Thump.
Ron snorted
awake, his body reacting to the noise before his brain caught up enough
even to
process, ‘Hey, a noise!’
He blinked one
eye open and gave his room a cursory glance, holding off the throbbing
of his
head for the moment. He held his breath and listened. The ringing in his
ears
was making it hard to hear anything, but he was sure that he heard
nothing
more. Satisfied, he grabbed a pillow that had drifted from him and
placed it
over his head. He snuggled deep into his blankets and was halfway back
to
dreamless land in a moment.
THUMP.
He allowed
himself a small growl of frustration and buried himself deeper into his
bed.
THUMP.
This time it was
followed by muffled curses, only a few of which were his own. His brain
had
woken up enough to start up the band that was currently trying to beat
itself
out of his skull. He groaned and reached blindly up to his headboard. He
felt
along it, trying to find his wand, but ran into his alarm clock
instead.
“It’s three
o’clock in the afternoon, you wasted lunkhead!” it
screeched, causing him to
whimper and twitch. Why had he ever accepted the gift? A talking clock
from
Fred and George did not bode well, not that anything they ever gave out
did.
He danced his
fingers around the clock and felt further along. He knew he put it up
there
before he had gone to bed!
Err, hadn’t
he?
He stopped his
search and flopped his hand back down onto the bed. He held the pillow
down
over his head more and gave a frustrated scream into it, regretting it
when it
reverberated through his head. He pushed the pillow out of the way and
slowly
sat up, moving to the edge of the bed. He searched the room again for
his wand,
coming up empty. What the hell had he done with it? Another loud
THUMP
echoed in his room. His eyes crossed as he winced. He took a few deep
breaths
and hauled himself up and out of the room to the bathroom. He ignored
the
mirror in favor of the medicine cabinet behind it.
He reached into
it without looking, found the hangover potion, and chugged it down. It
tasted
like drinking his own vomit, but the pounding sensation immediately
became a
dull murmur. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was enough that
he could
stand in front of the toilet without having to brace himself against the
wall.
A few thumps
came in quick succession as he reached the living room. He yanked on a
light
jacket and threw open his flat door, only to trip over the boxes stacked
in
front of it when he walked out into the hall. He landed face-first,
which now
had his head aching for another reason entirely. He resisted the urge
just to
beat his head on the floor and get it over with
already.
He pushed
various boxes out of his way as he stood up and dodged his way over to
the door
one down from his. It was open. He stared inside for a moment, heard a
quiet thunk
this time followed by some very colorful curses, and sighed. He squeezed
into
the flat through several teetering stacks of boxes and eventually found
himself
standing in the middle of the living room.
“Hello?” he
croaked out. He cleared his voice and tried again. “Hello?”
There wasn’t any
answer to his question, but more curses led him towards the back of the
flat.
He was just
about to enter what he guessed was the bedroom when something went
flying out
of it and into the bathroom across the hall. He glanced into the
bathroom and
saw a large pile of miscellaneous things, some heavy enough to make a
thump.
Solved the mystery of the noise, at least. He turned to face the bedroom
when
another object came hurtling out of it. He ducked just in time, instinct
having
him look back into the bathroom to see just what the hell it was. He
turned
back to the bedroom and came face to face with the business end of a
wand.
“Whoa,” he
said,
reeling back. He stepped on something-- he didn’t have time to see
what, as it
rolled and sent him falling back on his tailbone and the junk pile in
the
bathroom. Pain shot up his back as gravity pulled him
down.
The ceiling was
far too bright a shade.
“Oh, fuck
it,”
he grumbled aloud, covering his face with his hands. “Just kill
me, would you?”
“What are you
doing in here?” a voice demanded above the continued ringing in
his ears.
“You woke me up!
The door was open--” Ron started, moving his hands to glare at the
person. Once
he saw who was standing over him, wand pointed down at him, he froze. He
blinked once, twice, and then sighed and covered his face again.
“This universe
has a fucked up sense of humor.”
“You just
noticed?” Draco replied. “C’mon,” he said, and
Ron peeked through his fingers
to see he was offering a hand up. He reached out and Draco hauled him up
with
surprising ease. He let go once up and leaned against the bathroom
counter.
The wand was
lowered, but not put away, he noticed. He glanced up to Draco’s
face and saw it
all laid out there. Wariness, confusion; he idly wondered what his
expression
was-- resigned? Annoyed?
“Nope, not awkward at all,” he said. Draco relaxed
about
a fraction. Ron let his eyes fall on the junk pile. “Do I even
want to know?”
he asked, jerking his thumb towards it. He looked back at the man to see
him
shrugging with an added touch of sheepishness.
“Couldn’t
find
something,” he said.
“Ah. I know the
feeling,” Ron said, thinking of his wand. He wondered if he left
it in the
fridge again. “Well, let me know when you do, so I can get back to
sleeping,
okay?”
He watched Draco
give a quick nod, before pushing past him and making his way back out to
the
opened door. He was near the end of the hall when Draco called out to
him.
“Hey, Red,”
he
said. Ron paused at the name and turned around to face him. Draco looked
like
he wanted to smack himself. Ron gave a dry laugh at the
situation.
“It’s good
to
see you, too, Blondie,” he said, giving a wry smile. He turned
back around and
started walking again, throwing over his shoulder, “I’m next
door if you need
anything.”
***
They avoided
each other over the next few weeks except for a few quick hellos in the
hallway. Ron knew they were still both caught in the past; it had been
nearly
six years since they had last seen each other, and while some sort of
friendship-truce had been reached during the war, they both knew it had
been
over the moment the war ended.
Hadn’t
it?
Ron wasn’t sure.
They hadn’t become best friends; they bickered and argued and
fought just as
much as they had before, but there had been an element of teasing to it,
of
friendly banter. There had been private jokes and chess games and shared
moments of victory. When the war had ended, he had been swept up in the
rebuilding process and Draco had been taken into custody by the new
Ministry,
which was trying to figure out what to do with those that had turned
coat at
Voldemort, both secretly and publicly. Ron didn’t really know what
happened to
him over the next few years, hadn’t even known he was in-country
until that
day.
“Ron? Ron! Are
you listening?”
“Hmm? Sorry,
Hermione, my mind wandered off. What were you
saying?”
“Viktor and I
are attending a conference in Poland next weekend,” she said,
taking a bite of
her salad.
He met Hermione
for lunch every so often at Lumière, a new restaurant that had
opened up at the
edge of Diagon Alley. Hermione had fallen in love with the place, but
Ron
grimaced every time at the prices. He paid so much for so very little,
and
thought fondly of the Muggle Chinese place down the street from him that
delivered.
“And you want me
to baby-sit?” he asked. He had long since cleaned his plate while
Hermione had
gone on about her latest charity benefit.
“Goodness, no,
you weren’t listening at all, were you? Harry and Ginny will be
taking the boys
to that new Wizarding amusement park in Paris. I need you to check in on
Crookshanks for me. I’d take him, but animals aren’t allowed
and you know how
Harry and Ginny’s little girl is
allergic.”
“Sure thing,
Hermione,” he said.
“And
only--”
“One cat treat a
day, I know.”
“Thank you, Ron,
what would I do without you?”
Probably
everything, he thought. Hermione began chattering on about the
conference,
which half-perked his interest when he realized it was a Quidditch one.
Viktor
still played professionally, and was one of the top-ranked players in
the
world. Ron had long since gotten rid of his starry-eyes concerning the
man; he
knew Viktor the person, and while he knew he was a nice guy and would
genuinely
give you the shirt off his back, he also was about as interesting as
vanilla
pudding. Ron still didn’t know what Hermione saw in him, but the
two of them
were the ultimate matched set these days, along with their matched set
of boys;
twins apparently ran in Viktor’s family as well. Having a husband
and two young
boys hadn’t slowed the witch down a beat; if anything, it fueled
her even more.
Ron quietly
signaled for the check as Hermione began winding down and covertly
glancing at
her watch. She took the check the moment it arrived and paid it before
Ron
could protest, then smiled, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and was
gone.
Ron left the tip
on the table and made his own way out the door, ducking various lights
that
hung at all lengths from the ceiling. The damn restaurant glowed, and at
night
he was surprised the Muggles didn’t see it, shielding wards or
not.
He pulled his
cloak around him tightly, hiding his face deep within the hood, and left
Diagon
Alley. He didn’t want to stay there any longer than he had to
be.
***
It was halfway through
the third week when his flat door burst open and Draco came strolling in
without a care and a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in hand. Ron sat
at his
kitchen table, cup of coffee halfway to his mouth, newspaper hanging
open from
his other hand.
“Still drink
it?” he asked, holding the bottle up. Cask strength Irish whiskey,
Ron saw. He
nodded. “Good,” Draco said, setting the glasses down and
opening the bottle.
“It’s not
even
ten o’clock in the morning,” Ron said, setting his coffee
cup down. Draco
finished pouring two drinks, pushed one towards Ron, and sat down across
the
corner from him.
“Don’t know
about you, but I’m needing it, damn the time,” Draco said,
and gulped half the
glass down. He coughed, took another drink-- much smaller this time--
and spoke
again. “So, how are you?”
Ron blinked at
him, then set the newspaper down and nudged his coffee cup away. He took
his
glass and drained a third of it, his throat burning the whole way
down.
“See?” Draco
said, leaning back and crossing one leg over the
other.
“Yeah,” Ron
replied, then took stock of the man before him.
The war had
taken a physical toll on all of them, some much more so than others.
Draco came
out relatively clean with a handful of scars, including one that
bisected his
right eyebrow in a V-shape. It was fainter than it had been six years
ago, but
still noticeable. His mouth and eyes had fine lines, too many of them
from pain
and not joy.
He had kept his
hair short, nearly buzzed, only letting his bangs grow slightly longer.
His
clothes weren’t brand new, Ron noticed, and were probably the most
different
things he had ever seen Draco wear. Faded blue jeans, a light blue
button-up,
and a rather scuffed-looking pair of brown boots.
The eyes were
the same, though; a mercurial color that couldn’t decide if it was
grey, blue,
or even violet depending on the lighting. They, more than anything else
about
him, were the most battle scarred. Would they, if he looked close
enough, show
him every moment of fear and death they had seen?
“I’m...” he
began, then stopped. He didn’t need to look close to see the
desperation
flickering in those eyes. “I don’t
know.”
He didn’t expect
Draco to laugh at that, a bitter, dry laugh. He held up his glass in
toast.
“I’ll drink
to
that.”
Ron clinked his
glass against Draco’s, and knew somehow that a crack in the wall
between them
had appeared.
***
“How many?”
Draco nearly squeaked.
“Well, Bill and
Fleur have a little girl, Victoire, so that’s one. Charlie’s
got a baby on the
way with his girlfriend, that’s two, and Mum’s been driving
them barmy about
getting married all right and proper. Percy and Penny, on the other
hand, are
married but are holding out on kids at the moment, though Mum’s
got them so
pressured they’ll probably give in soon. Fred and George have done
everything
together, even had the same wedding day, and both have three.
Fred’s got
George, Rupert, and Molly, and George has Fred, Arthur, and Molly, so
that’s
eight--”
“They both named
their daughters Molly?” Draco asked
incredulously.
“Yup, Molly
Louise and Molly Julia,” Ron said. “I think it’s
crazy, too, but what do you
expect with the twins?”
“I need another
drink,” Draco said, taking the bottle out of Ron’s hand and
taking a long swig.
“So, eight nieces and nephews...”
“Don’t
forget
that Harry and Ginny have three as well, James, Albus, and Lily, so
there’s
three more. And Mum’s already officially declared Hermione as
family, and she
and Viktor have two boys.”
“Thirteen,”
Draco said, then quickly took another drink. “Merlin, Red, is your
family
trying to repopulate all of London?”
“Wouldn’t
surprise me,” Ron muttered.
“None for
you?”
“Hell no,”
Ron
said, and grabbed the bottle back to take a drink of his own at the
thought.
“Babysitting those little monsters has destroyed any urge to
reproduce. Ever.”
“I hate
kids,”
Draco said.
“Really? I’d
have never guessed with your charming disposition and the wonderful way
you
treated the younger students,” replied Ron dryly. “The
thought of you with kids
is...”
He thought of
Draco surrounded by a hoard of children, all with bright red hair and
freckles.
They would run around him, screaming and giggling, someone with a runny
nose
and two of them with bottle rockets. There would be fights and arguing,
and
games of tackle the daddy.
He hadn’t
swallowed
all of his next drink when the laughter took him over, and it sprayed
out of
him and all over the table. He managed to set the bottle down, but
otherwise
was lost in giggles.
“Attractive.”
“Oh, c’mon,
it’s
funny!” Ron said between giggles.
“Ha ha,”
Draco
said, but Ron noticed through the watery eye he had open that there was
a hint
of a smile.
A few moments
later he managed to calm himself down and rest his head on the table. He
continued to take deep breaths to push down the welling laughter that
still
threatened to take over again.
“One big happy
Weasley family, huh?” Draco said, his tone a touch wistful. Ron
picked his head
up, but stayed focused on the table.
“Yeah,” he
said,
and he didn’t have to worry about the laughter any
more.
***
It was two days
later that Ron shuffled over to Draco’s flat. He knocked
carefully, and when
the door opened, held up two bags of Chinese food.
“Lunch?” he
asked.
“Perfect
timing,” Draco replied, and admitted him.
They spent the
next hour eating in silence, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable.
It gave them
both time to think, of what to say and not to say. It was crumbling, but
that
wall was still there between them. Ron had honestly thought about going
back to
avoiding Draco. He had everything in the universe telling him that he
should.
His friends and family hadn’t ever really accepted Draco, and
Ron’s
friendship-truce with him had strained more than one relationship. Of
course,
they were all strained by then. The war had made human contact almost
feel like
punishment some days, and when they were all crammed together into one
house...
No one had
gotten hurt too badly.
And they
certainly wouldn’t want anything to do with him now.
Not that they
had much to do with Ron, either.
And just by
their innate natures he and Draco were opposites, although they did have
a few
surprising commonalities. Both loved chess, Irish whiskey, taking walks
to
think, and, apparently, Chinese food. On the other hand, Ron was
perpetually
misplacing everything, hated dressing up for any reason, and generally
avoided
crowds if he could. Draco, he remembered, hated coffee, read just about
everything he could his hands on, and hogged the bathroom for hours.
They had
managed to be something like friends once; he wondered if they could do
it
again.
“Want to
help?”
Draco asked out of the blue.
“Help with
what?” Ron asked. He received a pointed look around the room,
which was still
stacked to the brim with boxes, several of which served as chairs and a
table
for them. “A lot of stuff.”
“The Ministry
finally released some of the manor’s things. This was just what I
could fit
into here, the rest are in a Ministry storage locker
somewhere.”
“Why didn’t
you
shrink it?” Ron asked.
Draco visibly
paused, then retrieved his wand from where it lay on a nearby box. He
grimaced
at it.
“Restricted use.
The bastards finally let me go after they exhausted their last charge,
but not
without making this just about completely useless,” he said, then
tossed the
wand aside, and rubbed his temples with his hands.
“You’ve been
in
Ministry custody this whole time?” Ron asked, very much
surprised.
“Custody,”
Draco
snarled, anger washing over his face. It was the most emotion Ron had
seen him
express at one time. “Sounds so nice, doesn’t it? They
don’t tell you that it’s
imprisonment. They give you a room with a bed and two thin meals a day
and ask
you to be grateful to them. They interrogate you for hours on end,
hoping that
you’ll make a mistake and change your story or just give in and
admit what they
want to hear. They had undeniable proof that I was there, right next to
their
Golden Boy, fighting for his side...” He sighed, then shook
his head.
“To answer your question, no, I was free to go with the others
that helped.
They put me in some little village to ‘rehabilitate’ me,
which meant I was
under their watch constantly. I couldn’t take a shit in the
bathroom without
some official popping in and asking me if it was done in the Dark
Lord’s name.”
Draco abruptly
stood and headed into the kitchen area, rummaging around in the boxes on
the
counter. He found what he wanted with a triumphant noise, then returned.
Ron
was surprised again to find him lighting a cigarette with practiced
ease. He
took a long drag then breathed the smoke out to his
side.
“Been trying to
quit,” he murmured. “Two weeks I lasted this
time.”
“What
changed?”
Ron asked, genuinely curious.
Draco raised a
scarred eyebrow at him. “Your father became minister,” he
said blankly, as if
Ron should have known the answer. “He apparently thought it was a
waste of
Ministry time and money to continue the ‘program’ and
released us all back into
the wild. Didn’t fix our wands, nor change any rules concerning
us-- which
includes buying another wand, if you’re wondering-- but at least
the bank
accounts were finally unfrozen. Not before they confiscated most of it
for war
debts, mind you.”
“And then you
came here,” Ron concluded.
“Cheapest
Wizarding
housing there is in London. I figure I can sell off most of this stuff
and keep
myself going for awhile until I break down and get a job,”
he said,
nearly spitting out the last word.
“I didn’t
know,”
Ron said. “About, well, most of it. I knew they had taken you in
with the
others, but I didn’t know that it was... I thought you had left
the country,”
he ended, mangling everything he wanted to say. “Gone to live in
Paris or
something.”
“Thought about
it,” Draco said, taking another drag. “I’d like to
still. Get away from this
damn place.”
“Another
restriction?”
Draco just
nodded, eyes closed now. The smoke curled around him as he breathed it
out,
blurring his form slightly.
“I’ll help
you,
Blondie,” Ron said, and hoped Draco understood that he
didn’t just mean with
the boxes.
***
He stared at the
ceiling of his bedroom. The story had been short, but everything Draco
implied
made his blood boil. Everyone had known he was on their side, had been
there at
the last battle and had even taken down his own father protecting a few
of
their members.
Ron remembered
Draco’s face when he realized what he had done. He had seen the
whole thing
play out, having been on his way to help. Lucius had been slinging
curses
without care as to who he was hitting, just wanting to kill everything
in his
path. He had managed to disarm Hermione, who was suggesting counter
curses to
Tonks from behind her while trying to find her wand in the near
darkness. They
all had been running on pure adrenaline at that point, exhausted from
the
battle, the war. They had known it was the end and they just wanted to
rest
already, their bodies starting to finally give out on them. He had been
running
towards them, dodging curses that had gone wild from various fights,
trying to
get close enough. Lucius had backed them into a literal corner, his
wand-tip
starting to glow sickly green.
He had tried to
push himself faster, but he knew he wouldn’t make it in time. He
had seen Draco
finish off another Death Eater ahead of him and called out to
him.
“Blondie!”
he
had yelled, knowing Lucius wouldn’t understand the name. Draco had
turned towards
him, then had followed his line of sight. He, too, had broken into a
run, curse
at the ready.
He hadn’t heard
what Draco had hit Lucius with, but it was enough to send him flying
away from
Tonks and Hermione and crash into a wall of rubble. When he had finally
reached
the scene and skidded to a stop, he had seen Draco standing over his
father.
Despite the dark, he had seen the blood flowing freely around
Lucius’s head.
“He’s
dead,”
Draco had said, although it had sounded more like a question. He had
looked up
Ron, and those mercurial eyes were as cold and dead as Lucius was upon
the
stones.
He had been
there through all of it, from the moment Voldemort had ordered Lucius to
kill
Narcissa in revenge after Draco’s failure to kill Dumbledore to
the very end
when Harry had destroyed the last Horcrux and killed Voldemort. He had
been
there through the losses, the injuries, the suffering and heartache they
all
felt. He had been there when Ron had--
No, Ron thought.
He wasn’t going to revisit those memories. They still haunted him,
he wasn’t
about to bring them on himself, even if they did prove his point. Draco
had
been there through all of it, and the Ministry couldn’t even take
the time to
fix his damn wand so he could live in peace.
