‘Twas the couple weeks before Christmas, when all through the flat, not a creature was stirring, not even a rat. That is with the exception of two creatures who were arguing their heads off. Imagine a red-headed man, along with a snowy-blond man. One was obviously a Gryffindor, and the other was a Slytherin. Believe it or not, they were madly in love with each other, but one would not be able to tell since they constantly argued with one another! But that fine line between love and hate had all but disappeared between these two men.

And indeed these two were desperately in love. This would be their second Christmas together, and they already did many activities to show their Christmas spirit. They hung stockings by their fireplace. Never mind that they used the said fireplace as a transportation device, the Christmas stockings, made by Molly Weasley — who decided that the jumpers weren’t enough, hence the stockings — went there for the sake of tradition.

They both knew that Saint Nicholas would not be there to stuff their stockings, but they had both planned on putting surprise goodies in there when the other wasn’t looking.

At least that was the original plan.

Right now it looked more as if the two would end up strangling one another instead. Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy pitted against each other in a very intense argument. Actually, it seemed like one did more work than the other, but that was not the point. The point was that had it not been for the silencing charms around their place, their neighbours definitely would have heard a bunch of colourful expletives from the arguing couple.

“You think I need a larger size? What the bloody hell do you mean? Are you saying I’m small?!” Ron bellowed to Draco, who didn’t even flinch at the loud volume of Ron’s voice. In fact, even the spittle from Ron’s outburst didn’t deter Draco at all.

Calmly, Draco responded. “You said it. I only merely hinted at my dissatisfaction.”

“Since when did you become such a size queen?” Ron demanded, his hands resting on his hips.

“You just never bothered to ask if the size was ever an issue. I simply chose not to bring it up since it really wasn’t a big issue back then.”

“For fuck’s sake, Draco, is it really a problem? I mean are you going to be a wanker about this just because of something I have no real control over?”

Draco walked — no glided — over to an armchair and sat on it, crossed his legs, folded his arms in front of him, and gave Ron a bored look. “I’m a Malfoy, Ron. We always want the best for ourselves. You of all people should know that by now. Really, I knew you were dense, but at this rate, you are really making me question your mental capabilities.”

Ron stalked over to where Draco sat and hovered over him. “Well if you’re going to be that Malfoyish about the damn size, then go get yourself a sodding dildo!”

“A dildo . . . ?” For a brief moment, there was a look of confusion and then a glint of mischief in Draco’s eyes before it disappeared. His face resumed its bored expression. “Maybe I will. Thanks for the suggestion.”

“What?!” Ron leaned forward, reaching around Draco and gripping the sides of the chair, trapping the blond. “You thought I was serious? How dare you think of replacing me with a damn piece of rubber? Have you gone mad?”

Draco chuckled softly. “You suggested it. Now you’re saying I shouldn’t take the idea into consideration?” He paused and looked upward to gauge Ron’s emotions. “Really, that’s a fantastic idea. If you can even remotely afford it, why don’t you get me an excellent, high-quality dildo? I heard the glass ones are the best; you wouldn’t want your lover to be contaminated by diseases from the plastic ones, would you?”

Instead of responding to Draco’s bait, Ron stormed off, leaving Draco to stare after his lover with a mischievous smirk.

A couple of days later, Ron walked into the sitting room where Draco was relaxing with a book and a cup of tea. He promptly stopped in front of his lover and dropped a package in Draco’s lap. “This is for you.”

Draco set his book down and stared at the generic white package. “I know Christmas is around the corner, but isn’t it a bit too early?”

“Hey, you’re the one who complained about that issue the other day. I’m just trying to exemplify how much of an idiot you’re being about this.” Ron said this defensively, crossing his arms in front of him and giving him a look that bordered on being triumphant and exasperated.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “If I recall correctly, you’re the one who proved to be all miffed up about that issue.”

“Shut up and open the package.”

“All right.” Draco followed Ron’s request. He soon stared at the contents of the package with an indecipherable facial expression, and for a good few minutes, silence reigned in the room.

“It’s what you wanted, right?”

In a strangled voice, quite uncharacteristic of Draco, he managed, “Really. Have you gone absolutely, positively daft?!”

“Well, no, but it is what you wanted!” he protested in his own defence.

“A dildo. While it is an interesting concept and all, must it be an umbrella-shaped one of all things?!”

“It was the only one they had that was made of glass!”

“Probably the only one in your price-range, too, I assume.”

Ron glared darkly at Draco. “Hey, not everyone is rich and overflowing with galleons like you are. Like I said, it was the only one they had.”

Draco coughed, his cheeks now stained with red from either anger, embarrassment, or both. “Admit it. You just watched Mary Poppins one too many times.”

Ron began to sputter loudly. “No, that’s not it! I mean, yes it is my favourite movie ever since Harry got me the Dee-vee-dee player, but — that is not the point!” He calmed himself down and tried again. “I got it for you because you said you wanted it! For Merlin’s sake, I . . . ”

“You what?” Draco prompted to get Ron to continue.

“You’re the one who turned into a size queen! And as much as I hate the idea, I just wanted to make you happy!” Ron finally managed to say.

“Oh for the love of Salazar.” Draco stood up, making sure the package was in a safe place, and he stepped closer to Ron. He tilted Ron’s head up with his index finger under Ron’s chin, and he saw anger and insecurity mixed in those blue eyes.

“You are so daft. Did you really think I’d replace you with that thing?”

“Well . . . no, but it did make me wonder.”

“It was a joke. Besides, when I was referring to the fact that you ‘need a larger size,’ I meant your clothes.”

“My clothes?!”

“Yes, your clothes.”

Ron scowled. “Nothing’s wrong with them.”

Draco exhaled exasperatedly. “The bottoms of your robes are at least five centimetres above your ankles, as well as your sleeves only coming below your elbows! Not to mention that your trousers are too high up, as well, whenever you want to dress like a Muggle.”

“They still fit and are comfortable, Draco,” Ron said, a frown etched on his forehead. “Besides, I can’t believe you were talking about my clothes this entire time when I thought you meant something else.”

A slow, amused smile crept up onto Draco’s face. “It is hardly my fault that you jumped to the conclusion like the Gryffindor you are.”

Ron snortled. “And you, my sneaky Slytherin, acted perfectly like one, deceiving me to believe something entirely different. Beautifully done.”

Smirking, Draco pulled Ron closer by the front of the robes. “Before we go on, I am serious about your clothes. I hardly think it is right for only one of us to look like a decent human being while the other looks like he’s in a dire need for an entire wardrobe fix.”

Ron automatically wrapped his arms around Draco’s slim waist. He began to nuzzle against the area between Draco’s neck and shoulder. Breathing against the pale skin, he said, “Yes, yes. You can be a sodding prick over my clothes later. In the meantime . . . ”

“Yes?” Draco asked huskily.

“I want to try that present out on you. I think a little bit of a punishment is in need.” Ron began to nip at the sensitive skin, sucking and twirling his tongue on the reddened spot. “I want you to be sprawled out on our bed, I want to tease you with that toy until you beg and plead for me to enter you. Once I do, I want to fuck you so hard into the mattress that you won’t walk straight for the next few days.”

As Ron’s description went on, Draco’s breath became more ragged as his hands clutched the back of Ron’s robes. “Let’s do it.”

“In due time, love.” Ron let go of Draco and backed away. He grabbed the dildo and started to walk towards their bedroom. With his free hand, he tugged on Draco’s wrist. “But first, let’s take a bath together.”

“You’re making me wait? You’re evil. More evil than a typical Slytherin.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Once in the bedroom, after putting the dildo on the bedside table, Ron pulled Draco into his embrace, and he kissed him. The kiss was long and drawn out with Ron exploring the warm, familiar caverns of Draco’s mouth, his tongue examining every nook and cranny. He gripped Draco by the hip, drew him closer, their groins grinding against one another. The pleasurable sensations with the combination of needing oxygen made him break the kiss, and in the dimly lit room, he studied Draco’s flushed and mussed up appearance.

“Why’d you stop?” Draco panted.

Ron grinned. “I still want that bath, you know.”

Draco groaned, his hips bumping into Ron’s. “You’re really evil. I ought to use that dildo to smack you up on your head instead.”

“That would be a waste.”

“Ron,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “Stop yapping and let’s continue this. Otherwise, I may come to the conclusion that the dildo may be a better substitute for you.”

Ron growled and pushed Draco onto the bed. “I think not. After this compare and contrast experimentation, I will definitely have you say with truth that ‘Weasley is my King.'”

“I accept this challenge with honour, Ron.” Draco, lying on his back, traced the outline of Ron’s lips. “But quit your melodramatic, Gryffindor speech-making skills and carry out the experiment.”

“Okay.” Ron leaned and captured Draco’s lips again.

For the rest of the night, the only sounds being heard were bumping, groaning, moaning, and screaming of joy. Both creatures were stirring and not even the arrival of the non-existing Saint Nicholas could interrupt their occupied state.

Click on the image for the larger version. Fanart by Chibi Toaster.

If you stare into the Abyss long enough the Abyss stares back at you. — Friedrich Nietzsche

The Muggles didn’t start the war; the magical folk of England didn’t either. It was inevitable. The bloodshed, tears, pain and death; the tears of parents who had lost children drowned the streets of Hogsmeade. When the truce was declared, it was already too late. Everybody had already lost too much, and childhood innocence couldn’t be bought back.

Ron Weasley stood there and watched as they signed the Magi-Muggle Peace Accords. He saw the Minister of Magic shaking hands with the Muggle Prime Minister in the midst of flashes from cameras and cheers from the crowd.

But he didn’t cheer.

He couldn’t.

And, standing beside him, Draco didn’t cheer either. Together, they stood silently and watched as the aura of peace settled over their world, and Ron wondered how long it would be until the next war.

— from Peace is Just a Facade by Ayla Pascal

He can’t move.

All around him, he sees dead bodies. Bodies that have been so brutally mutilated that he can’t even tell if they’re male or female. He sees so much red, so much blood on the dead and on the ground around them.

Clutching his gun and knife, he tries to move back. All around him, he hears screams and yells. He hears begging and pleading. He hears threats, gunshots, and shouts that fade as the victims die.

He’s finally able to move, and when he does, he trips over an unidentifiable item. With a loud thud, he lands into something warm and sticky. He looks and sees that he has landed on a pile of freshly killed Muggles, wizards, and witches. He sees the wide-open eyes, the gaping mouths where blood has gushed out, and he smells the dying, rotting flesh. He fights to keep the bile down and tries to breathe through his mouth.

Dread and horror overcomes him, and he attempts to push himself off these corpses, but then a heavy, boot-clad leg crushes into his chest, and he looks up at the owner of the foot. The sun is directly above the unknown man, and with the sun’s bright glare, he cannot see the man’s face. The only thing he does see is an evil smile and a gun being pointed at him.

Ron shouts just as the gun goes off, and that’s when he wakes up in his bed.

Gasping, he covers his sweaty face with his hands, and he fights back waves of nausea. He pants and blinks away the tears that have come to his eyes and struggles to calm his racing heart down.

The bed shifts, and he hears a sleepy voice say, “Ron? Are you all right? What happened?”

Feeling Draco’s nimble hands touching him through his soaked pyjamas, Ron manages to rasp out, “I’m fine. Just a bad dream.”

Even though it’s dark, Ron senses Draco’s frown. “You’ve been having way too many of these.”

“I’ll be fine,” he nervously laughs out. “It’ll pass eventually.”

“It’s been over six months.”

Ron feels better at hearing Draco’s scorn-filled voice. “Don’t be such a worried git. I’ll be fine.”

He knows Draco has stiffened, and he forces himself not to laugh at the mental image of Draco ruffling out his imaginary peacock feathers. He lies back on the bed and pulls Draco into an embrace. He hears Draco sigh. “Fine, if you say so. Let’s get some more kip.”

Ron agrees, and with his arms still around Draco, he listens to Draco’s breathing. Eventually, Draco has fallen back into a deep sleep, but Ron is unable to snooze. Instead, he listens to Draco snoring, which gives him comfort at least. Ron stays awake because he knows that if he returns back to his slumber, a new nightmare about the war will pop up.

He does not want to be in that hell again.

“Ron? Ron? Ron!”

Harry Potter’s voice makes him nearly jump out of his chair at Dean and Ginny’s small dining table.

“Oh, for Merlin — I mean — never mind! What is it, Harry?” Ron has nearly spouted out the wizarding curse he has grown up with, the curse he has forced himself not to say anymore.

He watches the way Harry, Ginny, and Dean exchange worried looks. Harry asks, “Are you all right?”

Ron nods, despite feeling the opposite. He feels exhausted and very tense, but he blames it on his sleepless night.

Ginny doesn’t look convinced. “Are you–”

“Yes, Gin, I’m sure!” Ron responds tersely back at her. Ignoring a dirty look from Dean, Ron forces a smile at his sister and his friends. He picks up the serviette he’s been doodling and writing on, hastily stuffs it into his pockets, and absently looks at his watch. “I’ve got to go. Thanks for the food.”

As Ron stands up, he pats his side, glad that his wand is in its holster, but then he almost panics when he doesn’t feel his gun or knife. A wild look comes on his face as he searches himself for the missing items.

“Ron?” Harry slowly gets to his feet, walks closer, and reaches out a hand.

“Don’t touch me!” he snarls, clutching onto his wand.

Harry backs away with both hands up in defence. Dean and Ginny rise up as well.

“Ron?” Ginny says in a gentle voice. “What’s wrong?”

“I . . . I can’t find my stuff.”

“What stuff?” Harry asks softly. “Your weapons?”

Ron nods frantically. The weapons must be at home. They protect him, and he needs them. Preferably now. He’ll be defenceless without them in case an attack arises. He feels absolutely incomplete without them. “I’m going home. Maybe I left them there.”

Before anyone can stop him, Ron Apparates away.

The rest of the day passes as Ron spends all day looking for the gun and the knife. They are nowhere to be found in the flat. As he searches, he tries to recall the last time he has had them and where he may have placed them. But he cannot find them. Instead, he ransacks the entire flat; clothes are strewn everywhere, books and papers are carelessly tossed on the ground, and there are even a couple of broken glasses that have slipped out of his shaky hands in the kitchen. He finally gives up, feeling tired and numb, and he sits on the sofa.

Later, when Draco Apparates with a loud crack, Ron is still on that sofa in the sitting room, changing the channels on the telly, his eyes blank as they watch the blur on the screen.

“Ron?” Draco’s voice sounds worried.

Ron doesn’t respond at first. He changes channels a few more times before he drops the remote. He knows Draco’s standing in front of him, and he glances up. He half expects Draco to have an evil smile like that faceless man in his nightmare, but he doesn’t see that. He doesn’t even see Draco’s customary smirk. All he sees is Draco’s anxious expression. He looks deep into the grey eyes, and he then remembers the mess he has made. He jumps up quickly, startling Draco.

“The mess. I meant to clean it before you come back.” Ron tries to laugh lightly, trying to get Draco to not question him of anything. “I’ll clean up and make us some sandwiches or something. You can take one of those long showers you love taking!”

He starts to walk away, but he feels Draco’s strong hand grabbing his wrist. “Wait. I’ll help you clean.”

Ron shakes himself out of the powerful grip. He faces Draco with a tight expression. “It’s fine, I tell you. I’ll do it. Just tell me one thing. Where’d you put my gun and knife?”

“Your stuff? It’s . . . you’re the one who hid them. You wouldn’t tell me where you were going to hide them.”

“I . . . I did?” Ron doesn’t remember doing that. He narrows his eyes and studies Draco intently. Is Draco lying to him? Perhaps he’s a spy working for the Muggles?

Draco nods.

“Oh, well, er, it’s okay. It’s not a big deal.”

A long silence passes before Draco breaks it. “I received a Floo-call from Harry earlier today at work.” Draco now works as the head liaison officer for the Muggle and Wizarding Alliance Organisation.

Ron fidgets with his wand. “And?”

“I think we’ll need to have a talk.”

“About what?” he asks unpleasantly. He’s aware something uncomfortable is inside of him, especially since Draco is being rather cryptic.

“You. I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine. I’m just a bit exhausted from last night!”

Ron watches Draco step closer. “You didn’t sleep after that nightmare, did you?”

“I did. I slept,” he fibs through his teeth, watching Draco take another step towards him. Ron backs himself several steps until he finds himself against a wall.

“Stop lying,” Draco angrily spits out. “Just tell me the truth.”

“Look,” Ron declares, stepping sideways past Draco. “Let me clean the mess up. Please!”

He hears a heavy sigh. “Fine, but we’ll talk later after supper.”

“Okay.” Draco stalks off to the bath, and Ron begins to wave his wand around, cleaning up his mess from earlier. While he does that, he can’t help but be alert for any Muggles who might blast their way into the flat with those dreadful guns, bombs, and whatever else that cause death.

In the end, Ron somehow convinces Draco he is fine, so after supper, they don’t talk about whatever’s supposedly wrong with him. They instead have fun watching some DVDs; Ron’s current favourite series is SpongeBob SquarePants. He enjoys watching this show, but he feels bad since he knows Draco hates this show, who at the moment is currently muttering about how it has no aesthetic appeal.

Ron grins. “You know you like him.”

“I do not!” Draco answers haughtily. “He’s so ugly! And honestly, who lives in a bloody pineapple under the sea?”

“SpongeBob does.”

Ron receives a patented Draco Malfoy glare. “After this episode, we are watching a show of mine.”

“What show?”

When Ron sees the smirk, he has a feeling he is going to be in for a long night. “South Park.”

It’s Ron’s turn to groan and glare. He absolutely despises that series, much like Draco’s dislike for SpongeBob. “Fine, fine. But I’ll watch it only because I love you. And so I can review this for The Quibbler.”

