Safe Harbour

~~~~~ SAFE HARBOUR, Part Two ~~~~~

Ron hunched over the small table, watching as Draco stoked the fire. He stirred his bowl of soup listlessly, not at all hungry and a bit disoriented. He wasn’t at all certain that he still wasn’t experiencing some sort of life-like hallucination, another odd after effect from the curse.

“Eat that before it gets cold. Doesn’t do you any good in the bowl,” Draco admonished from the fireplace.

Ron glared at Draco, who rolled his eyes and returned to tending the fire.

No, that sounded entirely like the Draco he’d known for nearly a decade. Too real to have been imagined.

Shite.

He reluctantly tucked into the soup, lost in thought.

He’d nearly jumped out of the bed earlier when he’d realised finally that Jon wasn’t actually snuggled next to him. He would have, but he’d still felt oddly weak, as if his body were on some sort of time delay. Part of the waning effects of the curse, Reptum Deficio or some such. Draco’s amusement at his obvious discomfort was nearly driving Ron to distraction.

Still typically Malfoy, the arse.

They’d successfully Apparated from the pub, but he’d quickly lost consciousness. Draco had managed to jump them to this safe house on the coast, just outside of Gairloch. It was unplottable, known only to the most trusted Order members. His condition worsened dramatically, and Draco, fearful of moving Ron or Apparating him while in such a state, had fetched a mediwitch from Torridon. The diagnosis was quickly and easily arrived at, and Draco had dutifully administered the healing regimen of simple charms and potions.

They'd been at the Lustful Lass six days ago, which meant that Draco had tended to him for nearly a week. And it might be a fortnight before he was well enough to travel again.

As his mind gradually cleared, Ron finally thought to ask after the squib. What was his name? David? Donald? "Um, Draco, where did you leave that squib?"

"Devon," Draco replied without looking up.

"Right. Devon." Ron watched as Draco finished stacking the firewood, wiping his hands on his denims and moving to the small sink. He primed the pump and drew a pitcher of water.

"You were hit with that curse just as you were about to Apparate us. The force of the impact threw us all to the floor. You weren't incoherent then, not yet, but you were obviously unable to Apparate yourself, let alone all three of us." Draco brought the pitcher and two glasses to the table and sat down. He finally met Ron's gaze then, his grey eyes oddly flat and tired. "We had to get out of there, and our three friends were about to crash into the storeroom. I had no choice, Ron, understand that."

"I'm not sure I follow you," Ron replied, "We're here, safe..."

"We are," Draco murmured, absently drumming his fingers on the edge of the table top. He stared for a moment before averting his eyes. "I wasn't certain that I could have gotten all three of us out of there safely." He picked at his wool jumper. "Never was very good at Apparating, let alone multiple side-alongs while under extreme duress." He continued to study the table top, his mouth a thin line. Draco’s gaze flickered between Ron, the table, and some point off in space.

Ron put down his spoon as the silence lengthened and grew between them. This was most definitely un-Malfoy-like behaviour, to be sure, almost as if…

“You left him behind,” Ron stated softly. He’d intended his tone to convey understanding and empathy, but when Draco’s head snapped up and his eyes narrowed, Ron knew that he’d been somewhat less than successful.

“Too fucking right I did,” Draco replied angrily.

“Draco, I didn’t mean to imply you did anything wrong,” Ron said.

Draco snorted. “How magnanimous of you.”

Ron leaned forward. “What I'm trying to say is...”

Draco cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Save it." He rubbed his forehead with one hand while summoning an ale from a rucksack with the other. The brown bottle shot across the room, hitting the palm of Draco’s hand with a sharp slap. "Should’ve left your sorry arse back there, too. Not sure why I bothered. Shite!” He flicked a finger and the cap popped off; it plinked across the table to plop directly into Ron’s soup.

Ron watched as Draco took several swallows of ale. He wasn’t sure whether he should be surprised or angry. This was a very different Draco from the one that he’d known at school or even during the past few weeks. Draco was clearly upset, and more with himself than anyone else. Ron noted the dark smudges under Draco’s eyes, the way fatigue was clearly written in the far too deep lines about his mouth and lips. His normally pale skin now carried a somewhat grayish cast. Ron had seen the telltale signs of stress and exhaustion many times before; if Draco didn’t get some rest and relaxation himself, and soon, they’d both be off the spit and into the fire.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself for what happened,” Ron started again. “You need to...”

“Don’t tell me what I need to do,” Draco spat, swallowing more ale. He stared beyond and above Ron, his eyes focused on someplace very far away. “I knew you were hurt. I knew that you wouldn’t be able to Apparate us. All of us. Everything was happening so quickly, yet not. You began muttering nonsense, Devon was absolutely frantic, pawing and clawing at me, people were screaming, hexes and curses exploding everywhere.” He snuffled and locked gazes with Ron. “And you’re so bloody heavy, and then your legs gave way and we all fell to the floorboards...”

Ron’s head began to throb again. “I think I know how it must have been.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Draco replied, finishing his ale and banishing the bottle with a savage swipe of his hand. “Just don’t! There wasn’t any time. I didn’t even think about it...”

“You did what had to be done...”

“...I just pushed him away...”

“...it’s as simple as that, Draco...”

“...and he was sobbing and begging me to take him with us...”

“...and it’s never easy...”

“...but I knew that if I tried to Apparate all three of us...”

“...to make a decision like that.”

