled Draco along to the lifts.

"I'm not at all interested, I'll have you know," Draco said under his breath, trying to be reassuring. He didn't mind the attention, and Ron had to get his inflammatory jealousy under control; Draco couldn't abide that. Beautiful things and people were meant to be admired and appreciated, but it didn't mean he was going to go seek out whomever the gentleman was, even with his glacier aquamarine eyes and sculpted nose.

"Good. He's the son of the French Wizarding Ambassador." Ron still looked very put out, and he took advantage of them having the lift to themselves, continuing the conversation. "What did you say, anyway?"

"Oh. He just recognised the designer of my suit, it's a French wizarding label. I told him he was right. It's you I want, Ron," he said, turning to look at him full in the face, all levity gone. "I may not date, but you're my lover. The only one. Understood?"

Ron nodded, and he seemed as though he wanted to say something, but he remained mute as they exited the lift and returned to his office. A small note fluttered against the door, the bit of parchment resembling nothing so much as a butterfly. Ron snatched at it and unlocked the door, seemingly preoccupied. He waved Draco through and tossed the paper onto his desk, closing the door behind him and stepping two paces to grab Draco in his arms.

"I've never wanted anyone like you," he said helplessly before Draco latched his mouth onto Ron's, his lips open in an instant so he could spear into the heat of Ron's mouth with his tongue. The kiss was molten, tangy with possession and the noises in Ron's chest that Draco inherently knew to mean 'mine, mine, mine.'

The door flew open. Draco and Ron jerked away from each other, hands still grasping at each other's neck and back, breathing heavily.

"Ron! Why… oh!" Potter said, startled, his hand glued to the door handle as he stared at them.

"Knocking! Common courtesy! Heard of it?" Ron yelled, his face beginning to turn crimson. He eased away from Draco, but turned so he could slide his arm down to anchor at the small of Draco's back.

"Never needed to, before," Potter said, still agog, but a mischievious smile was lighting on his lips. "Malfoy. Nice to see you. Um, Ron, didn't you see my note, mate? We've got to go. Now."

"Now? What?" Ron said confusedly as Draco stepped away and watched Ron grab up the folded piece of parchment.

"We're heading up to the Isle of Lewis again. Kelpies. I'm sorry to have to interrupt, but you've got to pack and meet me at our portkey in about—" he glanced at his watch, "fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes?!" Ron squawked. "Why didn't you owl me or something?"

"I thought you would've been back sooner. I didn't know you had company," Potter leered.

"I'll just be going," Draco said, disappointment churning unpleasantly in his stomach. "Owl me when you get back, if you don't mind."

"No. Yes. I mean, of course," Ron said fervidly before scowling at Potter. "I'll be at the portkey. Where is it?"

"Room twenty-four at the Hog's Head. Well, see you around, Malfoy," Potter said with a grin before he sprinted out of the room.

"I—" Ron started.

"You need to go. Just owl me when you get back," Draco said smoothly, straightening his coat.

"It could be a couple of days."

Ron was obviously as disappointed as Draco, though he'd become a necessary whirlwind of activity. He threw a few things into a dark reddish-brown satchel, shoved some papers and two well-gnawed quills into a folder which also were stuffed into the case, and a braided twine armband that he grabbed from a crowded shelf.

"Just come back safely." Draco closed the door again and walked over to give Ron a brief but firm kiss. "Consider yourself mine this weekend. Don't even wank between now and when I see you again."

Ron moaned, but nodded, a look of panic rising to his features. "Fuck! I've really got to run. I'll send Pig as soon as I'm back."

"I'll be glad to see him." He walked to the door and let himself out, turning to say, "Be careful."

"I will."

Ron regarded him solemnly before he started muttering to himself about seals and badges and bloody Scotland as Draco left the Auror wing.

He decided to take the Floo network to the Leaky Cauldron and then Diagon Alley. He didn't really need anything, but he wasn't ready to go home, either. As he threw in the green powder and announced his destination, he realised how rattled he was by his own proclamations, and the fact that Ron had been pulled away at just a moment's notice. Then there was the lovely Frenchman, though he was nothing but unexpected eye candy. And now he really was going to have to wait at least a day, and probably more, before he'd get to have a shag, much less whole hours of sexual exploration with Weasley's magnificent physique. He was not pleased.

Once out on the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley, Draco lit a cigarette, wondering why he'd decided to come here. He wandered slowly along the road, which wasn't all that busy, perhaps due to the inclement weather. He'd shrunk his umbrella down to an appropriate size for one person and glanced in the windows of the various shops he'd known well as a child. There were a few new ones, but mostly it appeared to house the same shops with relatively unchanging items in the windows. He did pause in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies, admiring the sleek lines of the new Cloudracer. His own broom had plenty of grace and speed, though he'd not flown on it in ages. Maybe that was something he could do to let out some of his frustrated energy.

As he walked on, he finished his fag and dropped it to the ground. After grinding it out, he took notice of where he was; it should have been hard to miss with its garish signage and merriment within, despite the dismal weather outside. Draco shook out his umbrella, and pushed the door open into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. It was a riot of colours and textures, bins overflowing from nearly every surface, tiny brooms flying around, and a rather risqué song by Anson Astrolabe belting out through the shop. It stopped seconds after he entered as a voice carried across the room, welcoming him to the mayhem as only a Quidditch announcer could.

The wide smile on Lee Jordan's face slid off as he saw Draco stride into the centre of the room. "Malfoy?" he stated, though it came out as a question. "Draco Malfoy?"

"No, I'm sure it's Ron. He's been working on his glamour spells," George said confidently, strolling past Jordan and pinching his arse.

Draco couldn't help but stare, gobsmacked, at the healed but gaping wound where his left ear should have been, all while trying to reconcile George's actions. He was queer, too? And with the announcer from their school matches? From dusty depths in his memory, Draco remembered Jordan had also been in Gryffindor, so perhaps they'd known each other for some time.

"Nicely done, Ronniekins!" George said approvingly, walking all around Draco and even trailing his fingers through Draco's hair and down his bicep. "Excellent attention to detail. But why pick somebody as sickening as Malfoy?" he asked, coming to a stop in front of him.

"I'm not Ron," Draco seethed, his voice as cold and piercing as ice shards. It was unfathomable how he'd spent so few seconds in this Weasley's presence and already he loathed him anew. Apparently the lingering animosity and disgust also still ran unabated in George.

"I really am Draco Malfoy," he went on, his voice menacing. "Is my money too sickening for you to accept?"