After the war, Ron has decided to do something about his love for television shows and films by writing reviews about them in the The Quibbler, which still publishes unusual news, but Xenophilius Lovegood has decided to incorporate some additional sections about the Muggle lifestyle. Thus, through his connection and friendship with Luna, he has started his own review column. He loves this job since the best part is when he can watch the DVDs with Draco.

So they settle on the sofa happily, and the rest of the night passes with no problems.

A few days later, Ron doesn’t really feel any better. His nightmares constantly plague him, making him seek solace by staying up late, watching episodes after episodes of SpongeBob and other shows on the telly. Draco tries to stay up with Ron, but Ron, knowing Draco’s work schedule, convinces him to sleep early, and that he will sleep later, but he never does that. At least not for more than an hour at a time.

As the days fly by, Ron becomes more and more exhausted, becomes edgier and tenser, and becomes more withdrawn as he tries to pretend everything’s normal.

Yet something’s terribly wrong, and Ron refuses to acknowledge it.

He starts to not even care about his beloved shows. He’ll have them on, but then he’ll stop paying attention to them and only stares at the screen emptily. That isn’t the only thing he loses interest in, though.

“Want to play chess?” Draco offers one day.

“Chess?” Ron sees the game he has always loved, a game Draco has never appreciated. Shaking his head, Ron continues, “No. I don’t like chess anymore.”

He turns to look the other way, so he can avoid the shocked, confused, and hurt expression on his lover’s face.

After Draco leaves for work, Ron tries to write a review for one of the films he has recently seen, but he doesn’t want to. All he wants to do is crawl back into their bed and huddle under the covers.

He does that, and he stares into the darkness.

Later, he hears the phone ringing, but he ignores it.

It rings again and again, and Ron just stays in his bed, shutting out the ringtone that sounds like bombs going off in their flat.

Draco and Ron are eating breakfast. Like all the other nights before, Ron hasn’t slept for more than an hour. He tries to act as if he’s fine. But those tense and jumpy feelings make him more aware of all the noises and sights in their flat, and he tries to conceal his problem by sipping on his morning tea.

Draco clears his throat, and that small sound makes Ron jerk up, spilling some tea all over the table.

“Bugger!” Ron curses, wiping up the mess.

When he finishes, Draco continues in a calm voice. “I think you should consider going to a mind healer.”

Ron forces himself to respond in a composed manner. His grip on his teacup tightens as he say, “I don’t need a mind healer.”

“I think you do.”

His hold on the teacup goes tighter. “Are you saying I’ve gone insane? Crazy? Mad?” Ron sneers out the last word, but Draco remains unfazed.

“I never said you were any of those. I just think you, and perhaps even myself, should seek out some help that we aren’t fully capable of diagnosing and curing ourselves.”

In a flash, Ron stands and hurls the teacup past Draco, hearing the loud crash. He grabs onto the edge of the table and stares down at his still sitting partner. Ron’s eyes take on a crazed look, and he snarls, “Is this your way of telling me to fuck off? Do you want to break up that badly?”

He watches as Draco quickly rise, who then slowly comes around the table, his hands outstretching to touch Ron.

Ron stumbles away from the treacherous hands, ignoring the pained expression on Draco’s face. “Ron, please, I’m not trying to do anything but get us help. I don’t want to break up! That is not my inten–”

“Shut up!” Ron bypasses Draco and reaches for the door. “Leave me alone! Go find a fucking mind healer, one who you may find more suitable as your fucktoy!”

Ron leaves the flat with nothing but his wand. No coat, no hat, no robe, just his wand.

He jogs down the stairs, skipping the clunky lift, and he runs out into the crowded, noisy street. With no destination in mind, he sprints down the road. All he wants to do is to forget all the hurtful words he has said to Draco, and he truly wishes to forget that wounded look on Draco’s face — the same face that has almost made his heart rip in two.

Ron doesn’t return until two days later. When he finally does so, he finds Draco looking very haggard on their sofa. Despite his obvious fatigue, Draco still glowers at Ron. At the front door, Ron squirms uncomfortably at Draco’s intense look. As the scowl deepens, he expects Draco to scream at him, to throw things at him, and to kick him out and officially separate.

Draco refrains from doing any of that. He only opens his arms, and Ron has never felt more love for him as he runs into them. He stays in Draco’s protective arms, and he pushes back a sob and apologises.

“Shhh. It’s all right, Ron. I’m sorry I brought that up to you so callously. We’ll . . . we’ll only do it when you’re ready,” Draco comforts him, planting soft kisses on the freckled cheeks.

Ron enfolds his own arms around Draco’s waist, and he just apologises until he finally pulls Draco into a rough kiss. He feels Draco accepting the kiss, and Ron whispers the spell that will remove all their clothes. Right on that sofa, Ron caresses, kisses, and pleasures Draco. Hearing the soft cries of lust and desire, Ron strokes Draco’s hard-on, and his other hand prepares Draco for the next step.

When he and Draco move together, Ron feels a burst of panic deep inside of him, and that makes their love-making frantic, wild, and different from any of their previous activities together. When they come together, Ron experiences the sexual gratification he seeks, but he then feels barren, wasted, and unworthy. But most of all, he’s afraid. He’s afraid of himself.

The nightmares grow worse. Even the one hour sleep he is able to get at a time is bombarded by the evil abysses in his mind.

“I’ll get you some Dreamless Sleep Potion,” Draco suggests.

“No. I hate that crap.” Ron smiles weakly. “I think the nightmares will lessen up soon.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“It will,” Ron lies. “It will.”

Ron’s on the sofa, a thick blanket is wrapped around him, and he gazes at a spot on the table. It’s an interesting spot — roundish, with ragged edges, and it’s in the shade of a brownish-red. Its colour reminds Ron of something, but he isn’t sure what.

He continues to study that spot, and that’s when it hits him. The colour. It reminds him of dried up blood. There’s blood on the table. Still clutching onto the blanket with one hand, he leans over and cast a spell on it to make it disappear. It stays unchanged.

He summons a bottle of furniture cleaner and a scrubber. He still holds onto the blanket, and he scrubs the spot as hard as he can.

The spot doesn’t change. It refuses to change.

Just as Ron’s about to throw the scrubber at the wall, he hears Draco’s arrival.

Rising from the sofa, Ron still hangs onto the blanket, and he gestures towards the spot with the scrubber. “That spot. That bloody spot. It won’t go away no matter how much I clean it.”

Ron sees the concerned look on Draco, who at the moment takes his coat off and uncharacteristically throws it onto an armchair along with a bag. Draco walks over to the table and studies the spot. “It’s always been there. When we first moved in here, the place was furnished for us, and that spot has always been there. You didn’t mind it since it reminded you of a freckle.”

“Lies,” Ron whispers. “It wasn’t there before. This . . . it’s a bloodstain! Whose blood is it?!”

“Ron! It’s not a bloodstain!” Draco grabs him, and Ron tries to get out of the mighty grip. “Get a hold of yourself.”

He looks into Draco’s eyes and sees the truth in them. “I-it’s always been there?”

Draco nods and relaxes his hold.

Ron lets out a shaky sigh. “Sorry. I . . . I guess I must have had momentary amnesia.”

“Did you also forget you had a lunch meeting with Ginny and Dean?”

Frowning, Ron tries to remember making arrangement with his sister to meet or not. “I don’t remember. Was I really supposed to meet them?”

“Yes, and they tried calling the phone, but nobody answered.” Draco gives Ron a questioning look. “Did you hear the phone ring?”

“Yes, but it was so ruddy loud and annoying. I unplugged it.”

“I see.” Draco runs a hand through his mussed up hair. “Well, I guess you can meet them some other time. They did meet me briefly, and Ginny asked me to give you some of these new DVDs she bought.”

“Really?” Ron tries to smile. Even though he hasn’t felt like watching anything lately, he’s grateful for his sister sending him new DVDs every so often.

Draco walks over to the armchair to grab the bag, and Ron sits back on the sofa. Feeling Draco’s warmth sagging next to him on the sofa, Ron takes the bag and sorts through the DVDs. He takes out the bunch and studies the covers and reads the back. However, when he comes upon a cover that simply showcases a man holding a gun he freezes.

A flashback. No, a nightmare. No, no! It’s real. It’s happening again. The war has begun, and Ron’s in the middle of it once more.

He’s trapped against a tall wall; he sees about five Muggles who are members of the Special Forces judging by their uniform. They all carry guns, those frightening machine guns, and they are pointed at him. Ron glares at them, but all the men do is smirk. They say to him, “Surrender. Surrender to us, tell us all your magical secrets, and we’ll let you live.”

Ron spits at them. “Never, you sods.”

“Then you leave us with no choice.”

He tenses up, but he tries to find that secret portkey he keeps in his pocket. The portkey that will only activate when he’s in deep trouble like this. However, he can’t reach into his pocket without making it look like he’ll pull out a bomb or something.

Suddenly, a loud explosion goes off, and the men are all thrown off balance, including Ron.

Landing on the hard cement ground, Ron throws the blanket off of him, and he rolls over. He quickly stands up and tries to grab his gun and knife, but they aren’t with him. “Fuck! Wand! Where’s my wand then?” He sees his wand nearby, and he grabs it and points it at one of the men. A man who’s now actually trying to plead with him.

“Put it down, Ron. Put that down!”

Ron? How did this guy know his name? Pointing his wand at the man, he cries, “Stay back!” With his wand still out, he reaches into his pocket for the portkey, but it isn’t there.

“Shite!” He sees that the man was in front of him. The gun isn’t there anymore, so he decides to just stun the man and escape.

But before he can do anything, the man acts first. He hears “Stupefy”, and he falls into blackness.

Ron slowly opens his eyes and turns his head, which feels quite heavy. He tries to sit up, but he realises he has no energy in him to do so. He stares at the ceiling instead. An unnaturally white ceiling.

He hears voices, several voices filled with concern and apprehension. He can barely make out the owners of the voices, but his haze-filled brains prevent him from to fully concentrate. So he listens to the conversation half-heartedly.

” . . . He’s been suffering from nightmares . . . ”

” . . . He’s so withdrawn . . . ”

” . . . And panic-stricken. He freaks out over the littlest things lately . . . ”

” . . . Worried about him . . . ”

” . . . He’ll hurt himself . . . ”

” . . . You say flashbacks are normal, but what about hallucinations . . . ”

Ron has difficulties sorting out the words. To do that is a bother, so he decides to return back to sleep, hoping no nightmares will invade his mind.

The next time Ron wakes up, he sees Draco sitting next to him, who’s holding one of his hands. On his other side, he sees Luna Lovegood with a faraway expression on her face.

Draco squeezes his hand lightly. “Good afternoon, love. Sleep well?”

Ron nods. This time his head doesn’t feel quite funny, and he’s able to sit up. As he leans back into the plush pillow, he sees he’s in a private room. A private hospital room. When he speaks, his voice comes out gruff. “St Mungo’s?”

“Yes.”

He gestures towards Luna. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been assigned to be your mind healer, Ron,” she answers in her dreamy voice. “How are you feeling?”

When he hears “mind healer”, something akin to anger bubbles deep inside of him as he yanks his hand out of Draco’s. “What’s this? A bloody mind healer? I don’t need a sodding mind healer!”

“Ron–” Draco begins, but Ron doesn’t let him finish.

“Get out. You . . . you think I’m really insane, don’t you? Then leave me!”

Draco jolts back as if he’s been slapped.

Luna chooses to interrupt then. “Draco. Perhaps you should step out for a minute.”

“But–”

“Please,” Luna says in a firm voice.

Draco gives Ron a tense look, and he whispers, “I don’t think you are mad, but you are hurting and I want you to get better. That’s all I want.”

Draco leaves the room like a defeated Quidditch player, and Ron feels guilt and shame at his outburst. He buries his face in his hands and exhales loudly like he’s trying to get rid of all those emotions inside of him.

Luna lets him recover for a few minutes. In a calm voice, she asks, “Will you tell me what you think of all this?”

Ron glances away and stares at the wall that’s so white and sanitised. “I . . . I don’t know. I know I’ve been off lately, but . . . ”

She waits. She doesn’t force him to speak quickly. She allows him to think and talk at his own pace.

“Did . . . did something happen?” he pleads. “I don’t remember coming here. Last I remember was me being caught at a dead end by these Special Forces guys. There was an explosion, and we were all thrown off balance. One of the guys knew my name, and I was going to attack . . . ”

He stops and gives her a horrified look. “Was that Draco I nearly attacked?”

When she nods, he becomes so unnerved that he starts babbling. “I nearly hurt him? I . . . I thought . . . it was a flashback . . . no it was real . . . I can’t believe I nearly . . . ”

A soft, cool hand rests on top of his, and that brings him back to reality. “It’s okay, Ron. It’s okay.”

He swallows before answering, “It’s not okay, Luna. I nearly hurt him. I . . . I might have killed him.”

“Draco’s not that careless or stupid. He’s capable of taking care of himself. You know he does remind me of a peacock. Though I cannot imagine him to be that bright or colourful in appearance.”

He lets out a nervous smile. “As always, your outlandish comments amuse and comfort me. I do admit that I’ve imagined Draco as a peacock at times, too.”

She beams but quickly sobers. “So what do you think? Or should I say, what do you want to do?”

He sighs and tilts his head at the ceiling. “If my . . . problems are going to make me hurt those who I love, then I want to fix it. No. I have to fix it.”

“We’ll do this all together. We’ll all help you. Just keep in mind that it will not be something that can be healed in a day or two. It will be a long road.”

He shuts his eyes hard. Her words are correct, and it proves the facts he’s been dreading. Softly, he says, “Yes. It will be a long and difficult road for . . . all of us.” Grabbing her hand, he clasps it gently. “Will you call Draco in? I want to apologise to him.”

Ron decides to start this battle correctly, and he’ll need Draco to help him.

“Did you take the potions?” Draco asks.

“Can’t you tell? Those potions make me so tired,” Ron snaps.

“And cranky. Must be a horrid side-effect.” Draco sees that Ron isn’t moving. “Come on. Let’s not keep Luna waiting. Last time we were late, she gave me a long lecture on why I should eat raw garlics to get me to move faster! I mean, does she think I’m going to be attracting vampires or what?”

Ron chortles.

“Ah, I’m making progress! You laughed.” Draco squeezes Ron’s hands and kisses it. “Let’s go. I don’t want ‘her loonyness’ to give me another long talk about garlic or anything bizarre!”

“Have you visited you parents’ graves ever since they were buried?”

“No,” Ron admits with shame. “I . . . I can’t seem to return there. It just gives me bad memories.”

Luna gives him a cup of tea and settles on the sofa next to him. Her office is airy and friendly, with flowers and other plants lingering around the room. These plants have been given to her by Neville, who runs a successful nursery. Ron always feels at peace when he’s in here.

Taking a sip of her tea, she nibbles on a digestive biscuit, and she then says, “Try to think of only good memories of them.”

“It’s hard.” He sighs as he attempts to block out the memories of his childhood home being bombed by the Muggles. His parents were victims of the bombing, and what frightens him more is the timing of the bombing. It happened an hour prior to his weekly visit to the Burrow.

“It will take time, but that’s what we need to do. Take small steps here and there.”

He knows that. She has told him to slowly accept the past and try to move away from it to achieve a sense of normalcy he hasn’t had for years. “I’ll . . . I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll get Gin and my brothers to go in a couple of weeks.”

She gives him an encouraging smile. “That’s a start.” She points at the biscuits. “Here, have some. Harry bought these for me.”

Ron moans and groans, tossing and turning. He’s just returned from a battle. He’s in the hospital ward, and he sees many in pain, and he even sees a guy with both legs damaged from a bomb. He shudders at the missing limbs, and he remembers the smell of injured flesh, the medicines, and the potions. It’s enough to nearly make him want to vomit.

“Ron!” Draco’s loud voice wakes him up. “It’s only a nightmare. Get a hold of yourself.”

His eyes fly open, and he sits up gasping. He automatically leans into Draco’s caring embrace, and he tries to fight back a sob that’s threatening to escape him.

“It’s okay, Ron. It’s okay,” Draco’s voice soothes him, and Ron shudders against the warm torso.

When Ron’s finally calm, he smiles shakily at Draco. “S-sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Draco’s hand smoothes away his fringe, the cool hand a contrast against Ron’s hot forehead. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He doesn’t say anything for a long while. Luna has told him to talk to Draco about these nightmares, and so far Ron has yet to tell Draco any of them. Ron realises that he needs to. He needs to overcome them, and he wants to defeat them, but he still can’t help but think he’ll only burden Draco. “I don’t want to bother you with these.”

“You will not be bothering me with this. You will be helping both of us by telling me. You shouldn’t try to go through this by yourself. I want to help you, but you won’t let me,” Draco bitterly complains. “I’ve been through the same thing as you; I have no problems, so let me help you with yours!”

“I . . . I know.” Ron feels slight resentment at that last hurtful sentence. Draco’s lucky, and Ron can’t help but wonder why Draco’s not suffering in a similar manner. Then again, Draco is affected by all this in a different way. Draco has to watch Ron become like this, and Ron realises that all of this will be rough for anyone — including Draco.

Draco groans. “I don’t mean to sound so selfish. Just . . . I won’t force you. Just tell me when you’re ready.”

“Thanks.” Ron tentatively leans up and softly kisses Draco’s lips. “Thank you. I’ll tell you, but I’m warning you; my nightmares are pretty gruesome.”

“Ron,” he says dryly. “I was your partner in the war. We saw many things together, so please don’t paint me as some ignorant sod who sees things through rose-coloured glasses.”

“Okay.” Ron takes a deep breath and tells Draco the latest nightmare, and when he finishes, he feels as if a huge weight has been lifted off of his soul.

“Hey, mate,” Harry says cheerfully as he enters the flat with a bag. “I’ve bought us fish and chips, some butterbeer, and Exploding Snaps!”

Ron comes out from his cocoon of blankets. He’s been feeling a bit anti-social that day. Draco’s still at work, so Harry must’ve decided to check up on him and to hang out. “Hey.”