“...we’d all be dead, or worse.” Draco took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “So I fucking stunned him and left him behind.” He paused for many moments before wiping at his eyes and speaking again. “Probably should’ve killed him flat out. Better that than being tortured to death.” He summoned another ale and opened it. “Never could do anything correctly. So go ahead, then. Have at it and tell me how I fucked up. How I failed. I know you’re dying to say so.” He drank deeply from his bottle and leaned back in his chair, as if ready for some sort of storm to wash over him.

Ron’s head was now throbbing steadily and his fingers were becoming numb. He desperately wanted nothing more than to shamble back to the bed and have a good lie down, but Draco’s obvious distress was too intriguing to ignore. He’d never really thought of it before, but it wasn’t hard to imagine the sort of life Draco must have endured under his father. Lucius was the foulest of the foul, but that fact didn’t excuse every one of Draco‘s behaviors. Explained them, yes.

He reached across the small table and gently laid his hand on Draco’s forearm. “Actually, all I want to say is thank you. Thanks for saving my life. Truly. I’m in your debt.”

Draco’s mouth fell open and he stared at Ron as if he’d sprouted antennae. He jerked his arm away. “I don’t believe you.”

Ron shrugged. “Your prerogative, I reckon. But that’s the way of it in times like these. A lot of us aren’t going to make it out of this, you know. But we all take the risks, and we do so willingly. I’d expect that Devon knew and accepted those risks, otherwise he wouldn’t have been with us at the Lusty Lass.” He leaned back in his chair, wincing slightly at his rapidly increasing headache. “You did the best you could, and I’m grateful for it. It that‘s not good enough for you, fine. Wallow about in your little pool of self-pity as long as you like, for all the good it‘ll do.”

Draco stared for another long moment, his eyes once again sharp and focused before shaking his head. “Leave it to me to get stuck with the most philosophical Weasley of them all.”

Ron smirked. “Worse luck. You could’ve been paired with Finnigan, and then you’d really have something to complain about.” He gauged Draco’s reaction and was pleased to note the slightest upturn of one corner of Draco’s mouth.

Draco snorted. “Shudder to think,” he murmured. “I sit corrected.” He sipped at his ale. “Still, if only…”

Ron cut him off. “If only my grand mum’d had wheels, then she’d a been a wagon.” He sat up, preparing to head back to the bed. He had to work very hard to suppress a wide smile.

Draco was now smirking crookedly. “I can just envision the scene about the Weasley breakfast table now, a veritable flood of metaphors, puns, and poorly fashioned jokes. Merlin.”

Ron shrugged and made to stand, his vision immediately swimming out of focus. He sat down heavily, both hands flat on the table.

“Don’t want to stand too quickly,” Draco said as he set his ale down. “Reptum Deficio is a nasty one. With the help of the mediwitch, I’ve managed to halt its wasting effects on your ambric energies, but it will take some time for them to replenish.”

“I feel pretty good,” Ron replied, rubbing his forehead. “A bit light-headed is all.”

Draco stood and walked over to stand beside Ron. “Hold your hand out over the table, palm down.”

Ron cocked his head to one side.

“Just do it,” Draco sighed.

Ron complied and rolled his eyes.

“Don’t let me push your arm down. Here we go.” Draco laid his hand atop Ron’s and began applying pressure, gently to start but increasing it rapidly.

Ron resisted Draco's efforts easily at first. After all, he was a good head taller than Draco, and had to have at least forty pounds on him as well. He’d filled out quite a bit in the last few years, sporting both Bill’s height and Charlie’s muscular build. Even in his weakened state, the slim, lanky Slytherin couldn’t possibly…

“Shite!” Ron yelped as Draco slammed his arm to the table.

“Now lift it up,” Draco instructed with a crooked grin.

Ron struggled to lift his arm, but it wouldn’t respond. It seemed the more he tried, the weaker he became. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping down his temples. “Fuck,” he sighed. “Can’t do it.”

Draco harrumphed. “Of course not. The curse also drains away physical strength. It had a good couple of hours to insinuate itself into your system before I was able to get the mediwitch here. I wanted to Apparate you to hospital straightaway, but she wouldn't hear of one jump, let alone the multiples that we'd needed to do to innorder to cover our tracks properly. You're doing well, but far from fully healed." He paused for a moment and looked almost as if he were about to say something further. He quickly pushed some stray locks out of Ron's eyes. He then moved behind Ron, slipping his hands under Ron's arms.

Ron stood up, his legs as rubber. "Bloody hell," he muttered as he stumbled, falling against Draco and throwing an arm about the blond's shoulders.

They hobbled the several feet to the bed, both dropping heavily to the mattress. Ron flopped down and swung his legs up while Draco fetched another phial of potion. By the time Draco handed it to him, Ron had gotten comfortable and pulled the quilt up to his chest.

"Cheers," Draco said as he handed over the potion.

"Up you bum," Ron replied, swallowing the foul mixture. "Shite."

Draco sniggered. "You'll sleep now. I'll be gone for a few hours, for provisions. Just stay in that bed and rest. No fooling about or heroics. Or should I just conjure up some restraints and lash you to the bed right now?"

Ron's mind immediately filled with an image of his wrists tied to the headboard with a very naked Draco looming over his own similarly nude body. Now where in Hade's Hounds had that come from? "Fine, yeah, whatever," Ron mumbled, the potion already taking effect. "You'd a made Pomfrey proud with bedside manner like that."

"Just shut it and sleep," Draco said as he turned to leave.

"Hey, thanks again," Ron slurred. "For everything."

Draco turned about and nodded slightly. "Sleep. Now."

Ron snuggled down into the pillows and closed his eyes. He barely heard Draco's footsteps across the rough floorboards and the soft creaking of the door as it opened; he was asleep by the time it clinked shut...