The Ministry had
lied, too. Not that that was a shock, but they hadn’t mentioned
any
rehabilitation program or that their idea of custody was only a step or
two
above Azkaban. They had said that those taken in were being treated with
the
honor they deserved, and he had believed it. After everything he had
learned in
the war, he had believed that useless mass of offices that his father
was now
in charge of, a thought that made him want to beat his head against the
wall
for being so stupid.
He wanted to go
into his father’s office and demand he fix everything right then
and there, but
he hadn’t had all of his war sense knocked out of him. He knew
that was a
foolish move; he had little belief that his father would actually do it,
and
would only ask why Ron cared so much. The moment Arthur Weasley found
out who
was living next door to his son, Ron could kiss his existence goodbye,
forcefully shipped back home for some rehabilitation of his own. And
once his
Mum heard... He loved his parents, but they continued to wear blinders
to certain
things.
And he couldn’t
answer the question; he wasn’t entirely sure why he cared so much.
He had
barely known-- or known again-- Draco a few weeks, but Ron was beginning
to
feel a rapport with him, something he hadn’t felt in years. It was
so much so
quickly, and it was dredging up old emotions he thought he had
effectively shut
down years ago. He had talked with Draco all afternoon while they went
through
the boxes, part reminiscing and rediscovering, part new and full of
life.
He hadn’t had a decent, lively conversation with anyone in...
Well, not since
he and Luna Lovegood had gotten stuck at the same table at Hermione and
Viktor’s wedding, and that was five years
ago.
Ron wasn’t
entirely blind. He knew he lived a dull, boring life that mostly
consisted of
watching the telly and heavily drinking his nightmares away. His friends
had
families and jobs and lives, and the highlight of his week was getting a
fortune cookie that he actually understood. He had slowly become this
creature
that avoided the world of his birth if he could, occasionally going out
to buy
necessities and do a round of visiting, and spending his days deluding
himself
into believing that this could be a form of
happiness.
He was miserable
and he knew it, but denial’s a wonderful
thing.
Draco was
threatening that, though. And while he had restriction against leaving
the
islands, there were still plenty of places he wanted to see and things
he
wanted to do now that he didn’t have officials breathing down his
neck. And the
way he talked, Ron knew he was quietly being invited to join him. A
month ago
he would have said no, preferring the company of a bottle and the
talking
picture box that he loved so much. Draco’s enthusiasm and
almost-but-not-quite
optimism was infectious, however, and he found himself honestly
considering it.
It would be on his own terms, of course, because he was done with social
niceties. He had done his round after the war, and it left him feeling
sick and
used and so little understood. The never-ending questions and the blunt
stares,
the rumors and whispers.
Another strike
against Draco; he hid from the world for a reason, and Draco was making
him
wonder about going out again, wonder if maybe it wouldn’t be as
horrible as he
normally thought. Wonder if it would be worth it to try
again.
He wondered
about a lot of things these days, and less and less often was he coming
up with
any kind of answer.
***
“Seriously,
where did you get your sense of style from?” Draco asked, as they
waited for
the train. Ron had been tempted to Apparate them, but he hadn’t
been able to
think of a clear enough place to do so. And just what was Draco
implying, Ron
grumbled. He dressed just fine for himself, nice and
comfortable.
And so maybe
light grey plaid pants weren’t the style, especially when matched
with a faded
red Cannons t-shirt, a dark brown corduroy jacket, an old grey cloak, a
black
knit cap, and a pair of sneakers that he’d had for several years.
The scarf
that looped loosely around his neck twice and still was long enough on
both
ends to reach his knees probably was a bit too much, considering it
wasn’t that
cold, but he had fondness for it. It had stripes of just about every
basic
color, was unbelievably soft, and suited him just
fine.
So did the large
glacier glasses he wore and was currently glaring at Draco
through.
“I wear what I
like, what’s comfortable,” he said, social niceties and
norms be damned, he
mentally added. The train blew by them, causing his scarf edges to
flutter.
“I think I liked
it better when your mother dressed you,” Draco grumbled. “At
least you matched.”
“I’m a bum,
Blondie. Get used to it,” Ron said cheerily as he stepped onto the
train and
glanced around. He hated this line as it was always crowded no matter
the time
of day, so standing it was then. He received a few strange looks, but
Londoners-- especially Muggle ones-- had an amazing ability to ignore
what didn’t
fit in their world. It was one of the reasons why he liked the city. He
barely
registered to these people, no matter how he dressed. Of course, that
didn’t
mean they could stay out of his way.
He held on as
everyone crammed in around him. Draco managed to wedge his way in next
to him,
barely six inches of breathing space between them. Draco elbowed someone
back
who had shoved their way through, then crossed his
arms.
“You’d
better
hang on,” Ron suggested.
“Where am I
going to fall?” Draco retorted. “I have a barrier all around
me.”
“You’re the
one
that insisted on Piccadilly Circus. I said, ‘No, too many
crowds,’ but you just
had to go.”
“Oh, shut up
before I put a knee somewhere.”
And so they
continued, bickering the whole way down the line and getting shoved
around at
every stop. They were beginning to be noticed even by the most oblivious
people, and were all but tossed off the train when they arrived at the
Piccadilly station. They dusted themselves off and made their way up to
the
street. Draco gave a low whistle they surfaced.
“Don’t say
it,”
he growled before Ron could even open his mouth.
“Fine, but
I’m
thinking it just so you know,” Ron muttered. He gave his own
glance around and
took a deep breath. People, just too many damn people. “Well,
Blondie, ready to
be officially seen in public with me?”
It was more than
just a simple question, and Ron knew it, but he kept his tone
light-hearted.
“Come on, Red,
let’s see how many other places we can get thrown out of,”
Draco said with a
wry grin and began walking away. Ron couldn’t resist a small grin
of his own.
Draco had answered in his own oblique way.
***
“Listen to
this!”
Draco said, plunking the headphones on Ron’s head, who immediately
jumped and
flailed them off.
“What the
hell!”
Ron yelled, while Draco leaned against the stacks of CDs and laughed
heartily.
“Your
expression!” Draco said, then doubled over laughing again. One of
the clerks
glared at them as she passed by. Ron gave her what he hoped was an
apologetic
smile, then whacked Draco in the arm once she had passed.
“Ow!” he whined,
rubbing his arm. “I take it you didn’t like
it.”
“It sounded like
the last time Crookshanks decided to serenade
dinner.”
“She still has
that beast?”
“Do that again
and I’ll bring that beast home tomorrow and set him loose in your
flat.”
“Visiting the
Granger-Krum household, eh?” Draco said, moving further down the
aisle to the
international section.
“I’m looking
in
on Crook while they’re at some conference in Poland,” Ron
said, following him.
“Care to join?”
“Have I
mentioned how I’m not much of an animal person,
either?”
“Surprising.
Really.”
“What’s
Gregorian chants?” Draco asked, his attention entirely diverted.
Ron rolled his
eyes behind his sunglasses.
The day had gone much the same way, with Draco
dividing his attention between as many things as he could. The buskers
alone
had occupied him for two hours, and Ron no sooner began enjoying one
then he
being dragged to another by his scarf. At Ron’s insistence when he
found out
Draco had never had any, they had bought chips from a street vendor
(which
Draco had enjoyed despite wrinkling his nose at them while he ate.) They
visited every store they could find, one after another; the sports store
alone
had been another hour of fun, at least until they had to dash out of the
place
after accidentally knocking over a stack of footballs and sent them
bouncing in
every direction.
They had run
down the street, dodging people, bikes, and cars, only stopping three
blocks
later when they had rounded the corner into an alley and collapsed
against the
brick wall, gasping for breath.
“I think
we’re a
bit out of shape,” Draco had said in between
breaths.
“No shit,”
Ron
had huffed, although he hadn’t been able to help the grin that
cracked across
his face.
And now here he
was in a Muggle music store with an annoyed clerk and a crazy blond man
that
was asking him which he liked better, the Gregorian chants or the
Anglican
ones.
“They both sound
bloody awful,” he said. His stomach rumbled in agreement.
“C’mon, let’s grab
supper.”
“Chips?”
Draco
asked, brightened at the prospect.
I’ve created a
monster, Ron thought. “Sure.”
They rode the
train back to the station nearest their flats, and ended up in a greasy
spoon a
few blocks from there. Draco got his chips, much to his delight, along
with a
burger and a Coke. Ron enjoyed his toasted sandwich and his own chips
(which
Draco not-so-secretly kept pilfering,) and a cream soda, although with
not
quite the gusto Draco was exhibiting. He acted as if it was the best of
French
dining, much to the amusement of the other patrons and their
server.
“I don’t
think
I’ve had so much grease in my life,” Draco said once he had
finished and leaned
back in the chair, patting his full stomach. “It’s
divine.”
“Nice way to end
the day,” Ron agreed.
“It was a good
day, wasn’t it, Red?”
“Yeah, it
was,”
he said, holding his glass up in toast. Draco clinked his and they
finished off
their drinks.
“Wot you boys
think ’bout dessert?” their server asked, her accent thicker
than Hagrid’s last
homemade brew.
“What do you
say, Blondie? Got any room for some cake amongst your grease?”
Draco groaned in
response. “Make that two orders of chocolate cake to go,”
Ron told her. After
she had written the order down and left, Ron turned back to Draco.
“Regretting
that second order of chips?”
“Never,”
Draco
declared, “but I wouldn’t mind an indigestion
potion.”
“Heh, I warned
you. I’ve got some back at the flat, plus some after-supper
whiskey to help
mask the taste.”
“Why are the
best potions the worst tasting?”
“You’re
asking
the wrong person. I’m about as fluent in potions as Fred and
George are in
maturity. I can’t even cook.”
“Ah, so
that’s
the reason why you’re visited every night by different delivery
boy. Here I was
starting to wonder,” Draco said with a leer.
Ron’s response
was interrupted by the server returning with the cake and the bill. Ron
quickly
paid and took the cake container. He didn’t speak again until they
were out on
the street.
“You seriously
thought...?” he asked as they began walking towards their
building. The sun had
just dipped below the horizon, the street lights flickering on as they
walked
past them.
“Oh, get off, I
was joking,” Draco said, nudging him with his
shoulder.
Ron thought
about his response; he hadn’t really told anyone, wasn’t
sure if anyone
suspected, but his instincts told him he could trust Draco. Trust him
with a
secret he hadn’t told his closest friends. He glanced at the man
walking beside
him. Draco already knew a secret or two of his, what was one more? The
idea
didn’t leave him feeling uncomfortable, which was a first.
He’d considered
telling others before, but each time had left him high unsettled and
nauseated.
Draco didn’t. There was a meaning there, he knew; still, he
wasn’t sure he was
ready to finally admit aloud to another person.
“I
wasn’t,” Ron
said, comprising; if Draco followed that line, then so be it. If he
didn’t...
“Ah,” Draco
said
softly, letting the syllable draw out. A beat passed, then, “When
did you
figure it out?”
So much for that
route. Ron took a deep breath, found himself oddly okay with what he was
about
to do, and spoke.
“I was a bit
slow on the uptake-- oh, quit laughing-- but I started, well,
considering the
possibility about fourth year.”
“What gave you
the idea? Me, I think it was the robes you wore at the Yule
Ball.”
Ron ignored the
jibe. “The realization that I didn’t know if I was more
jealous of Viktor or
Hermione.”
Draco barked a
louder laugh at that, throwing his head back and nearly running into a
lamppost
out of distraction.
“It’s not
funny,” Ron muttered and crossed his arms in
indignation.
“I’m just
imagining Granger’s face when she heard that! No wonder she
hurried up and
married him, probably thought you’d snatch him
away!”
“Yeah,
well...”
he trailed off, not quite willing to admit that he hadn’t told his
supposedly
second best friend, or his first, for that matter.
“Can’t say I
blame you, though,” Draco continued as if he hadn’t heard
anything. He leaned
over as if to whisper a secret in Ron’s ear, although at several
inches shorter
is was more into his shoulder. “He is rather
hot.”
Ron processed
that rather quickly, then grinned. “Et tu,
eh?”
“Men, women,
they both have their pleasures,” Draco said with a shrug.
“Bit sick of women,
though. Out in the ass end of nowhere with the Ministry spying
twenty-four-seven I couldn’t so much as sneeze in the direction of
a
good-looking bloke without being bothered by it. One lady of the town--
mayor’s
wife-- had the audacity to tell me I was, quote, ‘Corrupting the
virile young
men of our area,’” he said, complete with cackling voice.
“Right in the middle
of the bloody town square, too, everyone staring
on.”
“She actually
said ‘virile’?” Ron asked, making a face. “What
did you say?”
“I told her,
‘I
don’t want to waste my time corrupting anything, I just want to
suck their
dicks.’”
This time Ron
was laughing freely, fully imagining the reaction the woman and the town
had to
that. Draco always did have a way with words, and he didn’t mince
them if it
meant getting a point across.
“I tell you, it
was highlight of my stay, especially when her son came looking for a
little
rough-and-tumble a few days later,” Draco said, his grin turning
into a leer.
“Was it
good?”
Ron asked, curious. His own hidden fumblings hadn’t amounted to
much, and he
was starting think he was going to be celibate for the rest of his
life.
“Don’t know,
I
had to turn him away,” Draco said, the grin fading. “The
Ministry had already
reduced my rations, and when-- not if-- they got wind of it, I’d
be spending
the week starving or risk being poisoned in the town’s only
restaurant,
owned by, surprise, the woman’s brother. I hate people with minds
so narrow
their thoughts have to turn sideways just to fit through.” Ron
raised an
eyebrow at him, and he sighed. “I know, that’s a lot coming
from me of all
people. Beliefs have a funny way of being turned on their head when
they’re
redirected back at you.
“Muggles... I
don’t know. They’re interesting to observe, with odd habits
and even odder
creations. They’re different. I’ve lived among them, whether
I wanted to or
not, and I’ve... I’m used to them. Fond of them, I suppose,
in their ridiculous
ways and amusing ideas. As for being pureblooded...” he trailed
off and for a
long moment, Ron didn’t think he would continue. “The
blood’s all the same when
it’s spilt on the ground. It doesn’t matter if you’re
a pureblood born into the
most prestigious family or a Muggleborn from the streets of London, when
the
curses start flying and the blood begins to flow, it’s all the
same. Blood
doesn’t mean much these days. And I’ve got to give Muggle
credit, they sure are
an oblivious lot, which isn’t such a bad thing when you’re
not one of them.”
“Another reason
why I like this city-- you can be surrounded by people and be utterly
ignored,”
Ron said, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Each person could
give a damn what
everyone else is or is doing. They don’t see you or hear you. You
barely even
exist to them. They don’t know our world or what we are there, but
even here
we’re something vastly different. And they don’t
care.”
“And in our
world all they do is stare, don’t they? If I were to walk down
Diagon Alley,
they would stare and point, making comments about Death Eaters roaming
free and
how I’m just my father’s son, no matter what I’ve done
to prove otherwise.
According to the Wizarding world, I’m either a blood traitor or
Death Eater.”
“They like to
ask me questions. They stare, too. Whisper about-- talk about things
they have
no right to, and do it to my face!” Ron growled, his infamous
temper beginning
to flare. “I was so sick of hearing about my sacrifice, of what I
lost. As if
this compares-- this is nothing compared to-- to everything
else!”
Ron ripped off
his sunglasses and pointed to his left eye. The heavy scarring started
above
his eyebrow and slashed down across his eye and out towards his left
ear. His
left eye was mostly milky-looking now, clouding a good bit of his sight.
Colors
were hit-or-miss, mostly the latter, and everything, no matter how
close, was
blurry and shadowy. There hadn’t been time during the battle to
heal it
properly. They had saved his eye, healed a bit of the scarring, then
bandaged
him and sent him back out into the fray. Afterwards it was too late to
do
anything, but he got his own revenge. It had been one of Fenrir’s
minions that
had clawed him, but werewolf hadn’t lived long enough to make a
bite. He had
made sure of it.
They had stopped
in the middle of the sidewalk, which was thankfully empty this far out.
The
light was diminishing quickly, casting long shadows all around them. Ron
sighed
and put his sunglasses back on. He shoved his hands in his pockets and
started
walking again. He hadn’t meant to go off like that. He had been
bottling his
anger for some time now, which was never a smart move, he knew; still,
he
thought he had better control over it than to just let it come pouring
out like
it had.
Draco caught up
with him a few steps later, remaining silent for a few
moments.
“Well,” he
said,
mirroring Ron’s pose and nodding towards the eye, “it
certainly explains a few
things.”
“Oh?” Ron
replied, more out of instinct than any real
curiosity.
“You’re
fashion
sense for one-- and your amazing ability to trip over innocent boxes
that are
minding their own business.”
Ron couldn’t
help the huffed little grin from the comment. It was so light-hearted
(and,
admittedly, true) considering what had just occurred, so completely
absurd. He
knew what Draco was doing and was a bit surprised that he had, but
appreciated
it. His temper, while a raging force once it got going, easily cooled as
well.
“You’re
crazy,
you know that?”
“Quite.”
“And those boxes
were not innocent, not when they were specifically placed in my
doorway--”
“I didn’t
know
it was you!”
“The fact it was
me was just a bonus.”
“Sure, Red, you
were the icing on the cake,” Draco said sarcastically. He gave him
a critical
eye. “A bit heavy on it, too.”
“Hey,” Ron
half-heartedly protested. “I’m sorry,” he added
quietly.
Draco gave him
an understanding smile.
“Don’t
be.”
***
“Crook!” Ron
called out, then paused; nothing. “Crook! Damn it, Crookshanks,
where the hell
are you?”
The night before
had ended up stretching into the morning after, as they polished off a
bottle
of whiskey and continued talking through two pots of tea. Both had been
unwilling to stop the conversation, as one topic had flowed into another
and
another and another. They had ended up falling asleep mid-conversation
on Ron’s
couch, not waking up until mid-afternoon in rather uncomfortable
positions. His
neck still had a crick in it, despite downing both a pain potion and a
few
aspirin.
The end result
of it all was that he was late to check on Crookshanks, who was sulking
in
hiding because he hadn’t been fed on time. Ron found himself
sorely-- no pun
intended-- wishing that Draco was there, either to lighten his mood or
to help
find the damn cat.
“I’ll give
you
two treats if you come out!” Ron offered, his voice echoing in the
empty house.
He was thankful
this was only their little summer house (relatively speaking, as it was
at
least three times the size of the Burrow) and not the mansion that
Viktor’s
family had insisted on as a wedding present. The place gave the old
Malfoy
Manor a run for it in size, although Hermione had shuttered most of it
since
they didn’t need that much space. Ron had no doubt that Crook
would find a way
into those places and leave him searching for
hours.
No sight of the
orange furball, causing Ron’s eyebrow to twitch in annoyance. He
had already
apologized profusely for being late and offered to even order out for
whatever
meal the cat wanted, but Crookshanks wasn’t having anything of
it.
“How about I
just leave the damn bottle out and you pig out to your little
heart’s content?”
he growled.
“Mraow,” was
the
reply, as he watched the large cat squish himself out from underneath
the large
rocking chair that he had sworn he had checked not a moment ago. He
frowned at
the cat, which ignored it.
“That certainly
got your attention,” Ron grumbled, setting down the plate of
canned food for
him. He retrieved the cat treat bottle from a pocket and twisted the cap
off,
setting it down beside the gorging beast.
He was halfway
to the Floo when he heard the cat growling. He stepped inside, stirring
up a
few old ashes, and smirked to himself. Not his fault there were only two
treats
left in the bottle. “Powell Building,” he said as he threw
down the powder.
He was spit out
into the Floo Room of his building, nearly landing on someone who was
waiting
to use it. He managed to keep his balance after doing an awkward twist
around
the person. He nodded his apology and brushed himself off. He swung by
the main
desk for his mail-- it was too much trouble to have owls flying in and
out of
each flat, so they all simply went to a designated mailroom-- and headed
up the
stairs. The building had elevators, but there was something satisfying
about
walking five floors straight up. It was just about the only exercise he
got any
more, and while he hadn’t gained too much weight over the years of
takeout, he
hadn’t kept his war-hardened twenty-year-old body,
either.
