New World

Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters and universe are property of JKR, Scholastic & other assorted publishers, and the WB.
A/N: The advert is a quote from Anaïs Nin. Braxas' first spoken line comes from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, Chapter 6.


“Your clothes are too tight, brasser!”

Ron stopped fussing with his hair mid-comb and glared at the mirror. “Piss off,” he grumbled, cursing himself for perhaps the hundredth time that he’d allowed his mum to cast ‘just a few useful household charms, dear’ about his flat.

He was on edge enough as it was. The last thing he needed right then was to be insulted by a mirror.

After he had managed to tame his hair somewhat, Ron placed the comb on the counter and peered at his reflection critically. Maybe he should have let Ginny trim his hair yesterday. It was so long now that in a matter of days it could undoubtedly be called ‘shaggy’; the ends curled slightly against the nape of his neck and spilled over his collar. His eyes were too plain – boring blue; his nose was a shade too long, his freckles were too numerous; his lips were maybe a bit bigger than a bloke’s ought to be; and he wasn’t as fit as… lots of people.

“Merlin’s beard, this is a disaster,” he moaned, sinking down to sit atop the loo. “What was I thinking?”

Just a few minutes ago he had been a bundle of nerves but also excited by what the evening would bring. Now he was just a bundle of nerves – and very much second-guessing himself.

Leaning back against the porcelain, Ron tilted his head so he could stare up at the mirror. Stare right through the mirror, actually. There were too many thoughts whirling about in his head for him to properly focus on his reflection any longer. Tonight could very well be a disaster. Maybe he ought to just stay in, be the stander-upper for once instead of the stood-upee.

He sighed and straightened, his eyes consequently falling upon a small bit of printed parchment Spellotaped in the upper right-hand corner of the mirror.

Each friend represents a world in us,
a world possibly not born until they arrive,
and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.

That was all the advert said. That, plus an owl box number.

It had been the smallest, plainest advert in the section labelled WIZARD SEEKING WIZARD in the Daily Prophet several weeks ago. Just as soon as he had flipped to the Personals section, Ron had almost flipped right back. A good number of the adverts were charmed to shoot sparks or call out all seductive-like to readers and were, quite frankly, dead frightening. Only one advert lacked fancy sparks and booming voices promising a ‘wicked good time’.

Ron barely skimmed the Prophet for news these days, so he didn’t really know what had possessed him to flip back to the Personals section. Maybe it was because Hermione and Viktor were about to have their second child while he didn’t have anyone with whom he could start the family he so desperately wanted. Maybe it was because Ginny and Harry had taken to ribbing him lately about turning into an old maid. Either way, something about that advert called to Ron. He read it twice and hadn’t been able to resist sending Pig off with a note to the owl box. A new world sounded like just the place for him.

A new world.

Considering how fucked up the Wizarding world still was after the war, Ron could stand for a new world. Things were better than they had been just after the war, but on the whole things were still pear-shaped, especially when compared to how things had been prior to that big messy final battle.

Upon the second reading of the advert, Ron had got out his parchment and quill and ink and dashed off a note. Then he re-read it, decided it was crap, crumbled it up, tossed it in the fireplace, and started anew. He re-read that note, decided it was crap, crumbled it up, tossed it in the fireplace, and started anew. This went on until he had written and rejected eleven notes.

The twelfth had been the keeper. It wasn’t perfect, but neither was he, so Ron decided just to be honest.

Hullo,

My name’s Bilius. I’m twenty-seven and I’m not sure what else you’d like to know. I saw your advert in the Daily Prophet. I don’t even like the Daily Prophet, but I liked what you had to write. It said something to me. Right.

So, return post if you like. I’ve a box at Master Pratham’s Owl Post. Number 1542.

Bilius

Well, mostly honest.

Ron didn’t really consider using his middle name lying. A new world meant new things, and why couldn’t he maybe shed his old Ron skin for something new, different? Besides, if the bloke actually owled him back, they arranged to meet, and he turned out to be some barmpot, he wouldn’t actually know Ron’s real identity. It made perfect sense to sign the post as Bilius.

A week and a half passed with no owl, and Ron was vaguely puzzled when Pig returned from Master Pratham’s Owl Post with personal post in a slim envelope bearing his name in an elegant, slanted hand in addition to various bills. He’d nearly forgot that he’d replied to the advert until he opened the post.

The letter was written on thin parchment watermarked with dragon’s breath in that same hand, and Ron felt a tingle of excitement deep down inside as his eyes skimmed the page. He stared at the signature for a long while before carefully replacing the post back in the envelope, then tucked it into a trunk for safe keeping.