~~~~~~


...He could hear his Mum working in the kitchen, the soft clinking of pots and pans in the sink a familiar counterpoint to the sound of her cutting up something on the huge, well-worn chopping block. He rolled over on the comfy sofa, straining to hear the faint sounds of the Wizarding Wireless as Aaron Nightshade droned on about the upcoming Quidditch Match of the Week. And something smelled wonderful, so...

Ron opened his eyes to find Draco bustling away at the small worktable next to the pump and sink. A large kettle hung over the fire in the hearth, emitting the glorious aroma. A tiny Muggle radio sat on the table, obviously altered to pick up the Wizarding Wireless. Nightshade was wrapping up his pre-game programme, jabbering away about the day’s match between Ballycastle and Montrose, set to start in a few minutes. Ron pushed up on his elbows and cleared his throat.

Draco turned about. “Finally awake then. Good timing. Just about ready here.” He walked over the fireplace with a small cutting board and dumped what looked like diced meat into the kettle. “Can’t guarantee how palatable this will be, but it’ll have to do. Haven’t had that much of an opportunity to properly cook lately, and the selection of retail establishments is rather thin around here.” He paused a moment before averting his gaze and returning to the worktable.

Ron sat up slowly, easing his feet to the floor. His head was blessedly clear, and he felt quite whole for a change. “Whatever that is, it smells wonderful,” he said. “I’m more than a bit peckish, too."

"A good sign," Draco replied without turning.

Ron stood up and stretched. His back and shoulders popped satisfyingly, and he tentatively bent down to touch his toes. "Merlin, I'm stiff." He straightened up and winced slightly. "Oy, I smell like a skrewt pen on a hot summer's day." He pulled his wrinkled t-shirt over his head and tossed it down. He silently cast a mild cleansing charm on himself and the bedclothes, looking about the room. "Where's my wand?"