He unlocked his
door and tossed the stack of mail on his kitchen table. He put the
teakettle on
the stove to boil, then sat down and flipped through the mail for the
week.
“Junk, junk,
flyer, junk,” he murmured to himself. “Oh, look, more junk.
What’s this?” He
held up a rather stylized envelope, his name written in a formal script
that he
regrettably recognized. He grimaced and threw it aside, then picked up
the next
letter. It was red-enveloped and made him give a long-suffering sigh.
“Bloody
wonderful.”
A Howler, and he
knew exactly who it was from. He was surprised it hadn’t gone off
already,
must’ve only come in that day. As it was, it was beginning to
smoke. He
carefully stood, then made a mad dash to his bedroom. He opened it and
then
stuffed it under a pillow, sitting on the pillow to help hold it down.
It was
mostly a wasted effort; the words rang out
clearly.
“RONALD BILIUS
WEASLEY, YOU HAVE NOT COME HOME TO VISIT FOR OVER A MONTH! YOU HAVE YET
TO
CONGRATULATE YOUR FATHER UPON HIS APPOINTMENT, YOUNG MAN, AND I SUGGEST
YOU DO
SO IMMEDIATELY! DINNER WILL BE AT SIX O’CLOCK MONDAY NIGHT, AND
YOU BETTER BE
THERE WITH THE REST OF THE FAMILY, OR--
OR--”
He heard a
scream of frustration and the sound of shredding paper. He sat there in
silence
for a moment, willing the ringing in his ears to stop. He stood up and
looked
down at the pillow on his bed. He didn’t have the courage to look
underneath it
just yet to see the damage. Instead, he went out to the kitchen where
the
kettle had just begun to whistle.
He turned the
stove off and set the kettle aside on another burner. He leaned against
the
counter, head in his hands. He was tired. Tired of his life, tired of
his
family, tired of every-damn-thing. He was twenty-six years old and felt
decades
older. His once earthy family had become pretentious and more
frustrating than
he could ever remember. His friends were out living their lives, fitting
into
the world easily and happily. He, on the other hand, was becoming more
and more
like his old mentor, slowly realizing that the man had been right about
more
than just being constantly vigilant.
He snorted in
amusement, as he always did when he thought of Mad Eye being his mentor.
It was
a wild idea, but so was a friendship with the person that had been his
number
one enemy in school. Moody hadn’t been a star Auror for nothing,
though, and
had taken a frustrated and reluctant Ron under his wing. Once you got
past the
extravagant paranoia, odd mannerisms, and offbeat personality, Moody had
been a
great influence on him, teaching him serious tactics and curses, when
and where
to fight, and when to swallow your pride and retreat. All done with
edges of
gruff humor and personal observations that spoke of experiences, both
good and
bad. He had been, during those cooped up days at Grimmauld Place,
Ron’s sanity.
He had never been without a battle scenario for Ron to work through,
aloud or
on parchment, or without a witticism that made him think for days, or a
story
about the good old days that made him laugh until he nearly cried. Moody
had
gotten him to do what no one else had, which was to finally think for
himself
and make his own decisions, to trust his own instincts both on the
battlefield
and off. And he had done it with a gleeful twinkle in his “Mad
Eye,” one that
was full of adventure and just a hint of crazy. Or, really, a lot
of
crazy.
He wanted Moody
there right now with that look, yelling at him for letting himself
flounder
when he knew the solutions where right there in front of him if he would
only
let himself see them.
“Let go of that
shore you’ve got yourself anchored on!” he’d say.
“Set sail, boy, because
you’re not going to find anything when you’re tied down to
the problem. That’s
what happened to an old partner of mine, and look where he ended
up...”
Ron knew he had
the answers, even knew what they were, but he’d have to fight for
them and he
was so, so battle weary even after all these years. Everyone else had
moved on,
but he couldn’t let go. Not from the war, not from his secrets,
not from his
rejection of the world that glorified the pain and suffering they had
gone
through and then treated its veterans like pieces of meat or only like
trash
that didn’t deserve to live. He had been dragged through endless
interviews,
asked personal questions and cruel ones, nearly interrogated by every
member of
the press in the whole damn world. They stuck his name wherever they
wanted,
invited him to balls and charity events that had nothing to do with him,
and
placed him on a pedestal where he didn’t belong. Statues and
paintings and
photos and autographs and people who would just not leave him the hell
alone.
He had been so
tired then; all he had wanted to do was just rest. Half a decade later
and all
the rest in the world couldn’t help him. He hid from everyone he
could. Except
for lunch visits with Hermione and the occasional visit at
someone’s home, he
never ventured into the Wizarding world beyond his own building. He
shopped
with the Muggles, ate with the Muggles, and let himself be ignored by
the
Muggles. He dropped his laundry off, since he had yet to figure out
those
machines. He had taken awhile to get the grasp of the monetary system,
but now
it was more instinctual than galleons, sickles, and
knuts.
He was a
borderline alcoholic, he knew. He bought hangover potions through the
mail by
the case, to be used when he had drunk his last bottle and didn’t
have any left
for the good ol’ hair of the dog. It was a bit less addicting than
the
dreamless sleep potion, which he couldn’t get in decent enough
qualities any
more due to some kind of Ministry sanctioning on
it.
He sighed and
dug out a mug and a tea bag. He poured the still hot water in the mug,
then set
it aside to steep. He returned the kettle to the stove and sat down at
the
table. He always had trouble with ‘depression,’ as the
Muggles called it, and
while he couldn’t put his finger on the sudden cause of this bout
of
melancholia, he knew his mother’s Howler hadn’t helped. She
insisted on an
entire family dinner as often as schedules allowed, and he was expected
to be
there. Of course, he was part of the family, wasn’t he? Never mind
that he felt
like a stranger to them all, completely bored amongst the discussions of
children and work and joy, and that wrangling a decent chess game out of
anyone
was like trying to pull a troll’s tooth. He was especially sick of
everyone
trying to get him to go someplace, or to babysit, or to set him up with
“the
loveliest young witch” that was a coworker’s sister’s
daughter’s friend or some
such. He was left dearly wishing he could tell them that his experiences
with
Lavender had turned him off the female gender for
life.
He entertained
the idea of telling them that he’d rather snog Draco Malfoy than
any of the
pretty little things that flitted through their minds. And wasn’t
that an idea?
Snogging Draco... He slammed that thought close. Ever since waking up
together
on the couch, entangled through sleep, traitorous thoughts had begun to
dance
in his mind. He tried his best to ignore them, but he was bested by the
feeling
that it would be fun and, maybe, just maybe, nice.
It would be nice
to have someone, he admitted to himself, but he wasn’t about to
destroy the one
friendship he had by even going there. He was damaged goods, he knew;
they both
were, each with an emotional baggage and a shared history that they
could
handle as friends, but not any closer than that.
Still, it was a
thought, and one that made the prospect of dealing with his family not
quite as
awful.
He retrieved his
tea, added a bit of sugar and milk, and settled on the couch. If
anything could
take his mind off everything, it would be daytime
telly.
***
He spent most of
Saturday and Sunday with Draco hauling more stuff from the Manor out of
storage
to go through. A lot of it Draco was taking to pawnshops around the
islands,
the non-magical things being sold to Muggle places. He’d made
several thousand
pounds from that alone, which he placed into the Muggle banking account
he had
opened before he moved in when the bank opened Monday morning. The
Wizarding
money he would have exchanged later. He only kept a few trinkets of his
mother’s and some of his boyhood treasures; everything else was
sold by the
boxful.
The entire time
Ron dreaded Monday night. He had sent a letter to his mother saying that
he
would attend dinner; he had to, because he was familiar with the
family
tactics. If he didn’t cut them off now, the Howlers would pour in
and likely
lose him his flat from their racket. If that didn’t work, then the
entire
family would descend on him and he wasn’t about to risk that,
either, as they
would inevitably discover just who was next door.
He had to buck
up, to grin and bear it, to... Whatever else there was to describe the
suffering he was about go through willingly.
Draco had had
his own ideas of support, none of which Ron found too
helpful.
“Don’t
bathe,
maybe your aura of stink will keep them at a
distance.”
“Call in sick,
tell them you have a violently contagious form of dragon pox. Make it
life-long
if you want.”
“Fake your
death, create a new identity. And a new personality to match, because
this one?
Not working for you. Add a dash of fashion sense, maybe some more
intelligence,
and no one will ever recognize you.”
Ron had chucked
one Narcissa’s prized vases at him for that, which Draco had
deftly caught and
packed into a box. Ron had continued the barrage until it had become a
game
reenactment of some of the classic Quidditch matches. They had finally
collapsed in a heap after the third rendition of Greece’s upset
over France in
the 1984 World Cup, laughing hysterically and reduced to half-heartedly
kicking
each other in a last ditch effort to be the
victor.
It was now
five-thirty Monday evening, and memories of the last two days cheered
him
against the sense of oncoming doom that he felt. He was melodramatic,
according
Draco-- “I should know!” he had declared earlier in
the day-- but even
if he was, Ron thought he had a right to be.
He also wondered
what it said about him when he would rather face down a severely pissed
off
Voldemort than his own mother.
Moody had hovered
heavily in his thoughts all weekend. His mentor would be smacking him in
the
back of the head for his reluctance. He had done it to himself for that
very
reason, and while it didn’t give him the courage he had apparently
misplaced,
he did feel a bit better. The thoughts had been both of good times and
bad,
although he hadn’t let himself think about the worse one of all.
He had locked
that memory down more tightly than Gringott’s, and refused to let
it see the
light of day for any reason.
He had tried to
remember everything he could about the man, everything that former Auror
and
war hero had said to him and taught him, searching for the guidance he
so
desperately craved. He had come up heartbreakingly
empty.
Maybe that was
the reason why he was in the very back of his closet so close to
dinnertime.
His mother preferred guests to arrive at least a half-hour early for
kitchen
talk and maybe pre-dinner tea, but she’d have to live without him
for a bit. He
needed something to connect him to Moody. He still wished the man was
there,
but this would have to do.
Where the hell
is it, he thought with twinge of worry. He had torn out most of his
bedroom
closet onto the floor during his search. He distinctly remembered
putting it in
a little wooden case in his closet several years before when he first
rented
the flat. It had to be there! He felt a surge of frenzy and began
tossing stuff out without a care. He was nearly to the bottom of his
admittedly
overstuffed closet when he saw it jammed in behind several other boxes
of stuff
from those days.
He picked it up
reverently. There he was, sitting on the floor among a gigantic mess and
holding a horribly beat-up wooden case held together by cracked leather
straps,
completely unable to open it. His mind flitted back to the scene when it
was
given to him and he felt the same way. He hadn’t opened it then,
instead
burying it deeply within his closet. Most days he forgot it was even
there,
then would come one day and it was as alluring as Pandora’s Box to
open. No matter
where he went, he’d feel the pull of it, begging him to undo the
faded brass
buckles that locked it.
He never
did.
He closed his
eyes and took a deep breath. The pull had already begun and this time he
didn’t
resist. Hands shaking, he pulled the straps out of their brass locks
and,
barely touching the lid, he pushed it open.
It lay there,
surprisingly simple and unassuming. It wasn’t heavily adorned like
many he had
seen, although he knew it was pure silver. It had once had a leather
covering,
Moody had told him, but it had been hit with a curse and burned into
scraps. It
had saved his life that time, and was the original reason why he always
had
carried it. Ron smiled and blinked away any extra moisture in his eyes.
He gave
them a quick rub with his sleeve to finish the job and he breathed deep,
letting it out in a quick rush. He reached in and retrieved the flask.
He stood
and walked out to the kitchen.
In the
fluorescent lighting, he could tell it had been well used. One part of
it
looked slightly melted, the indent it made nearly as large as
Ron’s thumb as he
rubbed over it. It was inscribed, too, and although a good bit of it had
been
nearly worn away, he could read it.
Given
to
Alastor
Moody
upon
Graduation of the Auror Academy
by
his
Classmates
on
this
4th
of August, 1967
The other side
also had an inscription within the sole decoration, a slightly
embellished
frame. The class motto, Moody had told him once.
“Man
cannot discover new oceans
until he
has the courage to lose sight of the shore.”
A quote by a
Muggle hadn’t gone over too well, but he had been an exceptional
Muggle, Moody
had said. Ron hadn’t ever looked the man up to know anything more,
but he
wondered if he should. A glance at the clock told him that he’d
better save
that for later.
He gently washed
the flask inside and out in the sink, then dried it with a murmured
spell. He
filled it with some newly bought bourbon and placed it safely within the
inner
pocket of his corduroy jacket. Bourbon had been one of Moody’s
preferred drinks,
something considered highly odd among the Wizarding folk who knew of it.
Ron
had tried it once on a whim; he much preferred his Irish whiskey, but it
reminded him of Moody. The man had smelled of it, as well as leather
from his
ever-present coat and smoke from his pipe. All were scents that thrust
him back
into the past for a moment whenever they were
present.
It was a few
minutes before six. His mother would be upset, but she would just have
to deal
with it. He retrieved his scarf, cloak, knit hat, and glacier glasses.
He wore
a pair of worn brown pinstriped trousers he had found at a secondhand
store and
a navy t-shirt with a Muggle band logo on it. He didn’t know the
band, but
liked the design. He yanked his sneakers on, then stepped out the door,
the
lock clicking behind him.
He had to wait
in line at the Floo Room, pushing his arrival back even further. It was
ten
after when he stepped into the fireplace, powder in
hand.
“Ronald Weasley
for the Burrow,” he announced, throwing the powder
down.
As a safety
precaution, the building had included a stipulation in the Floo: you had
to say
who you were before you could go anywhere or else it wouldn’t
work, and those
places that weren’t public had to register with them agreeing that
you could go
there. If they didn’t, you ended up at the closest public place
the Floo could
find. Supposedly, at least; at least two people that had disappeared
from his
building had been last seen using the Floo and hadn’t been heard
from since.
He tripped when
he stepped out, sending him flailing into a nearby chair none too
gracefully.
He didn’t take it as good sign. He stood and brushed himself
off.
“Unca Won!”
a
voice screeched behind him, causing him to hunch a little in response.
He
considered opening the flask and downing half of it. His hands had
twitched
towards the pocket that contained it when he found himself careening
towards
the floor, covered by giggling, screaming
children.
He growled into
the carpet, then heaved himself up while shoving the squirming little
masses
off of him. It was a futile effort, as they all launched themselves at
him
again and wrapped themselves around his legs and tugged on his hands. He
freed
one and had his wand out, pointing it at them menacingly while he gave a
glare
so cold that it had made a few Death Eaters flinch in its
day.
Of course, the
children just smiled and blinked and continued to squeal around him. He
had
just begun to speak the incantation for a full body-bind when his mother
came
to his rescue.
“Now, children,
go back to your dinner,” she said. She smiled and glowed, but her
tone brokered
no argument, and as he and his siblings had, the children listened
without
question. He gave them one last glare before slowly pocketing his wand
once
more, then began to follow them into the kitchen. His mother stepped
into his
way, finger up in face. “You are late,” she
said.
“There was a
line at the Floo. It seems everyone’s mother is having a dinner
tonight,” he
said, which earned him a small slap on the face.
“No cheek from
you!” she ordered. “I don’t know why it must always be
a struggle with you,
Ronald, but I’m not having it tonight. You will go in there and
you will behave
yourself, as the least you could do for your family and friends. Look at
you--
you can’t even dress properly any more! Get those contraptions off
your face,
they make you look foolish. I don’t know how you can see with them
on.” She
shook her head and waved him off, then went back into the
kitchen.
Yeah, he was
home. He missed the mother of his youth; while overbearing, she at least
treated everyone with equal respect, including her seven children. Now,
well,
he didn’t even have “Harry Potter’s best friend”
going for him.
He entered the
kitchen with a hidden glare. The sea of ginger stared at him, as did the
few
non-gingers as well. He hung his cloak on the overstuffed rack by the
back
door. He took off the glasses and shoved them in one of the
cloak’s many inner
pockets. Silence echoed, as it always did when he came to these dinners.
It was
a great way for him to feel welcomed.
They’re in awe
of your outstanding charisma, a mental voice sounding an awful lot like
a
certain blond said dryly. He snorted and rolled his
eyes.
He turned and
came to face the children’s table in the corner. He curled his lip
at them
briefly before turning and taking his seat at the main table that took
up
almost the entire kitchen. He was wedged between his father and George;
despite
being at the far corner from the children-- his family had discovered
that was
the safest for all involved-- the sheer number of people meant he barely
had
room to move his elbows to eat. His plate had been made for him, the
pieces of
meat cut up into little bites. He blinked at it, then shoved whatever
expression he was about to show deep down inside him and picked up the
fork
next to his plate and began to eat.
As if a signal
had been given, the room reanimated and the chatter soon rose to a dull
roar
around him. He didn’t bother to join in and everyone returned the
favor. What
was there to say? ‘Hi, Ron, what are you doing these days?’
‘Oh, the same as
last time, and the time before that, and the time before that. I do have
a new
neighbor whom I’m beginning to quite fancy. No, it’s not
that the witch you set
me up with last time, it’s a man, actually. Did I forget to tell
you I was gay?
Oh, dear me. Well, that’s not the big news-- that’s the fact
that it’s Draco
Malfoy!’ His mother would faint dead away, as would probably most
of the room.
He hid his wry
grin behind his cup of pumpkin juice; that would make an interesting
scene.
He’d really have to invest in a camera if that were to happen.
‘Weasley Family
Bowled Over By a Ball of a Story’ could be the headline in the
papers. He’d
could sell the photo for a fortune, or frame it and give it to Draco as
a
Christmas present. Ron was sure he would get the humor in it, even if no
one
else did.
He cleaned his
plate and passed on any dishes that made the rounds. His mother frowned
at his
lack of seconds, but said nothing to his relief. The awkwardness was
making his
stomach queasy, although he did enjoy the home-cooked meal immensely.
He’d make
a plate to take home later; that, he hoped, would please
her.
The conversation
floated around and over him. He closed his eyes and let it wash over
him. He
liked the quiet of his flat, but this... It still felt like home. Old
jokes
being told again, stories of the day and memories of good times past,
laughing
and reminiscing and fun. He opened his eyes and glanced around at
everyone. They were so happy. The war had cut them deeply, and at times
he
wondered if the entire family would be torn apart; but they had
survived,
intact, and while the losses had been heavy, they hadn’t lost a
single family
member, distant not-so-good relations aside.
The sense of
home was fleeting, though. This had been his home once upon a time, back
when
the world had a magic to it that wasn’t dark or evil. When he
still had hope
for the future, instead of a resigned acceptance, and when family
meant...
He let his hand
travel to the flask in his pocket. He rubbed his hand over it. It
wasn’t so
much the drink inside that drew him; it was a comfort, having it there
next to
his heart. His emotions welled again, and he couldn’t stand being
there
surrounded by it all. He stood and beat a hasty retreat to the upstairs
bathroom, climbing the still rickety staircase with a forgotten
familiarity. He
pushed the door shut carelessly, letting it slam, and collapsed over the
sink.
The tears were threatening to truly fall and he almost let them, wanted
to
actually just give in and feel for once.
Voices reached
him, as did the sound movement. So his departure had been noticed, he
thought
bitterly. He turned on the faucet and splashed water on his face. He ran
his
hands through his hair, letting his hat slide off his head. He caught it
before
it fell and stuffed it in a pocket. A few more splashes of water
continued,
then he turned off the faucet and stared in the mirror. He willed
himself to
not look at the eye, but he couldn’t not
look.
It was there and
it was never going away. A constant reminder of the battle he would give
everything in the world to forget. He had even seriously considered a
memory
charm, but he couldn’t do one to himself, and to ask another to do
it meant
he’d need to explain why he wanted to forget. He couldn’t
ask that, couldn’t
burden someone else with the memory. It was a secret. It was all that he
was
any more, a living, breathing, walking secret.
Damn the
secrets.