“Braxas,” he breathed as he found the issue of the Daily Prophet containing the advert that he’d put aside days earlier. Thinking on what Braxas might be like and what he might look like, Ron carefully ripped the advert out, stuck Spellotape on the back of it, and pressed it to a corner of his bathroom mirror.

The name Braxas was exotic-sounding and foreign to his ears, and Ron wanted to know everything about him. Everything.

Bilius and Braxas exchanged owls for many weeks, confiding in one another about their likes and dislikes, hopes and fears, and tonight was the night they would finally meet face-to-face.

Braxas was a dancer at Wandplay, a Wizarding gentlemen’s club, and that was where they had arranged to meet. There was to be a masquerade that evening, a club tradition on the eve of the first day of Christmas. Ron didn’t really know what Braxas looked like other than that he was blond. When he asked Braxas as to how he would find him in the nightclub, Braxas’ reply, penned on a scrap of parchment, was brief and to the point: Wear a green mask. Look to the cage for black and silver.

Because he would be going to a Wizarding gentlemen’s club, Ron wasn’t exactly dressed in his usual jumper-and-trousers combination. He was wearing clothing that likely looked as odd as it made him feel – a hand-me-down pair of Bill’s dragon hide boots, runespoor skin pants Seamus lent him, and a tebo hide shirt that was practically a second skin. If Ron wasn’t so restless, he would have been inclined to agree with the mirror about the state of his clothes being too tight. He wouldn’t have agreed about the brasser part, however.

Thank God and Merlin and anyone else who wanted to be thanked that Ginny, Harry, and Hermione couldn’t see him now. They’d never let him live down the day he dressed up like some sort of Weird Sister groupie.

While the trousers were chaffing in places he really didn’t want to be chaffed and Bill’s boots were rather pinching his toes, Ron decided that he put in enough ruddy effort to look fetching and as though he’d fit in at Wandplay as it was and he had to stop second-guessing himself. If he didn’t want to be right where he was wearing what he was in preparation for what lay ahead, he wouldn’t have replied to Braxas’ advert in the first place.

Right.

Right.

Emboldened, Ron pushed himself up from the porcelain and took a good look at himself in the mirror.

His hair was a brilliant shade of ginger and soft; his eyes dark and warm; his freckles smattered about his skin in just the right way; his mouth was curved in a slight, friendly smile; and he looked plenty fit in those clothes.

As he draped a fur-lined winter cloak about his shoulders and prepared to Apparate, it occurred to Ron that he would have to dance. That should have been obvious from the start, but he had been so worried about his clothing and how he looked that it had somehow escaped him.

Bugger.

Ron was an incredibly dreadful dancer. Ron was so dreadful a dancer that calling him ‘dreadful’ was an act of exceeding kindness

He sure as hell hoped that Braxas would find him so fit and brilliant that he wouldn’t even notice Ron had two left feet.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ron Apparated right into the middle of a pack of blokes all vying for entrance to Wandplay.

A wizard stood at the door, using his wand to direct people like traffic. Some would be waved inside and others would be waved to the curb. Ron wasn’t sure if he ought to call out to the man to ask for admittance or what he would do if he was directed curb-side. Nervously he fiddled with the closure of his cloak , his fingers brushing along an inner pocket.

The mask.

In all his fretting over his lack of dancing skills and skin tight clothing, Ron had forgot to put the mask on. He took care of that now, tying the ribbon tight enough so the mask was snug on his face. His fingers had barely left the ribbon before the wizard at the door called out to him.

“You there,” he said, waving his wand in Ron’s direction.

Ron glanced over one shoulder and then the other before looking back at him. “Who, me?” he asked, pointing tentatively to his chest.

The wizard nodded. “You. Enter.”

Two wizards – one short and squat and the other tall and thin as a rail – stepped aside, and Ron brushed past them, digging in his cloak for his money pouch.

“How much–”

“Fifteen Galleons, second window on the right.”

Repeating the man’s words under his breath, Ron gave him a slight grin and shifted on his feet nervously before opening the door and stepping inside the building.

At the first window on the left, Ron handed an attendant his cloak and wand and took a claim stub. A snaggle-toothed, balding wizard at the second window on the left took his Galleons, then waved his wand in a complicated flick-swish-swirl-flick-zig pattern to reveal the entrance to the club at the end of the corridor[,] which had initially appeared to be a dead end.