Draco turned about but remained silent. He stared at Ron, his eyes taking in every inch of Ron's bare chest, stomach, and legs. He made no attempt to hide his obvious assessment, and he actually smiled in an altogether wicked manner. He took a few steps forward, wiping his hands on a tattered tartan cloth. “It’s in your rucksack, over there.” He gestured to the far corner by the door. “Fortunately, you had a death grip on your wand after you’d been cursed, so that came back with us from the Lusty Lass. Once you’d been tended to by the mediwitch and stabilized, I jumped back to the campsite to collect our belongings.”

Ron nodded, nearly transfixed as Draco’s eyes once again travelled up and down his body and back again. He knew he wasn’t too hateful to look at, but he certainly wasn’t handsome, like Jon or Harry. And he’d seen that look before, though never in a million years had he expected to see it on Draco’s face. “Rather dangerous move, wasn’t it?”

Draco shrugged and took a few steps closer. “Dangerous times. I was careful. The camp had been ransacked, of course, but little if anything taken as far as I can tell. I managed to get a few clean fingerprints as well as a partial ambric energy signature. Should help The Order positively identify at least one of our trio of Death Eaters.” He arched an eyebrow. “Besides, we couldn’t have you prancing about in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers.”

“Prance? Sorry, but I don’t prance,” Ron replied, doing his best to sound wounded. He moved over to his rucksack and knelt down to rummage about in it for some fresh clothes.

“Everything’s been cleaned,” Draco said from behind him.

“You’ve been busy,” Ron answered, pulling out a pair of denims and his favourite Chudley t-shirt.

“Bored would be a more accurate description,” Draco responded dryly.

Ron felt fingers gently trace a spot on his upper back; he started in spite of himself.

“Sorry,” Draco said softly. “Just checking on how your wound’s healing. How’s that feel when I press on it?”

Ron felt a tingling but little more. “Nothing really...yowch!”

“Still tender, then. You’ll have a right nasty scar where the curse hit. Wounds from Dark magic are notoriously slow to heal.”

Ron swivelled around, looking up at Draco. “So I’ve heard. Well, what’s one more scar, eh?” He stood up and was once again surprised as Draco stepped even closer; they were barely a few inches apart.

“How'd you get this one?” Draco asked, his fingers tracing a long, thin scar that ran the entire length of Ron’s right collarbone.

“Wasn’t fast enough to duck a Septumsempra. From your mate Crabbe. Happened during the battle at Hogwarts.” Ron watched as Draco’s index finger trailed down over his furred chest, stopping on a very red and puckered circular scar the size of a galleon.

Draco looked up, his grey eyes fire-bright. “And this one?”

Ron sucked in a breath. “Oy, that tickles a bit.” He cleared his throat. “Um, I got that one a few months ago when Jon and I ran into a clutch of Inferi north of Aviemore. One of them tried to put his hand right through me. Only managed a finger, though. Didn’t know they could do that.”

Draco merely nodded, lingering a moment longer before moving his hand and running it along Ron’s forearm. He gazed at the thin, intricate traceries of scars there, and their mates on his other forearm. "I know what made these," he whispered, caressing one particularly thick, red scar. "Department of Mysteries, yes?"

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "They'll never fully heal. Damned sensitive to sunlight, too. Bloody brains."

Draco then followed another long, thin and rather ragged scar that marred the freckled skin of Ron’s left bicep. “And this? Death Eater? Inferi? Banshee?”

Ron chuckled. “Worse. Fred. When I was nine. The twins and I liked to play pirates on this rickety raft we’d made that summer. We used real swords just the once. Mum was furious. Fred was on chicken coop duty for nearly a year.”

Draco nodded and studied the floorboards. "I'm sorry about Fred," he murmured. "I know we didn't get along, any of us, but..."

"Draco," Ron asked, tilting his head in an attempt to make eye contact, "why are you doing this?"

"Doing what? Expressing my condolences about your dead brother? Is there something wrong with that?"

Ron shook his head. "No, not at all. Just surprising, really. Especially considering our past history."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Right. Forgive me. I failed to remember that one must forever be held accountable for their past misdeeds. Daft of me to believe otherwise." He moved to go, but Ron clamped a large hand on his shoulder.