A knock came at
the door, bringing him out of his thoughts. “Ron?” It was
his father. “Are you
alright? You left so quickly--”
“I’m
fine,” he
said thickly. “Just feeling a bit sick is all, have been for
awhile now.”
Understatement
of the year if there ever was one, he thought.
“Did you want
mother to--”
“No!” he
said,
yanking the door open to his father’s worried face.
“No,” he repeated more
calmly. “I’m fine, Dad. I’m not used to so much
excitement is all.”
“Oh, well,
we’ve
gathered in the parlor for tea. Join us when you’re ready,”
his father said
with smile, then patted him on the back. He left and Ron watched his
retreating
form with mixed emotions. The man was the same one he had always known,
a
steady creature with a whimsical curiosity for Muggle creations and
strong
hands that picked him up when he fell down after his first few steps and
cried.
The war had
changed everyone, but Arthur Weasley had changed the least of anyone.
Ron knew
he loved his father and had always looked up to him, although these days
he had
to look down at him. Even so, this was the man that now oversaw the
people that
had dumped Draco into the world and mysteriously had forgotten to fix
his wands
and release the restrictions on him. This was the man that had
instigated that,
and hadn’t seen it through; to top it off, he didn’t even
seem bothered by it.
Ron stepped into
the hall and shut the door behind him. He wanted to feel, but he
didn’t even
know what the hell to feel.
He schooled his
features and returned downstairs. He went into the parlor and accepted a
cup of
tea from Fleur, unable to return the smile she gave him.
“Merci,” he murmured
instead.
His reentrance
went mostly unnoticed otherwise, other than his father nodding at him.
He
nodded back and went to sit in one of the far chairs. He blew gently on
the cup
and took a sip, then another. No one was looking, so he retrieved the
flask and
added a bit of the bourbon to the tea. He gripped the flask and stared
at it a
moment, the returned it to his pocket. He took another sip of the tea
and
sighed at the burn it now gave him in his throat.
He observed the
room, unwilling to let his thoughts wonder back into dangerous
territory.
Everyone had attended, as if it was Christmas. Bill was ruggedly
handsome as
always, now with a goatee to complement his long hair and ever-present
earring.
Fleur was still gorgeous, having fully grown into her allure and
features. Ron
didn’t go for girls any longer, but he had to admit he still held
a bit of an
attraction to her.
Charlie’s face
had become so dark with freckles than Ron had begun to think they
were
his tan. His girlfriend had gone to school with Fleur, although she was
of
Italian descent and not French. As much as Fleur was exotic from her
Veela
heritage, this woman-- Ron still couldn’t remember her name-- was
as average,
although no less stunning. They talked in the corner opposite of his,
Fleur
cooing over the woman’s burgeoning stomach. His mother joined
them, and he
could hear over the general din that they were talking of names. He
frowned
when he heard ‘Molly,’ then decided to move
on.
Harry and
Hermione had both come with their respected spouses. Viktor looked the
least
comfortable next to him, although Ron knew that it was because he still
had
trouble with English that was spoken too quickly. It had taken him very
nearly
until the day they were married to pronounce Hermione’s name
correctly. He
remembered standing with the man and going over it with him, as he was
terrified he’d say it wrong during his vows. In the end, it was
like a
Quidditch match for him and came easily, as Ron had told him it
would.
Hermione, he had
to admit, had become beautiful. She had finally learned the perfect
charm for
her hair, sending it into cascading waves of curls around her face. She
was
still on the conservative side in dress, but it didn’t matter. Ron
felt wistful
sometimes when he looked at her, but they had had their time and
place.
Ginny was still
Ginny. Long ginger hair put into a complicated-looking updo, but a laugh
that
spoke of sincerity. Harry sat next to her as she chatted with Hermione,
sharing
bemused looks with Viktor as their wives talked. Harry always had been a
handsome bloke behind the mess of hair and glasses, and things
hadn’t changed.
He felt no real attraction to the man, but could certainly see what had
gotten
his sister’s attention. Harry had grown tall, too, from a late
growth spurt. He
was about Draco’s height, Ron realized
abstractly.
The twins and
their wives were huddled together, having pulled several chairs
together. They
looked all the world like they were plotting something, which given who
they
were wouldn’t have surprised Ron in the least. The twins had
received some
defining features during the war, although instead of making them more
distinct
they only added to the confusion as no one could remember who had which
scar. Sometimes,
the twins admitted, they didn’t even know who had
what.
Their wives did,
Ron assumed, or else they didn’t care if they accidentally took
home the wrong
twin. He idly wondered if they had ever pulled that prank, or, rather,
how
often they pulled it. He sipped his tea and stayed out of way when the
children
came squealing through. Their various mothers shooed them back into the
living
room, which had been set up as a temporary playroom like
always.
Percy and Penny
had already left, it seemed, as Ron didn’t see them anywhere.
Knowing the hours
that Percy worked at the Ministry, it wouldn’t be
surprising.
“How about a
game?” a voice at his side said. Ron turned to see his father
sitting at the
chess table that was next to him. He blinked in surprise; normally his
father
didn’t play with him. He’d beg off with some excuse or joke,
and eventually Ron
learned not to bother to ask.
“Sure,” he
said.
He finished off his tea and set the cup aside.
“Okay,” his
father said, then paused. “Between one and
ten.”
“Seven.”
“You’re
white,”
he said with a smile. It was an old game; no matter what Ron guessed, he
was
always white.
They set the
board up and began to play. Ron was soon absorbed by strategies and
numbers and
the clashing of the pieces. He and Draco had played a few games over the
weekend, although with a non-Wizarding set that Draco had picked up some
time
before. Ron had played black for the novelty, and had solidly beaten him
only
once.
His father
didn’t play like Draco; the styles were as different as the
people. He could
tell a lot about people from the way they played, and had, one day when
he had
been bored, almost sent a letter to Professor Trelawney that he had
discovered
a new form of divination.
“Why is it hard
to visit?” his father asked after making a particularly odd
move.
“Trying to
distract me to win?” he asked in an effort to dodge the
question.
“It upsets your
mother,” Arthur said, and Ron knew he wouldn’t get out of it
so easily. He also
realized the reason behind the game.
“What is
it?” he
asked quietly, resting his head on one hand, elbow propped at the edge
of the
table.
“What is
what?”
“Don’t,” Ron
said. “Please, just don’t. Just tell me what it is that she
wants and wouldn’t
ask herself. What you’re supposed to coax me into talking about
over a friendly
game of father-son chess,” he said, not entirely succeeding in
keeping the
sarcasm out of his voice.
“You caught on
pretty quick.”
“Yeah, well,
even though we so often forget, I am a part of this family. I know its
tactics.
I also know that you never want to play chess with me, and that to do so
you
had to have an incentive. Mum can be rather good with her
incentives.”
“You’re
right,
of course,” Arthur said, then took off his glasses and laid them
on the table
next to the forgotten game. He took a deep breath and looked at his
youngest
son. “She wants you to move back
home.”
“What?” Ron
hissed loudly. There were a few glances his way, but everyone turned
quickly
back around. Ron didn’t care. “Has she gone
mad?”
“You watch your
tongue,” his father cautioned. “And no, she hasn’t.
She-- We have noticed that
you’re not... You’re not happy, Ron. It’s there for
any of us to see. I mean,
you dress like you don’t care about how you look, you don’t
talk to anyone, you
barely visit us--”
“Did the thought
ever occur to you that I don’t visit because I don’t
want to be near any
of you?” he snapped. Arthur looked visibly hurt by the comment and
Ron wished
he could take it back. It was out, though, and he couldn’t go
back. “Dad, you’re
right, I’m not happy. I’m not happy here. I
don’t talk because what is
there to talk about? I don’t have kids, I don’t
work--”
“You could get a
job easily. I’m the Minister of Magic now, I can get you any job
you wanted,
son. I could get you into the Auror program. You used to want to be one
so
much, even more so after you started hanging out with
Alastor--”
“Don’t you
talk
about him!” Ron yelled. All eyes were on him now, and he heard his
mother gasp
at his voice. “Don’t ever talk about him to
me!”
“Ron, you still
haven’t dealt with his death. You need
to--”
“No!”
Ron stood up
abruptly and began to storm out of the room. He made it as far as the
middle
when it seemed like everyone closed ranks on him, his mother at the head
of it.
“Don’t you
dare
walk out on your father when he’s trying to talk sense into
you,” she said,
finger back in his face. He glared at her but said nothing, instead
rounding
back on his father.
“Come on, Ron.
Move back home, and I’ll get you into the program, okay?
You’re all alone in
that flat and that’s not good for you,” Arthur
pleaded.
“You don’t
get
it, do you?” Ron asked, the shook his head. He knew the answer.
“You just don’t
fucking get it.”
“Language,
Ronald!” his mother scolded. He turned to
her.
“I’m
twenty-six
years old, Mum, I’ll say whatever the fuck I please,” he
growled.
“Don’t you
talk
to your mother like that,” his father said, his voice rising into
territory
that it rarely went.
“I’m
sorry,” Ron
said, “and I am, really. But it’s the truth, all of it. I am
twenty-six, Dad,
and I can talk and live and do whatever I please whether you agree with
or
not.” He looked at his father’s face and felt the sudden
rush of anger
beginning to ebb a bit. He then thought of Draco, and felt it begin to
return.
“I’m not moving back home and you’re not getting me
into the program. It would
only be a sham, not something I earned the right to do. I did want to be
an Auror
once, be like Harry and continue the good fight,” he said, nodding
towards his
old friend. “But things change, Dad, and that’s not what I
want any more.”
“What do you
want, Ron? Whatever it is... If I can make it happen, I will. I want you
to be
happy, son.”
“Dad...” Ron
sighed. He ran his hands through his hair and paced a bit. The thought
had
entered his mind before Arthur had even finished, but did he dare?
“You ended
the-- the ‘rehabilitation’ program for the Dark Lord
traitors,” he ventured.
“Yes,” his
father said slowly, “but how do you know about that? It
didn’t leave the
Ministry--”
“It doesn’t
matter how I know, I do. When they were released, the restrictions
against them
weren’t lifted as they were supposed to be, including the
restoration of their
wands’ full power.”
“What does this
have to do with--”
“Fix it,”
Ron
said. “Fix their wands, lift the
restrictions.”
“Ron, you
can’t
be serious,” Harry said.
“I am, Harry.
Merlin, you were there, you know that if it wasn’t for them
the war
wouldn’t have been won at all!”
“You don’t
know
that,” Harry said, his green eyes glittering
now.
“Yeah, I do.
I’m
the one that used their information and went over the plans with them,
remember? I helped to plan the battles from that information, the raids
and the
sieges. I know that if it hadn’t been for those key pieces,
we’d be dead by now
and the world would be a very different place. They helped us, and so
what if
it wasn’t for any real belief in being good? They did it, they
risked their
lives and unbelievable torture to do it. Tell me something, Harry. You
named
your son after Snape; what would you say to him if he were still alive
and had
to go through this? He was there as much as the rest of them. He killed
Dumbledore! You’d think the Ministry would let that go after the
war? What
would you say to him, if he stood here, and couldn’t even do a
simple heating charm?”
Harry didn’t
respond. He didn’t need to, Ron knew the answer when Harry refused
to meet his
eyes. He turned back to his father.
“Fix it,” he
repeated. His father straightened and unlike Harry, stared him directly
in the
eye.
“Will that make
you happy?”
“No,” he
said,
knowing that there would have to be many secrets revealed before he
could even
get close to that, “but it would be a
start.”
“Done,”
Arthur
whispered, and Ron knew it was over.
He turned and
the ranks parted quickly, even his mother moving aside. He retrieved his
cloak
from the kitchen and wrapped it around him. He needed a drink; not
caring who
saw, he retrieved the flask and took a smooth burning gulp, leaving it
only
half full. He placed it back in his coat and then pulled out his hat and
put it
on. He heard a step behind him, the first sound that wasn’t of his
own making.
He glanced back and saw one of the twins. George, he thought, although
it
wasn’t with any certainty.
“I won’t be
around for awhile,” he said. “Don’t visit, don’t
write. Don’t find me.”
He opened the
back door and left and didn’t look back.
***
Too restless to
go back to his flat, he Apparated several miles away to visit an old
friend.
A graveyard at
night should give him the chills, but only the slight breeze in the air
made him
shiver. He muttered a quiet Lumos and
searched through the headstones, looking for one in particular. It took
him
awhile, and he was honestly about ready to give up and leave when he
stumbled
across it with his infamous grace. It brought a weak smile to his face
as he
settled in front of the stone. The tears he had hoped would come refused
to
now, and he stared up at the sliver of moon in the sky. He closed his
eyes and
hung his head, then finally looked up at the stone before
him.
“Hi, Nev,”
he
murmured. “It’s been a long time. I’m sorry I
haven’t come to visit you, I’ve
been...” he trailed off and reached out to touch the stone.
“I can’t lie to
you, Nev. I’ve not been doing anything. I could have come and
visited every
single day since you died and I haven’t. I barely made it for the
funeral, I
was such a wreck. I didn’t stay, either, when they lowered you
into the ground.
I couldn’t stand it for another moment.
“Please
don’t be
angry with me,” he said, then let his hand fall and bury into the
grass.
Neville. It had
been sweet, kind-hearted Neville that had lost his life in that last
siege.
Others had died as casualties of war, but none so nobly, people said. He
had
reacted with a deadly curse for Bellatrix instead of a shield charm to
protect
against her own curse. Bellatrix had died with a howl, and it had been a
severe
blow to the already failing Voldemort. He had hung on for a few moments,
Ron
and Draco and Hermione by his side.
“Did I get
her?”
he had choked out, as blood poured from more wounds than any of them
could
count.
“Yeah, Nev, you
got her. You got her good,” Ron had reassured as Hermione tried to
staunch the
blood flow.
“Then,” he
had
gasped, “No regrets.” Two gasps of air later and he had been
gone.
Hermione had
cried then, broken from everything. Ron hadn’t, had only stood and
stared at
the sky and wished it would just rip open and pour on him. He could hide
it
then, the storm of emotion that raged inside him and that he
couldn’t express.
Draco had said nothing, only had simply walked
away.
A few days later
and the war, finally, had been over.
“I don’t
know
what to do, Nev. I really don’t,” he said. “I mean,
the answers are there, but
I don’t know how to get to them. I’ve lost my friends, my
family. All I’ve got
is Draco, and how weird is that? How weird is it for it to not be
weird
to say it? Not to me at least. And part of it is my fault, I know. I
haven’t
really tried to stay with them. After everything, I couldn’t just
move on and
heal like they did. I knew-- felt too much. Couldn’t express it,
let it out.
Couldn’t do anything except wrap it up tight and try to bury so
far within
myself that even I would forget. It worked, I didn’t feel,
didn’t care, just
barely existed around the edges.
“And then Draco,
ah, he changed everything. Moved in next door and dug up things that
weren’t
ever supposed to see the light of day again. Made me laugh, and feel,
and remember.
He’s made me remember so much and I haven’t gotten a decent
night of sleep
since that hasn’t entirely exhaustion and alcohol-induced.”
He snorted at that.
“Not that that’s anything different from usual. Don’t
get much good sleep at
all these days, not in years. Probably not since before the war,
certainly not
after. Too many ghosts to haunt me.”
He pulled the
flask out again and tapped it against the headstone, then took a sip. He
poured
a little on the ground before he put the cap back on. He held it in his
hands,
rubbing over the nearly smoothed engravings.
“I miss you,
Nev. I wish you were here, happy with all the others. We were never too
close,
not even in those last days, but I did like you. Sometimes I envied you,
what
with keeping a good disposition despite all you had been through. I
can’t
imagine what it was like growing up for you. And you turned out alright,
I have
to say.” He let himself grin bittersweetly. “You really did
get her good.”
He sat there for
some time after that in silence, leaning forward to rest his head
against the
stone that was still warm from the day. He took comfort in
that.
He soon knew it
was time to leave. He was worn out from everything and just fall into
bed. He
pulled back from the stone and kissed it, then stood and left the
graveyard,
waiting until he had passed the gates before
Apparating.
***
“Get up you
lazy-assed bum! Get up, get up, get up!” screamed his alarm, the
volume much
louder than he remembered. After he scraped himself off the ceiling, he
blindly
reached up and slapped the off button. He let his hand arm lay there,
too tired
to even move it back into the warmth of the bed.
“It’s four
in
the afternoon,” a voice drawled, causing him to jump again.
“If you were
wondering, that is.”
“Not
really,” he
said, his voice muffled by his pillow. He opened his eye to see Draco
sitting
on the floor next to his bed. “If I wasn’t as tired as I am
I would find this
just a bit creepy. Now, good night.”
He rolled over
and burrowed himself deeper into his blankets. He heard movement, then
felt the
bed behind him dip down under an added weight. He sighed and tried to
ignore
the presence and fall back into sleep.
“Will it be
stupid to ask how it went?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, well, I
suppose I’m allowed to have at least one moment in my life,”
said Draco. There
was a pause. “That was me asking, by the
way.”
“Horribly.”
“Really, or are
you being melodramatic again?”
Ron sighed and
rolled back over, coming face to face with Draco lying down next to him.
The
expression was open and curious, almost child-like in that manner,
although the
hints of worry and sadness kept it from being so.
“Really,”
Ron
said.
“Must have been
if it’s left you being monosyllabic,” Draco said, giving him
a lopsided grin.
Ron lifted the one corner of his mouth a bit, but it didn’t stay
as memories of
the night before drifted through his mind.
“I yelled at my
father, cursed at my mother, and made Harry unable to look me in the
eye,” he
said.
“Sounds like I
missed quite a show,” Draco murmured, sympathy now etched on his
face. “What
happened?”
“My mother
thinks I’m miserable here on my own and wants me to move back to
the Burrow. My
father offered to use his power to get me into the Auror program,”
he
explained. “I told them that I was only miserable there with them.
And that I
didn’t want to be an Auror or have any position in the Ministry.
For one, it
wouldn’t be something I earned, and for another-- well, I want
hell all to do
with that place.”
“I take it that
they didn’t take it too well.”
“I told them I
wasn’t coming back for awhile. That they weren’t to visit or
write or even try
to find me,” he whispered. His head had begun to ache. He
hadn’t drunk enough
alcohol for that to be the reason; he suspected it was all the emotion
that was
still trying to claw itself out of him. He snuggled deeper, which
brought him
closer to Draco.
To his surprise,
Draco laid an arm across him in a half-hug. He gave him a flicker of a
smile in
response. They lay there quietly for a while, just looking at each
other. The
mercurial eyes still couldn’t decide on a color, and his own
simply just ached.
There was the beginning of a five o’clock shadow along
Draco’s jaw, and he
wanted nothing more than to run his fingers over it and feel the
bristling
hair. It wasn’t a sexual thing, not for him; he was just a
touching kind of
guy. He needed to feel that texture under his hands, to feel soft and
rough and
smooth and hard. He liked to be touched, too, and the arm around him was
a
comfort.
Suddenly the arm
moved, and he was given a light smack on the arm.
“Your
alarm’s
right, it’s time to get up you lazy bum,” Draco said,
sitting up on the bed.
“Come on, I’ll put on a pot of
whiskey.”
Ron flashed him
a grin. “Coffee will be just fine,” he said. Draco made a
face, complete with
sticking out his tongue, but stood and walked out of the room.
“Hey, how did
you get in any way?” Ron called after him.
“The door was
unlocked. You’re getting forgetful in your old age,” Draco
called back. “Go
take a shower, you’ll feel better. Your precious coffee should be
done by the
time you get out.”
Deciding that
Draco did have moments of good advice, Ron stretched along the bed, then
followed the other’s movements and made his way out of the bedroom
and into the
bathroom where he stripped and turned on the
shower.
The hot spray
did feel delicious against his tired body. He tried to imagine he was
scrubbing
his fears and worries away, although it didn’t quite work. He ran
the shampoo
through his hair, feeling how long it was. He was surprised his mother
hadn’t
said anything about it considering how she still hounded Bill about his.