Inhaling deeply, Ron stepped inside and found himself among several hundred wizards, all of whom were being bathed in all sorts of different lights – light spilling from odd crystal balls rotating on the ceiling, floating candles, fairy lights. The music was loud and the beat was pounding so hard that Ron felt it shake the floor through the soles of Bill’s boots.

His eyes scanned the room for any sign of a blond wearing a black and silver mask, but Ron quickly realised that he didn’t have the best vantage point from the back of the club and that he ought to get out on the dance floor.

Although his mask didn’t need adjusting, Ron adjusted it, took another deep breath, and stepped out onto the dance floor. The floor was like a maze of bodies and Ron squeezed between dancing couples and swerved around a few erratic lone dancers. Between the bodies moving this way and that, the thump of the music, and the brightness of the lights, it was rather difficult to keep alert and look for Braxas.

The beat became even faster when the music changed, and Ron jumped out of the way at the last minute, narrowly avoiding getting jostled by a rather exuberant couple. His balance was a bit dodgy from all the over-stimulation, so the jostle sent him reeling. Just before he toppled over, a strong hand clasped his shoulder and hauled him upright.

“Thanks,” Ron mumbled, barely glancing at the wizard who had come to his aid. He leaned forward and pushed himself up on the tips of his toes, looking. He felt another touch on his shoulder and he tensed up for a moment before shrugging the hands off.

“Look,” he began tersely, spinning round to face…

Marcus Flint.

Even with a ruddy mask about his face, Ron knew without a doubt that it was Flint. There wasn’t any mistaking his ogre-like teeth or square jaw, and Ron felt physically ill at the thought that Flint had just touched him and was currently leering at him.

“Wanna dance?” he slurred, hands reaching out toward Ron.

“Bloody hell, no,” Ron gasped, pushing past Flint roughly. The prevalent thought on his mind was to just get away, so he surged forward into a throng of gyrating bodies, bumping and elbowing wizards in his haste to put as much distance as possible between himself and Marcus Flint. Every time he would run into someone, Ron tossed an apology over his shoulder, then push forward again. It was while he was looking over his shoulder apologising to someone that he ran directly into something solid. Metal.

With a grunt of pain, Ron reared back and shook his head in an attempt to clear it and get his bearings. When the haze began to dissolve, Ron noticed exactly what it was that he had just run into. A cage.

In that cage was a man, and on the man was a mask. A black and silver one.

The cage was elevated above the floor; the bottom of it hung waist-level to Ron. Ron’s eyes travelled up the length of the man’s body, taking in every angle and line. Stylish shoes, sharp black trousers, grey shirt that hugged every muscle. Slightly pointed face, strong chin, lips pink and pale and quirked at the corners, aristocratic nose, piercing grey eyes, and white-blond hair. Braxas.

Ron felt his stomach drop to his toes. This bloke was Braxas? He didn’t know what he’d done to earn such a favour from someone or something Up There, but he was damned glad he did whatever it was. Braxas was fit, a dead stunner; Ron didn’t need to see underneath his mask to suss that out. Fit and, if he was anything like how he presented himself in his owls, smart and sardonic and right up Ron’s alley. Of course, there had been a time or two during the course of their exchanged owls that Ron questioned Braxas’ view on wizarding and bloodlines or Quidditch or a handful of other topics, but on the whole Ron found him endlessly fascinating and had always been eager for his next post, to learn more about him.

Braxas didn’t seem to notice him at first, but Ron didn’t mind. He was totally lost in the music up in that cage, his hands high above his head, his face tipped back so the light – bright and sparkling and gleaming – bathed his face. Hips moved sinuously with the beat and Ron swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way his fingers suddenly ached to touch those hips, to run along hard lines and angles, to explore, to claim.

The music changed again; this time, the beat was slow and sensual. Braxas lowered his arms and wrapped hands around the metal bars of the cage. In one swift, silky movement, he arched up and then thrust his hips forward into the bars, grinding against them. Ron swallowed hard, staring at metal and wool and groin. He could feet his cock stir with interest and he closed his eyes while he counted silently to ten. Control. He needed to gain some sort of control over himself, or he might end up making an incredibly large arse out of himself.

Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…fi–

Warm breath puffed against his ear, then lips brushed along the shell. “No need to ask who you are.”

A shiver ran up and down Ron’s spine – from anticipation and a small, niggling feeling of déjà vu. He quickly shoved the niggling feeling away and turned round to stare right into intense grey eyes.

“No.” Ron shook his head. “No need for that.”