George's hazel eyes narrowed as Jordan began to look both confused and nervous. "Yeah, sure. Ron, give it up. You're giving me the creeps."

"Glamours can only change appearance, and they only produce facsimiles of items," Draco said curtly, quoting from the standard advanced spell book they all knew. He shoved his hand in front of George's face, determined to expose how wrong the twin was and then leave. If Ron really thought his family would be accepting of the two of them as anything at all, he was obviously delusional. "Try to cast a Revelatio on this," he hissed, jabbing his half-closed fist at George's chest, the Malfoy signet ring shining in the glaring lights of the shop.

"Um, George? I think it's really him," Jordan said awkwardly, his gaze never leaving Draco. "Weren't you gone? For a couple of years? And why would you buy anything here?"

"I doubt I'll get anything now," Draco snarled, waiting as George got his wand and with a smirk, cast the spell. Nothing happened to the ring, of course. George looked up at him, anger clouding his features, the cheekbones and structure echoing Ron's face but somehow very dissimilar.

"What're you playing at?" he said, his voice sparking with irritation and rage. Draco was bemused to see Jordan stand next to him and try to calm George down, but Weasley would have none of it. "Who sent you, and why? I should throw you out on your worthless, Death Eater arse."

"I'm quite capable of leaving on my own," Draco said coldly, having drawn his wand, seeing as how George was also armed. "I actually visited because Weasley — Ron — said he came here once a week."

"Since when have you seen Ron? He hates you more than anyone else in existence!"

"I saw him in the park."

They were now mere inches apart, Jordan continuing to hang behind George, but he hadn't yet seen the need to pull him away. George's face was a mottled, ruddy shade, and Draco couldn't help feeling his gaze slide toward the space where his ear should have been. Draco felt a righteous, perverse need to make Ron's brother as furious as possible without being explicit. "We've been getting reacquainted."

"You'd better keep your hands off him!" George roared, his chest beginning to heave and his clenched fist creeping up his strenum.

"Too late for that, but I'm quite sure he didn't mind!" Draco yelled back, wrenching away. He stormed to the door. "You don't fucking know the half of it," he growled, jerking the door open and almost falling over his own feet to walk furiously away.

He'd wished the door had benged shut behind him, but doubtless it was charmed against such dramatics. The cold drops of rain stung his forehead and cheeks, but he ignored them for a bit, pacing forward with his jaw clenched and eyebrows knitted to the point that his whole face hurt. The anger began to seep from him, however, and eventually he put his umbrella back over his head, protecting his designer suit if nothing else. With a last bitter shake of his head, he Apparated home.

He spent the rest of his afternoon and evening indulging himself in an effort to regain the very pleasant feelings he'd had prior to the catastrophic run-in at Wheezes. He took a long, hot shower, drank loads of savoury tea, and even watched some decently-filmed Muggle porn he could find so easily on his computer. A couple of glasses of sake made the crashing strife with George seem slightly more comical, though he cast a sobering charm before crawling into his soft bed. He spared more than a thought for Ron, and kelpies, and wondering what all in Hades Potter was grilling him about, since surely he was. Draco put a hand on his torpid cock, stroking it half-heartedly, but then he decided he'd force himself to wait for Ron's return as well.

* * * * *

"The model's moving," Draco announced before he eased out of his standing pose to sit on a pillow and rub the soles of his feet. The instructor had asked if he'd do just one pose through the couple of hours, taking breaks when needed. Draco had chosen something he thought would be interesting from an aesthetics view, but now towards the end his knees and feet were beginning to ache. There was a small commotion as one of the girls gestured at the window and Draco glanced up, his eyes growing wide when he saw Pigwidgeon fluttering outside, thwarted by the glass.

"Can we open the window? He's mine," Draco said hastily, trying to figure out how to explain this phenomenon without the student asking too many questions. "And he's trained. Carries messages," he went on as casually as possible once the little brown owl had come in and hooted excitedly at him. It was comical, how he seemed to bounce while he flew, before landing on a nearby easel one of the students was using.

"How did you do that?" the professor asked in astonishment as Draco took off the slip of parchment tied on Pigwidgeon's leg. "Its like the old carrier pigeons! I didn't think you could train owls to do anything. Hawks, yes, but not owls."

"He's a bit off," Draco said matter-of-factly. "Excuse me for a moment while I read this and send him on his way. I'm sorry for the disruption."

"No, no. Take your time," the instructor said, his voice and manner filled with restrained curiosity.

Draco strolled back to his pile of clothes behind the folded modesty screen and cradled the paper, his heart racing. It had been two days since Ron had been called away, but with his imagination, it had felt like years.

DEAR DRACO — I'M BACK. KELPIES WEREN'T BAD, BUT THEY DID HAVE TO BE REINED IN. A COUPLE OF THEM WERE QUITE FEISTY; I'LL TELL YOU ALL ABOUT IT SOON. MISSED YOU. WANT YOU. NOW. WHERE ARE YOU? PLEASE WRITE AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS. YOURS,

RON

"Mine?" Draco marveled. Squatting down, he rummaged through his coat pocket and ferreted out his biro.

Dear Ron,

So glad to hear from you. I'm still in class. If you can, meet me at the Cloak and Dagger at six o'clock. We'll go to my flat from there, if that suits. Can't wait to get my hands on you. It's been a long two days.

He paused, chewing on the end of his pen. He'd always hated closing bits to letters, if he were writing anyone other than his parents. 'Crazy about you'? 'Yours fondly'? He was still rolling exuberantly in Ron's "yours," much like a child in a pile of freshly raked leaves.

Until I see you, very soon.

Deeply marked, Draco

He frowned at it, wondering where the poetic 'deeply marked' had come from and even what he thought he meant by it. There was nothing for it now, though; he wasn't going to use magic to remove the ink and start over.

With a minimum of fuss, he attached his reply and told Pigwidgeon to return to Ron at once, speaking quietly to the owl. It chittered happily and flew away as Draco got back to the business of standing still. He had to be especially careful of his mind wandering now, so he forced himself to go through the few recipes he had memorised and started in on potions ingredients lists until finally it was 5:40, and the class was over.

Striding purposefully out of the Art school and to an out-of-the-way loo he'd found in another campus building, he Apparated to a point a couple of blocks from the pub he'd suggested. It was mad how giddy he felt that Ron was back, but he knew it must be due to the profound shift that had occurred two days ago. It was as though his reality had been cleaved; all of the fear and raw unknowing had been cut from him as he accepted the undeniable homecoming of Ron's palm pressed to his. A widening sliver of irrationality in him suggested that he tell Ron absolutely everything about himself, but the rest of him decided that might not be for the best. All things in time beat in his pulse, which quickened as he rounded the corner. Ron was standing outside of the pub rather than inside, well into a pint, as Draco had fully expected him to be.