Ron’s
wasn’t as long, but it was at least an inch below his shoulder,
far longer than
she tolerated on any man.
He mentally
shook his head and pushed his thoughts away from her. He stepped under
the
spray and allowed it to wash over him. The water burned his face at
first, but
soon he barely felt it as it flowed down. He didn’t move. He could
still feel
the swirling emotions underneath the surface, but they were calmer now.
He
began to drift and sway under the water.
“Hey!”
Draco’s
voice shouted through the door, accompanied by several loud knocks.
“Did you
drown in there? Coffee’s done!”
“I’ll be
out!”
he called back. How long had he been in here?
He turned off
the water and stepped out, snatching the towel from the counter. He had
a clock
in the bathroom, but apparently the battery had died since he knew it
wasn’t
eight twenty-two. He hurriedly dried off, then wrapped the towel around
his
waist and dashed into his bedroom to dress. He found old pair of
sweatpants to
tug on over his boxers. He didn’t bother with a shirt, still warm
from the
shower.
He tossed the
towel into the bathroom on his way past the door and walked into the
kitchen.
Draco sat at the table, newspaper in one hand and a cigarette in the
other. An
empty cup was on the table in front of him, along with what looked like
two
letters and a saucer serving as an ashtray. Despite what Draco had said,
there
was no whiskey bottle in sight, although the scent of coffee filled the
air.
“I thought you
had quit again?” Ron asked as he got a mug out of the
cupboard.
“I did and I am.
This one I’m smoking for you, so it doesn’t count,” he
said, not looking up
from the paper.
“For me?”
questioned Ron, confused. He added four sugars and some milk, then sat
down
across from him.
“Figured you
could use it,” Draco explained, “and since you’ll be
prying my pack out of my
cold, dead hands before I let you start this nasty habit, I’ll do
it for you.”
“Thanks. I
think.”
“No
problem,”
Draco said. Ron watched as he slid his eyes from the paper to him for a
moment,
the turned back to it without a word.
“I didn’t
know
you had subscription,” Ron said, nodding towards The
Quibbler in his
hands.
“I don’t. It
was
one of those free things they send out to boost circulation,” he
said as he turned
the page. “I must say, though, it is absolutely
fascinating. Did you
know they have found footprints of the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks? They
even took
casts of them.”
“Oh, Luna,
she’s
turning her father’s paper into an almost-respectable
paper,” Ron said with an
exaggerated eye roll.
“She must be
doing something right. Clerk downstairs told me that they’ve got
the fastest
growing circulation in Europe. ’Course, I also think he was trying
to get into
my pants, so who knows if it’s true. Wouldn’t surprise me,
I’d trust Luna’s
invisible creature stories over anything The Daily Prophet
publishes
these days,” he said taking a long drag off his cigarette to
finish it. He
stubbed it out on the saucer.
“I haven’t
read
that thing since Ginny made me cut out Hermione and Viktor’s
wedding
announcement,” Ron said. “Never felt the desire to,
honestly, especially
after... I lived it, I didn’t need to read about
it.”
“Agreed,”
Draco
said, folding The Quibbler and setting it aside. “I got
something
interesting in the mail today.”
“Oh?”
“From the
Official Office of Ministerial Follow-Up,” Draco read as he picked
up the one
letter. He pulled the parchment out of the envelope. “Dear Mr.
Malfoy, as
agreed upon your release from the Dark War Rehabilitation Program, all
restrictions
regarding your apparation status, Floo status, and general travel have
been
relinquished upon this day, as dated above. In addition, all
restrictions upon
your wand have been also released upon this day, again as dated
above.”
“That’s
wonderful!”
Ron said, and he truly meant it. He was surprised his father had moved
so
quickly-- hell, he was surprised the Ministry could move so
quickly.
“You
wouldn’t
have anything do with this, would you?” Draco asked, eyes
narrowed. Ron felt
defensive under the gaze.
“A bit, yeah.
Dad wanted to talk, so I talked. I didn’t mention you,
specifically, but all of
you. It was already supposed to have been done, I just brought it to his
attention that it hadn’t.” He saw that Draco seemed a bit
taken aback at what
he had done. “That wasn’t what we fought about, if
you’re wondering, not
really. I wanted to do it, too, I just didn’t know how. I saw the
chance and
took it. You deserve it, Draco. If it wasn’t for what you and the
others did
we’d either still be at war or, more likely, dead with Voldemort
in power. You
guys risked more than most of us and in the end you just got shafted for
it.
That wasn’t right. I don’t stand for much these days, but
something like
that... I had to, Blondie.”
“Thanks,”
Draco
said. He looked decidedly uncomfortable for a moment, as if he was on
the verge
of something, but then he took a deep breath and the expression
instantly
melted away. “You know what else I found while trying to find
those blasted
coffee filters?”
“What’s
that?”
“Your invitation
to the Annual Memorial Ball,” he said, holding up the other
letter.
“Burn it,
please,” Ron said, taking a drink of coffee. “Ah, nectar of
the gods,” he
murmured, and took another drink.
“I take it
you’re
not attending?” Draco asked around a disgusted look at his
mug.
“I never do.
Don’t see much point in the tearing open of old wounds, making new
ones. I’ve
bled enough for that damn war, I’m not about to go and do it
again.”
“Darn, and here
I thought I could be your date,” Draco deadpanned, then muttered a
spell and
set the envelope into flames. He stood and dropped into the sink to burn
out.
“I’ve seen
enough horrors in my life, thank you very much, I don’t need to be
adding you
in a dress,” Ron said, barely dodging the childish hex sent his
way.
“I don’t
know,
might be fun. We could see how long it took your friends to figure out
who I
was,” he said, poking the ashes in the sink with his wand. He
turned on the
water to wash them away.
“I’m not
going,”
Ron stated clearly.
“I know,” he
said, his voice filled with understanding. He turned the water off and
sat back
down. “So, it’s only five o’clock. Want to go out for
a bit?”
“I usually go to
the park on Tuesdays to play chess with the locals. A few of them are
promising
adversaries.”
“Bit late for
the chess part, but I’d like to see the park. We could go for
supper
afterwards, that is, if you want.”
“Depends,”
Ron
said, grinning as an idea formed. “Do you like
curry?”
“What’s
curry?”
Draco asked. Ron just leaned back in the chair and continued grin.
“Well, what
is it? Tell me!” Ron said nothing, schooling his face into one of
innocence.
“Oh, come on, just tell me, will you?”
***
“And you gripe
about me over-layering,” Ron said when he saw Draco in what looked
like at
least two shirts, a sweater, and a heavy coat on top of
that.
“It’s
cold,”
was the retort, muffled through the black wool of the scarf he was
adjusting
around his neck. “Warming charms only do so much, and besides,
I’d think we’d
stand out a bit in t-shirts.”
“I seriously doubt
anyone would notice,” he said dryly. “They haven’t
yet, at least. Now, are you
ready?”
“Yes, yes,
I’m
ready. Don’t know what the rush is, it’s not as if the shops
are going to
close,” Draco grumbled. “Let’s go
already.”
Two months of
separation had eased many things for him concerning his family and
friends, but
Ron wasn’t able to help the feeling of being bereft or their
presence. He still
loved his family, much to his occasional chagrin, and missed them. He
hadn’t
really been with them for a time much longer than those two months. He
hoped
that would change.
He had spent
very nearly every day with his blond neighbor, from doing mundane things
like
cleaning his flat or visiting the local bookstore-- or, rather, being
dragged
to said bookstore-- to visiting Paris like he was now. The moment Draco
honestly had realized he could leave the country again he nearly had
bolted out
the door in pajamas babbling on about the best croissants in the world.
They
had ended up going a few times over the past several weeks, and were on
their
way there now for some Christmas shopping.
They also had walked
in the park and played chess, watched the telly and laughed at the silly
comedies,
ate out, and once in a while even had attempted disastrous dinners
themselves. Ron
still walked with a sadness and depression that he couldn’t seem
to shake, but
for the first time in a very long time, he felt happy. Without his
family and
the Wizarding world poking at him constantly, he felt like he could
finally
take a breath and maybe, just maybe, enjoy life a bit. He was burdened,
he
knew, by the secrets he held; one had become the most pronounced, which
was the
deep love he found himself holding for Draco. It had taken him by
surprise when
he realized it, but he didn’t bother to deny it. He loved the man,
both as a
friend and more. Wished Draco felt the same, but he didn’t know
for sure, and
refused the risk of damaging their friendship for it. Draco was all he
had now,
his entire world.
They arrived at
the International Floo Agency in Paris an hour later. They dusted
themselves
off, booked themselves a return trip to London for six hours later, paid
the
clerk, and went out into the street. Unlike London, the agency was right
off
the Wizarding part of Paris, so they stepped into a sea of witches and
wizards
all bustling about with energy fueled by the holiday only two weeks
away.
“Where to
first?” Ron asked.
“Hmm, well, the
chocolate shop better be last, I think, or else we’ll eat all we
buy. Or should
I say you will?”
Ron poked him in
the stomach. “I know for a fact half of my last box of chocolates
ended up in
here.”
“Please, they
were your leftovers, and it took me a week to eat them,” Draco
said, batting
his hand away. “I can’t believe you don’t like dark
chocolate.”
“Blondie?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re
standing
in the middle of the street and I’m not going to get into the
chocolate battle
with you again. Are we going anywhere?”
“Fine, then, I
guess the bookstore is first,” Draco said, strutting off as if he
was the
master and Ron the servant. Ron caught up to him quickly-- the benefit
of
having long legs.
“I’m not
going
to carry them for you,” he said resolutely. Draco gave him an
aghast
expression.
“And miss the
chance to flex your muscles for me? I think not!” he said, and put
his arm
through Ron’s. “Come, darling, you’ll love
it.”
Ron rolled his eyes
at Draco’s flouncing exaggeration and secretly enjoyed the warmth
and presence
at his side. He couldn’t feel much, not through all of their
combined layers,
even though he imagined he could. It was never a feeling he would get
used to,
no matter how often Draco did it, and he did it often; it didn’t
matter if they
were at the park or the market, He would take Ron’s arm and
sometimes his hand
and walk with him. Draco never said anything about it or why he did it,
and Ron
was afraid to ask. He suspected it was just Draco reaffirming that, yes,
he was
really there.
He did it, too.
The first time he had taken Draco by the hand-- only last week-- Draco
had
looked up and those eyes that Ron had given up on naming the color of
had damn
near glowed. He had been rewarded with a large, beautiful smile that he
wanted
to see again and again on Draco’s face. It changed the man’s
entire face. Faint
laugh lines showed, eyes crinkled, and he looked as if he had been
touched by
the sun itself from the delight that radiated from
him.
Ron had
desperately wanted to kiss him, to push him against the nearest wall on
the
street and descend on that sassy mouth with all of the hunger he felt.
Had
wanted to so very, very much, but in the end had only returned the smile
as
best as he could and hoped that the expression didn’t betray
him.
“Aren’t you
lost
in thoughts?” Draco teased, bringing him back to the
surface.
“Hmm?”
“I said
you’re
lost in your thoughts.” Ron nodded his agreement. He saw a
concerned look
beginning to cloud Draco’s face. “Anything
bad?”
Only that I love
you and can’t tell you, Ron thought. Aloud, he said, “No,
only good thoughts.
So where’s the bookstore again?”
“Just down the
block here,” Draco said, letting it go. “I’ve been
window shopping as we walk,
which you obviously haven’t noticed.”
Ron groaned.
“How broke am I going to be?”
“Not terribly
so,” Draco said with a grin. “Now speed it up, Red,
it’s freezing out here.”
The bookstore’s
entrance belied its actual size. A tiny, weather beaten blue door that
Ron had
to duck through on an alley entrance was all that could be seen; there
was no
store name or window, only a creaking old sign that hung over the door.
Ancient, only the faintest outlines of what looked like an open book
could be seen.
Inside, thousands of books were packed on shelves that towered above
them in a
manner that made him think of the library at Hogwarts. The rows appeared
endless, stretching to the very back of the building. A small counter
with a
dust-covered register stood next to the door, and behind it, the same
man they
had seen both times before.
“Ah, back
again?” he asked, smiling, in softly accented
French.
He was older
than them, but not the hundred-year-old being that Ron had expected to
find in
the place. Maybe his father’s age, with curling brown hair and
wire-rim
glasses, the man, Monsieur Gide, had a conservative style of dress that
Ron
hadn’t seen since Snape. Whereas it had made Snape look aloof and
repressed, it
made Monsieur Gide warm and, well, repressed. He was cheerful, though,
and
immensely helpful in finding whatever random book Draco had taken an
interest
in. Ron couldn’t help the slight twinge of jealousy, but Draco
acted no
different towards the man than he did any other good-looking bloke he
came
across. Which was to say, of course, that he flirted shamelessly,
although Ron
thought he could see where it was all for show. Draco, at least, never
took any
of their hands and walked with them.
The two of them
embedded into a conversation of the latest great novel, in French no
less, Ron
wandered off down one of the aisles. He never discovered a love of
reading, the
occasional Muggle newspaper or magazine aside, but he found that he
respected
books. They held vast amounts of information, valuable and trivial, and
stories
that told of adventure and romance, fantasy and science. A part of him
envied
those that could focus long enough to read a story, the rest of him
wondering
if the rest of the world was mad to pass their time with their noses
stuck in a
book when an entire world was out there to see.
He was one to
talk, having spent the larger part of the last half decade holed up in a
flat
eating takeout and watching the telly, but even then he had liked to
take walks
out around the city and just watch people live their
lives.
Draco, in a
futile effort to encourage Ron to read, had suggested poetry since most
poems
were short enough that he could read them to the end. True as it was,
poems
also used symbolism and references and odd patterns of speech that
tended to
leave him staring at the words in complete confusion. Still, he had
found that
some of it wasn’t so bad, which was probably the reason why he
tugged a slim
volume simply marked “Poems” off the
shelf.
He opened the
well-worn book and saw something fall out. It fluttered to the ground,
spinning
rapidly in the air. Ron reached down and picked it up, belatedly
realizing it
was a handmade bookmark. It was old, he could tell, made of thick, stiff
parchment that yellowed over the years. There was an ink sketch of an
odd-looking flower he didn’t recognize with elegantly scripted
words beneath
it.
“Huh,” he
said,
when he realized it was in French.
He laid it on the
shelf in front of him and then turned the first page of the book. It was
a
handwritten book of poetry, he realized. He flipped through the rest of
the
pages; the whole volume was filled with the same handwriting as the
bookmark.
There was no name, though, that he saw, no signature or date on it,
nothing to
tell him who the writer had been.
“Huh,” he
repeated. He took the bookmark off the shelf and placed it within the
front
cover where it had been, then went in search of Draco. He was fluent in
French,
maybe he’d know what the bookmark said-- as Ron’s curiosity
had been piqued by
it-- and enjoy the book.
He looked up and
down the stacks, but saw no glimpse of his companion. He frowned at
that,
wondering if he had gone to the upper level. He turned abruptly to go
towards
the stairs when he ran into Monsieur Gide.
“Ah,
excusez-moi,”
the older man said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m
fine,” Ron
reassured. “Are you?” he asked, as the man barely reached
his shoulder in
height.
“Je vais
bien, merci,” he replied. “Can I help
you?”
“I was looking
for Blondie, but yeah, maybe you can help,” Ron said, pulled out
the bookmark.
“What does that say?”
“Let me see, ah,
I know this. Hmm, to say in English... ‘Better to be hated for
what you are,
than loved for what you are not,’” he said. “It means
to be yourself, and not
what others would love you to be.”
Ron nodded his
understanding and had to give a smile at the irony the words presented
to him.
He tucked that thought away for the moment, and instead pointed at the
sketch
of the flower.
“Do you know
what that is?”
“This I have
seen before, but I do not know the name of it. It is common, perhaps
your compagnon
might know?”
“Maybe,” Ron
said. “How about this book? The bookmark was in
it.”
The man gave the
book a curious look, but said nothing. He opened it and began turning
the pages
one by one. Ron saw that he was reading a few of the passages, although
he kept
shaking his head a bit and muttering non. He gave up and started
to flip
the pages as Ron had, then stopped quickly at one.
“Ah, this one I
remember! It is called ‘Ma Bohème,’ by Rimbaud. This
is a book of copied
poetry, was very fashionable once,” he said. “Your
compagnon would like
it.”
“Yeah, I thought
so, too. How much for it? It’ll be a Christmas
present.”
The book, along
with its bookmark, was soon bought and tucked safely into the same inner
pocket
that had held Moody’s flask that fateful night. Draco still
hadn’t reappeared
from wherever he had tucked himself, and Ron had already lost his focus
for the
books around him. He left the shop, Monsieur Gide promising to tell
Draco that
he had gone across the street to the bistro.
Ron secluded
himself in a booth with a view of the street and ordered a coffee.
Unable to
resist, he took the book back out of his pocket. The covers were canvas,
worn
and rough to the touch. He retrieved the bookmark from inside and stared
at the
scripted foreign words.
Better to be
hated for who you are, than loved for who you are not.
He never was
much of a believer in fate, as he had often proved in Professor
Trelawney’s
classes. Deep down, he had even regarded the prophecy as bit ridiculous,
no
matter how much the rest of them had taken it seriously, even the
ever-skeptical Hermione. Moody hadn’t, sharing his own beliefs,
but he had
cautioned Ron to not underestimate the power of another’s beliefs
in the
matter.
Ron still didn’t
believe in fate or signs or omens, but with happenings like this, he
could see
how others would. And maybe this was one, a good
one.
Better to be
hated for who you are, than loved for who you are not.
Is it, he
wondered? He tucked the bookmark and book back into pocket when his
coffee
arrived. Is it better that he was true to himself and to his family, and
risk
losing them permanently? Being gay wasn’t a bad thing in the
Wizarding world,
wasn’t scorned against like had seen sometimes in the Muggle
world, but it was
still what he had heard it once called-- the love that dare not speak
its name.
It was known and generally accepted, but not talked about, and remained
hidden
in daily life. Ron was okay with that part, he had known nothing else.
It was
the look on his parents’ faces, and their reaction to who he was
that made him
reluctant to speak up. He hadn’t ever heard their opinions on the
matter, and
it worried him.
His brothers he
was less worried about; he wasn’t really sure about Bill and
Percy, but Charlie
probably wouldn’t care too much and the twins would be too busy
thinking up new
ways to tease him. Ginny... He didn’t know how she would react,
either,
although from what he saw she became more and more like their mother
with every
passing day.
He didn’t dare
think how Hermione or Harry would react. If anyone should suspect it
would be
them, but neither had said anything and had tried to set him up with
enough
witches to leave him to believe that they didn’t
know.
The only
person’s reaction he was sure of was Viktor’s, as it would
be the same reaction
he had to everything. He’d nod, smile, clap Ron on the back and
say, “Okay,
yes.” He had to take a little comfort in that; at least he could
rely on Viktor
to be himself. He stood by his thought that the man was as interesting
as
vanilla pudding, but once taken away from the fans and media, he relaxed
and
was a less sullen person.
Truthfully, he
thought, Viktor had some similarities to his own situation. Not the gay
part,
obviously, but the not being allowed to be his real self in public was.
And he
already knew Viktor’s reaction, so perhaps he could talk to the
man, get a feel
for at least Hermione’s response. He wondered how he could set
that up. He’d
have to tell Draco of the idea, and speaking of
him...
“There you
are,”
Draco said, approaching the both. “Monsieur Gide said you had come
over here.
Did your stomach announce itself?”
“No, just got
restless. What did you find?” Ron asked as Draco sat himself down
across from
him.
“Oh, a book of
photography and some old notated classics,” he
said.
“I have an
idea,” Ron said, taking a sip of his coffee. French roast, good
and strong.
“What’s
that?”
“I’m going
to
talk to Viktor first,” he said, “about-- about being
gay.” Draco paused and
appeared to mull it over.