Harry sits in the armchair while Ron remains on the sofa. “Are you all right?”

Ron nods. “I . . . it’s just . . . ”

“I know,” Harry says understandingly. “We don’t have to do the games, but I reckon you might want to eat the fish and chips. It’s from your favourite place.”

“Really?” He perks up a bit at that. “Thanks, Harry.”

By the time they finish eating, Ron’s in the mood to play some Exploding Snaps with Harry.

The game goes on forever, and when Draco finally comes home, Ron looks up with a smile. Draco stares with a surprised expression, and he grins back, too.

Harry sees Draco. “Malfoy.”

“Potter. I see you’ve bought fish and chips. Where’s mine?”

“Sorry, but Ron and I both cleaned it up.”

Draco gives Ron a phony hurtful pout. “You didn’t save me any?”

Ron rolls his eyes. “Stop being a git. You can go buy your own.”

“Oh, your words stab me. Remind me not to give you your favourite sweets later on,” Draco grumps out.

“I’ll survive,” Ron jokes, and all of them burst out laughing.

Ron realises that this feels almost normal, and he’s surprised at how he doesn’t flee from it.

“Will you tell me what happened a couple of days ago?” Luna fingers one of her bracelets as she looks at Ron in a serene manner.

He awkwardly avoids looking at her, and he stares at the plush oriental carpet on the floor, studying its intricate designs.

“I . . . Draco and I had arranged with Ginny and Dean on an outing. We were going to go have a picnic . . . Ginny’s great at making food, you know.” He plays with a loose thread at the edge of his shirt.

“Yes?” she prompts.

“But I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it. I locked myself in the bedroom, and I just crawled under the blankets,” he whispers, looking ashamed.

“Was Draco upset?”

He shakes his head. “That surprises me.”

“Why would it surprise you?”

“Because we had planned on this for a while, and at the last minute, I couldn’t do it.”

“Draco is Hermes.”

He blinks at the cryptic words.

She smiles and gives him some chocolate. “I’m just saying he’s like Hermes and those flying shoes. He’ll go with the flow, especially when it comes to you.”

He doesn’t respond, and she says, “You’re bothered by something else.”

It isn’t a question but rather a statement. “Yes. I am. I . . . I thought I was getting better, but then this incident proves otherwise.”

She looks at him with a thoughtful expression. “Do you know Aesop’s Fables?”

“No.”

“It’s a Muggle thing. Aesop is this Ancient Greek slave who has created a lot of fables, which uses animals in a human setting. These tales are supposed to teach young children morals. One of the more famous story is ‘The Tortoise and the Hare’. In that story, the hare mocks the tortoise for being slow, and it comes to a point where they have a race. The hare, of course, dashes off and is far ahead of the tortoise. He’s so cocky, so he decides to take a nap, thinking he’d wake up in time to make it to the finish line. But in the end, the hare sleeps too long, and the tortoise wins the race.”

He’s confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Most people say that the moral of this story is that overconfidence gets you nowhere. But I like to think there’s a second moral to the fable.”

“And . . . ?”

“It takes time and perseverance for results to come up. See the tortoise took his time, and he plodded on even though he knew he had a handicap.”

She reaches out and pats his hand. “So you see, the same thing will happen to you, too.”

For the first time in months, Ron finds himself at a nice restaurant. He’s there with Draco, the two of them doubling up with Harry and Luna. It’s a quiet restaurant, and it has plenty of space, which gives Ron some comfort since it isn’t small, packed, and loud with other people.

Still, he feels a slight sense of dread when the waiter comes to take their orders. Yet by the time their main course has arrived, Ron doesn’t want to bolt anymore. Instead, he enjoys his meal, the quiet conversations, and the good vintage wine.

Ron gives smiles hesitantly at Draco. Under the table, Draco’s hand rests on his thigh, and Ron covers the hand with his. “This is a great place, Draco.”

“Of course. We Malfoys are known for our good tastes.”

“In what?” Harry asks wryly. “In hair care products?”

Draco scowls at Harry, and Ron sniggers. “Good one, mate.”

“So you’re on his side?” Draco pouts at Ron. “Don’t tell me I have to compete with Scarhead here.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely name for Harry, Draco,” Luna pipes up, giving Ron a conspiratorial wink.

“Luna . . . ” Harry pretends to look offended, and it is Draco’s turn to laugh. They start to banter with each other, and Ron and Luna just roll their eyes.

In a loud voice, Luna announces, “I have a plan I’d like to suggest to Ron and Draco.”

That silences the arguing pair, and all the men look at her curiously.

“Ron, you’ve come a long way, and you’re improving at a good pace. Why don’t you and Draco take a trip somewhere for a couple of weeks? It will do you both some good. Granted, I do want Ron to achieve that feeling of normalcy, and I think taking trips here and there can be considered ‘normal’.”

Ron and Draco speak with their eyes. Before one of them can answer, Luna says, “Oh, you don’t have to decide now. Remember the tortoise, Ron.”

Draco and Harry both give Luna a “what on earth are you talking about” looks, and they both shrug in unison. That amuses Ron since, in some ways, Harry and Draco have similar mannerisms.

She beams. “Who’s ready for dessert?”

In the end, they decide to go on a trip. They choose to visit Hermione and her family in New Zealand.

At the Portkey Station, they meet Hermione, and she nearly assaults Ron with a warm hug.

“Ron!” She joyfully greets him. “Oh, you look great!”

He returns the hug. “You look way better than I do.” He steps back to admire her, and she did indeed look happy and healthy, her cheeks were fuller and redder, and her hair has been tamed into a slightly-less bushy ponytail. She’s dressed conservatively in her blouse and skirt. She turns to Draco and extends out a hand.

Draco shakes it. “Hello, Granger — I mean . . . ”

“Call me Hermione,” she interrupts.

“All right. Good to see you, Hermione. Let me thank you on both our behalf for your invitation and hospitality.”

She waves a hand. “Not a problem. I’ve been telling Ron to visit me for years, and I’m glad he came with you.”

As Draco and Hermione talk, they all walk outside. As Ron looks around the surrounding, he notices that the air in Wellington feels different compared to England, and the new senses that bombard him don’t make him feel jumpy like he’s expected. Instead, it soothes him.

Of course, the warmer climate might have had something to do with it. After all, it is winter back on the Isle, and here it’s summer.

“Ron?” Hermione’s voice brings him back to reality. “Ready? The girls and Tony cannot wait to meet you and Draco.”

He nods. “All right.”

The days pass by, and Ron’s surprised by how much fun he’s having. Yes, he does have days where he wants to lock himself up and be alone, but he discovers that Hermione’s twin daughters, Josephine and Anne, unwittingly pull him out of that slump, and he realises he actually enjoys being around children.

“Uncle Ron! Toss me on the bed! Like a cannonball!”

“Uncle Ron, come play house with us! You can be the daddy and Uncle Draco can be the mummy!”

“Uncle Ron! Come jump on the trampoline with us!”

At their every request, Ron sees their large blue eyes, and he cannot resist them.

Draco enjoys their company, too, and he even plays house with them. Though he does snark on why he has to be the mother.

Ron only grins and says, “Aw, come on. You make the perfect mother-figure.”

Draco glares at him. “If you dare compare me to that Angelina woman again, I will permanently spell a cock ring on you.”

Thankfully, they are in the guest room when he says that, away from certain twin’s ears and Hermione’s “prudish” nature.”

Ron lifts an eyebrow. “If you do that, I will castrate you.”

“I dare you to try.” Draco’s scowl softens. “I miss our bickering, you know?”

Swallowing an unexpected lump in his throat, Ron softly agrees, “Me too.”

Ron pulls Draco into a hug, and he kisses Draco’s pouty lips. He nips and sucks until they are swollen, and Draco lets out a groan of pleasure.

Guiding them onto the bed, Ron climbs on top and covers Draco’s slim and lithe body with his own body that’s more muscular and bulkier than Draco’s. As his hands and mouth wanders, he feels his own arousal stirring inside of him.

They barely remember to cast a silencing charm as they, for the first time in months, make love to one another. It’s poignant and fulfilling, unlike the last time he has done it with Draco, where he recalls feeling unworthy and empty. This time he feels grateful and lucky to have a man like Draco to help him through the abyss of hell. This time, when he comes with Draco, he allows himself to cry out in bliss.

When they cuddle next to each other, Ron feels sleepy. Before he sleeps, though, he whispers, “I remember where I put my gun and knife.”

“Where?”

“I buried them in the Forbidden Forest. When the Magi-Muggle Peace Accords happened, I buried them somewhere. I just wanted to forget.”

“Are you going to retrieve them?”

Ron kisses him, and as he feels his eyes closing, he says. “No. They can stay there. I just hope I’ll never need them again.”

“Me, too.”

Like their love making, for the first time in ages, Ron looks forward to sleeping, and he knows he won’t suffer from nightmares that night.

“Checkmate,” Ron says, moving his piece to claim victory.

Tony beams at him. “That, my friend, was the best and the most intense chess game I’ve ever had the privilege of playing against anyone.”

“You’re telling me,” Draco announces in a bored voice, yet his eyes twinkle with amusement. “That’s the longest chess game I’ve ever watched. Even the girls went to sleep, and Hermione had to put them to bed.”

“Oh,” Ron rubs his head sheepishly. “Well, Tony here is an excellent chess player. He’s–”

“Wait, wait. Don’t say it. Better than me right?”

“You said it. Not me.”

Draco rolls his eyes as Tony laughs.

Hermione comes into the room and exclaims, “They are finally done!” She sits on the armrest of her husband’s chair. While she rests her hands on his shoulders, she looks at Ron and Draco.

“Tomorrow is your last day here with us. What do you two want to do on your final day?”

Ron and Draco looks at each other. They both exchange grins as Hermione’s eyes narrow. “I know that look, Ronald Weasley. You will not plan anything that deals with George and his pranks!”

“Who me?” Ron asks innocently. “Never.”

“Mmm,” she doesn’t believe him.

“Okay, fine, we are going to give the girls some of his pranks items as gifts, but we also want to treat you all to a nice outing at the local wizarding amusement park and then a nice dinner at a ritzy place.”

Hermione smiles softly. “Oh, you don’t need to . . . ”

“We want to,” Ron says. “You’ve been great towards us.” He gives her a pleading yet a playful look, one he knows that always gets to her.

She concedes. “All right, you two. Thank you so much.”

Ron and Draco return to England, and they more or less go back to their routines. Draco still works as the head liaison officer, and Ron still writes for The Quibbler; although he also works as a part-time football coach at Hogwarts now, a sport he has grown to like despite his initial favour for Quidditch, which he still likes. Football has become as popular as Quidditch at Hogwarts, mostly due to the Muggle-borns’ influences, and Ron volunteers his time there, enjoying his interactions with the young youths.

At first, Ron’s hesitant to take the position, but through Draco, his friends, and his family’s support, he decides to try it. Luckily, he has grown to love it.

Now his life feels a bit more secure. Along with his jobs, he still sees Luna on a weekly basis, and he still takes those potions. Though the nightmares still hit him, they aren’t as serious or concurrent as before.

He knows that it will take a while for him to be fully healed and “normal”. However, he also knows that, like the tortoise, he will press on and never give up. As long as Draco’s with him, and he has his friends and family, that’s all he needs to move on with his life.

Ron Weasley has survived more wars than he’s ever imagined himself to be in.

He has survived Voldemort and the Death Eaters, he has survived the Muggles, and he has survived himself.

Of all the battles he’s been through, battling himself has been proven to be the most difficult and challenging. Yet he has miraculously survived it.

No cheering’s been done when the war has ended with the Magi-Muggle Peace Accords.

But now, with the battle truly over, Ron finally feels like cheering. They finally have peace.

Ending Notes

-The fic’s title comes from a line in “Anthem for Doomed Youth” by Wilfred Owen. (http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen2.html)

Christmas, the fifth one after the war, lingers around the corner.

For the longest time, I couldn’t enjoy it. All the gaiety and festivity, displayed by others, crushed me.

In a twisted way, Christmas marks as the anniversary of the day where He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named finally died, along with many others.

The others include my two best mates, Harry and Hermione with many of our classmates and acquaintances.

Unlike the first time, this one ended with no cheers of joy. Everyone, including the Death Eaters, had many losses. Too many to even think about celebrating the day we all waited for.

The rest of the year went on, and the wizarding world started to heal. As the first anniversary approached, Diagon Alley seemed so fake, though, with all the people trying so hard to make it feel like Christmas. I felt numb, walking through it, the bright colours nearly blinding me.

I left there quickly, through the Leaky Cauldron, and stepped into the Muggle world. I looked around at the fascinating ecletric lights blubs, blinking everywhere, and tears came to my eyes. The Muggle’s technology reminded me of my dead father. Along with him, everyone, except for Percy, was dead. Percy will forever be at St. Mungo’s, just like Neville’s parents. He may as well be dead.

I feel like I’m the only Weasley left. And as being the only survivor among the trio, I’m treated as a hero.

Back in my first year at Hogwarts, when Harry showed me the Mirror of Erised, I saw myself standing alone with the Head Boy Badge, posing as the Quidditch captain, and holding the Quidditch cup. I wanted glory, I wanted to break away from my older brothers’ shadows, and I admit, I did want to be like Harry, getting all the attention.

I don’t want that now. I know that if I were to look in that forsaken mirror, I’d see something close to what Harry had seen instead.

Then, there’s Draco Malfoy. The bane of my existence since we were young enough to understand the concept of the whole feud our families went through several generations. I never thought I’d say this, but this whole war made us be similar in one aspect: that we are pretty much the sole survivors of our families. And of course, I never would have thought he and I would become lovers.

Yes, hell has frozen over. To think I’d be with a pompous arse who only cares about himself is simply bizarre.

For two years, I hadn’t seen him. He just disappeared after the war ended, despite the fact that he fought on our side. Then, by chance, I saw him at the cemetery where our families and friends were buried.

As I entered, he was on his way out. We stopped in front of each other, a few feet apart. He said to me, “Weasley, I guess no matter how much fame and money you have, you will always look like a pauper.”

I felt the old spark of anger in me when he said that. The first real emotion I felt in the last couple of years that wasn’t numbness. With reflex, I glared at him. The old me would have snapped something along the lines of “Eat dung, Malfoy,” but I didn’t say that. Instead, I noticed that Draco was just as lost as I was, for his usual air of arrogance and the lack of his trademark smirk were replaced with an exhausted look a lot of us carried.

My glare lessened as I sighed and said, “What I look like doesn’t really matter, Malfoy. ‘Sides, you don’t look any better than me.”

He waved a hand of indifference at me, walked past me, and stopped next to me. “Weasley, as much as I’d love to stay and chat, I have other business to attend.” He apparated away, leaving me to wonder why that soft, warm whisper lingering on my ears sent shivers down my spine.

After that encounter, I saw him more, always unintentionally. Usually in the Leaky Cauldron, when I didn’t want to go to my flat after work, I’d sit there with some firewhiskey, drinking the night way. He would join me, usually once every couple weeks, and then it increased to once a week to almost every other day.

The first several times we were together, we just sat at the bar in silence, each nursing our drinks. The hushed moments between us were comfortable. We had plenty to talk about, but neither of us wanted to hurry into them since they required going into the past, our memories of happier days. Days with our families, friends, and heck, even days of our hostility-filled quarrel between my friends and his.

As time went on, though, we’d talk. From banal subjects about the weather to work, we tentatively would talk about more personal stuff. Our talks would get into heated discussions sometimes, sometimes to the point we’d be sniping at each other like in our schooldays. Whenever we did get into those moments, I couldn’t help but revel in the fact that I can at least still be hot-tempered, and he can still be a pretentious prick.

That fateful day occurred about a year later. We both had a bad day at work for various reasons. Unwisely, we both had gotten drunk. Thankfully, we were coherent enough to avoid apparating. We flooed into his place, a fancy flat that he moved into after he sold the Malfoy manor to whoever wanted it.

We arrived at his place, but without our usual balance and coordination, we landed on the floor, with me on top of him. Both of us stared at each other with silly looks at first, but then we realised how close we were. The warmth from his body coursed through me. Being celibate since the war ended, I felt intoxicated with needs. I had the urge to kiss Draco Malfoy, something I never would have considered.

Till this day, I do not know who moved first. It could have been me, could have been him, or could have been both of us. All I know is that our lips met with urgent needs, with my stubbles scraping against his, our lower bodies grinding for that pleasurable friction, our hands finding the warm skins to soothe our repressed emotions away.

Whether it was all alcohol-induced or not, I do know it felt good. I can give myself credit for remembering that.

To say that the morning after was awkward was an understatement. He woke up before me, telling me that he had already showered and was on his way to work. He acted like nothing happened and so did I.

But I was afraid. Afraid that somehow that night screwed up our slowly built comradeship. I had thoughts that he would never come to the Leaky Cauldron anymore. For the next couple days, I cursed to myself, cursed at the alcohol, and cursed at my other head for taking over. When he didn’t show up the first day, I told myself to be patient and that he needed time to recover from this. Couple more days passed as well. By then I was a basket case inside.

He did show up though. I had to almost cast a body binding spell on myself from going up to him and…do what? Punch him? Hug him? Shove him against the wall with my tongue in his mouth? I didn’t do anything, and we didn’t talk about it. Still, we had more nights where we’d end up at one of our places and have sex, frottage, or whatnot. First couple times, we had to be drunk to get into it, and like the first time, we never discussed it. Then, as it became more regular, we did it without alcohol. We would actually make love instead of going at it like two desperate people who needed a way to cope with the post-war syndromes.

Love. Our love for each other pulled us out of that wall we had put up around ourselves like medicine. Both of us had come a long way.

Now the fifth anniversary is today. I have gone through Diagon Alley and out to London. Instead of feeling what I have felt previously, I feel at peace with myself. I have bought presents for Draco…and even for Percy. Draco and I will go see Percy tonight and hope that someday he will come out of that catatonic state.