Ron's smile as Draco approached was warm and shone with relief. "Great to see you," he said brusquely, drawing Draco into a tight hug before standing back, evidently not wishing to attract attention.

"You too. I'd never have thought that Kelpies would require instant Auror interference, but I'm glad that you and Potter got things straightened out, wherever you went." He gave Ron a perfunctory once-over and deemed him uninjured. "Shall we?"

"Yes, please."

The yearning in Ron's voice unwound Draco's reserve further, like a fern frond unfurling axiomatically toward sunlight. "Let's go back to the Apparition point on Hyacinth's Row, and I'll side-along you to my flat."

"You lead, I'll follow."

They walked down the road, Ron at his side, filling him in on the malevolent horse-creatures who'd been troubling some of the nearly-isolated lochs. Once they'd discreetly manoeuvred between the hedgerows and Draco's hands were clasped to Ron's arse, he Apparated them directly into his kitchen. Ron grimaced once they'd arrived, until the unpleasant, flattening feeling of Apparition passed.

"I always feel like my insides have been smashed by an anvil when I side-along," Ron grumbled, taking a deep breath as he glanced about the room. "Doesn't matter, though. I'm here, I'm at your flat. Will you give me the tour?" he asked before Draco grabbed his shoulders and kissed him, plundering his mouth with his hungry tongue.

"Yes," Draco said when he pulled back, licking his lips with no small amount of self-satisfaction. "The tour will be brief. I live here, there are a few rooms. I've missed you, and—"

"I know you don't drink, not much, anyway, but I have something I want to ask, and I wish I could have a little something before I do. Not a lot," Ron insisted, frotting against Draco, his hands never having left Draco's back. "But I've never— well, never wanted this. Fuck. Cigarette?" he asked finally, his demeanour apologetic, which Draco couldn't stand.

"Ron. I hate rules. No, I take that back. Rules are important. Rule number one: don't apologise to me. If you want something, want it, and tell me. Ask me. Don't dance around things, for Merlin's sake. It doesn't suit you."

As the unplanned words tumbled from Draco's tongue, he realised how true they were. Somehow in the years of their antagonism, he'd learned a lot about how Ron worked. Draco found Ron's sometimes explosive, but impassioned personality appealing now, and he couldn't stand the thought of Ron self-censoring himself around him.

"No. You're right," Ron said, steeling himself against whatever seemed so challenging to say. He clung to the wings of Draco's shoulder blades, edging his hips forward, staring at him as though Draco were in the Wizengamot and about to sentence him. "I want you to fuck me. I've not done that, but I couldn't get the thought out of my head. Would that be okay?"

Draco blinked, his mind jumping to the glorious image of Ron spread out beneath him, his own cock sliding in and out of the grasping heat below his thatch of copper curls.

"Of course. My cock loves arse as much as yours. Well, maybe not quite as much as yours," he said demurely, leaning in to claim Ron's mouth in a smouldering kiss before resting their foreheads together. "I'd be honoured," he said, his voice low. "There's schnapps in the pantry. You pour for both of us, and I'll make sure everything I want is in the bedroom."

Ron's relief at the presence of the spirits was palpable and Draco kissed him again for it. "Nice to know I'm at least as important as your liquor," he joked.

"I don't have to have it," Ron said, indignant and evidently hurt. "Just wanted to relax a bit, that's all."

Draco hadn't meant to put Ron on the offensive. "I know you don't," he replied, shaking his head. "I'm sorry if I implied that. I'm just so glad you're here. It's been awful with you gone. And I can't believe I just said that out loud," Draco marvelled, a smile stealing onto his face as Ron poured them each a respectable serving of the cinnamon liqueur and followed Draco to his bedroom.

"You're not as cold and unfeeling as you've made yourself out to be," Ron said before tossing back his drink and eyeing Draco.

Draco took a sip of his, relishing the cinnamonhot slide down his throat as he put the glass on the bedside table. He couldn't believe that Ron really wanted him to have sex with him like this now, in Draco's flat, just shy of a fortnight after they'd run across each other in Regent's Park. And yet, nothing made more sense. The axis of Draco's world had been rather violently shunted and realigned, the moorings now even more solid than they had been in the past. They undressed and kissed, hands everywhere, grasping and smoothing as Draco rutted against Ron, wishing there was a way he could slide into Ron's skin until Ron gasped, "Getting close. Need you in me, now."

Draco at last pressed his slicked, stiff cock into Ron's branding heat, and Ron's face contorted at the intrusion. Draco stopped, trembling at the effort.

"It burns. 'S'okay. Keep going, fuck, yes, fuck, all the way in," Ron said through gritted teeth and Draco yielded gladly. He eased his hips back and forth, waiting for Ron to relax until Ron nodded and Draco sped up his thrusts. Their movement became as inevitable and organic a motion as a rushing tide. Draco came first with a litany of moans, the heat uncoiling from the base of his spine and bursting out of him like the suddenness of a vibrant, summer dawn. Once he'd caught his breath and breathed his thanks into Ron's mouth, he gently uncoupled them, and gave Ron a drawn-out blowjob until Ron's released flooded into Draco's throat and he smiled at Ron's shouts.

Later, after Draco had rubbed some salve on Ron's tender hole, they stood on Draco's porch. They smoked, wrapped up in a cashmere blanket nicked from a chest stashed away in a closet. Ron snuggled up next to him, a sensation that Draco knew he could well get used to.

"I still need the tour, but maybe we could eat something first?" Ron suggested, his left hand rubbing feathered arcs on Draco's hip.

"Yes. Food's an excellent idea," Draco agreed, pulling the blanket more tightly around them, glancing up at the panoply of stars glistening above them. "But really, you've seen all of my place, except the study. What're you hungry for?"

Ron looked sheepish, tightening his grip on Draco's upper thigh. He leaned in, nuzzling against the side of Draco's mouth. "There's this really delicious dish called pizza. Ever heard of it?"

"No. Never," Draco drawled, tilting his head back toward the dining room. "But I'll try anything once."

They shuffled in as one unit back into his flat. Ron poured himself another drink and Draco waited, thinking they'd go back to his bedroom, get dressed and go out. Ron's face bore a contemplative expression, and Draco suspected it didn't have to do with potential pizza toppings.

"Have you had sex like that with a lot of guys?" Ron asked, ambling down the short corridor to Draco's room.