“Makes sense, I
suppose. From what you’ve said of him, I doubt he’d fly off
the handle at you.”
“No, I know he
won’t. I know exactly how he’ll react, and
it’ll be in my favor. He’ll
know how Hermione will react, too, how they all will. I can be prepared
that
way.”
“So you’re
going
to do it, then? You’re going to tell
them?”
“I think so. I
want to, for good or bad. I was so tired of being someone else to them,
you
know? And these past months with you, I’ve been able to be who I
was, and it’s
been bloody wonderful. I love my family, Draco, and I want them to love
me,
too, for who I am, not who they think I am. I hope they
can.”
“Don’t
worry, I
know your family, Red. You’re the clannish sort. Good grief, look
at Percy and
all that he did, and your mum accepted back into the fold after a simple
‘I’m
sorry.’ You’re her baby boy, she’s not going to disown
you.”
“Again, I
hope,”
Ron murmured, then took another drink.
“If you want
something to really worry about, think about their reactions when they
hear you’ve
just about shacked up with me,” Draco pointed
out.
“Well, there
goes that good mood,” Ron said sarcastically. “And excuse
me, who is
shacking up with who?”
“Whom,”
Draco
corrected automatically, “and semantics. You’re in my flat
as often as I’m in
yours.”
“Are we?”
Ron
asked lightly. “Shacking up, that is.”
The realization
of what he said, in humorous tone or not, slammed into him. He
immediately felt
like pouring the hot coffee over himself for being so stupid. Why had he
said
that? His brain, still feeling nervously good despite what he had said,
had let
his mouth go on without it. He refused to look up at Draco. He could
feel those
mercurial eyes on him, probably trying to gauge how seriously he meant
the
comment. He tried to slam his brain into gear to think of a way to
salvage it--
“Why not?”
Draco
said, and Ron felt his eyes widen. He slowly moved his gaze up to look
at him.
Draco gave him a shy smile and slid his own gaze elsewhere. “If
you want to,
that is.”
Did he really
mean-- was he really asking...?
“I like you,
Ron,” Draco said, looking back at him. “I like you a
lot.”
Ron began to say
that he liked Draco, too, when the server returned and asked if Draco
wanted
anything. Ron felt a slight blush appear when Draco raked his eyes over
him,
but told the server that no, he was fine. When the woman had left, Ron
smiled
at Draco.
“I like you,
too,” he said. “I like you a lot,
too.”
Draco reached
across the table and laid his hand over his. Ron rubbed his thumb along
the
hand, feeling the smooth skin upper skin in contrast to the rough,
callused
palm. He wanted to kiss him, wanted to just lean across the table and
show Draco
just how much he did like him, but he was reluctant. Was it too much,
too fast?
“Slam that back
and let’s get going. We’ve still got a lot of shopping to
do,” Draco said, and
Ron would have taken it as a dismissal if it wasn’t for that rough
and smooth
hand interlacing his own and holding it tight.
“So
impatient,”
Ron pretended to grumble, but did as directed and raised his hand to the
get
the server’s attention for the check.
They paid and
left the bistro, hand-in-hand. They had done this before; now, though,
there
were new implications and Ron was a bit nervous. Still, it felt
comfortable,
like an old pair of jeans that he couldn’t remember not
having.
As they went
from shop to shop, there was never a part of them that wasn’t
touching. It was
if they had to touch one another to breathe, to know that it was real
and not
some fantastic dream. The looks and touches between them began to
intensify,
and Ron had to resist the urge to slam Draco against the nearest wall
and find
release. It was an extended foreplay of teasing and smoldering looks, of
tickled laughter and a sense of intimacy.
If he had ever
doubted it before, he certainly didn’t now. He, Ronald Bilius
Weasley, was head
over heels in love with one Draco Abraxus Malfoy.
The chocolate
shop was their last stop. They entered and both sighed in pleasure at
the
scent. Wall to wall there was every kind of chocolate they could ever
imagine,
from the lightest, sweetest milk chocolate to the darkest, most bitter
dark
chocolate; there was traditional and white and all sorts of colors,
crèmes and
truffles, dipped and drizzled and poured.
“Monsieur
Malfoy, Monsieur Weasley,” the owner said with delight. She was an
older woman
with flyaway grey hair and a large, plump body. Nearly as wide as she
was tall,
she made Ron think of a person’s favorite grandmother, and had
eyes that
reminded him of Dumbledore’s own twinkling ones. “How are
you today?”
“We are
fantastic,
Mademoiselle Sophie,” Draco said, grinning at Ron. The woman shook
her finger
in good humor at the title he used, as happened each time
before.
“Such a
flirt,”
she said. “So, what will it be today? We have a fine new selection
of crèmes.”
And so she did,
as she came out with a sample tray of each new kind for them to try. Ron
rubbed
his hands together in eagerness, making the woman laugh. He picked a
light
coffee-colored one up and bit into it. His mouth was flooded with a
slightly
sweet, yet slightly sour taste. He quickly took another bite, finishing
the
crème, and nodded his approval.
“What was that?
I love it,” he said.
“I believe it is
called ‘dragon fruit’ in English,” she said. Ron
blinked at her while Draco
started laughing.
“I’ll take a
box
of those,” he said when his brain kicked back into gear, then
swatted Draco
after Madame Sophie left to get it for him.
“I think fate is
trying to tell us something, yeah?” Draco said once he had gotten
himself under
control. He picked up his own chocolate and bit into it, distracting Ron
from
any retort.
“Well?”
“Peppermint!” he
exclaimed. “Here, try it.”
He held out the
other half of the other chocolate. His eyes were closed as savored the
flavor,
which made Ron grin. He took Draco’s hand and moved it towards his
mouth,
nibbling the other half the chocolate right out of his fingers.
Draco’s eyes
shot open and stared at him, darkening until a wholly new color. Ron
watched as
he swallowed hard.
“I think I like
it. Should we order two boxes? Peppermint is for Christmas, after
all,” he said
huskily.
“Uh-huh,”
Draco
murmured, probably completely unaware of anything he had
said.
Ron grinned and
lowered Draco’s hand. When Madam Sophie returned with the dragon
fruit crèmes,
he ordered two boxes of the peppermint ones, and said that would be it
for the
day. While the thought of continuing the foreplay in the chocolate shop
intrigued him, he knew that he would be walking rather uncomfortably
underneath
all of his chafing layers.
They paid and
shrank the purchase, placing it carefully in a small box with all of
their
other goods that Draco kept in his coat pocket. They stepped out into
the
freezing air that filled their lungs with a slight ache. Draco gave him
a look,
one that Ron belatedly realized gave away all of Draco’s
intentions as he was
pushed against the front wall of the shop and kissed
thoroughly.
Dragon fruit and
peppermint and chocolate combined with a taste that was simply
Draco, a
taste that spoke of sneaked cigarettes and sweet tea, of salacious grins
and
lusty looks. He held Draco’s head and felt the edges of feather
soft hair and
the bristle of the ever-present five o’clock shadow. Lips that
were chapped and
rough-- his? Draco’s? He didn’t know, didn’t care.
There was only the feeling
of the kiss, of Draco’s arms wrapped tightly around
him.
They broke for a
much needed breath, and after a moment the world flooded back in with a
few low
whistles and catcalls. Ron felt his face heat up, which only made Draco
smirk.
Ron gave him a mild glare, then slowly used his tongue to lick his lips.
The
smirk only widened, and Ron leaned down to otherwise occupy that
mouth.
The second kiss
was no less mind-blowing, and Ron wanted a third, a fourth, a millionth
kiss
after it. The catcalls had continued, though, and realized he
wasn’t about to
be an exhibitionist on a Paris street. He leaned down again, although
this time
was to nuzzle Draco.
“Let’s go
home,”
he whispered.
“In a
minute,”
Draco replied.
“Aw, come on,
the quicker we leave, the quicker we can shag like bunnies,” Ron
said. Draco
made a strangled sound into Ron’s shoulder.
“Don’t say
that,” he said. Ron frowned and pulled back a bit, but Draco
refused to look up
at him.
“Don’t you
want
to?”
“Are you mad? Of
course I want to! But if you keep saying things like that we’ll be
here even
longer!” Draco hissed, trying to discreetly adjust himself as he
did.
Understanding filtered into Ron’s mind, and he had to bite his lip
to keep from
giggling. “Oh, enh,” Draco said, sticking his tongue
out at Ron, then
buried his face into Ron’s shoulder.
Ron just wrapped
him in a bear hug and leaned his cheek against the soft hair, his grin
giving
them away to everyone that passed.
***
Wakeup sex, Ron
decided, was the best. He woke to kisses down his chest this time, and
when he
opened his eyes he saw Draco hovering over him. He was given a knowing
look as
Draco slowly disappeared under the covers. Ron’s eyes rolled back
in his head
at the first touch of Draco’s very talented mouth. He
reached up to grip
the headboard and spread his legs further to encourage-- and oh, there
he went,
taking more into his mouth, slowly licking the inches and
teasing.
“More,” he
said
hoarsely, and he felt Draco slow down even more. Shit, he had forgotten.
“Please,”
he gasped out.
The tempo began
to speed up, causing him to thrash a bit and send his alarm clock from
hell down
onto the bed, narrowly missing his head. He didn’t have time to
process that,
as Draco stopped completely and threw the covers back and off the
bed.
“Wha--” was
all
he could get out as barely focused on Draco and saw him shift forward.
Draco
lowered himself roughly and Ron’s entire thought process decided
to take an
extended vacation.
He lowered his
hands to the bed to push himself up at an angle to meet Draco’s
mouth in a kiss
that mirrored what was happening down below, their tongues thrusting in
and
out. It was sloppy and wet with morning breath, but neither of them
could get
enough. Ron flicked his hips up and caused Draco to loll his head back
in
pleasure. He continued the movement and took the advantage of the bared
neck,
nipping it and salving the brief pains with licks of his tongue. Draco
pulled
him away to meet him another kiss, and Ron couldn’t take it any
longer.
He pulled Draco
down with him and rolled them over, and started to thrust with a loose
rhythm
that the man beneath him still managed to keep time with somehow. They
were
both close now, him much more so. He snaked a hand down to Draco’s
length to
take care of that. He didn’t bother to tease, too far gone for
that; just
jerked and squeezed barely in time with himself. Five thrusts and jerks
later
and Draco was gone with shout, Ron following close behind. He collapsed
on top
of the blond, vaguely mindful enough to roll them on their
sides.
“I’ve come
to a
decision,” Ron said when his brain came back into residence
several minutes
later. His hand danced down Draco’s pale chest, running over a few
thin, still
lightly pink scars that crisscrossed here and
there.
“Hmm?”
“We need to do
this every morning.”
“Mm-hmm,”
Draco
agreed sleepily. His own hand was drawing patterns on Ron’s side.
“Knowing us,
though, probably better amend that to every
afternoon.”
Ron started to
nod, then a thought occurred to him. “What time is
it?”
Draco shifted a
bit, an uncomfortable expression on his face. He reached behind himself
and pulled
the alarm clock out from underneath him. “Oh, look! A clock, how
handy,” he
muttered. “Uh, it says one
twenty-something.”
“I’m
supposed to
meet Viktor at two!” Ron said, throwing himself up and out of
bed.
“We just had
fucking fantastic, well, fucking, and you’re running off to
another man.
Typical!” Draco huffed, burying his head under the sole remaining
pillow that
survived the morning.
“Very
funny,”
Ron said, getting dressed. When Draco didn’t respond by the time
he had his
pants on, he sighed and slid back down next to him. He poked him, but
still
received no response. He picked up the edge of the pillow and peeked
under.
“I’m mad at
you,” Draco pouted.
“Liar,” Ron
drawled,
leaning forward to kiss him. “And I won’t be gone long, and
then you can have
me all night. Okay?”
“Yeah,
okay,”
Draco said, dropping the pretence and kissing him in return. He then
shoved him
off the bed. “Now shoo, you’re disturbing my beauty
sleep.”
Ron rolled his
eyes and gathered up the rest of his clothes to finish dressing in the
living
room. He double-checked the time with the kitchen clock. Well, he
wasn’t going
to be too late.
He Flooed to the
mansion where the Granger-Krum household took residence in the winter.
Viktor
had promised that Hermione would be out with the children when he had
sent the
letter a week ago, and sure enough he was only greeted by Viktor, who
shook his
hand.
“Good to see
you,” he said, his accent still thick as ever. “Come, tea in
the parlor?”
“Sounds
great,”
Ron replied, his mind still feeling good from all of the endorphins
released--
heh, released-- only a little bit earlier.
Tea was served
by a house elf in maid’s outfit. Hermione had insisted that if
they were to
have servants, then they would be clothed properly and paid-- or
rewarded, as
she had called it, since house elves tended to hate the term
‘paid.’ Ron
thanked the elf, as did Viktor, and it popped out of
sight.
“I suppose, ah,
con-grat-oo-lay-shuns are in order?” Viktor said, setting his tea
on the low
table between them.
“What?”
“Ah, you have
not seen? You are in the paper,” he said.
“Oh,” Ron
said,
suddenly feeling tired, and shook his head. “What old story did
they drag up
now?”
“I do not mean
the Prophet, but the Les Temps du
Sorcier.”
Any other time
Ron would have been amused by the fact that Viktor pronounced French
with less
of an accent than English, but Ron’s mind was already running
through the
possibilities of why a French newspaper would run a story about him. A
sinking
feeling entered his stomach. Viktor must have noticed expression,
because he
produced said newspaper from somewhere.
“Back page,”
he
said as he handed it over.
Ron opened the
folded paper and flipped it over and felt his blood run
cold.
It was a simple
piece, a page celebrating the holiday season with pictures of couples
holding
hands, sharing a drink, and there, right dead center, making out in
front of a
chocolate shop. He searched his memory, but found no recollection of
anyone
with a camera that close to them, able to pick up the colors of their
eyes, the
flaming locks of his hair, three-quarters of Draco’s face. There
was no
mistaking them.
“How...” he
started, then stopped. It didn’t matter how. He threw the paper
away from him
and buried his face in his hands.
“Did Hermione
see?”
“Dá,”
Viktor said quietly, “she was the one who showed
me.”
“Oh, Merlin!
Bloody fucking Merlin!” Ron yelled through his hands. “How
could they just do
that? I thought you had to sign a release form or-or get permission or
something! They can’t just print that without our
consent!”
“Né,
they
are not supposed to, but they do,” Viktor said, his tone
suggesting
understanding. Ron looked up at him.
“What did she
say?”
“She was angry.
She did not want to find out this way,” he said. “She more
angry with me than
you, though.”
“Why?” Ron
asked
confused.
“I told her some
time ago, ‘Mrs. Weasley always suggest girls with no luck. Maybe
she should
suggest boy.’ She became upset, said I was wrong about you and
that you had not
found the right girl yet.” He shrugged. “She does not like
being wrong.”
“That’s our
Hermione,” Ron said, attempting humor when he felt none.
“What did she say
about...”
“About
Malfoy?”
“Yeah.”
“I do not know.
She raged, then left. I think she Flooed to Harry’s. I have not
seen her since
sometime last night, common when we fight. She took children to her
parents
first.”
“Wonderful,”
he
said, panic rising in his voice. “She’ll tell Harry, Harry
will tell Ginny,
Ginny will run to Mum and tell her, and all my family will know that not
only
am I gay, but that I’m fucking Draco
Malfoy.”
“Sãžaljavam,&#
8221;
Viktor said, his entire body language apologetic.
“It’s not
your
fault,” he said, the panic giving way to resentment and
despair.
“Does not mean I
am not sorry,” Viktor said emphatically. Ron gave him a brief, wan
smile.
“The irony is
that I was going to tell them at Christmas. That’s why I came here
today; I was
going to ask your advice on how to break it to them, what their
reactions would
be. Guess now I know.”
“Do not be so
quick to judge, Ron. They are your friends and your family. They will be
upset
at how they find out, but they know that it was not your idea,” he
said.
“It’s not
the
outing that I’m so afraid of,” Ron said. “You
weren’t here for a lot of it, but
Draco was not a nice person in school. He despised us all, and the
feeling then
was quite mutual. He called Hermione names, harassed Harry constantly,
and
generally made me feel like a poor, stupid git that didn’t deserve
the air I
breathed. He was a complete ass with those two lunkheads that followed
him
around everywhere.”
“This is the
person you love?”
“No,” Ron
said,
leaning back in the chair. He stared at the ceiling, his thoughts on the
man
that was currently satiated and sleeping soundly in his bed.
“He’s different
now. How can he not be? The war changed all of us. How could he survive
that
and not be a different person? And all he went through after the war...
I
honestly don’t know how he didn’t just explode from all of
it. He’s not that
snotty sixteen-year-old boy any more, but that’s the only memory
they have of him.
They don’t know him, Viktor, not like he is now. He still bitches
and
complains, but he’s... Merlin, he’s saved me from myself so
many times. As
silly as it sounds, he came into the darkness of my life and lit it all
up.”
“So you do love
him?”
“Yes,” Ron
answered without hesitating.
“Does he love
you?”
“I think so. I
mean, I don’t know, we’ve just started to be something more
than friends,” he
said. He looked back at Viktor. “It does feel like it’s been
forever, though,
with him. I can barely imagine what it was like before him and that was
only
three months ago.”
“I
understand,”
Viktor said, a faraway look on his face.
“I don’t
know
what to do. I mean, nothing I do or say is going to change anything.
They’ll
try to tell me that I’m wrong, that Draco is evil and can’t
be trusted, when I
trust him more than anyone else in the
world.”
“Do you know
what my manager said when that betting scandal came out? He said,
‘It’s out
there now, and our response will decide our future. If we deny it or
lie, we will
look like fools and lose all respect. If we tell the truth and take
responsibility, we will still lose respect, but maybe gain some,
too.’ He was
right. We lost respect, but we gained more by what we had
done.”
“You’re
telling
me to ’fess up, then?”
“Dá.”
Ron took a long
drink of his almost forgotten tea. Viktor did the same, and they sat
there in
silence until the tea was gone. Ron set the empty cup aside and
stood.
“It’s not
like I
have much choice,” he said. “I’m going to the Burrow.
They’re probably all
gathered there by now, discussing me and my wayward
ways.”
Viktor stood as
well and pulled Ron into a bear hug. “Ne se trevoji,”
he said when he
let go.
“Yeah, no
worries,” Ron said, patting Viktor on the back, then turned and
went to the
mansion’s Floo. With a deep breath for courage-- he wished he had
Moody’s flask
for something stronger-- he threw the powder down. “The
Burrow!”
***
He stepped out
of the Floo with a grace he wished he always managed and walked into a
maelstrom.
He was noticed
immediately
and rushed by everyone, all asking questions at once and tugging at him
and
their voices kept getting louder and louder as they tried to talk over
one
another. He was shoved back, nearly falling back into the fireplace, as
they
everyone tried to elbow their way to him.
“Wait--
stop--”
he tried to say, but it was swallowed up.
“Hey!”
He started
pushing back, trying to get some room to even breathe. He twisted and
used the
advantage of his height and long arms to create enough room to get out
of the
mess. He stumbled against one of the end tables, but righted himself and
turned
around to face the mob. What he saw, instead, was Ginny, although only
for a
moment.
Crack.
Everything
slowed, then stopped. Silence befell the room, and the only thing he
could hear
was his own breathing. He felt a boiling rage well up within him as he
very
gradually turned back towards her, his gaze staying on the floor. She
was tiny
compared to him, insignificant and small with fragile bones. Such
little,
child-like feet fitted into an adult’s shoes. What did she matter
all? What did
she know about him!
He raised his
hand to touch his stinging cheek where she had slapped him. He could
feel the
heat radiating off of it. She had burned him, he
thought.
“How dare
you,” she hissed, and something snapped within him. His hand fell
back to his
side and clenched into a fist. “How dare you do this to your
family! You cut us
off and treat us as if we’re beneath you and then go running off
to kiss a
monster in the street! Did you think about any of us? Did you think at
all?”