I hear the familiar “pop” as I see Draco apparating to my place. I set the presents I have been holding down, and we embrace each other. After softly kissing him, I smile and says, “It finally feels like Christmas, Draco. Happy Christmas, love.”

** The fanmix for this fic is here. **

The most exciting attractions are between two opposites that never meet. — Andy Warhol

Proem

Feeling the crisp breeze on his face, Ronald Weasley lazily sauntered across the campus. Around him, he heard leaves rustling and chattering from other university students. He took a seat at one of the many benches scattered around the tree-lined boulevard. With a Starmoola coffee cup in one hand and a textbook in the other, he took a sip as he gazed at the clear, sparkling lake at the bottom of the hill.

“Hi, Ron!” Voices rang out as his schoolmates walked passed him, all recognising him from the magazines that held his modelling pictures or from one of the many advertisements shown on the telly. A well-known model — currently on a hiatus to focus on his university career — Ron handsomely wore the latest fashion on his 6’2″ well-built frame, and his flaming red hair was styled into a short, shaggy ponytail. Ron knew he was quite fit, but he didn’t try to flaunt his appearance. He left all that to his fellow model friend, Seamus Finnigan.

Nodding and smiling towards the voices and giving a slight wave, Ron had to stifle a sigh of annoyance at the way the females and the males all swooned from his acknowledgement.

It was just another typical morning at Hogwarts University.

“Too typical,” he muttered into his vanilla latte. He set the cup down and stared longingly at the space in front of him.

Ron’s current lifestyle left him feeling bored and empty. Sure, whenever he modelled, he always had the thrill of appearing in one of the many magazines that wanted him. He had a good life, a steady income, lived in a spacious and modern flat, attended one of the best universities in the Isles to study a subject he was fond of, and had close friends he was loyal to. But something was missing from his life. He had known that something was missing for the last few months, but he wasn’t sure what that something was.

The only thing he was certain of was that he felt rather barren, and he wanted to get rid of that feeling.

His mind drifted onto thoughts of his huge family. His father was a government official. In fact, he was a Parliament member while his mother ran a successful child care service in her home. His oldest brother, Bill, working as a stockbroker, had made a name for himself in the few short years since he had left university. Then there was Charlie, the brother who worked as an endangered animal specialist, making him absent from Britain as he travelled overseas. Next came his stuffy brother, Percy, who had followed in their father’s footsteps and worked for the government, too. Two years older than Ron, his twin brothers, Fred and George, worked as accomplished joke creators and shop owners. Lastly, his younger sister, the baby of the family and the only girl, Ginny, had gone off to France for her gap year, enjoying her time in Paris.

He gave a small smile. He loved his family. He really did, but sometimes a large family could be very stifling and made it difficult for him to call attention to himself. That was probably the biggest reason why he decided to model when an agent had approached him in year eleven. He never regretted his decisions. He had always wanted to be the centre of someattention, and modelling definitely gained him that.

“Ron? Ron? Ron!”

Ron blinked out of his stupor and saw Harry Potter, one of his best friends, staring at him. “Oh. Hi, mate.”

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, running a hand through his hair that made him look like a tornado victim.

“Enjoying my morning coffee before my discussion session starts,” Ron explained, draining the last of his latte.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t it start at ten?”

“Yes.”

“It’s 10:05.”

“What?!” He glanced at his watch and saw that Harry was correct. “Bugger it all! I’m late! Thanks, Harry!”

Ron quickly threw his empty cup in a rubbish bin, and in long strides, he made a mad dash to the Ravenclaw area of the campus. That section was where the entire humanities departments existed — its blue coloured building and signs being hard to miss. Huffing and puffing, he entered one of the blue buildings, vowing never to daydream like that again!

The Strife

Quietly, Ron slipped inside, giving an apologetic look to Professor Vector. He scanned around for an empty seat and saw that the only one left was by the window in the centre. He tried hard not to scowl since the person right next to him happened to be someone he did not particularly like. Apparently, the feelings were mutual since Draco Malfoy’s face pinched up in obvious disgust when Ron sat down. Against his better judgement, Ron returned the dirty look while taking out his notes.

Discreetly, Ron took in Draco’s appearance. Draco really wasn’t a bad looking bloke. With his platinum blond hair parted in the middle, it gave his pale and pointed face a particular appeal that Ron found likeable. Draco wasn’t as tall as Ron, but he was tall enough, even if Ron thought he was a bit on the thin side. However, Ron did prefer the slender types over the bulky ones when it came to men, so Draco fit his aesthetic tastes.

Now, if only he’d wipe that ugly scowl off his face . . . he’d look a hundred times better! Ron thought, averting his gaze back to his notes.

He didn’t really know much about Draco. He only knew that Draco came from a much poorer household, and he only knew this because Pansy Parkinson, his ex-girlfriend from secondary school, was Draco’s best friend and had told him.

Yet even if he was from a poorer family, he sure acts more snobbish than any rich bloke I’ve run into!

Professor Vector’s voice interrupted his inner monologue, so he turned his attention to his favourite literature professor. “I hope everyone read Hemingway’s novel The Sun Also Rises. I’d like to get some thoughts on what you thought of the book. Mr Malfoy? What do you think?”

“Based on the novel’s text, Professor, I think Jake and the rest of the characters were rather pathetic in their meaningless approaches to the type of lives they led.”

Nodding, Professor Vector said, “They do seem that way, don’t they?”

“Yes. Jake is emasculated, Brett is a female player, Cohn is spineless, and Romero is too idealistic. They were all filled with faults, and I didn’t quite see what Hemingway was trying to portray in this novel.”

Ron listened to Draco’s explanation, and he realised Draco was obviously a follower of New Criticisms, someone who interpreted the writings just by the writings themselves, forsaking all other outside sources such as the writer’s biography and personal beliefs. Ron was the opposite of Draco, preferring to take stories and literature from a biographical approach. He liked to analyse stories by putting the author’s life into the story itself, and he felt it made his findings more fulfilling than just analysing the texts.

Ron decided to speak up with his counter argument against Draco. Normally he didn’t participate in classroom discussions, but today he was bored, so challenging Draco seemed like it would spice things up a bit. And if there’s one thing Ron was passionate about, it was literature — even if he didn’t look like the type.

“But what about the time period the story is set in?”

He felt everyone’s eyes on him. The eyes he felt the most were Draco’s, and he stared back with a smirk. Draco’s glare deepened, but Ron also saw something else in that steely gaze. Draco’s eyes held hostility, but deep within its challenging stare, he saw a hint of curiosity.

“What about the time period?” Draco asked irritably. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“The novel takes place after World War I, and during that time period many were disillusioned with life and decided to revoke the Victorian idealism they were taught. They were plunged into a world of darkness, and they were ‘lost’ in the sense of their purpose in life. That particular era is known as ‘The Lost Generation’, and that’s exactly what Hemingway tried to show in his novel,” Ron delivered unflinchingly, looking straight at Draco. Draco’s glare had been replaced with an unreadable expression, and Ron wondered what Draco was thinking now.

“What exactly is your point?”

“My point is that adding those outside factors help us see what Hemingway was trying to say in his novel.”

Professor Vector cleared her throat. “Both of you have raised good points. You two are schooled in two different literary approaches, and I welcome that. After all, what would be the purpose of literature if we could not have different opinions about the same work?”

She continued on with the discussion, asking other students’ input, and while the others droned on for a while, Ron glanced at Draco again. Their eyes met, and before Ron could say anything, Draco beat him to it.

“It’s amazing that a mere model is capable of higher thoughts than his appearance,” Draco hissed out softly. “Especially a weasel like you, Ronald Weasley. One wonders why you’re even at university.”

Ron responded to the bait in a lowered voice. “I happen to like literature, you good for nothing slimy git. And if we’re going to be judging each other, I must say I wonder how someone like you can even attend this university without some outstanding scholarship award.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Ron regretted them, but at the same time, he didn’t. He was more upset at how Draco bloody Malfoy had stereotyped him and treated him like an idiot.

“I refuse to continue this conversation. I wouldn’t want my intelligence to be tainted by talking to an imbecile like you,” Draco whispered angrily.

At that moment, Professor Vector dismissed the class. Before Ron could come up with a worthy retort, Draco packed up his belongings and stalked outside. Ron scowled deeply at the retreating figure, pissed off that he wasn’t able to insult the prick. Grumbling, he grabbed his own materials and left the classroom.

Deciding that he needed to rant at someone, he hoped to find Harry and Hermione at their usual meeting spot. The three of them liked to meet and hang out at an area they dubbed “the pavilion”. It was in a peaceful, tree-filled spot, and when the weather cooperated, they would study, eat, and talk at the benches and tables there.

Luck was with him. Harry was there reading his Secondary Education Methods text upside down with a distant expression. Hermione sat across from Harry and had all her law and politics books sprawled across the table with her head buried in one of the biggest books Ron had ever seen. Seeing his two best friends soothed his anger a bit, yet he still walked over to an empty spot and slammed his bag on the table.

“Ron! If you’re going to make an appearance, can you do so in a more civilised manner instead of acting like a prehistoric caveman?” Hermione exclaimed. “What’d you do? Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“He must have failed his literature course or something. He wasn’t like this when I saw him earlier,” Harry remarked, setting his text down on the table.

Ron ignored Hermione and decided to pick on Harry. “You do realise you’re reading that upside down?” He let out a laugh as Harry’s face turned red.

“Was I? I . . . I . . . didn’t realise.” Harry’s blushed turned redder.

“Was Lupin’s lecture that interesting?” Ron couldn’t help but tease Harry.

“Shut up!”

“Just remember to see him only after you’ve finished his course, Harry. You wouldn’t want a scandal to come out of this,” Hermione said matter-of-factly. “I don’t quite understand why you’d want to see him when he’s older than you by quite a few years.”

“Ten years is not that much older, Hermione!” Harry retorted. “Anyway, Ron, what’s bothering you?”

“Changing the subject, are we?” Ron teased a bit more and then explained the whole Draco situation to his friends. When he was done, he didn’t get the sympathetic responses from them that he’d expected.

Harry said it plain and simply. “While I think Malfoy acted terribly, I don’t think your statement was any better than his.”

Hermione, on the other hand, nearly talked his poor ears off. “Like Harry said, Draco sounds like someone with a bit of an attitude problem, but you Ronald Weasley? You don’t need to stoop to his level by saying something about his financial condition. I’m not quite sure why he acted that way to you considering how Pansy told me that he’s actually quite friendly, but he’s also quite horribly sarcastic to people he’s friends with. But that still doesn’t excuse your behaviour! You’re a much better person than that, so ignore him next time if he says something disrespectful. If you ignore him, he’ll ignore you, too.”

Exchanging a look with Harry, Ron said, “I feel sorry for the poor sod who has to listen to her legal lecture in a few years.”

“I do, too. Sometimes I wonder who can talk more — Hermione or Pansy?”

Ron scratched his chin, pretending to think about it. “That’s a tough call. I do know one thing. Whoever said opposites attract is dreadfully mistaken.”

“It would be interesting to see who would win in a legal–”

“Harry? Ron? Quit talking about me like I am not here!” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, why do I tolerate you two?”

Ron sniggered and reached out to hug her. “Because you love us, like we love you.”

“Thank goodness there are different kinds of love. I think I’d end up killing you two if both of you were my lovers.”

“Which would never happen since you’re the wrong gender,” Harry announced, adding, “no offence.”

“None taken,” Hermione answered. She glanced at her watch. “I’m starving. Since you two have been quite horrid to me the last fifteen minutes, you can do the food run.”

Harry nodded and Ron asked, “What do you want?”

“Grilled chicken salad with Italian dressing and some butterbeer.”

“We’ll be back,” Harry said.

The two left Hermione. On their way to the meal hall, they talked about football, with Ron ranting about his favourite team, the Chudley Cannons. As he talked with Harry, and then Hermione when they returned with the food, Ron’s anger about Draco became faint as his friends distracted him. They were joined by their friend Neville Longbottom briefly, and when it was time to attend their afternoon lectures, they all went in separate directions.

Consonance and Dissonance

A few days passed, and Ron found himself alone. All of his friends were currently in their respective lectures, and Ron didn’t have one until the evening. Bored, Ron wandered around the Ravenclaw area, wondering if he should get some extra studying done in the library. He quickly decided against that idea, muttering under his breath that Hermione was a bad influence on him.

Still, he wanted to do something, but he wasn’t sure what. He entered the music building, and there he heard something faint. It was a piano piece. One of the more famous ones, and it was one Ron could never remember the title or its composer.

“Lo Comp Nelly?” he mumbled to himself. He strained his ears to listen closer, and he slowly travelled to the source of the sound.

He found himself in a hallway full of practice rooms. Looking through the glassed doors, he saw that most were unoccupied except for one room in the middle. He went over there and saw someone playing that song. Coming to a halt, he stared at the person playing the piece. His jaw dropped opened. Sitting sideways to the door was none other than Draco Malfoy.

By then, Draco had started to play the crazy part of the song, and Ron could do nothing but stare. He stared at the pale hands and curved fingers that flew all over the black and white piano keys. His eyes took in Draco’s straight back, showcasing perfect posture. His gaze travelled to Draco’s face. Without the scowl, Draco did look good with his eyes closed and his face all relaxed. In fact, Draco looked really peaceful, and Ron could tell that this was Draco’s real passion.

Draco’s playing mesmerised and awed Ron. From his limited knowledge of music, he knew that this particular piece was not easy. To see someone like Draco perform and memorise it, he knew Draco had to be an exceptional pianist. When the song came to completion, Ron remained standing there.

I should leave before he sees me, Ron told himself. But he couldn’t move his feet. Instead, he watched Draco’s steel grey eyes open, and he watched Draco stand up quickly and yank on the door.

“What the fuck are you doing here? Are you spying on me, Weasel?”

Ron blinked, wondering why Draco acted so hostile before remembering their heated exchange a few days prior. “I was just passing through here. Is that a problem with you, Malfoy?”

Draco’s mouth lifted up into a sneer. “Then piss off and keep going!”

Before Draco could slam the door in his face, Ron spoke up. “What were you playing just now?”

“Why do you care? It’s not like a plebeian like you could differentiate the great classics from the drivel you call pop music,” Draco said, his eyes narrowing.

Now, it was Ron’s turn to frown. “Why are you such a wanker? Why do you call me a ‘plebeian’? It’s people like you who alienate those who want to try to get into the so-called ‘great classics’! I just want to know because I want to finally get the title right and know the composer, too.”

Draco’s face turned blank before asking, “What do you mean ‘finally get the title right’?”

Ron grinned sheepishly. “I call it ‘Lo Comp Nelly’, but I have a feeling that’s not the correct name.”

“You’re definitely correct. That is most certainly not the title!” Draco snorted before resuming his characteristic scowl. “It’s ‘La Campanella’ by Franz Liszt.”

Ron was about to thank Draco, but the scowl made him swallow it. “I see.”

“Yes, now you are about a millimetre smarter than two seconds ago. Now, don’t make me repeat myself. Piss off!”

Draco slammed the door hard, making it rattle. Ron stared at the closed door and muttered, “Prat.”

He adjusted his bag and continued down the hallway. He heard the piano playing resume, and this time he recognised the tune. “Moonlight Sonata” by Beethoven. Draco Malfoy, I am not a plebeian, and I will shove that statement back in your mouth one of these days!

Ron continued his way through the building. Outside, he ran into Luna Lovegood, a friend who was studying to be a zoologist and one of the biggest classical music aficionados he knew.

“Hello, Ron,” Luna replied in her absent-minded manner. “How are things?”

“I had a door slammed in my face by a huge prick. Otherwise, nothing is new.”

“Oh? How big was the prick?”

Ron stared at Luna, wondering if Luna had taken his statement literally. “Uh . . . ”

She interrupted him. “While we are on that subject, I have to show you and the others the most fascinating thing I’ve encountered. It’s this new National Geographic show about the sexual activities amongst some of the largest mammals in the world.”

“Er . . . ” An image of two elephants having sex came into his mind, and Ron closed his eyes tight to erase the unwanted mental picture. “Maybe some other time . . . Luna? Do you have a CD with Liszt’s ‘La Campa . . . nell’?”

“‘La Campanella’?”

Ron nodded.

“I don’t have it with me, but . . . ” She dug through her bag, pulled out a piece of paper, and jotted something down. “Here. Look for this CD in the library. Along with ‘La Campanella’, this CD has works by Schubert, Chopin, and Beethoven. It’s one of my favourite CDs to listen to when I study. A lot of these pieces should sound familiar.”

“Thanks.”

Luna smiled dreamily. “No problem.”

“You’re a doll!”

They parted, and Ron decided to go to the library after all. After finding the CD without any problems, he pulled out his laptop and his headphones, and he listened to the beautiful piano pieces as he did some studying. However, he ran into one slight problem. He couldn’t get rid of the vision of Draco Malfoy at the piano. It was as if that image was burned into his mind, and like a stubborn itch, it would not go away. Having “La Campanella” on loop probably didn’t help his predicament, but he continued to listen to the piece as he tried to read “The Wasteland” by T.S. Eliot.

When he went to his modern poetry lecture that evening, he blamed Draco bloody Malfoy for being unprepared. He simply didn’t care about whether April was the cruellest month or whether Madame Sosostris had a bad cold!

Whimsicality

“You know, Ron,” Pansy said, sipping on her glass of wine, “while I’m glad you and I are having supper together, I don’t appreciate your head being up in the clouds all night long!”

“Huh? What? Say again?” Ron looked up from his Filet Mignon.

Pansy sniffed, “Very eloquent. I don’t understand how a famous model can act so churlish.”

He rolled his eyes at Pansy’s predictable insults. “You want me to prance and preen like a self-absorbed git?”

“Don’t be such a boor. Honestly, I can’t believe we were ever together.” They had been together briefly in year eleven before both had realised they much preferred their own genders to each others.