"Topped? No, not that many. I don't have anything against it, though," Draco said, stepping behind Ron and running his hands along the furred trail from his chest to his groin. "You felt amazing. I'll bugger you anytime you ask me." He sucked on Ron's shoulder blade enough to leave a faint red bruise.

"Think I may opt not to hop on my Firebolt tonight," Ron said with a short huffed laugh.

"Are you sore?" Draco asked with concern as they put on their clothes.

"No, not really. Just rather more aware of that part of me, if that makes sense."

Draco nodded, angling his head toward the front of the flat. "Yes, it does. I'm going to use the loo and you're welcome to investigate the study if you'd like, then we'll go to whatever pizza place you recommend. I'll buy."

"That's right, Mister I Earn Muggle Money." Ron laughed outright at that. "I still don't get how you went from being a pointy-faced, supremely obnoxious Slytherin to posing nude in art classes at a Muggle London Art school, and somebody I want to spend all of my time with. I must be mad," he said, the last words pouring over Draco like warm honey.

"Then we both are," Draco purred into Ron's ear, delighting in the low groan that rolled up from Ron's chest. "And don't touch my computer. I spent a lot of money on it and I don't want you breaking it."

He went down the hallway, smiling to himself as he closed the door to the bathroom, listening to Ron's muttered questions and commentary about his dad having a field day were he there.

* * * * *

Friday afternoon found Draco in East London at the Ridley Road street market, buying fresh food and meat both for the evening's meal and also for his larder in general. He'd become used to cooking for one, and his repertoire unsurprisingly focussed on rice and vegetable dishes due to his time in Osaka. After combing a couple of cookbooks he had, he'd settled on something less exotic for his evening meal with Ron, after owling Flissy for the recipe. Ron had spent the night and gone into work grudgingly and, to Draco's indecent pleasure, wearing a pair of Draco's boxer shorts. Ron had gone by his flat after their pizza to get a change of clothes, but as he'd dressed this morning, he'd admitted he'd wanted to wear something of Draco's.

"What kind of grief did Potter give you while you were away?" Draco had asked, making tea and serving up toast and jam for both of them before Ron had to get to a ten o'clock meeting.

"Harry? Well, he asked a lot of probing questions, and I told him to get stuffed a lot," Ron had said through a mouthful of bread, shrugging. "Seriously, though, I told him that I didn't plan on him getting anymore eyefuls like that, but he could expect that if he didn't see me as often, it's because I'm with you. And I'm happy. And I'm not under some wicked Malfoysian curse, either."

Draco had looked down his nose, and took a sip of his tea. "Well, what fun is there if he doesn't believe that?"

Ron snorted, taking another slice of toast and heaping it with persimmon preserves. "Plenty. He said you're invited anytime we do stuff with Teddy. He's all into establishing harmony and healing wounds and being sickeningly happy about everything."

"Seemed like, when I saw him at the match."

"He is. And he deserves it." Ron had paused, swirling the last of his tea before tossing it back. The open, simple look of hopeful wonder in Ron's gaze was yet another weft in the weave Draco felt between them. "And so do I. Glad you came back."

Draco took an expansive breath. "So am I."

Once back at his flat, Draco put away his collection of foodstuffs and rang Blaise. They chatted for a while, and Draco was very pleased that Blaise was so caught up in his own newly revived love life that he wasn't lonely and wanting Draco's company. He told Blaise about the new job, and some about his golf, but he could tell his friend wasn't really all that interested. They had drifted apart during Draco's time overseas, but out of some lingering sense of obligation he kept up with him. What would be more unpredictable was his American cousin Cassandra, who he was sure would plan to visit in the near future. She was uncharacteristically nonjudgmental, and knew about Draco's predilections, at least in that he was queer. She didn't know about the rope bondage appeal, and certainly didn't need to. She'd probably fawn all over Ron, with his unpolished and unconventional looks, and no doubt she'd be beside herself when she found out he was one of six men in his family. Well, five, now.

He decided to go and get a couple of bottles of wine to go with dinner, and as he did, Draco realised he'd totally forgotten to tell Ron about his run-in with George. They'd had other things on their mind, to be sure. One thing that he was never going to do was apologise for who he was, his family, or even his own choices. Absently he rubbed at his left forearm where his Dark Mark remained, now only a ghostly scar of what it once was. He'd had no choice when he took it— he would have done anything to save his family. And if there was one thing that Ron seemed to live and breathe, it was loyalty. At some point he really should ask what Ron's year had been like, that awful passage of weeks and months during the grimmest time of the War. It seemed incomprehensible that that had happened four years ago; Draco was twenty-two now, but he felt far older. Thankfully he didn't look it, and neither did Weasley.

Draco spent a goodly amount of time making the beetroot ravioli with three cheese filling, hoping that Ron liked Italian food. Most people seemed to, though in Draco's remembrances of his school years, the house-elves had certainly leaned toward standard English fare. Once the dish was ready and he'd put it in the oven on a low heat, he got a shower and took his time engaged in his pre-anticipatory-sex cleaning and shaving. He was enjoying a cigarette and a cup of tea out on his porch when Ron appeared in his living room. That morning at breakfast he'd told Ron he'd spelled his wards so that Ron could come and go as he wished, and Ron had seemed quite pleased.

"I don't have wards, but I do have a special locking spell on my flat. I'll give you the password," he'd said, the crooked smile twisting a skein of yearning in the chambers of Draco's heart.

Now Ron grinned at him, unshouldering his large oxblood satchel and gesturing at the bathroom. Draco nodded, smiling in return, and finishing his cigarette before going inside. He'd opened one of the bottles of cabernet shiraz, allowing it to breathe— something the bloke in the shop had suggested. He was pouring them each a glass when Ron's distinctive loping stride brought him into the kitchen.

"I assumed you'd like a glass," Draco explained.

"'Course." Ron gently took Draco's hands once they were done with their task and laced them behind his back. "Hi," he said, his voice low and throaty.

"Hi."

The deep kiss was inevitable, and the effect on Draco's body just as much so. The blood soared between his legs like a kingfisher diving for a meal. Their tongues tangled and speared until the neediness passed, and it became more of a welcome back, I've missed you gentle exploration. After a time they drew apart and Draco gave Ron a glass of wine. He checked up on the pasta dish, seeing it only needed about fifteen more minutes. They went and sat in the living room, still silent, but their intuitive expressions acknowledged the space was thick with unspoken words of companionship.

"I had a memorable meeting with your brother a couple of days ago," Draco said finally, after Accio'ing the wine bottle and scooting next to Ron on the couch as he refilled their glasses.