He pulled
himself up to his full height and raised his gaze from the floor to her,
glad
that she visibly flinched and took a step back from him. He moved it up
and
over her to look at his entire family gathered not far behind her, along
with
Harry and Hermione.
“I came here to
explain everything,” he said evenly, his tone low and nearly
growling. “But I
had forgotten how easily this family made its mind up before they even
know the
whole story. My time is wasted here.”
He brushed past
Ginny to walk back to the Floo, but his mother accosted him before he
could
take two steps. She grabbed the lapels of his coat and shook
him.
“Tell me
it’s
not true! Tell me it’s not true!” she begged, her
eyes pleading with him.
“It is,” he
said
after a slight pause, causing her to wail. He raised his voice louder.
“It’s
all true. I’m gay, Mum, have been for a long time. I didn’t
dare tell you
because this I knew this was exactly how you would react-- with
hate and
with fear. I was going to, though, despite that. I was going to tell you
next
week during your Christmas party. I was going to tell all of you, but
some damn
photographer in Paris blew that all to
hell.”
“Ron, you just
haven’t found the right girl yet is all,” Harry reasoned.
“Don’t let Malfoy
mess with you like that.”
“Did you just
not hear me?” he snapped. “I said, I have been gay for a
long time. Most
likely since fourth year, and certainly after being with
Lavender.”
“But
Ron--”
“How else do I
have to say it?” he yelled. “I’m gay, Harry. A
poof, a ponce, a
shirt-lifter, a faggot, inverted, queer, all those damn
words!”
“Ron,” his
father barked, “stop it this instant! You’re upsetting your
mother.”
“How about how
she’s upsetting me?” he asked
incredulously.
“Fine, Ron,
you’re-- you’re different,” Bill said, looking as if
he had ate something
spoiled. “But... That Malfoy boy?”
“Don’t you
remember what he did to us?” Hermione cried. “He
tortured us, Ron, every
single day we were at Hogwarts. He almost killed Dumbledore! And I
don’t care
if he gave us information during the war, you can’t trust him!
He’ll tear you
up and break your heart and leave, and then who’s going to pick up
the pieces?”
“Certainly not
any of you!” Ron yelled back at her. “Would you listen to
yourself? He risked
his life for us time and time again during the war and you would
hold
petty childhood bullshit against him? And how is what he did to us any
worse
than shit we did to him? He called us all names, put us all down, and we
did
the exact same thing to him!
“And if you want
to accuse someone and tear them down, little girl, then you better look
at
yourself good and hard in the mirror, because you have no room to talk.
You
were as much of a snot as he was, and Harry and I might as well have
been
Crabbe and Goyle as far as you were concerned,” he
said.
“Ron!” Ginny
gasped, immediately going to Hermione’s side. “He
didn’t mean it, Hermione, you
were lovely in school.”
“You better
believe I meant it,” he said, glaring. “I mean every word
I’m saying, and I’m
no longer too much of a chicken shit to say it. You were my friend
Hermione,
I’m not saying you weren’t. But you treated me as if I was
merely your silly
little pet most of the time, and after school and the war it only got
worse.
Now all I rate to you is a cat caretaker.”
“Why are you
being so hateful?” Ginny shouted. “We’re trying to
help you, to save you from
making the biggest mistake of your life!”
“Oh, really? You
mean like Dean was for you?” Ron asked her. Her face paled in
response. “Except
he wasn’t a mistake, was he? No, no, he was well planned. You
spread your legs
wide for him--”
“SHUT UP!”
she
screamed at him, fisting her hands.
“--knowing full
well he wouldn’t resist it because of his crush on you, and you
strung him
along and played him, making damn sure Harry was there to see every
moment of
it and become jealous over it. When the moment was right you broke it
off and
went running to Harry, who was so in love with you by that point he
didn’t even
think twice about it. And you thought it had it concealed, but the whole
school
knew, gossiping behind your back. You weren’t Ginny to them, just
‘that Weasley
slut.’”
“What are you
trying to do, Ron? Hmm? Tell me, because I don’t know,”
Harry said as he
watched his wife begin to cry.
“I’m trying
to
show you that none of you are any better than what you say Draco is.
And, yeah,
once upon a time he was like that, but he’s not any more, just
like Ginny’s not
that slut any more, or Hermione’s not that silly little
know-it-all now. None
of us came out of that war unchanged, least of all him. The things he
had to
do--”
“Pretend to be
good?” Harry snapped. “Feed us useless information so he
could say he was on
the good side when it was all over?”
“He killed his
own father protecting her!” Ron yelled at him, pointing at
Hermione. “Lucius
may have been a bastard of the highest order, but he was still
Draco’s father!”
“Stop it! Just
stop it!” his mother, who had been wailing into his father’s
shoulder the whole
time. “Ron, please,” she begged. “He’s a
bad influence on you! Look what
he made you do, cutting us off like that!”
“I made that
decision, Mum, and only me. We weren’t even together then, only
friends,” he
said. “And you know what I felt after I did that? What I felt with
him? Freedom.
I was free to be who I was for the first time in my life. I had to keep
that
hidden from all of you because it didn’t fit into your perfect
little world. I
was happy with him and I still am. I love him, Mum, I mean really,
really love
him.”
He began to
pace, trying to get his chaotic thoughts in order. The anger had already
begun
to fade, leaving him feeling drained and suffocated. This had not gone
the way
he had hoped at all. They had brought out the worst in him, and part of
him
felt sick about what he had said to Hermione and Ginny. The rest of him
was
appalled by their hypocrisy, judging someone they didn’t even know
by standards
they refused to judge themselves by. How could they be so
blind?
He stopped
pacing and wrapped his arms around himself. He took a few deep breaths,
half-expecting someone to start in on him again, but there was only the
cries
of his mother and Ginny. The twins and Charlie had retreated to a corner
and
weren’t meeting anyone’s eyes. Bill looked uncomfortable and
confused, and
Percy looked... Thoughtful. That surprised Ron, expecting to see a scowl
or be
scolded like an incompetent, but Percy merely looked like he was
thinking over
what he was going to have for dinner.
“I love
him,”
Ron repeated, then bit his lip. How to go from here? “And he loves
me, too.
He’s not who he was. He’s really not. Well, that’s a
bit of a lie,” he conceded
with a half-hearted laugh, “he still whines, makes faces whenever
someone
drinks coffee, sneers at my wardrobe, and takes over a room the moment
he walks
into it. But he’s not that boy who bullied everyone around him
because he was
too scared to stand up to those that mattered to him. He grew up. We all
did.
“I’m sorry
for
what I said, Ginny, Hermione. I shouldn’t have,” he said.
“But tell me-- what
did you expect me to do? To hang my head and let you decide my life for
me yet
again? I can’t do that any more.”
“I can’t
believe
you!” Ginny shouted. “You just expect to say
‘sorry’ and be forgiven? I will
never forgive you! You flaunted your lifestyle and made us the laughing
stock
of the Wizarding world, and then go and expect us to accept it? I
don’t know
what he’s done to you, but you’re not my brother. I hate you
and disown you--”
“Ginny?”
Percy
said, his authoritative tone cutting her off. He gave her a disgusted
look. “Do
shut up.”
She was
gobsmacked by his words, her cries completely stopping from the shock.
The
others, too, stared at him in surprise. Percy ignored them and smiled at
Ron.
“Draco Malfoy is
nasty little shit,” he said, “but if he makes you happy...
then so be it.”
“Thanks,”
Ron
managed to get out. His expression nearly mirrored everyone
else’s, the only
difference being it was tinged with relief.
“Are you
mad?”
Harry said, moving to stand in front of former Head
Boy.
“No more so than
the rest of this family,” Percy said with a shrug. Harry shook his
head at him
in frustration and turned towards Ron.
“You can’t
trust
him, Ron. Please, listen to me,” he said. Ron sighed and turned
away from his
former best friend, ready to step into the Floo.
“Harry, I’m
done
with this.”
“No, Ron,”
Harry
said, and grabbed him by the arm to turn him back around. Ron pulled
himself
out of Harry’s grasp and glared at him, but it had little effect
on the
bespectacled man. “You need to
listen!”
“Don’t
bother,
Harry,” Hermione said, staring at the floor. “He’s
made his choice.”
“No,” Harry
said, shaking his head forcefully. “No, he needs to
listen!”
“Enlighten
me,”
Ron said as narrowed his eyes at him. Harry looked hesitant, but began
to speak.
“If you’re
gay... Fine, I guess. But Draco Malfoy, he’s-- he’s not one
of us, Ron.”
“Like I am?”
Ron
asked, throwing his hands out wide. “He’s not a part of your
perfect little
world, and neither am I. I haven’t been since the war and none of
you have even
noticed. I come here, and I pretend, because Merlin knows
it’s only
about your happiness. I finally find some of my own and it’s
wrong. It’s
all wrong because it doesn’t fit.
“It’s over,
Harry; all of you, it’s over. I’m done being someone and
something I’m not just
to suit you and your image.”
He turned away
from them and walked towards the Floo. He had to get out of there, go
home and
curl up around Draco and forget the world even existed.
“What would
Moody say?” Harry asked quietly. “If he was here, would you
listen to him?
Hmm?” Ron grabbed a handful of the powder, trying to ignore Harry
and the old
memories that were threatening to surface. “And you know he would
be here if it
wasn’t for Malfoy sabotaging the
mission.”
Someone dumped
ice water into Ron’s veins, because he froze when he heard that.
He took a
ragged breath, and it was like a switch had been turned on. For a moment
he was
there again; he could hear the screams echoing around the dungeon, the
sizzle
of spells and hexes; could smell the smoke from the fires that were
ravaging
the land above, set by them or the Death Eaters he didn’t know. It
stung his
eyes and made his mouth feel like sandpaper. He swallowed hard and
forced
himself back to the present. He wasn’t going to
remember!
“Don’t you
dare,” he said, his voice throaty from the
memory.
“Oh, come on,
Ron! We all know that we have rescued him if it weren’t for
Malfoy’s faulty
information! He would still be here and telling you not to do this if
not for him!”
Harry reached out to him, but Ron flinched out of his reach. “Ron,
I’m sorry,
but you have to know that,” Harry pleaded. “You’re
with the man that condemned
Moody to death and you’re defending
him!”
“NO!” Ron
yelled, whirling around on him. “You think you know what happened,
but you
don’t know shit, Harry. And you will never know.” The
memories were flickering
in his mind now, let loose from their internal prison. He was too on
edge to
keep them suppressed.
No, no, no,
no, he mentally screamed, and fell back
against the edge of the
fireplace. He felt his brain shut down and a numbness wash over him.
This was
not supposed to happen, this wasn’t-- Moody was dead, it was over,
it was
buried and it wasn’t ever supposed to come back. He looked around
wildly. Harry
kept talking, but he didn’t hear a word. Hermione looked
horrified, as did
everyone else and-- and-- he couldn’t count all the different
emotions that
flooded their faces and then were gone again in an
instant.
He heard
screaming and smelled the smoke. He put his hands back against the
fireplace
for support as he began to sway. They met the rough, cracked stone and
he was
gone.
***
He fell against
the stone and winced. His lungs were burning and his eye wound had
reopened;
the blood dripping down his face left an imprint on the cool, damp
stone. He
lurched forward, he had to keep moving. Moody was down here somewhere,
he just
had to find him. Draco, in slightly better shape, had taken point and
gone on
ahead to make sure the dungeons were clear. He couldn’t hear the
blond’s steps
any longer, which meant he was too far ahead.
Merlin, he was
tired.
He gritted his
teeth, gripped his wand tightly, and stumbled forward, his newfound lack
of
depth perception making it hard to judge where he was in the dimly lit
corridor. He used the wall as a guide, the roughness scratching and
cutting his
hands.
He had to get
moving, they had been there too long anyhow. The distractions
wouldn’t last
much longer. He doubled his efforts; the open doorway surprised him, and
he
fell through and hit the ground hard. His wand skittered across the
floor. He
felt himself being jerked back up into a kneeling position. “Come
on, help me,
he’s still alive!”
Moody had been
stripped to the waist and chained to the wall with irons. He was covered
in
blood and dirt; his magical eye had been torn out and the other was
beaten
almost entirely closed. He sat on the floor, and Ron had to stare to see
the
slightest rise of his chest.
“Damn it,”
Draco
growled as he reached out to the wrist manacle and it shocked him.
“They’ve
been warded.”
Ron watched with
a frightening detachment as Draco tried to break the wards, running
through
every curse-breaking spell he knew. His hands shook from the shocks they
kept
sending him, but he didn’t stop. Ron wanted to help, wanted to
crawl over there
and do his own spells, but he couldn’t move. He screamed at
himself to do
something, but he just could not move.
“Aargh,”
Moody
said, drifting awake. “Who’s come to play this
time?”
His voice was
broken, devoid of any energy. Ron felt broken, too, at that. His great
mentor,
the lauded ex-Auror, had been broken.
“It’s
us,” Draco
said, trying another spell. “It’s Red and me. These irons
are warded-- do you know
what spells they used?”
“Don’t
bother,”
Moody whispered.
“What?”
“I said,
don’t
bother,” he repeated, slightly louder. “It’s over.
I’m dead.”
“No you’re
not,”
Ron cried out. “You’re not, you’re alive, and
we’re going to save you, you hear
me? We’re going to save you!”
“I am,”
Moody
said, his voice reduced to a whisper. He coughed; blood came out of his
mouth.
“It’s over. You never should have come for me, that was part
of the deal!.”
“No!” Ron
shouted, and it echoed throughout the room. Draco looked at him.
“Keep trying!”
he ordered.
“Don’t,” Moody
growled. “They’ve lost and they know it, but that’s
when the enemy is most
dangerous.”
“This isn’t
a
lesson!” Ron protested, tears filling his eyes. “Save your
strength, we can get
you out of here.”
“Oh, Weasley,
you would choose now to be an optimist?” Moody ground out between
hoarse gasps
of air.
“We-- I have to
do something! I can’t just leave you here to
die.”
“Then grant me
one last wish, young Weasley.”
“Anything, name
it,” Ron said, finally getting his body to respond to his commands
to crawl
forward. “Whatever you want, I’ll do it. I-I promise. Okay?
Okay? Moody!”
“I’m still
here,” he said faintly. Ron reached him, and grabbed his hand,
mindful of the
irons. He held on tight and waited. “You broke the deal. I told
you never to
come after me.”
“We had to,”
Ron
said, sniffling, “we need you. You knew that Harry wouldn’t
leave you, that I
wouldn’t.”
“You broke your
word,” Moody said, his voice regaining strength with the scolding.
“A man never
breaks his word, Weasley, I told you that many times,” he said.
“And it seems I
need to tell you again.”
“I’m sorry,
but
I couldn’t--”
“You also gave
me your word about something else, should this happen. Will you break
that,
too?”
“Oh, no,”
Draco
murmured, his face stricken. “You can’t
mean--”
“I
can’t,” Ron
cried. “Anything, anything but
that.”
“You gave me
your word! They have done me good, Weasley. If they give me that new
form of Veritaserum,
I won’t be able to resist it, even with a memory charm. It’s
too...” He trailed
off and Ron began to speak, but was interrupted. “Now don’t
protest! You know
what they’ll get out of me, and it’ll be all over
then.” He breathed deeply a
few times, trying to keep going. “I know too much. They got me
before I could
do the memory charm. I broke vigilance! And now it won’t be long
before they
know it all, too. You gave me your word, Weasley. Do
it.”
He began to
cough again, much harder this time, his breath hitching. Ron stared at
him, his
own face a mix of blood and tears and pain that wasn’t all
physical. Moody’s
words rattled in his head. ‘A man is only as good as his kept
word,’ he had
been told once by his mentor, his friend. He had promised the man and
had
already broken his word once by even agreeing to this rescue. He
couldn’t do it
again. Everything, the success of the whole damn war and the lives of
everyone
rested on his word.
He squeezed the
man’s hand tightly for a moment, then slowly stood, using the wall
for support.
He took a step back and retrieved his wand from the floor where it had
fallen.
He swayed and stepped back again until he was almost at the doorway. He
raised
his wand.
“No!” Draco
shouted, running at him. He grabbed his hand and stood in front of him.
“Red,
no, don’t do this. Look at him, he’ll never last long enough
for them do that
anyhow.”
“I gave him my
word,” he said, every bit of him shaking. “And I can’t
take that risk.”
“Don’t!”
Ron summoned up
the strength and pushed Draco roughly aside. Before hecould move again,
Ron had
raised his wand. He looked at Moody, broken on the floor, and felt a
sense of
calm wash over him. Despite everything, Moody looked peaceful,
accepting; he
nodded his head at Ron’s unspoken words, and
smiled.
“Avada
Kedavra!”
“Ron,
no!”
***
“Ron!
RON!”
He took a sharp
intake of breath and tried to jerk away from Harry, who was shaking him.
The memory
left him disoriented; he had suppressed it for so long, not daring to
tell
anyone what had happened. Harry’s grip on him tightened and he
continued to
yell. Ron reached forward and grabbed him, then shoved him back with as
much
force as he could muster. Harry fell back onto the floor, nearly taking
Ron
with him.
“NO,” he
roared,
his voice barely sounding human.
“Ron, I’m
sorry,
I’m so sorry,” Harry said, scrambling to his feet and
crowding him again. Ron
grabbed him and swung him around this time, switching their positions
and
slamming him against the fireplace’s edge.
“Ron--”
“NO!” he
repeated. “Draco gave us the best information he had. He risked
his life to
find out where Moody was and then did it again when he went with us on
the
mission. If any of them had seen him, it would have been over for
him,
but he did it because we asked him to, and you stand there and accuse
him of
causing Moody’s death? He’s not the one that was supposed to
have been
patrolling with him!”
Harry’s eyes
snapped shut at that, but he said nothing. Ron sighed and let go of
him.
“You can’t
take
your guilt out on him,” Ron said, his anger once again draining
out of him. “It
wasn’t your fault then and it’s not now. He knew better than
to go on patrol
alone.”
“I still
don’t
trust Malfoy,” Harry said, “and I still don’t think
you should, either.”
“I don’t
blame
you for that, but he’s not who you think he is, and I’m not
you, Harry. I trust
him with my life. I did back then and I do
now.”
He backed away
and looked around at everyone. He felt exhausted and wavered a bit,
vertigo
hitting him hard from the emotional rollercoaster he had just gone
on.
“I’m gay. I
love
Draco Malfoy. And that’s all there is,” he said, then
collapsed into the
nearest chair, feeling faint.
“Oh, Ron,”
he
heard his mother say, then closed his eyes and knew no
more.
***
He slowly
drifted into consciousness. Warmth was the first thing he was aware of,
then of
the blankets cocooning him, and lastly of the weight that was wrapped
around
him. He took a deep breath and smelled familiar scents; some older, one
still
new. He reacted by burrowing himself deeper into those scents. It was
comfort
and safety.
“Welcome back,
Sir Sleeps-Forever-And-Scares-The-Shit-Out-Of-Me,” a voice said,
rumbling a
bit.
Ron blinked his
eyes open and came face to face with a faded purple button-up shirt that
smelled of old smoke and laundry detergent, but was nonetheless pressed
and
clean. He breathed it in and gave a non-committal sound in
reply.
“Do you
remember?” Draco murmured, his chest rumbling again from his
voice. Ron blinked
again and felt him stroke his hair and hold him
closer.
Remember, he thought distantly, and then, with
widening eyes, he did.
It was like
watching the past half dozen years of his life on fast forward,
everything
blitzing through his mind faster than he could comprehend. He remembered
things
he hadn’t thought about in years; the sound of Neville’s
laugh, the smack of
Moody’s walking stick, Luna’s wild dances in the garden
while she talked to
things only she could see. Remembered seeing Draco that first day, the
first
time they talked, the first day out, the first dinner together.