Ron sniggered. “We would have killed each other by now.”

“Correction. You’d have been castrated, and I would have been fine the way I am.”

Pansy’s statement reminded him of the discussion of The Sun Also Rises, and that in turn made him think of Draco for the hundredth time since that encounter in the music building. He thought about those slender hands, wondering how they’d fit with his. He remembered those sneering lips, and he pondered on whether the lips were soft in contrast to the harsh words that always left them. An image of Draco staring back at him with half-closed eyes caused him to smile.

“Wipe that goofy, idiotic grin off your face and tell me what has possessed you.” Pansy’s sarcastic voice snapped him out of his musing, and he blushed in embarrassment.

“It’s nothing,” Ron said, knowing it was futile, and that Pansy would badger him until he told her. However, he decided to try to stall it as long as he could.

“Who is it?”

“What?”

She gave him an exasperated look. “I’ve seen that look on your face once when you were infatuated with Orlando Bloom as Legolas, especially after the first film. Who are you crushing on now?”

Ron stared at Pansy as if she had grown horns on her head. Infatuated? Crushing? Was that what had afflicted him? Had he gone mad and developed some sort of a strange and fascinating . . . crush on Draco Malfoy?! I think I’ve lost my bloody mind.

“You look as if you had just realised you were crushing on this mysterious person.”

Ron groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You can say that again.”

“Oh?” Pansy giggled. “I knew you were dense, but not this much.”

“Hush, Pansy dear.” Ron set his hands down and looked at her. “It’s rather complicated. I find this person to be the most annoying little turd I’ve ever run into, but something about him affects me. Ow!”

Pansy had kicked him in the shin. Her eyes gleamed dangerously when she said, “Ron? If you don’t tell me who this turd is, I will kick you in the crotch next. I’m wearing stilettos right now, so it will be more painful than regular heels!”

Ignoring his throbbing leg, he scowled at her. “You’re evil.”

“One crotch kick coming up.”

“Okay, okay! It’s your best mate.”

Her pert lips turned into an “O” shape as she now stared at him as if he had grown three noses. “Not Draco Malfoy.”

He grimly nodded, knowing he’d fully regret telling her this titbit. “Yes, him. Ow!” She had kicked his other leg. “What was that for?!”

“For calling my best friend a ‘turd’.”

“He is! He has a horrible personality!” he protested, wondering how he’d gotten himself into this mess. “I know he’s your best friend, but he will never win the congeniality award in my book.”

She sighed. “Well, he’s just naturally like that, but he’s a sweetheart when you get to know him.”

“Is that really Draco Malfoy you’re talking about?” Ron asked, giving her a wary look.

She tossed him an irritated expression. “Yes. Now, do explain this sudden madness in your claim of having a crush on him. And do make it short. I don’t have all night to play love counsellor with you.”

Back in their younger days, Ron would have petulantly stuck his tongue out at her, but he refrained from doing so — mostly because he didn’t want that crotch kick. He’d already been kicked there once for pissing her off, and he did not want to experience that again.

“Well, he and I are in that modern novel course, and he’s always scowling for whatever reason. We clashed in our literary discussion, and we exchanged some insults. A few days later, I saw him playing the piano, and since then I can’t seem to get him out of my head.”

“Hm.”

“That’s all you can say?”

“Of course not! I was just trying to sort this out before I responded to you.” She picked up her knife, and Ron eyed it as a dangerous weapon. Fortunately for him, she sliced her meat into smaller pieces. “It sounds like you’re in the whole ‘there’s a fine line between love and hate’ situation.”

“Wha–?”

Pansy interrupted him. “You two are quite different from one another, the most obvious difference being your social classes, but at the same time, you two are quite similar. In fact, if you do get together with him, you have my approval, but hurt him and you die. And I can tell from that expression on your face that you have no idea what I’m talking about except for the threat. This is all I’m going to say. You figure out the rest yourself!”

“Pan–”

“We’re going to talk about something else, and one of these days you will thank me for my method since it will hopefully transform you into a smarter human being. Now, be a gentleman for once and please refill my wine glass.” Pansy picked up her empty glass and extended it towards him.

Shaking his head and laughing at Pansy’s concluding sentences, he humoured her by pouring her some wine. For the remainder of their meal, they talked about something else, but Ron couldn’t concentrate very well since Draco remained in the back of his mind.

Hopelessly Zany

For the next few days, he thought about his so-called crush on Draco, and he tried to figure out why he felt that way towards the standoffish git. Alone in his flat, he sat at his comfortable sofa in the sitting room and stared at the blank telly. Confused about his feelings, he compiled a list, something he did whenever he couldn’t figure out a problem, and this always helped him.

Logical Reasons Why I “Like” Draco Malfoy

1. He’s fit — when he’s not scowling like a madman.
2. He’s a great piano player who enjoys performing.
3. Despite his rude personality, he’s intelligent — just in a different way.
4. If he’s anything like Pansy, he probably has a very wry sense of humour, only more sarcastic.
5. He’s blond. I like blond guys, and appearance-wise, he’s my type.
6. He’s unlike anyone I know, except for maybe Pansy.
7. I like his hands. Piano player’s hands apparently strike my fancy . . .
8. I think I’m running out of reasons.
9. I must be masochistic to want be with a guy like him.
10. I would like to shut his mouth up with mine, to prevent those lips from spouting insults at me.

After the last reason, he set his pen down and stared at what he’d written down. In the beginning, he had tried to stay objective, but somewhere along the line, he had unconsciously shifted into his stream-of-consciousness mode. The list made him question his own sanity for the umpteenth time since he’d met Draco.

Writing down the list did not help him figure his dilemma out, and that depressed him. He slipped the list into his modern poetry text, and he went back to staring at the telly, contemplating whether he should turn it on or not.

Instead, he stood up and turned his stereo on, and the sounds of Chopin filled the room as he sat back on the sofa. Slumping against the plush material, he thought about Draco. Instead of trying to figure out why he liked Draco, he decided to follow his instincts and focus on trying to get Draco to say something that wasn’t an insult.

Trying to formulate a strategy to win Draco wasn’t an easy task. He spent all day and night struggling to come up with something that wouldn’t end up with them in a screaming match, but Ron remained stumped for hours. Finally, at three in the ruddy morning, he decided to forget about an attack plan — and just try to talk to Draco in a civil manner — and see where that’d take him.

The next day, Ron overslept, and he blamed his alarm clock, Draco Malfoy, himself, and Draco Malfoy.

Forsaking his morning caffeine and breakfast, Ron quickly showered and threw on his favourite Chudley Cannons tee over a pair of jeans. Glad that he lived in Hogsmeade, the university town within walking distance of Hogwarts University, he ran all the way to his discussion session. He barely managed to make it and slipped into the empty seat next to Draco.

“Whew!” he said, ignoring the death glare from his neighbour. He then looked at Draco the Grouch. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” said the owner of the death glare in a very curt voice.

At least he returned the greeting. Even with that unfriendly face, he still said it. Ron readied himself while he figured out what to say next. He said the first thing that popped in his mind.

“Do you ever smile? Or is that frown permanently etched on your face?”

“I smile — just not for morons like you,” Draco answered, disdain dripping from his voice.

Ron actually let out a laugh, most likely from nervousness. “I’m glad you think so highly of me.”

He watched the way Draco’s frown shifted from a hostile one to one that was filled with curiosity. “Why are you talking to me?”

“Can’t a bloke be friendly?”

“Yes, if they want something.”

Ron mentally paused. While he technically did want something from Draco, he also wanted to try to be friends with him first, and trying to cross that first hurdle proved to be rather difficult. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“Liar.”

“Oh?” He lifted an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

“Because you’re not like me. Now, kindly leave me alone.”

Before he could respond, Professor Vector started the lecture. Ron half-listened as he thought about Draco’s answer. Did Draco mean their social class differences? Sure, Ron was wealthier than your average person, but Ron was taught to accept and like someone for their personality, not whether or not they were rich or poor. Ron actually despised people who flaunted their financial assets, which was why he preferred to hang out with the regular “middle-class” people rather than the snooty upper-class people he could mingle with on a daily basis. Didn’t Draco know who he socialised with? He had to know that Ron was friends with Pansy at least.

Draco was turning out to be a bigger enigma than he’d anticipated. Ron didn’t know whether to be thrilled or discouraged. He tried to take the former approach, telling himself that Draco was like a challenge, and Ronald Weasley never backed away from a challenge!

Yet he knew he had to try to take a different approach. He again searched for an idea, but nothing good came to him. When he ran into Draco, though, a few days later, at the local coffee house in Hogsmeade, an idea struck him.

He purposely chose a seat near Draco. He pulled out the latest novel they were supposed to read, and he saw that Draco was reading some music history text. Suddenly, he began to hum one of the many Chopin pieces he’d been enjoying.

A few bars in, Draco interrupted. “Will you stop that inane humming?”

Ron gave him an innocent look. “You don’t like Chopin’s ‘Nocturne in E-flat Major’, opus nine, number two?”

“You actually know the title of what you’re humming?” Draco’s incredulous expression nearly tipped Ron into a laughing fest. Oh, if only he had a camera right about now to snap that face.

He kept his own face neutral, though, and answered, “Sure. I found a CD filled with all these piano pieces, including ‘La Campanella’.” He emphasised the title with a smirk.

Draco shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I don’t know whether I should be impressed at your newly gained knowledge or be disgusted at your off-key humming. The way you were humming sounded like a butchered ‘Nocturne in C-sharp Major’.”

“Hey, not everybody can have perfect pitch!” Ron defended himself.

“That is true.” Draco gave Ron a thoughtful look. “Maybe you’re not as ignorant a plebeian as you look.”

He’s insulting me with a compliment. I guess I should be grateful for the slight approval? Ron cleared his throat and asked, “So what course of study are you going for?”

Draco didn’t answer immediately. Ron felt Draco’s gaze on him as if Draco was studying an interesting specimen. Eventually, Draco relaxed a notch and said, “I’m doing a double course in literature and music — piano performance more specifically.”

Success! I broke down that icy barrier of his! Ron nodded. “Well, I’ve seen and heard your piano skills, and it’s great that you’re going to study what you enjoy.”

“Enjoy?”

“Why, yes. You enjoy playing, don’t you? That’s what it looked like to me.”

“Hm.” Draco set his textbook down. “You’re correct in your judgement. I do enjoy the piano.”

“Do you play anything else?”

“I can play the trumpet, but not as well. I’ll always prefer the piano over that.”

“At least you’re very musically inclined. I tried to learn the cello, but I didn’t really enjoy it. I almost wanted to bash my instructor — my brother, Percy — with it on more than one occasion.”

Draco snorted.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just hard to imagine you of all people trying to learn self-discipline through the cello.”

Ron grinned. “You’re right on that, but I do enjoy literature and chess.”

“Why literature?” Draco asked with a curious tone. That surprised Ron since he expected Draco to be condescending towards him.

“I like literature because I can extract a lot from it. All its simplicities and complexities are quite fascinating for me.”

“There’s nothing simple about literature, Weasley. If you’re really serious about it, then you should know that.”

Ron leaned back in his seat and put his hands behind his head, looking at Draco with a serious expression. “But literature can be simple. I think sometimes people who study literature try to over-analyse a piece of work. Some works are meant to be simple, but we prod it to death, trying to find a hidden message or something complex about it.”

“Hm.” Draco gave Ron an interested look. “Give me an example.”

“You want an example? Okay, have you heard of the American poet William Carlos Williams?”

“Of course, but I haven’t really read any of his poetry.” Draco shook his head, his blond fringe falling into his face. Ron had to resist his inner temptation of reaching out to brush the strands out of the way.

“Well, here’s a poem called ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’ and it goes like this:

so much depends
upon

beside the white
chickens.”

Draco listened and took a minute to respond. “That’s . . . an interesting poem.”

“It is. You can analyse it to death and try to figure out its meaning, but it’s actually really simple. It’s only a mere observation of a wheelbarrow in the rain next to a bunch of white chickens. It’s simply told from a poet’s perspective. This is when your preferred ‘New Criticism’ method works, actually.”

“Mmm.” Draco cocked his head to the side. “Perhaps you’re not a plebeian, after all.”

Score! Ron smiled widely. “I’m glad I’ve been promoted in your rankings.”

“I do not have a ranking system.”

“Well, at least I am no longer ranked as a ‘plebeian’. What am I now?”

Draco let out a snigger. “I’d say you’re now a certified moron.”

“Ouch! You’re so cruel.”

“Naturally.”

“I guess I should call you ‘master’.” Ron stretched and then looked over at Draco with a lazy smile. Half-serious and half-jokingly, he asked, “So, Master Malfoy, would you be kind enough to join me for some supper later?”

“Supper?” Draco’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Are you asking me on a date?”

He certainly goes straight to the point. “Yes, I am.” Ron felt his insides swirling in nervousness. Why the fuck am I nervous? I’ve asked blokes out before, so this is nothing new. What makes him so different?

Draco stayed silent, the frown still on his face. “Is this a joke?”

Ron shook his head. “No, I am not joking.”

“You can’t possibly have come to the strange conclusion that you like me. Have you gone mad?”

“Well, I can be mad, but I haven’t gone daft if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Hm.” Draco appraised Ron. “I . . . I don’t see any reason to decline–”

“It’ll be my treat!” Ron interrupted. “I know of this great Indian restaurant nearby. Do you like curry . . . ” Ron stopped at the glare on Draco’s face.

“I have other plans. Find someone else to be your boy toy of the month!” Draco stiffly said, packing his stuff up as quickly as he could. “I’m quite busy.” With that final statement, Ron was left staring at Draco’s quick departure with his mouth hanging open.

What the fuck? We were actually getting along all right, he was almost close to accepting the invitation, and then he just decides to storm away as if I’m suddenly struck with an incurable disease! For the next hour, Ron remained there, unable to move as he slowly recovered from the stinging rejection.

Conniving Strategy

“Ronald Weasley, you’re an idiot.”

“Pansy, stop insulting me and explain to me what the hell I did wrong.”

Pansy walked around in Ron’s kitchen, opened up the fridge, and wrinkled her nose at all the butterbeer and real beer in there. “Don’t you have any juice?”

“Do you want me to run to the store and buy some?”

“Never mind. I’ll just stick with water.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Anyway, don’t change the subject! What did I do?”

“You haven’t figured it out?”

Growling, Ron leaned against the counter and gave her a dirty look. “I haven’t! That’s why I’m asking you. That’s why I invited you over here today! I’ve been going around in circles since Friday trying to figure this out.”

“Maybe I should let you run around in circles more. It’s only been two days.”

“Pansy!”

“Will you calm down? Your complaining is giving me a headache!” She grabbed a glass of water and shoved a butterbeer at him. “Now, let’s go talk on the sofa instead of standing around here.”

“Fine.”

She led the way to the sofa, and once there, she took a sip of her water. Setting her glass down, she turned to Ron contemplatively. “First of all, you’re dense.”

“You’ve established and reminded me of that about a million times now.”

Pansy tapped her manicured fingers on the plush sofa. “Also, be glad I’m in a generous mood. I could let you wallow in your self-pity for hours, but I’ll tell you what the problem is.”

Ron stayed silent, knowing that Pansy would answer at her own pace.

“Your mistake was asking him to supper and offering to treat him.”

Ron blinked at her, not expecting that response. “What?”

Pansy let out an exasperated sigh. “Your mistake was asking him to supper–”

“I’m not deaf. I heard you correctly the first time.”

“Good.”

No further explanation came, so Ron asked, “How is it a mistake to ask him for a meal?”

“. . . And to think I thought you had figured it out.”

“Figure what out exactly? I don’t get it. He seemed okay with the supper idea!”

“It’s the second part that became your mistake.”

Ron tried to work out Pansy’s vague statements, and then it hit him like ice cold water splashing on him. “Wait, he was offended that I offered to buy him supper?!”

“Congratulations. You’re finally on the right track.” Pansy raised her water glass at him, taking another slow sip.

“Why?!”

“Why what?”

“Why was he offended?”

Pansy looked at him strangely. “Ron. Everyone has their pride.”

“Hold on a second. Draco Malfoy was upset because I offered to pay for the food? Because of his pride?”

“Yes. He doesn’t like it when people look at him as a charity case.”

“But I wasn’t doing this out of charity!” Ron spluttered. He then paused as he recalled something else Draco had said. “Don’t tell me he thought I wanted to buy him supper and expected us to have sex that night. Do I really look like the type to get a boy toy every month?!”

Shaking her head, Pansy said, “No. You don’t. But I imagine that’s how he surmised this unexpected turn of events.”

“Un-bloody-fucking-believable. I . . . I didn’t think anyone would ever look at me that way.”

“Well,” Pansy continued. He could see her trying to be more tactful than usual. “You’re rich. He’s not. You’re a famous model. He’s just a regular university student. I’m not saying he has low self-esteem, but if you were in his shoes, and some handsome, rich model approached you like that, wouldn’t you come to the same conclusion?”

Pansy’s words struck a goldmine as he finally understood the crux of the situation. “You’re right. As usual.”

“Of course.” She smiled prettily at him. “So what are you going to do now?”

Ron sighed and thought through his options. He felt like he was in a foreign land, unsure of his next move. With any normal bloke, he’d know the right strategies to approach this problem, but with Draco his mind refused to help him. “I’m really not sure,” he admitted. “If you can offer some advice, I’d really appreciate it.”

Pansy looked as if she’d refuse and tell him to figure it out for himself, but she probably took pity on him and said, “Tango.”

“Tango?”

“Draco likes tango. Aside from piano and literature. Approach him. Tell him you want to learn. Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt to apologise, too.”

Ron’s face lit up. “Pansy, you’re an absolute dear! And since I already know how to swing dance, tango will not be a problem!”

Pansy started to laugh loudly.

“What’s so funny?”

She quickly recovered and said, “You will learn soon enough that swing dance and tango are two different dances. Just because you know one dance doesn’t mean you will easily master another. But I think since you already know swing, you should be able to transition into tango smoother than a beginner.”