"George? Did you go by Wheezes?" Ron appeared thunderstruck and appreciative.

"Oh yes," Draco said dryly. "He thought I was you. I had to convince him otherwise, and to say he was surprised would be rather an understatement."

"What, did he think I'd polyjuiced myself? No, because he doesn't know you're back."

Draco shook his had ruefully. "He does now. He was quite impressed with your glamour skills, until I proved to be who I said I was. Then there was a fight, and then I left." He spoke dispassionately, amused at the baffled expression on Ron's face.

"What did you fight about?"

"He didn't seem to think I deserved to be in there at all, and I certainly had no business bothering you."

"Why'd I even come up as a topic?" Ron began to look angry, but Draco decided they might as well discuss it if they were ever going to appear together in front of any of Weasley's family.

"Basically he and Jordan were convinced I'd come by to bother them, and I said I'd only come along because you and I had spoken. I went to Diagon Alley after you were called away; I didn't want to sulk in my flat. Anyway, George said I should stay away and that you hated me, and I told him he didn't know the half of it."

Ron gripped his hand in a squeeze, a flicker of vengeance in his eyes. "He and I'll just have a talk," he muttered.

"Is that really necessary?" Draco asked, putting his wine glass down and glancing at his watch. His ravioli smelled fabulous, and he still needed to set the table and toss the salad.

"Well, yes!" Ron said indignantly, following Draco into the kitchen with a new glass of wine. He dutifully tossed the salad after Draco asked, though his mind was still on George. "It's none of his bloody business who I'm involved with, and he has no bloody right to be so rude to you. What if you'd wanted to buy something?"

"He might've thought I'd come to buy him out or something equally ludicrous," Draco observed, pulling the bubbling pan out of the oven and placing it on the counter. "He was looking out for you but I'd say he was out of line. It's not like I became a Death Eater for its dazzling magnetism and perks. I had to or the Dark Lord would've had my father killed and I can't imagine what would've been done to my mother. I was blatantly expendable," he ground out bitterly, surprised at how easily the rage rose in him at the mention of that time in his life.

There was a pause while Draco stared down at the baked ravioli, his hands still clenched to the potholders on the sides of the pan. Ron came to stand behind Draco, resting his chin on his shoulder. Seconds later his arms were around Draco's waist, and Ron's comforting piney scent drifted around Draco like a lazy moth.

"I really had no idea," Ron said, his voice contemplative. "I thought Harry was mad for following you around during sixth year, and once it was all on in earnest, I didn't think about you at all. No offense."

"None taken."

"Maybe you'll fill in some of the gaps for me. But I can't stand being around this gorgeous-smelling dish for much longer without eating it right here. Can I take out plates and cutlery and stuff and set the table?"

Draco smiled faintly at Ron's ever-present appetite. "Yes, please. I'll show you where they are." He turned in Ron's arms and planted a brusque but fervent kiss on Ron's lips. "I knew it was you who'd saved me, that second time. I knew it was you who'd punched me, too. Your voice, even full of contempt, it kept me going."

"Harry's the one who stunned the Death Eater," Ron said apologetically. "I would've left you and thought good riddance. But I sure did deck you in the face. I didn't know what all had been going on."

After they got the table set and Draco basked in Ron's praise for the meal, he at last asked Ron about his seventh year. Ron filled Draco in with what all he and Potter and Granger had done, how he'd abandoned them, and eventually returned. Ron was equally curious, so Draco gave him an overview of what his year had been like, up until the point that their lives had intersected in the Room of Requirement.

"And now we're years beyond that, you're Auror Weasley and I'm still Draco Malfoy, and somehow nothing seems more natural than us having dinner at my flat, followed by a night of shagging and collapsing together in my bed."

"Life's funny, isn't it?" Ron said with a thoughtful smile, taking their plates into the kitchen.

"Indeed. Why don't you relax in the living room for a couple of minutes while I get this cleaned up," Draco suggested.

Ron tried to insist he should do the washing-up, but Draco would have none of it. "Open that other bottle and enjoy a glass. Look at my books or something," Draco said graciously, nudging Ron away and toward the living room.

"I guess you're still celebrating?" Ron looked pointedly at the wine bottles, a triumphant look on his face.

"I bought them for you, you ingrate. Yes, I've had some, but if you're going to be a royal arse about it, I'll happily keep my place alcohol free," Draco said, his tone supercilious.

"No, no. Just putting my foot in it," Ron said, wandering into the next room.

Draco spent a bit longer than he'd intended getting the kitchen back in order. He checked his freezer to make sure the two different tubs of ice cream he'd bought really were there and weren't some figment he'd dreamed about. There was Mickleberry Swirl from Fortescue's and an indulgent Sticky Toffee Pudding from a Muggle Häagen Dazs shop. Ron had been awfully quiet, he realised, and walked the few steps into the living room to see what he was up to.

Ron was sitting on the couch, leaning over, his focus totally absorbed by the pages in the elegant black photo album. His expression was one of intense disbelief, or incomprehension. Brows furrowed, he chewed on his lower lip, the wine glass forgotten. Draco's insides felt twisted in knots; quite obviously Ron didn't know what to make of the photographs and they didn't turn him on. Draco let out a long, resolute breath and Ron glanced up, startled. Draco put his hands in his pockets, gazing at Ron full on, unashamed but suddenly melancholy that he probably wouldn't be able to share this experience with his new lover.

"This is you," Ron stated, lifting the book slightly from his lap.

"Yes, it is." Draco decided to explain as best he could. "I'm at one of the clubs I told you about, a bondage club. I'm tied up in a ritual called shibari, rope bondage. You've looked at the whole set of pictures?"

Ron nodded, guilt darkening on his features. "I'm sorry. I should've asked, but I saw a couple and you're so gorgeous, but these are obviously personal, and…"

"What? You can ask me anything, Ron. Anything at all. I wasn't going to tell you, at least not for a while. A lot of people don't understand how being tied up with ropes and being on display is erotic."

Ron looked uncomfortable, but he did seem to be struggling to understand. He turned to the pages toward the end, where Draco hung from the ceiling, one man taking him from behind while Draco sucked another one off.

"Maybe I'm just really old-fashioned, but are you really into this group stuff? I don't think I could stand it. I know I couldn't," he said vehemently.

"No, that was a special night. I wasn't seeing anyone, and they were all people I knew reasonably well. I'd slept with them all before, at different times." Draco decided to take a seat next to Ron, who appeared grateful, though still working to reconcile the person on the couch with the figure wrapped in silk cords being fucked by a select group of Japanese men.