Remembered the
chocolate and the kissing and the love, remembered the shattering he
felt at
Viktor’s and at the Burrow.
He remembered
everything.
“Oh,” he
whispered. He closed his eyes and shook his head, desperate to get
everything
out of his mind.
“Hey, hey,
hey,”
Draco soothed, “it’s okay, it’s gonna be
okay.”
Ron wished it
would be. He had divided ranks in his family, and knew that the battle
had only
begun.
“Shh, I love
you, Red,” Draco said, scooting down and kissing his forehead, his
eyes. He
nuzzled him and held him as close as he could.
“What’s
going to
happen?” he said, his voice small.
“I don’t
know,”
Draco murmured.
They remained
like that for some time; he was left feeling tired and numb, even after
his
rest. Rest... His awareness drifted out further, filling his mind with
questions; he pulled back to look at Draco.
“Where am
I?”
“You don’t
remember your own room? I think it’s exactly the same since you
left,” Draco
replied, glancing around, scarred eyebrow raised.
“At-- at the
Burrow?” He looked at Draco incredulously. “But...
You’re here!”
“That I am,”
Draco said. “When nine o’clock came and you still
weren’t back, I started to
worry a bit. Apparated near the mansion and had to nearly threaten a few
house
elves to see Krum. Raised enough of a fuss that he went to see for
himself who
it was.” He paused, his expression dampening. “He told me,
showed me the
newspaper. When I told him you hadn’t come back yet, he was
concerned. We came
here looking for you.”
“Oh,
Merlin,”
Ron said, imagining the horror that had been. “You’re
okay?”
“Perfectly fine.
Turns out your mother upended the household and kicked everyone out,
even your
father. She wanted you to get some rest,” he said, stroking
Ron’s hair again.
“She had this funny notion that you wouldn’t get any with
everyone here.”
“She let you
stay?”
“Didn’t even
have to fight for it. She made Viktor leave, but gave me directions to
your
room and here I am,” he said, giving Ron a small
grin.
“She
didn’t...
say anything at all?”
“No,” Draco
said, then paused. “Well, she did say one thing to
me.”
“What?” Ron
gently prompted, dread filtering in.
“She asked me what
my intentions for you were.”
“...What?”
Ron asked after that processed. “Did she really...? Oh, of course
she did,
she’s Mum,” he said, rolling his eyes. They looked at each
other for a moment,
but the absurdity of it overcame them and they began to
laugh.
It felt good to
laugh, Ron noted.
“I’m afraid
to
ask, but what did you tell her?”
“I told her that
my intentions were to snog you blind, shag you senseless, and when
you’re
laying there completely useless, I’m going to wrap myself around
you and tell
you that I love you and that I’m not going anywhere no matter what
she or
anyone else says.”
“I love you,
too,” Ron said. Draco smiled at him and gave a quick, chaste kiss.
He then
frowned.
“She did
something rather terrifying then.”
“She-- I thought
you said you were okay!”
“Physically
I’m
fine, mentally...”
“What happened?
What did she do?” Ron asked, panic raising his
voice.
Draco looked
grim and nauseated. “She hugged me.”
He appeared so
upset by the prospect that Ron could only close his eyes and sigh. Silly
laughter bubbled up again and he couldn’t resist it; he had no
resistance now
to anything, and certainly not the unabashed grin Draco gave him when he
opened
his eyes.
“You’re
insane.”
“I know. Now,
c’mon, it’s three in the morning and your mother has been
constantly reheating
the water in the kettle in preparation for your waking. Let’s give
her a break,
eh?”
“Yeah,” Ron
said. “You go on ahead, I’d better wash up
first.”
“That’s the
spirit!” Draco said, smacking Ron’s ass as he bounced up,
full of far too much
energy for Ron’s liking. He sauntered out of the
room.
“No sex
jokes!”
Ron called after him.
“Can’t hear
you!” came the callback.
Ron rolled his
eyes, then crawled out of bed. He’d better go save his mother from
the innuendo
attack that commencing, at least if he ever wanted to look her in the
eye
again.
He stopped at
the bathroom to splash water on his face and run his hand through his
bedraggled hair. He looked like complete crap and Draco hadn’t
even made a
comment on it. A crazy day, indeed.
He found the two
of them in the kitchen, sitting across from each other with identical
teacups.
They looked only vaguely uncomfortable with each other, and he was
struck by
just how weird his life had become when his mother, Draco Malfoy, and
‘vaguely
uncomfortable’ were in the same sentence.
“Ron,” she
said,
standing and rushing over towards him. She crushed him into a hug that
left him
gasping for air.
“Oof,” he
said,
then regained enough sense to hug her back. “Mum?” he
questioned.
“Oh, dear, you
must be starving. Would you like something to eat? Sit, sit!” she
said, letting
go of him and shoving him towards the table next to Draco.
“Here’s your tea,
drink up, you’ll feel better,” she ordered, as she set
another identical teacup
in front of him. She began bustling around the kitchen, looking for
something
proper to make him.
“Mum? It’s
fine,
just a sandwich will do,” he said.
“A sandwich is
not filling, young man,” she replied, a bit too overly
cheerful.
“Mum? Mum!”
he
said louder. She jumped a little at it, and he could see just how
nervous and
upset she was. He gave her a smile and then said again, “Mum.
Please, just sit
down.”
She returned to
her seat and looked everyone but him. Ron couldn’t help but look
at her fondly.
This was the mother of his youth, fussing good-naturedly and trying to
feed him
every chance. He looked for something to say to put her at ease, killing
time
by drinking his tea. He glanced over at Draco, who winked at him in
response.
“Mrs. Weasley?
Have I told you that you make the best cup of tea I’ve ever
had?” he asked, the
charm turned on one hundred percent. His mother humbly preened a little
and
then gave Draco a narrowed, although a not unkind
look.
“Only about a
dozen times tonight,” she replied.
“What can I say?
I must give praise where it’s due,” he said, grinning. Ron
shook his head at
the display, although he was thankful for the mood
changer.
“Mum?” he
said,
and she finally looked at him. “Are you
okay?”
“Oh, Ron,”
she
said and gave him a look of resignation. “I don’t know.
I’ve never had to deal
with this before. I never thought... I’m worried that I did
something--”
“No, Mum,”
he
said, reaching across the table to take her hands. “It’s not
your fault, it’s
not anyone’s fault. It’s just who I am, that’s
all. I’m still me,
you know.”
“I know,”
she
said, grasping his hand in return. “I saw that yesterday. It was
the first I’ve
seen you yourself since the war.” She gave him a weak smile.
“I worried about
you so much. I could see that you weren’t happy and I thought that
being home
would... It only made it worse, didn’t
it?”
“I’m sorry,
Mum.
I never should have said all those things. I wasn’t happy here,
but it had more
to do with me than you. I was so angry that I hadn’t found what
everyone else
had. And this world so easily forgets the pain we went through... I
hated it,
hated being here. Still do, really. They glorify everything and expect
me to
slap on a smile and forget everything,” he said, then shook his
head. “That
doesn’t matter, though. I don’t care what the world thinks.
It’s my family that
matters.”
“Yes, it
is,”
she said, her tone low. “It’s a divided family now, though.
Your father, Harry,
Ginny, Hermione on one side and Charlie, the twins, Percy, and Bill on
the
other.”
“And you?”
Ron
asked. There was no answer for a moment, then she slowly let go of his
hand
with one of hers and reached over to take Draco’s. She brought it
over and laid
it on top of his, then placed both of hers on top. Ron felt his moisture
in his
eyes.
“I can’t say
that I approve, Ron,” she said, her voice breaking a bit.
“But I saw that
picture, saw how happy you looked. And all I want is for you to be
happy. Even
if it’s...”
“Even if
it’s
me,” finished Draco.
“Yes,” she
said,
looking at him. Ron felt Draco’s hand tighten around his. He
turned to Ron and
leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. Ron nuzzled him a bit and
gripped his hand back. He turned back towards his mother, who smiled at
them.
“Thank you,”
he
said, his voice filled with relief.
“Well,” she
said, her tone strengthened again. She lifted her hands from theirs and
stood
up. “I best get to work!”
“Work?” Ron
asked, confused.
“Of course,
I’ve
got another mouth to feed come Christmas and I need to find someway to
fit
another place at this old table,” she said, smacking the table top
lightly.
“Are you
sure?”
Draco asked, his face oddly open with uncertainty. “I’ve
caused enough trouble
without even being here.”
“I raised six
boys, young man, trouble is something I can handle,” she told him
with a
mother’s knowing look of wisdom. Ron grinned at her, knowing full
well she
could do just that.
***
“We’re going
to
be late!” Draco said, calling into the bedroom.
“What’s taking so long?”
Ron wasn’t about
to tell him that he had forgotten to gift wrap the poem book until the
last
minute. He chose not to answer and finished it just in time as Draco
walked in.
“You are
explaining why we’re late,” he
grumbled.
“Absolutely,”
Ron agreed, and shoved the package into the bag of gifts and shrunk it.
He
tucked into his pocket. “Ready!”
“Finally,”
Draco
said as they left the apartment. “I’m supposed to be the one
that makes us
fashionably late.”
“Why can’t
I?”
Ron protested.
“Because
you’re
not in any way fashionable, now shift, would
you?”
They arrived ten
minutes late, but his mother said nothing about it. Instead she swept
him up
into another one of her crushing hugs, then did the same to Draco much
to his
displeasure and Ron’s amusement. His mother shooed them both into
the kitchen
where the table was already full with a few notable exceptions. He was
happy to
see his father there at the head of the table, although the man only
nodded at
him and said nothing. Viktor was there, too, across from his seat and
looking a
bit rough.
“Hermione?”
he
asked quietly.
“She is with her
parents and the boys,” Viktor said, his expression
wistful.
“I’m
sorry,” Ron
told him. He felt awful that he had inadvertently hurt
Viktor.
“Ah, it will be
okay. She needs time. Her world changed and she does not like it, but
she will
come to accept it. I will be there for her when she does,” he
said, patting Ron
on the back. “Do not feel bad. It will be
okay.”
“Aren’t I
supposed to be reassuring you?” he asked, making Viktor laugh.
“Well, for the
record, I think it will be okay, too. I hope, at
least.”
“Blagodarya,”
Viktor said, toasting him slightly with his pumpkin juice. Ron knew a
thank you
in any language. He toasted the man back.
“Potter’s
not
here,” Draco murmured next to him.
“Nor Ginny,”
Ron
added. He squeezed Draco’s hand underneath the table and felt the
pressure
returned. He had hoped his sister and his former best friend would be
there,
but he was also done deluding himself when it came to things. Neither of
them
had reacted well, especially Ginny. He didn’t know if or when they
would patch
things up, but he wanted to, and hoped someday they would,
too.
His mother had
outdone herself as usual when it came to dinner, and soon the talk was
in full
swing. Ron didn’t join in, not much at least, but for the first
time since
childhood he didn’t feel as if he was being left out. He followed
conversations
and laughed for real when a joke or story was told, groaned when his
father
recounted all of their first Christmases again, like he did every year,
and felt
warmth radiating from everyone around him. He couldn’t even find
it in himself
to glare too much at the children’s table. He had his
family, both old
and new, young and old, and he wasn’t pretending or hiding. It was
wonderful.
Draco, of
course, was hamming it up and turning the charm on everyone around
him.
“This food is
just glorious,” he said, making sounds that wouldn’t
be out of place in
either of their bedrooms. Ron tried to resist the blush that was
creeping up
his face as certain memories came to the fore. “No, really,”
he said, when a
few of them rolled their eyes at him. He nodded at Ron’s mother.
“You, woman,
are a goddess of the kitchen.”
“Going a bit
overboard there, don’t you think?” Fred said. Mrs. Weasley
shot him a dark
look, to which he just grinned.
“Absolutely
not,” Draco said, “although it does leave me with one
troubling question.”
“And what’s
that, dear?” she asked.
“How is it that
Red here did not inherit a lick of your talent? I mean, really, he burns
water.”
“Me!” Ron
grumbled.
He poked Draco in the side. “Who is it that damn near burnt down
the building
because he tried to literally grill a cheese sandwich on the
burner?”
Draco flushed
slightly, then pouted. “Well, they shouldn’t call it
‘grilled cheese’ when it’s
fried!”
“He has a
point,” Fleur said. “I do not understand that,
either.”
“You can
grill it,” Penny said, then looked apologetically at Draco.
“Just not on a
burner.”
The conversation
swelled into a debate over grilled cheese, of all things, and Ron could
only
shake his head at it all. He had his family, all right, as mad as
ever.
Dinner went on
for some time, until the children began begging to open their gifts. Ron
and
Draco both cringed under their squeals and shared a look of never,
ever
breeding while everyone else laughed and finally caved in to their
demands.
They moved to the living room with glasses of eggnog and began handing
out
gifts. His mother managed to keep it in some semblance of order with
finesse
practiced over many years as children and adults alike tore into
colorful
packages.
His lap quickly
filled with gifts, as did Draco’s much to his genuine surprise.
Draco held a
gift up, but made no move to open it.
“What’s
wrong?”
Ron asked.
“It’s from
the
twins,” he replied. “I’m a bit scared to open
it.”
“You know what I
learned to do growing up? Wait ’til last to open it and see how
anxious they
look. If it looks bad, then you probably
shouldn’t.”
“Good
advice,” Draco
said, and set the package aside. He picked up the next one. “Ah,
from your
Mum!”
He tore the
paper off to reveal a plain white box. He opened it and there was a
small
explosion in his face. Smoke filled the room, blanketing everything. Ron
tried
to clear some with his hand, then watched as it whirled out of existence
to
reveal Bill with his wand. Ron blinked and then turned to face Draco. He
blinked again, then began giggling.
“Oh, did the
name tags get switched? Dear me,” Fred said, grinning across the
room from them.
“Hope you
don’t
mind, Drakie, we just wanted to welcome you to the family
properly,” continued
George.
Draco stared at
them, then leaned over to Ron. “I’ve got red hair now,
don’t I?”
“Uh-huh,”
Ron
said. “There’s a mirror over there,” he said, pointing
above the mantle. Draco
cleared his lap and walked over to it. He stared at his reflection and
silence
reigned, except for the children who were completely oblivious to it all
thank
to their new toys.
“Well,”
Draco
said, then turned sideways to get a side look at himself. “I have
to say... I
make this look good.” He turned to give everyone a salacious grin.
He blew a
kiss to Ron. “Not as good as you, darling, but-- oh, who am I
kidding? I am
damn fine!”
“Language,”
Mrs.
Weasley scolded through her smile.
Ron stood and
went over to Draco to run his hands through his hair. “Looks like
I’ll need a
new name for you, Blondie.”
“Call me Rusty
and you’ll be sleeping alone,” Draco said, poking his
chest.
“I was thinking
more of Rose or Ginger or Magenta-- ow!” Ron said, as Draco poked
much more
harder into his side. “Just for that, I choose Cherry,” he
said, poking him
back. “And a flaming one at that.”
“Alone!”
Draco
huffed as Mrs. Weasley blushed, Mr. Weasley looked pointedly elsewhere,
and the
rest of the room laughed.
“You’re a
true
Weasley now,” Charlie told him, “there’s none of this
‘alone’ thing.”
“One big happy
Weasley family,” Draco muttered, although his eyes gave his
happiness away. His
expression faded, though, and he looked seriously at Ron. “Did you
feel that?”
“What?”
“The ground
moved!” he said.
“What are you
talking about?” Charlie’s girlfriend-- Ron really needed to
learn her name--
asked.
“The ground! It
moved! Don’t you feel it?” Everyone began exchanging
confused glances, even
Ron. Draco snapped his fingers excitedly. “I know what it
is!”
“What?”
“My father doing
cartwheels in his grave,” he deadpanned.
The laughter
roared and Ron leaned down to kiss Draco. A quick peck turned into an
open
display. He heard a throat clear, then his father
spoke.
“I believe you
are supposed to save that for the mistletoe,” he said. Ron broke
away long
enough to look at him.
“Could you move
it over here? We’re a bit busy,” he said. Draco poked him
again at that. “Hey,
what was that for?”
“For getting
distracted,” Draco said, then kissed him quickly.
“C’mon, we got a lot more
presents to open.”
“That we
do,”
Ron murmured in Draco’s ear, his hand sliding unseen under
Draco’s shirt to
brush against bare skin for the barest moment. Draco leaned into him in
response and gave him that smile that made everything
worthwhile.
***
He had quietly
slipped out from the party, comfortable with leaving Draco there. He
stood
outside the gated walls, small flakes of snow drifting down around him
to give
the ground another coating. He took a deep breath and looked inside
through the
heavy iron bars. The wind fluttered his scarf slightly and he snuggled
deeper
into it.
He hadn’t ever
gone inside these gates, hadn’t ever come this close to them
before. Until
lately, he hadn’t ever thought that he would. He took a deep
breath of cold air,
letting it cool his lungs. The urge to enter was there in the back of
his mind,
a tiny sensation that pushed him forward. He didn’t move, only
looked in. He
couldn’t see anything from here, as the ground sloped up and then
down to where
it lay.
He heard the
footsteps approach and recognized the gait even through the snow. See,
he
thought, still vigilant.
“Stand out here
any longer and you’ll be a snowman,” Draco said, standing
next to him. Ron
glanced over at him and saw that he was watching
him.
“Blond again, I
see.”
“Temporary
spell. Wore off, went to show you, found you gone,” Draco said,
shrugging.
“Took a wild guess as to where you
were.”
“And you thought
of here?”
“No, I checked
everywhere else first,” he said. “It’s always the last
place you look.” He
turned to look inside. “You’re not going in, are
you?”
“I
can’t,” Ron
said. “Not yet. I’ve always thought about it, but this is
far as I’ve ever made
it.”
“I thought you
had his stone built?”
Ron nodded and
said, “I’ve never seen it. I still can’t believe he
willed me everything. I
lost my mentor, my friend, and gained a house, land, and more money than
I
could count stashed in the strangest places. I found a few thousand
galleons in
a hollow tree in his yard, and another five hundred shrunk and stuffed
into a
toaster.” He smiled at Moody’s paranoid antics. “After
the war, I found the
best sculptor, handed over everything, and told him to keep it simple,
true,
and faithful.”
“And you’ve
never seen it at all?” asked Draco.
“He showed me
sketches. That was enough,” he whispered. No more was said, the
two of them
simply enjoying the snowy scene of the graveyard beyond the gate, until
Ron
reached into his coat and retrieved Draco’s present. He handed it
over. “Merry
Christmas.”
Draco took the
paper off much more carefully than he had with his other gifts, placing
it
inside his coat pocket once it was off. He looked at the plain book
cover for a
moment, rubbing his gloved thumbs over the cover, then opened it. The
bookmark
fell out and into the snow. He picked it up.
“Better to be
hated for who you are, than loved for who you are not,” he
read.
“Do you know the
flower?” Ron asked, as he hadn’t been able to find out on
his own. He honestly
had forgotten about it until his quick wrap job.
“Yeah,”
Draco
said softly. “It’s called
amaranth.”
“Never heard of
it.”
“I had to learn
the language of flowers as part of being a proper pureblood,” he
said. “My
mother taught me. This was one of them.”
“What’s it
mean?”
“Everlasting,”
Draco said, turning towards him. He tucked the bookmark back into the
book and
held it against his chest. Ron reached out to take his hand and smiled.
Draco
smiled back, and they both turned to look back through the
gates.
“‘Man cannot
discover new oceans until he has the courage to lose sight of the
shore,’” he
murmured.
“What was
that?”
“I said,”
Ron
told him, “that I think we should head back. I could use some
coffee.”
“Ugh,” Draco
said, as Ron led him away from the cemetery.
“Oh, don’t
start.”
“How can you
like that stuff? Now, tea, there’s a good
drink...”
Ron gave a
long-suffering sigh at Draco’s argument, though the effect was
ruined by his
carefree smile.
It wasn’t
perfect, not by a long shot; but it was okay. Perfection was overrated
anyhow.