"That's not what I meant," Ron said firmly. "You've more than proven your loyalty to The Order over the past few years. Everyone knows you were under the threat of death to carry out that plan to allow Death Eaters into Hogwarts during sixth year. Once Snape came clean, that was all sorted. And it can't have been easy growing up with that father of yours." He squeezed Draco's shoulder. "So I think I understand."

"You don't," Draco said through clenched teeth. "Just forget I said anything at all."

Ron was about to speak again when the kettle boiled over.

Draco wrenched away and stalked over to the hearth. "Go ahead and get dressed," he said. "Don't want you catching your death after all this trouble I've gone through. I'll be dishing up in a few minutes." He charmed the flames down and stirred the contents of the kettle viciously. He spared Ron a withering stare before he rose and gathered up some bowls and utensils.

By the time Ron dressed, Draco had served up some sort of mutton stew, which smelled heavenly. The Ballycastle vs. Montrose match had been under way for only a few minutes, and it was clear that Draco was keenly interested in the game. They sat down and silently tucked into the stew. Draco summoned an ale for himself; after a short pause, Ron summoned one as well. Draco frowned his disapproval, but Ron shrugged and took a long, deep pull on his bottle. The ale was dark with the slightest hint of chocolate. He was also famished, and finished his bowl of stew in record time. He started to rise in order to get another serving, but Draco deftly took the bowl and re-filled it himself. Ron couldn't suppress a grin as Draco plonked the bowl down onto the table in front of him.

They ate in silence for a while, listening to the animated announcer bark out the play by plays. Montrose took an early lead, but Ballycastle refused to lie down.

"Nifty radio," Ron observed. "Hope you have plenty of batteries."

Draco shook his head. "Doesn't require any. New Muggle design. You just turn the crank there and it plays for hours. The clerk also mentioned that it runs off of sunlight or some such."

Ron nodded. "Clever. Dad would love this. A bit extravagant, isn‘t it?"

"You like Quidditch," Draco stated evenly, as if that explained everything.

"And so do you," Ron countered.

"There you go then," Draco replied. "More stew?" He made to grab Ron's bowl.

"No, thanks," Ron said, covering the bowl with his hand. "I'm stuffed."

Draco took a sip of his ale and sat back in his chair. "Wasn't that good, was it? Sorry."

Ron picked up his own bottle. "Enough of that. It was excellent, really. Thanks for going through all the trouble, Draco. For the stew, and, well, everything."

Draco made a rude noise. "You don't have to keep thanking me, Ron."

Ron sat back and smiled. That was one of the few times Draco had used his name aloud. He liked the way it sounded, flowing across Draco's thin lips. Now why was that, exactly? He yawned and stretched, suddenly feeling a bit fatigued. He rubbed his eyes, wincing at the first hints of an impending headache.

"Have a lie down," Draco said as he rose and charmed the bowls over to the sink. He turned to glare at Ron, jerking his head to indicate the bed. "Go on. Rest. The faster you recover, the faster we'll be out of here."