"Why do you like being tied up? Do you want me to do that?" Ron asked, his gaze searching Draco's eyes for a thousand answers before looking back down at the pictures. "It looks complicated. And painful. I won't do things to hurt you, that's too kinky for me. I've really fallen for you, despite how really bloody unlikely that was, and I won't beat or hurt you. Even if you get off on it."

"No, it's not painful, if done correctly," Draco reassured him, trying to ease the book out of Ron's grasp, but Ron held it firmly. "There's something incredibly sexy about the rope, and the care taken by the person who does the binding. It's about trust and reverence, really— and I like being looked at and admired. That can hardly come as a shock."

Ron snorted, an embarrassed huff of a laugh. "No. I'm content to look at you all the time, especially naked." His eyes were a haunted loch blue, uncertainty and intrigue now lurking in their depths. "Did you bring back some of their rope with you? You can't do this by yourself, obviously," he said, a smile creeping onto his lips and reaching fully to his eyes.

"I learned a couple of spells for very basic knot-tying, but doing this alone isn't very fun. I could tie my arms behind me and cast a self-buggering charm on a dildo, but why?" Draco leaned in provocatively, sensing that Ron might be receptive to this kind of sexual exploration after all. "I'd far rather feel your thick cock up my arse, and if I'm restrained while you have your way with me, so much the better. On occasion," he clarified, running a hand through some straggles of fringe hanging in his eyes. "I really don't mind regular shagging. At all."

Ron glanced down at the pictures, flipping back toward the beginning where Draco stood, a placid, inwardly turned look of concentration on his face. One of the men at Haitokukan had tied him in a karada, or harness, the black rope in striking contrast to his skin.

"I want to try," Ron said slowly before closing the book with a soft whump. "But I'll need you to draw a picture, or something. Not with you dangling above the floor, but another way you like." He turned his head and Draco saw the faint apprehension melt away. "You do trust me?"

"Yes. Why, well, that's more complicated."

"I trusted you when you took me to that hotel," Ron reminded him. "I'd only just run across you again. You could've been lying out of your arse and hexed me and left me there for shits and giggles."

"Maybe when I was seventeen," Draco said, standing up from the couch. "Not anymore. I'll just go and get the rope."

He could feel his pulse speed up as he got his lube and took the rope out of its drawer in his bedroom, and heard the wavelike sounds of the blood pounding in his ears. He took the time to light a stick of sandalwood incense and returned to the living room where he found Ron, stripped to his boxers— well, Draco's boxers, and a low fire crackling in the hearth. He handed the silk rope and phial to Ron, grateful that Ron appeared to understand the solemnity that went along with this level of intimacy. A regret that he'd spent so long away when he could have been here, had he known Ron would turn out this magnificent and interested, broke away like a floe from an ice field. But this was how things needed to come to pass; Draco hadn't really known himself when he'd first tried to grind himself into Weasley back then.

"D'you want some music or something?" Ron asked as Draco took off his clothes.

"Actually, yes. There's a Muggle group I like called Sigúr Ros. I'll put it on."

"I'll just use the loo. Had a lot of wine," Ron said, smiling crookedly as he left the room.

Draco went into his study and turned on the computer, arranging the programming so it would play two albums back to back, making sure it would be amplified into the living room. He was already half hard at the very thought of Ron tying the cord into patterns and knots on him, and projecting to how it would feel to have Ron fucking him, whether fast and aggressive, or slower ploughing. Anticipation was half of the allure of sex regardless; the mechanics didn't actually change much, but the intent could definitely heighten or cheapen the experience. He got his wand and drew a couple of diagrams in the air, one to show how to bind his wrists and another to tie together his calves and thighs. If Ron understood, which Draco now believed he would, his positioning would be face down, with his legs apart, his arse spread and there for Ron's pleasure. He got a pillow from the couch and placed it on the floor, looking up as Ron walked back in. His expression was studious as he looked at the floating, slowly dissipating images.

"I don't like the idea of your face mashed into the carpet," Ron said thoughtfully.

At those words, an explosion of fireflies danced in Draco's belly. This made sense to Ron after all; he would sculpt Draco with the rope and his own desires into something he wanted to ravage and claim.

"I'm going to transfigure one of your chairs into a footstool. Cushioned," he said quickly. "And you'll tell me if you're uncomfortable?"

"I promise," Draco vowed, handing Ron the rope and kneeling in front of him. The anticipation of being bound and made love to caused bursts of heat like fireworks to course along his skin and to his cock, now stiff with beads of fluid welling at the tip.

Ron took his time making the footstool the right height and length, then he told Draco to lie on it, placing Draco's arms along the legs of the transfigured chair and his thighs on the outside of the back legs. Draco's breath hitched at the feel of Ron's calloused fingers as they began their work of binding him to the footstool. He took his time, perhaps understanding how needy Draco was in the process itself, the testing of the knots, pressing back against the path of open-mouthed kisses Ron planted down the ridged trail of his spine. At the sound of Ron pulling the stopper out of the oil phial, Draco's cock jumped fruitlessly against the air and saliva flooded his mouth. Oh gods, he was going to combust right there, before Ron had even really touched him. When Ron took his wide palms and began massaging Draco's upper back, he moaned piteously. It was almost too much— he'd really not expected anything as divine as this. An image came to mind of a spider web he'd seen on his back porch, easing slightly in a breeze so that it looked as though the diaphanous net was breathing. He sank into the cushioned footstool as Ron rubbed and kneaded, moving inexorably down to Draco's buttocks. He spent a tortuously long time plying his fingers deep into the meat of his arsecheeks, and then he began speaking in a low voice.

"You're so gorgeous. I'm going to slide into this sweet little hole of yours, and it's going to feel fucking amazing. You must love this, really— Scorpius is pacing," he said, a lusty humour in his voice as Draco writhed against his desired restraints. "His tail keeps flicking down to your hole, and I can tell you want it, you're trying to relax, but you want to be so full, filled up with my cock in there."

"Oh my fucking god," Draco moaned, every nerve in his body on fire, his shaft pulsing with the blood trapped in its rigid fleshy confines.

"I'll fuck you, don't worry," Ron said, his words gravelly and as needy as Draco felt. There was a tingling heat in Draco's channel, and he knew Ron had cast a cleansing spell. "Just want to taste you, first, see if I can get Scorpius riled up even more before I feel you sucking me in."