“I’ll keep that in mind!”

“And I wish you luck.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I must run. Hermione will be out of her philosophy lecture soon. You know how she gets after being in the same room with Professor Trelawney for six hours.”

Ron sniggered. “Why did she sign up for Trelawney’s philosophy course again?”

“Because she wants to argue with Trelawney on every little thing.”

“That’s Hermione.”

“Anyway, tango, Ron. Don’t fuck it up.”

“I won’t. Thanks for your help.” Ron hugged her, and after she left, he began to plan a new strategy to win Draco and his surliness over.

Deliberation

When Ron walked into his modern novel lecture, he dragged himself to his seat. He hadn’t been able to come up with any good strategy that he found worthy of his time, and like before, that really depressed him. Planning had never been his forte; he’d always been the more spontaneous type — except when it came to chess.

Ron tried to come up with some sort of a plan, any plan. However, he still hadn’t come up with anything remotely good by the time Draco arrived. Ron could feel Draco’s presence, and Ron took the risk to glance at him. A stormy face greeted his vision, and Ron had kind of expected it. In a normal situation, Ron would have given his own dirty look, yet this wasn’t a normal situation. Instead, he gave Draco a bright smile, a smile that threw Draco for a loop, judging by the surprised expression.

Since their discussion session had yet to start, Draco hissed out, “What’s with the grin?”

Ron continued to smile, realising that it bothered Draco. “Because I’m happy to see you.”

“Bollocks.”

“Not really.” Ron let out a sigh. “Look, I . . . I’m sorry about the other day. I really didn’t mean to offend you in any manner. I only wanted to . . . to . . . be generous.”

Draco’s glare lessened slightly. “You know, Weasley, that’s the lamest apology I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“Then does that mean you accept it?” Ron asked, looking at him hopefully.

There was a heavy pause as Ron felt himself being scrutinised by Draco’s grey eyes. Slowly, Draco drawled, “Let me think about it.”

It took every ounce of Ron’s willpower to not beam like a fool at that proclamation. Luckily, Professor Vector walked in, and Ron happily readied himself for the discussion session. After an interesting analysis about Virginia Woolf, E.M. Forster, and other Bloomsbury Group members, Ron quickly packed his belongings.

“Are you done thinking about accepting my apology?” Ron saw Draco’s stoic face, and he felt a sinking feeling deep inside of him. But he saw a faint glint in Draco’s eyes. A glint of mischief?

“I don’t know . . . ”

Ron barged on with, “Then teach me tango!” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realised that he sounded pretty dumb.

Draco most likely agreed since he sniggered at Ron’s outburst. “You? Tango?”

“Oi! I can swing dance pretty good!”

“Well.”

Ron blinked. “What?”

“It’s ‘well’, not ‘good,” Draco explained with an amused expression.

“Oh, forgive me, ol’ Master of the English language,” Ron retorted lightly. “Anyway, I know how to swing dance, and I was wondering if you could teach me how to tango.”

“How do you know about me knowing tango?” Draco looked suspicious, yet curious. Ron noticed that while Draco’s face said one thing, his eyes said another, and Ron made a mental note of that observation.

He was about to say “Pansy” when he remembered something Pansy would always say. “A gentleman never reveals his secrets!”

“Sassy,” Draco answered and rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. You hang around with Pansy Parkinson.”

“Uh . . . ” Ron wondered if he was that obvious. He rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. “What would you do if I say yes?”

“What can I do? Yell at you?” Draco reached out to open the building’s exit. He squinted at the sudden brightness of the sun. “I can’t very well judge you for being close friends with her.” He paused before continuing, “She has mentioned you a few time.”

“Knowing her, she probably makes me sound like a prat,” Ron said affectionately.

“Indeed, she does.” Draco stopped walking and turned to look at Ron. “Do you really want to learn tango or do you just want to get laid?”

Ron was a bit surprised at Draco’s frankness, but years of being friend’s with Pansy allowed him to say smoothly, “Honestly, both. However, I also do want to get to know you. I’ve developed this crush, more or less, on you, and I found that you’re quite interesting, despite your sarcastic tendencies.”

“Are all models this good at bullshitting?”

“I suppose. Why else would I study and analyse literature?” Ron smiled at Draco’s raised eyebrows.

“Hm. Fine. I’ll show you how to tango. Just remember it’s not the same thing as swing.”

“Pansy already educated me on that fact.”

Draco nodded. “Not surprising. She tried to learn tango from me, but she was rather unfit for that type of dance. Swing suits her more.” He narrowed his eyes at Ron. “Don’t tell her I told you this.”

Putting a hand over his heart, he said, “I solemnly swear to keep my trap shut about this revelation since I’d like to keep my crotch stiletto-free.”

“Oh, for the love of . . . never mind. You know the dance room on campus? Come there on Thursday around six in the evening. Will that work?”

“Perfect.”

With one last nod, Draco left Ron. Ron waited until Draco was out of sight before he let out a whoop and pumped his arms in the air. “Yes!” Despite his lack of plans, things had turned out better than he had anticipated. Happy and satisfied, he decided he should get Pansy a gift of gratitude. However, he let out a loud groan as he remembered how picky she could be. Choosing a gift will take him days.

Oh well. At least that will keep me occupied until Thursday!

Fuck. Pansy and Draco were right. Tango is bloody different from swing!

Ron had been warned about this, but he still had the impression that it couldn’t be that difficult to transition into tangoing. They already had three sessions, and so far he had stepped on Draco’s feet about a thousand times, stumbled a hundred times, and bumped and crashed into Draco a million times. Ron felt like a tall, gawky teenager again, making him wonder if all of his coordination skills had left him.

On the other hand, Ron enjoyed it! The best part about all of this was that he was able to hold Draco very close to him. This gave him the knowledge of how well Draco fit with him. Draco’s height and body shape moulded perfectly against his own body, and he liked that feeling. Still, all these close encounters left him aroused on a regular basis, and Ron found his right hand to be his best friend the past couple of weeks. Each time Ron wanked himself in pleasure, he would recall Draco’s fine blond hair, Draco’s long-fingered pianist hands in his larger ones, and Draco’s special scent that reminded him of sandalwood and cedar.

Whenever he was around Draco, though, he would put those naughty thoughts aside and appreciate the opportunities he had with Draco.

“You’re a wee bit less crap than the last session,” Draco admitted as they danced around the room. “You’ve stepped on my toes about ten times less than before.”

“Thanks.” Ron knew that this was Draco’s way of complimenting him, and he’d take what he could get!

“Let me switch CDs.” Draco let go of Ron, and Ron immediately felt the loss of Draco’s warmth. He contemplated wrapping his arms around Draco from behind, but his arms remained at his side as he waited.

A familiar sounding song came on, its melody resonating off the walls. “I’ve heard this before. I think it was on Schindler’s List.”

Draco nodded. “Carlos Gardel’s ‘Por Una Cabeza’.”

“Ah.” Ron had wanted to say more, but Draco had come back and moved him into the dance position, so Ron’s voice refused to work as he busied himself concentrating on the moves.

“That’s it . . . I think you’re finally understanding it,” Draco said softly, his usual sarcastic tone absent.

Ron couldn’t say anything. His mouth had gone dry, and with Draco so close to him, he had to fight down the urge to lean even closer to kiss the pouty lips that liked to spout insults at him. As they danced around the room, he managed to keep his concentration, and when the song came to an end, Ron’s vocal abilities came back to him. “That was . . . nice.” Well, some vocal abilities.

Draco smirked at him. “Congratulations. You have managed to dance a whole song without bruising my poor feet.” Draco tilted his head back to look up at Ron, making Ron’s breath hitch in his throat.

“Mmm.” Ron stared at those lips again.

“The song has ended. You can release me now.”

“What if,” Ron’s voice came out huskily, “I don’t want to?”

Draco’s eyes darkened, and Ron wasn’t sure if it was from anger or something else. “You don’t want to, huh?”

“No.”

“You look like you want to do something dangerous to me.”

“You’d consider a kiss dangerous?”

Draco didn’t say anything for a while as he cocked his head to the side. “It depends.”

“On?” Ron’s hands had somehow found themselves on Draco’s slim waist, and he let them stay there comfortably.

“Well . . . ” Draco looked off to the side, his hands now on Ron’s broad shoulders. “It depends on the person.”

“Am I that person?” Ron asked, pulling Draco closer, their hips bumping and meeting each other.

“Perhaps.” Draco’s voice came out in a whisper, and Ron almost missed that response.

Wordlessly, Ron bent down and gently kissed Draco’s forehead. He heard Draco’s soft intake of breath, and that broke whatever spell that had a hold of him. He let go and stepped back. “Sorry.”

“You’re an idiot, Weasley.”

Ron looked up, almost ready to yell his own insults at him, but he stilled when he saw the serious look on Draco’s face and the lust-filled eyes. “Ron.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s Ron. And you’re Draco.”

“Fine, Ron. If you’re going to kiss me or do something next time, grow some balls.”

Ron was not going to let Draco, the master of sarcasm, win. “Is that an invitation?”

“You figure that out.” Ron watched Draco grab his stuff. “But for now, I need to get going. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“All right.” Draco left first, and Ron was alone in the vast dance room. He reached up to touch his lips, which still tingled from its brief meeting with Draco’s forehead. He darted his tongue out, and he could almost taste Draco on his lips. That mere thought turned him on, and he decided that he should head home, too. His destination was plain and simple. The showers. He had a date with his right hand again.

Ruminative

Ron was in heaven the next two weeks as he met with Draco on a regular basis, aside from seeing him in their lectures. Sometimes Draco would appear to have lunch with him, leaving Ron giddy with excitement and happiness. Often they would study and discuss literary topics for their courses. These meetings usually occurred in the library, and their discussions would turn into heated debates, leading them both to be kicked out by the librarians. Then there were the tango lessons, which Ron looked forward to the most. Any excuse to have an armful of Draco Malfoy for brief periods of time was good with him!

However, Ron didn’t advance any further in their relationship, and Draco didn’t either. Ever since that “forehead kiss” incident, as he dubbed it, Ron decided to take this new relationship slow. Not wanting to botch this fragile situation up, Ron followed his gut instincts and tried not to make any move that would enrage or piss Draco off.

Then again, maybe he was taking it too slow. He came to that conclusion when Draco had said, “Are you always this much of a gentleman?”

That threw Ron off-kilter, but he quickly recovered by saying, “Of course! I’d like to prove to you that I’ve had a decent upbringing.”

Draco responded by lifting his eyebrows at that statement, and nothing else was said about it. However, Ron noticed that Draco’s scowl had been steadily replaced by a smirk — Draco’s version of a smile as he’d discovered.

It was after one of their tango lessons that Draco said, “My mother wants to meet you. Her exact words were ‘I want to meet the man who’s courting my son and see whether he’s good enough or not’. She invited you for supper tonight. Will you come?”

When Ron heard “courting”, he wanted to jump for joy. At least Draco saw them as some sort of a strange couple, even if they might not exactly act like one! But then he saw that Draco looked really stiff and uncomfortable, making Ron wonder if Draco was in a defensive mode in case Ron had decided to reject the offering. “Sure,” he said smoothly. “I’d love to meet your mum. What about your dad?”

Draco’s face turned blank. “He’s dead. He died in a car accident when I was young.”

“Oh.” Open mouth and insert seven feet dosed in a pile of dung. Ron wished he had more tact. In fact, he vaguely remembered Pansy mentioning this little fact in the past, but he had forgotten. “I, er, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. It’s old news.” Draco waved a hand around. “Let me call her and let her know. Then I have a lecture. I’ll meet you at the campus entrance at six?”

“Six sounds great.” Ron reached out to hug him, but Draco had already turned around and was leaving. By himself, Ron muttered, “Darn. I’ll have to work on my reflexes a bit more.”

Realising that he was running late, he ran to his next lecture, but he might have well skipped it since he couldn’t focus on the lecture at all. A mixture of excitement and nervousness all jam-packed itself inside of him as he wondered how the “meet the mum” meal would turn out. Doodling on the paper, he listed down all the etiquettes he’d been driven to learn as a child.

Etiquettes and Techniques to Prove to Mrs Malfoy That I am Good Enough for Her Son 1. Give her flowers? Or wine? Give her something, at least, to thank her for the supper invite.
2. Thank her for the invitation verbally. Tell her it’s a pleasure to meet her — even if it might not be.
3. Keep elbows off the tables. Chew with my mouth closed. Speak only when it’s appropriate.
4. Tell her that the meal was wonderful — even if tasted like shite.
5. Try to convince her politely that I do like her son and that I find him to be someone special. Needs to be done verbally and through body language.
6. Offer to help with the dishes. She’ll probably shoo me away but offer nonetheless.
7. Do not bring in mud from outside. Or something like that. I think I’m running out of ideas. Argh!

Needless to say, Ron felt like a nervous wreck when the lecture ended. He practically flew across the campus to the Hufflepuff section, bypassing the yellow math and science buildings, and he ran straight for the greenhouses. There he almost crashed into Neville.

“Nev,” he panted. “I need flowers.”

“Flowers? Looks like you need an oxygen tank more than flowers.” Neville had been trimming some bonsai trees when Ron had interrupted. “Why the sudden need for flowers?”

“I’ve been invited to supper, courtesy of Draco Malfoy’s mother, hence the flowers.”

“I see.” Neville moved away from the bonsai and headed towards the back where the roses were. “How about dark pink roses? These would be perfect for your purpose.”

Ron blinked. “Uh, I suppose?”

Neville chucked lightly. “I’m guessing you’re not familiar with floriography.”

“Is that a new form of calligraphy?”

Ron scowled as Neville’s snigger turned into a full-blown laugh. “No, no! It’s a technical term that means ‘language of flowers’. Most people don’t really know it, but it was popular around the Victorian-era. You know how red roses symbolise passion? Well, dark pink roses mean ‘gratitude’.”

“Ah. If that’s the case, then dark pink roses are perfect, Nev.” Ron pondered on this brief lesson of floriography. “I might look more into this subject. I love studying symbolism.”

“It’s neat stuff.” Neville bustled around the greenhouse. Ron watched as Neville cut the roses, trimmed off the thorns and the leaves, gathered other flowers that he didn’t know the names of, and arranged them neatly into a beautiful bouquet, finishing it up with a nice bow. “Here you go.”

Ron accepted the flowers and said, “Brilliant, Nev! I owe you one!”

“Nothing to it. You don’t need to owe me anything.”

“Oh, but I want to do something special — oh!” Setting the flowers down carefully on the nearby table, he took his wallet out and pulled out two tickets. “Someone gave me four tickets to this orchestral concert next month. Balcony seats and everything. I’m planning to ask Draco to go with me since he’s into that sort of stuff, but you take these two and invite Luna!”

“Luna?”

“Yes. Luna Lovegood. I happen to know she likes classical music.”

Neville looked rather panicky. “I, er, I can’t!”

Ron frowned. “Why not?”

“She’ll never accept . . . accept this.”

“Yes, she will.”

“But–!”

“Nev! Grow some bollocks and just ask!”

Ron watched the way Neville’s cheek turned red. “Can’t you ask for me?”

“Nev. You’re the one who likes her. Just try–”

“Neville?” Luna’s dreamy voice drifted inside as she came into the greenhouse. “Oh. Hello, Ron!”

Forcing himself not to smile like a fool at this coincidence, Ron grabbed the flowers and gave Neville a pointed look. Leaving the tickets on the table, he said, “I must run. I’ll talk to you two later!”

As nonchalantly as possible, he left the greenhouse, but not before he heard a stuttering voice saying, “Luna, would you like to go to this concert?”

At six o’clock on the dot, Ron was at the entrance. Anxious and jittery, he paced around the gate. When he saw Draco in the far distance, he forced himself to look normal as much as possible.

Coming closer, Draco eyed the flowers and said, “Where’d you get those?”

“Nev’s greenhouse.” Suddenly, a horrible thought came to him. “Your mum isn’t allergic to flowers, is she?”

“She’s not. She’ll appreciate them.” Draco adjusted his bag, and with a stoic expression, he asked, “Do you mind taking the bus to my place? It will take about an hour or so.”

Ron was about to say that he wouldn’t mind driving them to Draco’s place, but Ron saw the uncertainty flickering in the grey eyes. Wondering why Draco would feel that way, he stilled as he heard a Pansy-like voice saying, Ron, just take the fucking bus. Don’t offer the car. Remember Draco’s pride! The voice disappeared, with Ron imagining Pansy in her stilettos, gearing herself to kick him. Quickly, Ron answered, “The bus sounds fine.”

“Great.”

And that was how Ron found himself in a crowded bus. He hoped the flowers didn’t get ruined, but with Draco so close to him in such a small, overcrowded space, Ron didn’t worry about the flowers too much. The bus took them out of town and soon came to the outskirts of the nearest city to Hogsmeade. Ron noticed the shabbier looking neighbourhoods, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he and Draco talked about the new novel they were supposed to read, To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf.

Eventually, they got off the bus, and the two walked for the next half hour. They reached a building with a dirty exterior, climbed up a grimy looking stairwell, and Ron found himself staring at the door that said 301B.

Unlocking the door, Draco said, “Mother? I’m home.”

A tall, thin woman came out from the kitchen. Ron saw that Mrs Malfoy looked exhausted and older than her real age. Her hair, blonde mixed with grey, was up in a neat knot, and her clothing didn’t look new at all. Her clothing indicated that she probably spent most of her money on making sure Draco was better off, and Ron felt respect and warmth towards the woman who had to raise her son by herself.

“Hello, dear. Hello, Ron. I’ve heard so much about you. I am pleased to finally meet you in person,” said Mrs Malfoy in a soft, cultured voice.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs Malfoy,” Ron replied. He brandished the flowers he had been hiding behind his back, and he was glad to see shock and pleasure etched on her face. “Thank you so much for the invitation.”