Ron plumped up the pillows and lay down, half-sitting up. He watched Draco work for a few moments before closing his eyes. He tried to concentrate on the Quidditch match, and had Chudley been playing he might have succeeded...


~~~~~


...the Inferi moves closer, its flat, dead eyes seemingly sightless, its breath ice cold and foul. He backs away, fumbling for his wand but not finding it. He can hear a host of shuffles and thumps in the darkness as more undead shamble through the bracken toward him. He can hear their wheezing and hacking breath, a multitude of death rattles amplified and frozen in time. “Jon! Jon!” he cries out, his voice shockingly hoarse and muffled. The Inferi lunges again and he trips over a root and falls backward, landing in a tangle of thistle and nettles. The Inferi falls on him, its mouth agape in a scream of triumph. It thrusts its fingers savagely into his chest, its clawed fingernails tearing through the fabric of his shirt and scraping away skin. He tries to push the undead thing away and scrabble for his wand at the same time, but the Inferi is persistent, relentless, ruthless. He screams out in pain as the creature thrusts a finger into his flesh repeatedly, harder and harder. “Jon! Help me!” he gasps as the dark energy of the Inferi begins to course through his body. He cannot escape; he cannot get free. His vision blurs, his limbs are as lead. His strength wanes, his resolve crumbles just as a searing light blinds him and...

...Draco hovered over him, kneeling on the bed and shaking him vigorously. "It's a dream, Ron. Just a dream."

Ron gazed about the dim room frantically, pushing away from Draco and huddling against the wall. "Bloody hell," he gasped, rubbing his eyes. "I fucking hate that dream." He looked up at Draco, suddenly embarrassed.

"Have it often, then?"

"No, not really,” Ron replied. “Often enough, though." Draco was staring at him intently. "What?"

Draco sat down on the mattress and shook his head. "You were calling for MacLeod."

"I was?" Ron asked. "Makes sense, I suppose. He's the one that was with me then."

Draco picked at the quilt. "You call out in your sleep every night." He met Ron's gaze. "Sometimes Jon's name, sometimes Harry's. Or Charlie's."

Ron shrugged. "I didn't know that. Jon never said anything about it, and I certainly don't recall crying out."

“Do you want to talk about it?” Draco asked, his voice nearly a whisper.

“Not much to say, really,” Ron offered. “I told you about the Inferi Jon and I ran into. Nasty creatures. Cold, slimy, and they smell horrid. Sharp claws. That’s about it.”

Draco nodded, his expression pensive. “You were nearly killed, though.”

Ron shrugged. “Well, I wouldn‘t say that…I suppose if Jon hadn’t been only a few yards away…”

“Then you’d have been Turned,” Draco said.

“But I wasn’t, and that’s that,” Ron answered a bit tersely. “I don’t understand…”

Draco waved a hand. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.” He remained silent a moment before nodding and standing up. "Well, if you're fine then..."

"I'm okay," Ron replied. "Where are you going?"

Draco hooked a thumb to the far side of the room. "Back to sleep, where else?"

Ron furrowed his brow. "On the floor?"

Draco cocked his head to one side. "No, not on the floor, genius. I've a bedroll, remember?"

Ron folded his arms. "Not very bright to sleep on the floor when there's a bed in the same room."

Draco harrumphed. "You want me to sleep with you?"

Ron threw up his hands. "Haven't you slept with me before? I know I'm not hallucinating that. Jon and I shared a bedroll nearly all of the time."

"You were ill, then, cold and shivering, calling for Jon and Harry. Delirious. The only thing that seemed to calm you down was when I climbed into the bed with you."

"Look," Ron began, "sleep on the sodding floor if you like. But don't tell me it's comfortable, or that you prefer it that way. I can tell you're stiff and sore just by the way you walk about. And you don't look like you're sleeping well, either."

Draco planted his hands on his hips.

"Don't be so bloody stubborn," Ron admonished. "Just get that skinny arse over here and climb in." He pulled the quilts back and patted the mattress. "Succumb to the logic of the situation, Draco."

"Oh, sweet Merlin," Draco groaned as he stomped over to the bed and flopped in. He pulled the quilt up to his chin and stared at the ceiling. "First of all, I've been told by more than a few that I have a rather decent arse, thank you very much."

Ron barely covered his laughter with a hasty cough. "Okay."

"And secondly, you've got the balls of a hippogriff to say that I'm stubborn. Bloody red head! Shite!"

Ron grinned widely. "Finished?"

"Completely," Draco replied.

"Good."

"Right," Draco said as he charmed out the oil lamp and lowered the fire. "Keep to your own side of the bed, and mind the covers. I don't fancy waking up with only the ruddy sheet. Blasted quilt monger, you are."

"On second thought," Ron mused, "perhaps this wasn't a good idea after all."

Draco sighed loudly, turning on his side and showing his back to Ron. "Oh, just shut it, will you?"

Ron sniggered as he made himself comfortable. He stretched out, his left hand brushing against the swell of Draco's arse; Ron waited for Draco to pull away, but he didn't.

~~~~~~


...He snuggled against Jon, slowly sliding his hand under Jon's shirt. He trailed his fingers along the centre of Jon's stomach and chest, circling a nipple and gently playing with the rapidly hardening nub. Jon moaned softly as he pressed his morning erection into the cleft of Jon's arse. Jon responded by leaning into him and moaning a bit louder. He nuzzled the back of Jon's neck and reached over and along the curve of Jon's hip, his fingertips just grazing the head of Jon's erection. "Oh, Jon," Ron murmured, his hips thrusting back and forth ever so slightly.

Jon reciprocated by pressing his arse firmly against him and guiding his hand down to more firmly stroke his own erection. He then nibbled and licked the lobe of Jon's ear, his fingers curling about Jon's cock and pulling on it with increased fervour.

"Want to fuck you," Ron moaned deeply.