A drop of saliva fell onto the carpet from Draco's mouth. He was going to melt, consumed by Ron's words that dripped flames, only stopping when Ron's tongue delved into him. Draco couldn't move, he only groaned his praise in a wordless chant of pleasure. He nearly sobbed with relief when he felt Ron move away and heard the unmistakable squelching sound of unguent being slathered on Ron's cock. They moaned together when Ron pushed into the tight muscle, Draco's body closing around Ron's cock like a tight glove.

"So fucking good," Ron panted, leaning forward when he was balls deep to bite at Draco's shoulder before sucking hard on the spot. "Your arse was meant for me."

All of Draco's vocabulary was lost as he clung to the footrest and the caress of the silk rope on his forearms and lower thighs. His own cock now bounced up underneath the wooden bottom of the footrest in time to Ron's thrusts. It was the feel of Ron's hips snapping, his hands moored to Draco's hipbones, and the relentless drive of his cock deep into his body that absorbed Draco. He cried out in staccatoed, anguished cries at the jolts of pleasure as Ron drove into him. Ron's grunts and occasional "yeah"s changed to a punctuated set of lust-driven words like "yours" and "so — hot" and "wanted — this — so — long" until the timbre of his voice changed. All of a sudden, Draco was left empty as Ron pulled out without warning.

"Naaah?!" Draco yelled in shocked dismay.

He heard the slapping of wet skin on skin and realised Ron was wanking furiously. Seconds later, hot spatters of fluid fell in small puddles on his back. Ron breathed heavily above him, one hand still on Draco's hip, the other apparently cradling his cock until Draco felt the slick hand on his own aching prick.

"Oh my god," Ron panted, sliding his fist along Draco's shaft. Draco was about to come; his senses were taxed to the breaking point.

"Draco," Ron said hoarsely, "Scorpius. He's licking it. Holy fuck. He's licking my come up off your back—"

With a wordless, silent scream, Draco came. He was momentarily blinded as he shuddered and spasmed, the release fountaining onto Ron's hand, or the floor, he had no idea. For a few moments, he didn't feel that he was in his body at all… there was only the explosion of a new universe, or the end of the world, or the most intense release he'd ever had. When time passed and he still didn't speak, Ron seemed to become worried.

"Draco? You okay?"

"Y— yes," Draco forced out through his dry throat. "Fucking. Incredible," he whispered as he heard Ron cast a Relashio and felt the rope slither into innocuous coils. He was helped gently up from the footstool and promptly collapsed on the floor, waving bonelessly at Ron to join him.

"You sure you're okay?" Ron's agitation was palpable and Draco struggled to reassure him.

"Never better. I promise," Draco said before clearing his throat. "I'm not broken. What you did— I've— That was unbelievable."

Ron's face relaxed. "Glad to hear it. It sure was for me."

Once Draco's heartbeat had slowed to normal, he leaned over and kissed Ron thoroughly on the lips. "I'm just going to get us something," he said, easing up from the floor. After casting a quick Terego on both of them, he walked unsteadily into the kitchen, took out two glasses and got his bottle of sake from the back of the pantry cabinet. He came back to the living room to see Ron sprawled out on his back, a contented smile lying lazily on his mouth. He seemed to glow like burnished copper in the firelight, and Draco wondered how he'd ever thought that the freckles on his skin were ugly spots. Draco carefully sat down, sitting cross-legged, and poured them each a small serving.

Ron sniffed at it, but kept his mouth shut, apparently uncertain what to say given Draco's earlier comment about alcohol in the flat.

"I'm celebrating," Draco said, raising his glass to Ron, who did the same, his teeth visible with his wide smile. When they'd each had a sip, Ron twisted his mouth to the side, evidently not all that keen on the taste.

"Dare I ask what?" Ron asked, taking another swallow as though to see if it would be better the next time.

"You."

Ron looked skeptically at him, scratching at a spot above his left ear before running his hand through his endearingly mussed hair. "You sure you're okay? You're being downright sentimental. You said you didn't do that. Or date. Or drink."

Draco let out a long breath. "Well, maybe I've changed my mind. Or maybe you changed my mind. Probably the sex has addled my brain," he murmured, rolling a small amount of the rice wine across his palate before swallowing it.

"It's okay. We really don't have to call it dating. I've always hated that term, anyway." Ron rolled the glass between the palms of his hands before placing it on the carpet. He stretched out on his side, elbow on the carpet and his head cradled in his hand. "Just give me a warning if you feel the need to go running off halfway around the world again, okay?"

Though he knew being with Ron was going to come with strife, and no doubt some earth-shattering rows, not to mention stony silences or outright hostility from their respective families, Draco said his next words with an ease of spirit he'd only just begun to recognise as such.

"Next time, you're coming with me."


.:~ epilogue ~:.


"All right, Teddy, we've got to let them go off to the part of the airport where people have tickets. Say good-bye," Potter instructed and the small boy did as bidden.

"Have a really great trip," he went on, shaking hands with Draco and giving Ron a brief but firm hug.

"We will," Ron replied. The smile hadn't left his face since they'd arrived at the airport terminal, everything still fully ablaze and decorated from the Christmas holiday only two days prior. It had been Ron's idea for Teddy to come with them to Heathrow, and for him to be able to see the huge aeroplanes with their brightly painted sides and tails. They'd watched for some time, the planes both large and small resembling flocks of birds strutting proudly for each other. It was Ron's first time at an airport as well, and it was obviously he was as enthralled as Potter's godson.

"You be good. I'll bring you back some really wicked toys," Ron promised, squatting down and enfolding Teddy in a hug.

"Bye Uncle Ron," Teddy said, the regret that he wasn't allowed to go too written on his face. "Bye Uncle Draco."

"Good-bye, Teddy. We'll see you in a couple of weeks." Somehow Draco had become used to being yet another uncle in the child's cache of men who looked out for him. He was a bit surprised at how proprietary he'd come to feel, being an actual blood relative. A distant relative, anyway.

"I want a panda," Teddy said strongly.

"Pandas are in China. Ron and I are going to Japan," Draco reminded him. "But maybe I'll be able to see a kodama and tell you what they really look like."

"Bring me a kodama?" Teddy asked, eyes wide.

"I don't know that they can survive being away from their trees, but we'll see."

There was a last flurry of farewells, and Ron promising Potter that he'd find a way to send a note to let him know they'd arrived safely.

"For Merlin's sake, you can just use my mobile and call Granger," Draco said, peevish. "She'll tell your family you're all right."

"Right. Okay. Bye!"

They watched Potter and Teddy walk hand in hand away from them until a few minutes later they were swallowed into the busy crowd.

"So." Draco adjusted his small knapsack and turned to Ron. "We still have over an hour to wait, but we should head to Terminal One where our departure is."