She accepted the bouquet, bringing it up to her nose to smell its sweet scent. “You didn’t need to do this, but thank you. These are lovely. Why don’t you boys wash up a bit? Supper will be ready in a few more minutes. I hope you don’t mind bubble and squeak?”

Ron smiled. “I love bubble and squeak.”

“Wonderful. Now, do excuse me.” Mrs Malfoy returned back to the kitchen.

Draco showed Ron the washroom. “Here, you can go first.”

“Thanks.” In the washroom, Ron looked at the cracked ceilings and the faded floor tiles. As he washed his hands, he had to admit that Draco’s place was small and shabby, but he could see that the two of them had tried to make it look nice, and once back in the sitting room, he realised that the place felt cosy for what it was.

Draco came out after his turn in the washroom, and he quietly whispered, “Thanks for making my mum happy with the flowers.”

“It’s nothing.”

“She loves flowers, you know? Back when my father was still alive, we lived in a much better place than this, and gardening was her favourite hobby. However, once she started working, she didn’t have time for it anymore.”

Ron nodded, unsure of what he should say to this. He knew that Draco didn’t want pity, so instead he tried to think of a better alternative to “I’m sorry”. He cleared his dry throat. “Well, maybe she can go back to it in the future.”

“Yeah.”

“You need to just hurry up and become the next Vladimir Horowitz, minus the famous conductor’s daughter as a wife,” Ron teased.

Draco gave him a funny look. “I’m amazed you know about them.”

“Oi, I’m not that single-minded!”

“I didn’t say anything like that. You did,” Draco quipped quickly, his face remaining neutral, but his eyes twinkling with mirth.

Mrs Malfoy interrupted his next statement. “It’s ready, boys!”

Ron spontaneously grabbed Draco’s hands, lacing their fingers together. Draco stared at the joined hands for a second, but he didn’t let go. Cheerfully, Ron entered the kitchen and all three sat at the kitchen table for a home-cooked meal.

“That was the best bubble and squeak I have ever eaten.” Ron rubbed his full stomach. He spoke the truth. It was even better than his mum’s! “Thank you for the delicious meal, Mrs Malfoy.”

The supper had gone by smoothly. Ron remembered all his table manners, listened intently when the other two talked, and he knew he had succeeded since both Malfoys looked content with him being there.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. I admit that I’m not much of a cook, but I have perfected certain dishes over the years,” Mrs Malfoy said, dabbing her lips with her napkin in an elegant manner. “Now, you two leave my kitchen, so I can clean up.”

“I’ll help!” Ron remembered one of the items on his list from earlier. Just as he had predicted, though, Mrs Malfoy declined the offer.

“I can do it. You two go work on your assignments or something. Just don’t do anything that will break the walls or have the neighbours screaming at me for your love-making.”

“Mother!” Draco’s face scrunched up in distaste while Ron felt his own face turning red at her innuendos. “Don’t be so crude!”

“I’m not being crude. I’m being honest. You do remember Mrs Irwin’s comment about needing an earplug when you were dating that Nott boy?”

“Mother!” Draco stood up quickly and grabbed Ron’s wrist. “Let’s go before she embarrasses me any further!”

Ron allowed himself to be dragged away, and with one last glance at Mrs Malfoy, he saw a playful smirk on her face, and that made him want to snigger since that smirk looked so much like Draco’s.

Nevertheless, another feeling arose inside of him. It had sprung alive when Mrs Malfoy had mentioned “that Nott boy”, and Ron found himself . . . jealous. That didn’t make any sense, though, since Draco wasn’t seeing Nott anymore, so he had no reason to have these envious emotions. Yet the images of Draco in another man’s arms made him discontent. These sentiments surprised him, too. With his previous dates, he hadn’t felt anything when they talked about their ex-whoever, but with Draco, he didn’t want to think about Draco being with anyone else.

Inside Draco’s room, he shoved those feelings away and looked around the small room. Like the rest of the flat, it was cramped, but it was clean and looked rather “regal” compared to the rest of the place. He looked at the large poster of London Philharmonic on one wall, and he saw a small keyboard with sheet music piled neatly next to it. A little bookcase and a desk lined another wall, and there was a puny closet next to it. Next to the bed was a nightstand. He saw a portable CD player and a bunch of classical music CDs in the shelf beneath it. Glancing at the twin-sized bed, he stared at its green and silver bedspread, and again images of Draco and Nott came into his mind.

“Have a seat,” Draco said, gesturing towards the bed.

Mentally shaking himself of the unwanted image, he sat on the bed, surprised to see that it was quite comfortable. When he sat, a small pile of books captured his eyes. They were mostly texts, but underneath all the books was a lone magazine. Ron blinked as he reached to take it, but Draco grabbed it first.

Surprised, Ron asked, “What magazine is that?”

“It’s nothing,” Draco curtly responded.

“Aw, come on. Let me see!” Ron stood up and tried to get around Draco to snatch the magazine, but Draco was too fast for him. Not giving up, he tackled Draco onto the bed, a loud “oomph” sounding from their impact, and Ron took the magazine while Draco scowled at him. While pinning Draco down with his body, he gaped at the magazine cover. A picture of his most recent modelling gig greeted him, and he flipped through it, looking at all the pages that were marked, pages filled with his pictures.

Click on the image for the larger version. Fanart by Vividescent.

Putting the magazine down safely, he now looked down at a blushing Draco.

“Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say anything.”

Ron cocked his head. Just what could he say? All his previous jealousy towards Nott had gone away when he realised just how hot it was to know that Draco had bought a magazine that featured him. Not only did Draco buy it, but he also marked down all the pages that pictured him. This revelation had aroused him more than all their tango lessons.

Lowering his voice, he tried to sound husky, but it came out unromantically high-pitched. “Did you enjoy looking through them?” He winced at his own voice.

Draco’s response was a simple glare. “So what if I did?”

Ron was a bit thrown back by the blunt answer, so he tried to be frank, too. “I just find it quite . . . arousing to know I was your wanking material for a while.”

“Ron? You really need to work on your romance skills. Are you always this bad?”

A bit offended, he bit out, “If I’m this bad, I’ll blame you! Apparently you have this effect on me. I . . . like you a lot. So much that I think my intelligence all but vanishes when I’m with you.” That was when he remembered their current position — his body on top of Draco’s, and boy did that feel good. His hands automatically went to grip at Draco’s slender hips, and he thumb-massaged the bone he felt through the clothing.

“I doubt you have enough intelligence in the first place,” Draco managed to breathe out, the insult not sounding as vindictive as it should. Ron studied Draco’s impassive face, but when he looked into Draco’s eyes, he saw that they were darkened and hungry with lust.

Those eyes sparked his libido, and Ron slowly bent his head down and captured Draco’s lips with his, his tongue slipping inside, exploring and tasting his lover. He heard the soft moan, and he felt Draco shifting beneath him. Ron began to grind his lower body against Draco’s, making both of them moan in pleasure. He could feel the growing bulge in Draco’s mid-section, and his came alive as well.

Just as Ron was about to take the next step, he heard a knock on the door. “Draco? Ron? Why is it quiet in there? Should I be worried and go warn the neighbours?”

Mrs Malfoy’s voice completely broke the mood, and Ron quickly rolled off of Draco, forgot about the bed’s small size, and crashed onto the floor in an undignified heap. “Ow!” Standing up, he rubbed his sore bottom, and he watched Draco quickly stand up, readjust his clothing, and open the door.

“Mother!”

Mrs Malfoy’s knowing expression came into his view, and she walked inside, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. She handed the tray to Draco and said, “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything. Enjoy the tea and biscuits. And Draco? Mr Snape will be here soon. I’m just letting you know, darling.”

“All right. Thanks, Mother.”

“Thank you, Mrs Malfoy,” Ron echoed.

She smiled and walked out, closing the door behind her and leaving the two alone. Quietly, the two sipped at their tea and ate their biscuits. Draco broke the silence.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. I’m sure I’d do the same if I were in her shoes.”

“Hn,” Draco sniggered. “I think she did it because she doesn’t want Mr Snape to be scandalised when he comes later.”

“Who’s Mr Snape?” Ron’s brow furrowed tightly as he tried to recall the familiar sounding name.

“You should know him if you took chemistry at the uni.”

Ron immediately knew who it was. Professor Severus Snape, the esteemed chemistry professor, and the hardest professor to please in the world. While Ron never had him personally, he heard of the horror stories regarding Professor Snape. Then again, he wasn’t sure who was worse. Professor Snape or Professor McGonagall, the strict politics professor Hermione and Pansy would often mention. Ron shuddered as he tried to not think of the two professors he had never met but only heard about. “I’ve heard of him. He’s a friend of your mother’s?”

Draco nodded. “He’s been a long-time family friend. He’s been a father-figure to me since my father passed away.”

Ron took a long sip of his tea. If the stories of Professor Snape were true, then that would definitely explain where Draco’s snarkiness came from, he thought. Not that it matters since I do like Draco’s personality. However, I don’t think I’d want to meet Professor Snape. If he’s a father-figure to Draco, he’ll probably analyse me and see if I’m fit for Draco.

That idea terrified him, and so he decided he’d better escape. He’d save the scrutiny and the self-inflicted torture for another day. Anyway, it was getting late. “I should get going. I don’t want to miss the last bus.”

“Yeah, you should.” Ron heard something different in Draco’s voice. Was it regret?

“I’m glad you and your mother invited me.”

“Not a problem,” Draco drawled lazily. “Come, I’ll walk with you to the bus stop.”

Ron grabbed the tray and helped return it back to the kitchen. He again thanked Mrs Malfoy for everything, and she thanked him for the flowers and thanked him for coming. “You are invited anytime, you hear? Just don’t hurt my son.”

Ron blushed and nodded. As soon as he grabbed his stuff, he said his farewell to Mrs Malfoy. He opened the door, and an imposing figure greeted him. Ron gulped as he stared at the formidable chemistry professor, knowing instinctively that this man was Professor Snape. Even though Ron was the tallest one in the room, he could feel Professor Snape’s power emanating into the small flat.

Sneering, Professor Snape said, “I assume this is the Weasley boy?”

He could feel Draco’s presence behind him, a hand resting in the middle of his back, and that comforted him a bit. He heard Draco easily say, “Yes, this is Ron Weasley.”

“Hm,” Professor Snape snorted. Ron wanted to cower under that evil look, but he maintained his courage and stood fast.

“It’s a pleasure, Professor,” he said as politely as he could.

Professor Snape still scowled. “I’ll keep it simple for you since you look like a dunderhead. You hurt Draco, you will see what a chemist can do to you.”

All Ron could do was nod quickly.

“Good.” Professor Snape walked into the small flat like he belonged there, and Ron escaped with Draco, saying a hasty farewell.

Once they were far away from the flat, Ron let out the breath he was holding.

Next to him, he heard a soft laugh. “Scared?”

Ron glared. “No!”

“Could have fooled me.”

“. . . Fine. He’s downright frightening. Are you satisfied?”

“At least you still kept your head. Nott couldn’t handle him.”

Ron raised an eyebrow at Draco. “Really? Well, I’m glad I’m one up compared to Nott.”

Draco gave Ron a knowing look. “If you’re going to be jealous of Nott, don’t bother. He’s not half the man you are.”

How the hell does he do that? It’s like he’s a mind-reader, Ron wondered.

“And you’re wondering if I’m a mind-reader, aren’t you?” He heard the teasing tone.

“Obviously you are.”

Draco chortled. “Ron? You’re just really transparent.”

He rolled his eyes. “Enough with the insults.” He saw from the corner of his eyes that the bus was coming in the distance. “How about giving me a kiss to soothe my broken ego.”

“You want me to spoil you?”

“Sure.”

Ron thought Draco wouldn’t do that, but Draco surprised him. He felt Draco’s soft lips on his, and Ron smiled at the gesture. “Now, go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Giddy with excitement and at the promise, Ron gave a last squeeze to Draco’s shoulder and climbed onto the bus. Since it was the last bus, he was alone on it, but he didn’t care. As the bus chugged down the dark streets, Ron sighed in delight, thinking of all the events that had transpired.

So this is what real love feels like. This is what I’ve been missing this entire time . . .

Lamentation

Ron was in high spirits. His courses were going well, and he and Draco were growing closer and closer. Neville was finally dating Luna, Harry was making good progress with Professor Lupin, and Hermione and Pansy were both happy. To make things even better, he also had lunch with the university dean, Albus Dumbledore. Granted the lunch had included other students, but it was still a great experience to meet the dean and all. True to the rumours, the dean did end up being quite eccentric, but Ron didn’t care. He liked the dean!

With everything going well for him, he was shocked when he received a phone call one day before the holiday break.

Ron was eating lunch with Draco, Hermione, Pansy, Neville, Luna, and Harry when his mobile rang, its ringtone set to “Little Fugue in G Minor” by Johann Sebastian Bach, giving off an ominous warning. However, Ron didn’t think anything of it as he answered jovially, “Hello!”

“Ron?” It was his mother, and she sounded like she had been crying. Or still was, judging by her voice.

“Mum?” Ron’s stomach clenched. “What’s the matter?”

“Your . . . your dad. He’s been in an automobile accident. It doesn’t look good. We’re at St. Mungo’s. Will you be able to–”

“I’ll be there, Mum. I’ll go right now.” Ron hung up his phone and immediately began to pack his stuff.

“Ron? What’s wrong?” Draco’s normal bored expression was replaced with a worried one.

Ron stilled his movement. In a blank voice, he said, “My dad was in an automobile accident. It . . . ” He forced out his next words. “. . . doesn’t look good.”

He avoided looking at his friends, especially at Draco’s face. He didn’t want their pity. He didn’t know how he’d react if he saw their faces. He didn’t want to cry. Not now. Yet he almost lost his composure when he felt warm and loving arms being wrapped around him.

“I’ll go with you.”

Ron gaped at Draco. “What?”

“I’ll go with you in your car. I’ll drive. It’s only a few hours.”

“You don’t need to–”

“Let him go with you,” Pansy annoyed voice interjected, but then it softened. “You’ll welcome it.”

Ron gave her a small smile before turning to Draco. “Thank you.”

Hand in hand, they said goodbye to their friends, and Ron prayed to whatever deities in existence to save his father.

The drive to the hospital with Draco gave him more comfort than he thought. Draco didn’t say anything sentimental like “He’ll be fine”; he didn’t offer any false promises, and Ron was thankful for that. Just having Draco with him was enough.

They reached the hospital in a record time, and once parked, they both rushed into the casualty waiting room, which was filled with a horde of redheads.

“Ron!” Fred and George greeted him first, and before Ron could respond, he found himself in a crushing hug.

“Oh, Ron!” his mother sobbed. “They won’t tell us anything. They only say that he’s in critical condition!”

Ron hugged her back, and asked what happened. He received the details, and he felt his hopes sinking into the depths of hell. It sounded like a horrible accident. He forced a smile, though, and said, “We have to think positively, Mum. We have to.”

She let go of him and sniffed loudly. That was when she must have noticed Draco. “Who’s this?”

“Oh, this is Draco Malfoy. He’s my . . . ” Ron hesitated. He wanted to say boyfriend, but he wasn’t sure if Draco considered them that or not.

“Boyfriend, and he’s pleased to meet you despite the circumstances,” Draco smoothly took over and shook his mother’s hand.

In a normal situation, everyone would be introduced to each other, but they all just nodded, and Ron hung around with Draco as they waited for his father’s progress. The hours ticked away, and once or twice Draco offered to go on a coffee or tea run for the Weasleys, and some accepted and some declined. Ron wanted to go with him, but Draco insisted that Ron stay in case any news popped up.

Again, Ron felt grateful towards him, and while he waited, he wondered how old Draco was when he lost his father.

It was around his third cup of coffee that the doors to the A&E opened. A very tired looking doctor stepped out. Everyone, including Draco, crowded around him, anxious for news.

“Mr Weasley will live.”

A ripple of relieved sighs swept across the room.

“But most of his injuries are quite serious. He had a punctured lung, and his spine received the bulk of the damage. I must warn you that he might become paraplegic. Earlier he hadn’t been capable of breathing on his own, but now he is, yet he’ll have a long road to recovery, and we aren’t sure if he’ll be able to walk again.”

“But he’ll live, yes?” Ron saw his mother wringing her hands.

“Yes, he will.”

“Thank the Lord,” with that his mother started to sob, this time from relief. Bill hugged her, and that’s when all of them started to hug each other, with Ron hugging Draco.

In Draco’s arm, Ron finally wept. He finally allowed himself to express his bottled-up feelings. Draco didn’t say anything; he only offered the solace Ron desperately needed now.

Tranquil Affair

“I’m glad you came to the recital.”

Ron beamed at Draco. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“How’s your father?”

Two months had passed since the accident. He had spent his two-week holiday break with his father and his family. When his courses resumed, and with his father indeed now paraplegic and still recovering nicely, his parents insisted he go back to university. However, he still spent the weekends with his family, except for one weekend where he went to the concert with Draco, doubling up with Neville and Luna. Everyone had enjoyed the concert, especially Draco, and Ron was pleased that he had obtained the tickets.

Now, though, another weekend was here, and Ron had gone to see Draco’s first recital. It had gone splendidly well, and Ron was proud of him.

“My father’s fine. He’s adjusting to his wheelchair, and he actually claims his upper body has gotten stronger.”

Draco smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Ron looked up at the moon. Everyone, including Draco’s mother, had come to the recital. Afterwards, they all attended a nice reception at a local restaurant, but later the two of them had escaped and were out walking in the woods near Hogwarts University.

With the moon shining down, and the woods emitting a peaceful aura, Ron said, “I wonder if this is how Coleridge and Wordsworth felt walking through the woods like this.”

“I’m sure they did. Although, I highly doubt they had a relationship like ours.”

Ron sniggered. “Yeah, it was definitely platonic.”

“Plus, didn’t Wordsworth’s sister join them on these nature walks?”