"Pardon me!" Draco exclaimed as he rolled away from Ron and off the edge of the bed, taking most of the quilts with him. "Damn it, I'm not Jon!" he huffed from beneath the tangle of bedclothes.

Ron peered over the edge of the bed just as Draco whipped the quilt away. "Sorry, mate," Ron rumbled, his voice still thick and heavy with sleep. "I know you're you. I didn't mean to...you felt so good...I mean..."

Draco held up a hand. "No worries. Let's just move on, shall we?"

Ron blinked, unsure of what to say next. "Draco, I..."

"I think I'll head outside for a quick wash-up. Be back in a bit to make breakfast." Draco stood up, struggling to conceal his obvious hard-on. "Just...well, whatever," he stammered as he turned and rushed out the door wearing nothing but a thin shirt and boxers.

Ron rubbed his eyes and lay back down, his head already beginning to throb. Yeah, he finally had to admit that he was very much into Jon, and if the stocky Scot were about right now, the two of them would most likely be shagging like a pair of boarhounds in heat. But Jon wasn't there, and Draco was, and what in the Seven Hells was going on? There'd been no mistaking the hungry stares that he'd been getting from Draco; he clearly found Ron attractive in some way, if only physically, but Ron was somehow sure it went a bit deeper than that.

Most everyone was of the opinion that he had the emotional depth of a mud puddle, which couldn't be farther from the truth. He was a Weasley after all, and his temper was well known, but literally no one, save Charlie, knew that his passions were just as intense, just as strong. He held onto those emotions very tightly; he wasn't sure why or how he'd evolved that way, it was simply his way. Just because he wasn't prone to wearing his heart on his sleeve didn't mean he didn't have one. Draco wouldn't be the first person to underestimate him so.

Ron shifted about on the bed, his hand trailing down his stomach and over the waistband of his boxers to stroke his erection. Must be feeling better, he thought as he rubbed himself harder, the feel of the smooth fabric against his hard cock wonderfully stimulating. He hadn't a good wank in ages, and he was long overdue.

He lifted his hips and shoved his boxers down, working them off his legs while he cast a silent Lubricus. He moaned deeply as the warm, slippery sensation spread from the tip of his erection all the way down to his balls. He stroked himself firmly with one hand while the other drifted up to tease one of his nipples, mercilessly pinching and twisting the nub of flesh.

He gasped with satisfaction, pulling on his cock with increasing intensity. His thumb teased the slit of his erection with each upstroke. He closed his eyes, envisioning a shirtless Jon for the briefest of moments. His mind's eye then shifted to Draco, whom he'd seen totally starkers recently when they'd used public showers in Tain. Draco was indeed slim, and his long, lithe body went on for miles, all pale, unmarred milky skin and taut muscle, with only a smattering of white blond hair about his nipples, running straight down his abdomen and ending in a neat thatch of curls surrounding his slender but rather long cock.

Ron bit his lip to stifle the moans as he pulled on his nipple and increased the speed and intensity of his strokes. In his fantasy Draco turned about, the spray of water sheeting down his slicked and shiny skin, the mist rising and swirling all about as Draco lathered himself with relish. Draco's long, slim fingers toyed with his own nipples before one hand strayed down to service his now erect cock.

"Ohfuckyes," Ron breathed as he neared release, the Draco in his vision similarly ready to orgasm. A stroke later and Ron arched his back, his ejaculate spurting through his fingers and onto his belly. He flicked his thumb across the now hyper-sensitive head of his spent prick, gasping each time. He then ran his fingers all through and around his rapidly drying spunk, enjoying the amazing slickness before it was gone.

He'd just had the wank of his life, and Draco Malfoy had played the lead role in his fantasy.

"Blimey," he murmured to the empty room. "Now what?"


~~~~~


Ron had managed to clean himself and the bed up, as well as stoke the hearth and get the teapot over the fire before he'd needed to lie down again. He was listening to 'Top of The Pops' on the Wizarding Wireless with his eyes closed when he heard the door open and bang shut. He feigned sleep, hoping that to avoid any sort of confrontation with Draco might be the best course of action for the moment. Some folks needed time alone to stew, and Draco was certainly of that ilk. Not that Ron was sure of what he'd say anyway; he wasn't exactly good with words, but give him a chessboard or a problem to solve, and he was unstoppable.

He lay there for sometime, listening to Draco bustle about before he really did fall asleep...


~~~~~