"Is there a bar?"

"Yes, we'll find you one. But don't go overboard. We're flying first class— you can drink your way across the globe if you want, but I don't want you spewing and making a spectacle of yourself," he said warningly. "I think you'll really enjoy flying, especially with the luxuries that come with first class. The seats are wide and comfortable, and you can listen to music and watch movies," he went on, steering Ron away from a duty free shop and into the queue for being inspected for hazardous materials.

"I can't believe you did all of this alone," Ron said once they'd make it through. He was obviously relieved that their convoluted plan for getting their disillusioned wands wordlessly up and over the barricades while having suffering the other indignities that came along with Muggle air transportation. Draco knew that Ron found having to take off his shoes in public particularly unnerving.

"I do like flying. On a broom," Ron said pointedly, earning an intrigued glance from a cluster of passing Asian girls who then began giggling coquettishly at him.

"Given the length of the flight, I'm sure you'll find this far more comfortable."

Draco thoroughly enjoyed being the one to lead their way and pretend that this was all old hat to him, though of course this was only his third time on an aeroplane. In a romantic fit of lunacy, he'd convinced Ron to take off a fortnight from his Auror duties, given him a couple of pieces of monogrammed luggage for Christmas, and bought them tickets to Osaka to spend the New Year and ten days following.

Ron still looked exceedingly nervous, though he was also fascinated and compelled to stare at the hulking pieces of metal parked at the gates. That aeroplanes went into the air at all seemed to defy so many laws to Draco's mind as he watched them barrel down the runways and lift up toward the sky. Once seated at a bar a few gates from their own departure, Ron seemed much more comfortable. Draco ordered a cup of tea and pulled out his cigarette case, lighting what would be one of his last cigarettes for several hours.

"Hey! I thought you said you couldn't smoke in here!" Ron said, confused.

"They changed the legislation a few weeks ago. Loads of Muggles rejoiced," Draco said under his breath.

Ron shrugged, probably pleased that Draco wouldn't be as irritable until later. "Nice scarf," he commented, taking a deep swallow of his whiskey.

Draco quirked his lips. "Thanks."

The fir green and gold striped scarf had been Molly Weasley's attempt at harmony, Draco had supposed at the time, when he'd opened it Christmas afternoon. He'd been shocked to receive anything at all, despite Ron's commentary from the weeks prior. There had been no getting out of spending Christmas afternoon at the Burrow, but it wasn't quite as awful as Draco had imagined. They'd spent a cheery and comfortable morning at Draco's flat; the look on Ron's face at the luggage had been priceless, but Draco had been just as bowled over by the framed photograph Ron had given him. Potter must have taken it the afternoon they'd spent playing croquet at his house with Teddy, George and Jordan on a cold but sunny November day. Draco had his hands shoved into his jacket pocket, and Ron stood behind him, his arms woven through and clasped at Draco's midsection, his chin planted on Draco's shoulder. In the picture Ron murmured something in Draco's ear and he'd turned his head slightly, enough for Ron to brush the hint of a kiss against his jaw. On the back Ron had written, "I'm deeply marked, too."

"She'll knit you a whole jumper next year," Ron said authoritatively, finishing his drink and signaling for another.

"Next year? That's a bit presumptuous, don't you think?" Draco said. He took a long drag off of his cigarette before eyeing Ron and the new glass. "I'm serious. No more. You'll be positively ill."

"I won't. Just taking the edge off."

"As long as you can still walk a straight line," Draco acquiesced, but in his heart, he couldn't blame Ron. Before his inaugural flight, he'd had no fewer than three martinis, and had regretted it later, but he'd needed it at the time.

"I will. And it's not really presumptuous, is it?" Ron asked earnestly, holding out his palm, hand up.

"What?" Draco asked in exasperation, looking at Ron's hand.

"Fag, please."

Draco rolled his eyes and gave him one. Ron lit it off of the end of Draco's, a gesture that Draco found strangely intimate.

"Why isn't it presumptuous? We might want to kill each other by this time next year."

Ron's face fell. "You don't really mean that."

The bartender came over and looked enquiringly at Draco.

"All right," Draco said, caving into the ambiance and the face that he didn't mind dampening his nervous energy just a little bit. "I'll have a glass of merlot." He regarded Ron, who seemed to be puzzling over something complicated or troubling, or both. "No, I don't really think that. But it's not always going to be Quidditch and golf, earth-shattering sex and sleeping in 'til noon. Thanks," he said, accepting the glass from the bartender.

The rakish man gave Draco and Ron a long look, evidently having heard the last of Draco's brief tirade. Draco arched an eyebrow, challenging him, but he went back to the busy job of tending his customers.

"Says who?" Ron insisted, putting his cigarette in the ashtray so he could let his hand rest discreetly on Draco's thigh. "I can't ever imagine getting tired of you."

"Oh, I doubt you would. But you might want to throttle me on sight. I might have to spend days on my own just because I need it. Or because you've pissed me off so much I can't stand to look at you."

"But we're not like that now."

"No. Amazingly, we're not."

As Draco looked at Ron, at the now-familiar tapestry of faint scars and constellations of freckles on his face, he sensed a door solidly shutting. It was closing off the path of quick retreat, of thinking he could give this up with only a moment's notice and be back on his own as though these three months had been a superficial diversion. He was invested, in a way that he intuitively knew meant something very different to a Malfoy than a Weasley. When Malfoys committed to something, there was no backing away. It excited him, and caused a flare of queasy fear at the same time. Ron picked up on the sudden seriousness of their exchange, and Draco saw a reflection of hopeful worry in his gaze.

Ron squeezed Draco's leg before taking another pull off of his cigarette. "You bought me luggage. That's pretty serious." The levity was back in his voice, but Draco knew there was more. Ron was searching through the unspoken words like a beachcomber intent on finding an unspoiled conch, or nautilus.

"We were going on a trip. I thought you should have your own, or you'd be travelling first class with purple plaid suitcases or something equally hideous." Draco took a sip on his wine, a smile playing on his lips.

"It means more than that. You know that I know you know that," Ron said smugly.

The adrenaline and alcohol were beginning to affect Ron, but Draco found that he simply wasn't worried anymore. They were on an adventure of the heart as much as anything else, and Draco realised he'd just ripped up his return ticket.

"I know you know that," Draco said finally.

Though he was sure it was just his overactive imagination at play, he thought he felt a warm swath at the base of his spine, as though Scorpius had breathed a silent roar of approval.

---

Back to Adult Harry Potter Stories
Back to Harry Potter Fanfiction
Home