“True. So should I invite Ginny with us?”

“I think it’s fine just the two of us.”

Draco’s declaration made Ron happy as he leaned closer. He planted an affectionate kiss on top of Draco’s windswept hair. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Are we going to walk around all night?”

“Unless that’s what you want. Why?”

Draco stopped walking and grabbed Ron by the front of his shirt. In a low voice that made Ron feel hot in the cool evening, he said, “Then may I request you stop being a sodding gentleman?”

“Huh?” Ron wanted to kick himself at his lack of eloquence.

In the moonlight, he watched those grey eyes roll in exasperation. “You’re so thick. Must I spell it out?”

Like being showered with ice water, Ron understood Draco’s hidden words. “Ah.”

“Yes, ‘ah’.” Draco side stepped Ron. Feeling a tug on his wrist, Ron followed Draco out of the woods.

As they walked, Ron had to ask, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I only hope your walls are better sound-proofed than my place.”

“It is.”

“Good.”

Ron hid a grin, and he looked forward to the inevitable.

Finally. And nobody will interrupt us.

Culmination

Usually whenever Ron had sex with someone, it was always loud, messy, rough, and well . . . powerful. He didn’t mind it. In fact, that’s what he was used to. But when he reached his flat with Draco, he had a feeling that their first time was not going to be anything like that. He could see their sexual activities being rough and whatnot in the future, but he sensed and wanted their first time to be special and memorable.

If truth be told, when they were in his bedroom, he felt nervous at first. Unsure, he looked into Draco’s eyes, trying to find a hint of how Draco wanted to do this. He saw nothing negative. He saw something unfamiliar, though. In his previous lovers eyes, he’d seen lust, seen their desires and wants, but this was the first time he saw what he believed to be love.

And it was in the eyes of Draco Malfoy.

All his uncertainties and hesitance vanished as he started a slow, passionate kiss. At an adagio pace, he slowly removed Draco’s clothing. Every time pale skin was revealed, Ron savoured it and treated it like it was something fragile and delicate. He would kiss the area softly, lick and taste Draco’s unique flavour, and he did it until Draco was fully naked on the bed.

As he took in Draco’s flushed appearance, his eyes lingered the longest at Draco’s groin. With a smile, Ron took his own clothes off, throwing them to the side of the bed, uncaring of their condition. He went back to exploring Draco’s body, enjoying all the soft sounds of pleasure coming from his lover’s mouth. As they grew in volume and in intensity, he could barely keep his excitement at bay.

Eventually, after Draco finally yelled, “Quit being a bloody tease!”, Ron entered, and all of his reasoning skills left him as he enjoyed the bliss he found himself in.

It was over soon, and Ron found himself entangled with Draco. He softly whispered, “I love you.”

Draco’s low “I love you, too” was the last thing he heard before he cuddled them into a peaceful slumber.

Finis

“‘The most exciting attractions are between two opposites that never meet’.”

“Say what, Draco?” Ron asked at the strange statement.

Draco gave Ron a withering look. “It’s a quote. A quote by Andy Warhol.”

“That name sounds familiar . . . ”

“Famous American Pop artist. The guy who designed Campbell’s soup cans? The one who created that Marilyn Monroe artwork?”

“Oh! That guy!” Ron took a sip of his drink as he glanced around the swing club — the only one in the area. “What’s with the quote, though?”

“It fits us. If you’d stop and think about it.” Draco looked over at where Pansy was dancing energetically with her dance partner.

“But we did meet, though. We are opposite from one another, but we are still similar, too.” Ron followed his gaze, and he gave Pansy a thumbs-up.

“That’s true, but you have to admit, it was rather ‘exciting’.”

“In more than one way.” Ron set his drink down on a nearby table. “Want to give it a shot at swing?”

“. . . I’m not that great.”

Ron laughed. “If I can sort of master tango, you can do the same with swing. I’ll teach you. One private lesson in exchange for a killer kiss?”

“That’s all you want? A kiss?”

“Well, I’d hope for more, but we can build up to that! Just don’t bruise my feet, will you?”

“I think I shall.” Draco smirked as he led Ron to the dance floor. “Consider it payback for you stepping on my poor feet. I don’t think they’ve fully recovered from the abuse.”

“Whatever.” Ron took the lead, and they danced themselves silly. Ron was in heaven. He no longer felt barren like he did all those months ago. He had a great family, a wonderful bunch of friends, and the best partner — no, lover — he could ask for. His life was now fulfilled.

And judging from Draco’s glittering grey eyes, he knew Draco felt the same.

Ending Notes

– Proem means ‘an introductory discourse’ or prelude.
– For more information on floriography, go here.
– Adagio is a musical term, and it means very slow.

Draco decided Ron needed some new clothes. With the money they had both saved up, they went shopping in the most fashionable stores available in Diagon Alley. It wasn’t as if Draco needed to save his money, but he did so anyways to put Ron at ease. Ron wasn’t used to being rich yet. The store Draco led Ron into was a place Ron had never set foot in before. He looked around and saw how empty it was compared to the second-hand clothing store he usually went to with his family.

“Draco, why do I need new clothes? The ones I have now are fine.” Ron did not want to be here. He didn’t like the snobby, rich atmosphere of the store.

Draco plucked a piece of lint off of his impeccable robe before looking up and answering. “Ron, we are going to a social function. Normally I’d turn down the invitation, but considering how my father is hosting this function, I didn’t have the heart to turn it down.

“Besides, Ron, I am in the mood for some new clothing myself. I think I’ve worn most of my outfits twice already.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “You can’t spare to wear something more than two times?”

“No, of course not. I have a reputation to maintain. Quit complaining.” Draco stopped and tugged his lover closer. He stood on his tiptoes (Ron was several inches taller than him) and whispered silkily into Ron’s ear. “You love the way I look, so in order to look even more gorgeous than I am, I need more outfits.”

Ron’s ears turned crimson, and with a suppressed growl, he gently pushed Draco away. “As much as I would love for you to seduce me now, I do not think the people in this store would appreciate our activities.”

Nodding, Draco stepped back. He took Ron’s hand and led him over to the hat section. “Help me select a hat.”

“Why,” Ron asked with confusion written on his face, “do you need a hat?”

“The function is outdoors. It’s windy. I do not want my hair to blow all over the place. Besides, I want something to cover up my face a little bit so I don’t lose my porcelain complexion.”

“A simple spell would work…”

“That is true.” Draco rolled his eyes. “But I want a hat. Never had one before really, so I want to take the opportunity to have one now.”

Ron scanned over the collection of hats displayed in front of him. “Something that will keep his hair in place and keep the sun out of his face… which hat would do the trick?” Muttering to himself, Ron studied each hat in front of him.

“Ah-ha!” With a smile of satisfaction, Ron reached over for the perfect hat.

Draco, in the meantime, was looking at the robes section. He wasn’t paying attention to where Ron was looking. When he heard Ron’s “ah-ha”, he turned back to the hats section. Only because of his upbringing did he not almost scream and run out of the building. Instead he kept a straight face and smirked to himself – for an idea had come to him.

“Uh, nice, Ron.” Draco looked at the hat Ron had selected. The hat resembled the Buckingham Palace Guard hat. It had a visor sticking out from the side of the opening, so he could see why Ron chose it since it would keep the sun out of his face. Draco choked back a laugh as he thought of what the hat kind of resembled…

Ron handed it to him and said, “Try it on.”

Smirking, Draco replied, “Which head?”

“Wha…?” Caught off guard, it took a moment for the comment to sink through Ron’s brain. “…Your head, Draco.”

“I know, but which head?”

“You, you… you know!” Ron sputtered. “The one with the hair!”

“I hate to break this to you, Ron, but both heads have hair, sort of. Be more specific.” Draco inwardly sniggered to himself.

Blushing, Ron continued to stumble over his words. “The … head … where you would put a hat!!”

“Oh?” Raising an eyebrow, Draco pretended to study the hat critically. “Considering the shape of the hat, I think I can wear it on both heads, love.”

“…What?” Ron looked at the hat in his hand. If possible, his blush deepened to an even darker shade of crimson. “I see…”

“So, which head, Ron?” Draco continued to tease his lover mercilessly.

Ron contemplated on what to say next. With a triumphant grin he said, “The one with the brain!”

“Haven’t you heard, Ron? That both heads have brains since they think for themselves?”

Growling, Ron took the hat in both of his hands and yanked it a little bit forcefully down on Draco’s head.

“I meant that one!” Ron stepped back. Soon he was shaking his head. “That hat is not you. Draco, give it up, I cannot find a hat that would suit you. Just use a spell.”

Draco took off the hat and smoothed his hair out. “Fine.” Leaving the hat behind, Draco walked out of the store and apparated home. Ron followed him and arrived in his lover’s arms. Draco wrapped his arms around Ron tightly.

“I’ll use a spell…”

Ron nuzzled into Draco’s finely combed hair, which was a little bit messed up from the hat. “Okay.”

“I’ll use a spell,” Draco repeated, “but on which head?”

Ron growled again, and he pushed Draco into the bedroom to use appropriate means of punishment on his infuriating lover.

“Malfoy, your shirt is in the way. Toss it.”

“You toss it, you wanker! I can’t! Your mentally sick mind decided to bind me in this position!”

“Watch it, or I will bite down!”

“You wouldn’t dare. You said you like this flavour.”

“Did I?”

“You most certainly did! Don’t tell me you’re going senile at the age of twenty-five, Weasley.”

“Why the fuck are we on a last-name basis?”

“Because you started it.”

“. . . Are you going to lose that shirt? I’ll just leave you in this condition if I have to.”

“You do, and I’ll figure out a long and painful way to castrate you.”

“You’re the one tied up right now, so I don’t think you’re in any position to give out threats.”

“Shut — a-ah . . . ung.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to blow that way. Now say that I’m your king.”

“Piss off! I am not going to say that!”

“You had no problems saying that when we were in Hogwarts.”

“That was said with a different connotation!”

“I’m not going to move an inch until you say it. Say it like you’re going to worship me.”

“You’re mad and daft! Why would I want to treat you like a king? I’m not going to treat you like royalty! It’s us Malfoys who receive those treatments.”

“If you think that way . . . ”

“Get back here!”

“Say it, Malfoy. Say it like you mean it.”

“No.”

“Mm, okay. I can see your hands struggling, Malfoy. Your lovely mouth may say ‘no’ but obviously your body is more honest.”

“Fine! Weasley’s my king!”

“Which Weasley?”

“Are you an imbecile? What do you mean ‘which Weasley’?”

“There are quite a few of us out there, in case you have forgotten. And stop glaring. It won’t work on me. I’m immune to your antics.”

“Ron Weasley is my king.”

“I can’t quite hear you.”

“Ron Weasley is my king!”

“Now that wasn’t hard, was it?”

“Will you put that yapping mouth of yours to work?!”

“Fine, fine.”

“. . . Harder.”

“. . . How’s this?”

“Better.”

“What’s the matter? You’re losing your ability to speak?”

“I am going to punish you when you’re done with this embarrassing torment!”

“You know you’re enjoying this.”

“In your dreams! Now do let it go.”

“Why? You will just tell me to put it back in my mouth. You’re the one who said to put it to work.”

“That’s not how you do it. Now untie me so I can show you properly!”

“In a minute. I’m not quite done yet.”

“Weasley!”

“You know you’re one ornery bugger?”

“And damn proud of it. Now let me go!”

“There, satisfied?”

“No, because you did a crap job of it. Now let me show you how you’re supposed to do it.”

“Hey, careful with that!”

“You were rough, so I can be just as brutal as you.”

“For a Malfoy, you’re vulgar.”

“At least I have more talent than you, Ronald.”

“Don’t call me that with that in your mouth!”

“Why ever not?”

“Only my mother calls me that, and I don’t need a mental image of my mother right about now.”

“Prude.”

“Shuddup. And seriously, you’re doing an awful job about all this.”

“Thanks a lot. You were no better at it either!”

“I can’t help it. This is my first time.”

“Well, this is my first time, too.”

“I thought Malfoys were naturally great at everything, including bragging?”

“. . . I ought to hex you to Glastonbury and back. Aside from that, though, apparently even us Malfoys need to practice at certain things to achieve that status.”

“Wow, you’re being humble. Has your head shrunk a bit?”

“Fuck you.”

“Do you really want me to do that?”

“Only you would take that kind of sentence literally.”

“But you’d like it.”

“How about we finish this first before we move onto your boorish interpretation.”

“Why, Draco, are you looking forward to that?”

“You fucking me? Not really.”

“Why are you smirking, then?”

“Because I want to. Now let me bring this to an end!”

“All right.”

“. . . There, done.”

“That was fast.”

“You were faster than me. It took you less time to come to that point.”

“I guess you just know how to savour that better than I do.”

“Of course. Malfoys are better at everything.”

“Is that a challenge? Do you want to go another round this time?”

“Do you really want to smoke another cigar?”

“Not particularly. It’s not a bad brand, but it’s rather expensive for a mediocre cig. I think I’d rather kiss you instead.”

“You’re barmy.”

“Of course! I am in love with the snarkiest git in the world.”

“Yes, now are you going to keep your word or not?”

“What are you talking about, Draco?”

“. . . Why am I with a brainless oaf like you?”

“I’m not that brainless! I can kick your arse at chess.”

“That’s all luck.”

“Sore loser. Now what word?”

“Oh, for love of Merlin! You said you wanted to kiss me!”

“Ah! Well, then, I’ll be more than happy to comply.”

“Good. One last thing.”

“What?”

“Keep that mouth occupied. You talk too much at times!”

“So do you, but I’ll make sure we both won’t say anything coherent the next hour or so.”

“Pervert.”

“But you love it when I act that way.”

“True, but this time I will make sure you pay for binding me like that!”

“Well, you were trying to snatch that cigar out of my hand!”

“Hmph. By the way, what’s with the shirt comment earlier?”

“Oh, I wanted you to take off your shirt so I could stare at your sexy chest while I smoked your cigar.”

“. . . I am so telling your mother that you are sexually harassing me.”

“I thought I said I don’t want a mental image of my mother. Especially now!”

“Your fault!”

“Oh . . . I’m shutting us both up now!”

The Burrow groaned under the weight of her occupants. Every single sound in the world existed within the Burrow. The creaking coming from the wooden floors, the myriads of voices travelling through the walls, the banging of pots and pans from the kitchen . . . it all blended nicely into a cacophonic, organised mess. Everywhere in the cramped place, one will inevitably run into a red-headed, freckled person of either gender. Of course, there is an exception of a wild, black-haired man, and a bushy, brown-haired woman. The Burrow was homely just as any homes can be, where everyone helped one another without the aide of house elves.

Draco Malfoy absolutely hated it. He could not imagine how anybody could live in a place like this. He didn’t care that his thoughts of the Burrow were snobbish. He definitely preferred the Malfoy Manor over the Burrow. He loved the idea of having tens — no hundreds — of room available in the mansion. A man’s castle can’t have too many rooms to store his personal belongings, to store and show off his riches.

With all that extra space, Draco would find privacy from everyone. He could pick a room, any room, and stay in there all day, undisturbed. He wouldn’t be bombarded with people whose hair colour matched a burning torch. He wouldn’t run into the bloody know-it-all Granger and the Boy-Who-Shows-Up-Everywhere Potter. He simply could not bear to be in the same room as those two for a second.

And — no surprise — the house elves. Without those creatures, who would always be at his beck and call? The idea of cooking for himself, waving his wand around to do the cleaning, and just expending his precious energy all by himself was a preposterous inclination!

Yes, Draco hated the Burrow — but not all the time. It couldn’t be helped that his lover was one of its occupants. Ronald Weasley. Until now, he still did not know how the two of them got together, but the fact that the Burrow accepted him, the people there accepted him, despite being a “Malfoy,” made him tolerate the dwelling. The more he was exposed to that house, the more he grudgingly accepted the rowdy but welcoming home.

Unfortunately though, the place he slowly came to accept as a second home was no more one day. Had he known that the Burrow’s infrastructure was that bad, he most certainly would have convinced Ron and the rest of the Weasleys that he’d offer to help fix up the place, even if his ancestors would roll themselves over in their graves for extending his money to the “blood traitors.”

If that wasn’t bad enough, the reason behind the destruction of the Burrow was embarrassing. Make that bloody embarrassing.

The two managed to find their clothes in the mountain of rubble and put them on. Draco stared at the huge pile while Ron stared at Draco. “You know, we need to tell mum and dad about this.”

“Yes.” He turned and smirked at Ron. “Good luck telling them.”

“Oh, no, you’re not going to let me face the two of them by myself.”

“You’re the brave Gryffindor. I’m the cunning Slytherin. And they are your parents.” Draco started to walk off in a nonchalant manner. “Let me know if your family don’t kill you.”

Suppressing a growl, Ron reached out and grabbed Draco. He pulled Draco back into his embrace and said, “Nice try, Draco, but you and I are gonna face the dragons together. We both caused it, so we might as well go face the consequences.”

“Ron . . . ” Draco could feel his face turn a nice shade of grey before he recomposed himself into his usual haughty mode. “Fine. Only because I love you. But the next time a house falls apart on us due to it being such a poor quality, you are taking all the blame.”

Rolling his eyes, Ron said, “I love you, too, you Drama Queen.” Ron leaned over and kissed his lover long and deep.

“Puppy!” Ron called Draco over to where he was.

“Yes? And don’t call me ‘puppy’, Ron.” Draco came over and wrapped his arms around his lover.

“But you are my puppy. My lovable, squishable puppy! At least I am not calling you Ferret-Boy.”

Draco turned him around and glared at him. “The next time you call me that, I will severely punish you.”

“Okay, then.” Ron smiled mischievously. “Puppy.”

Draco growled and proceeded to drag Ron to the bedroom. “You asked for it, Weasel.”

Ron grinned goofily as he was being taken to their room. “I so enjoy it when you become this way, Draco. That’s why I love you.”