Braxas’ eyes roamed up and down Ron’s frame and Ron got the distinct impression that Braxas was sizing him up, perhaps even comparing him to someone. Ron didn’t like that feeling. He knew he shouldn’t have borrowed those trousers from Seamus. They were ridiculous and daft. He couldn’t pull them off and he didn’t know what had possessed him in the first place to—

“Nice trousers,” Braxas drawled, tucking a few fingers in the front of Ron’s trousers and pulling him close.

“Yeah?” Ron asked tentatively, wondering if Braxas was taking the mickey out of him.

“Yeah,” Braxas said firmly, sliding a hand over Ron’s thigh. “Serpents are cunning and useful, but the best thing about them is their skin. It fits a person like a glove, like a second skin meant only for them.”

Ron nodded and grinned. He really ought to stop second-guessing himself. Again. The trousers were a spiffing idea and Seamus was a brill mate for lending them to him.

"I nearly didn't come," he admitted, watching the way Braxas' hand moved over his leg.

“But you did,” Braxas noted, tugging Ron’s waistband and drawing him closer still. “Dance with me.”

“I did,” Ron said, nodding again. “Right glad I did, too, ‘cos—Dance?”

“Dance,” Braxas confirmed, bumping Ron’s knees apart and placing a foot in between them. “With me.”

His face suddenly felt hot and Ron knew he was flushing with embarrassment. “I’m a crap dancer. I’ve about as much rhythm as a flobberworm.”

“It’s not so much about a rhythm as it is a feeling,” Braxas said, locking their hips together in one quick movement, his hands on Ron’s waist. “You can feel, can’t you?”

“Y-yeah,” Ron breathed, acutely aware of the large, warm hands on his waist, the fingers brushing back and forth along the top of his bum.

“Then,” Braxas said, “you can dance.”

Hands moved from his waist down to his bum and squeezed, then pushed forward. Ron had no choice but to wrap his arms around Braxas’ neck as their chests pressed together and Braxas moved against him, arching in and against and up in such a fucking hot way that Ron completely forgot about his dance phobia and just felt.

Ron felt everywhere; there wasn’t a single centimetre in his body that wasn’t affected by the room, by the lights, by the music, by Braxas. He was so close and his hands were running all over Ron, not that Ron minded. Over the curve of his arse, along his thighs, gliding up over his belly and chest, tracing the line of his throat, back down the chest and up under his shirt. It was electric and hot and fucking brilliant, and Ron just had to do something. So he did. He curled his fingers into hair at the back of Braxas’ neck and applied pressure to tilt his face to the side. The minute his neck was exposed, Ron bent down to breathe in the warm scent of him before laving his tongue over saltysweatyslickskin and tasting.

“My turn,” Braxas murmured against his ear.

That was the most brilliant thing Ron had heard all night, so he eagerly tipped his head and offered his neck.

“Not that.” Braxas’ breath was warm against the column of his throat and Ron began to lift his face, a question forming on his lips. “This.”

When Braxas opened the top two buttons on his shirt and yanked Ron’s shirt to the side, he forgot all about asking a question. Who would want to do something daft like talk when a very fit bloke was doing very naughty things to his shoulder and collarbone? Certainly not Ron. He groaned and twisted Braxas’ hair in his hand, holding him against his chest. Lower and lower went Braxas’ mouth until there were teeth tugging on a— God, that was his nipple.

That was his nipple and, oh yes, that went straight to his cock and Ron was about to really embarrass himself if he didn’t—

“Where’s the loo?” he asked, pulling away.

Braxas lifted his head to look at Ron with a lazy, knowing smile, which caused Ron to flush even more. “That way.” He pointed past the bar, toward a corridor. “First door on the right after the VIP lounge.”

“Be back in a mo,” Ron promised, then hastily took off toward the loo. Getting past the bar was a bit of a chore; wizards were gathered round it, all vying for the bartender’s attention, calling out orders and throwing money onto the counter. Soon, though, Ron found himself in the corridor and he quickened his pace. The VIP lounge was odd-looking, Ron noted as he jogged past its window. VIP Wizards were sitting in a semi-circle, all staring at the floor. No one appeared to be speaking or drinking or even aware that anyone else was in the room; each wizard was absolutely transfixed with the floor. Odd, that.

Ron wrinkled his nose, glad to be a regular old wizard who didn’t have to get his kicks sitting about with other blokes watching the floor, and pushed open the door marked ‘Gents’.

The bathroom was tinier than he would have expected it to be, given the amount of patrons the club had. Only half the candles in the candelabra, floating just beneath the ceiling, were lit, the sink was filthy, the mirror spotty, and there were only three stalls. Had Ron needed to take a piss, he wouldn’t have dared gone in this loo; it was dingy and dodgy. But he didn’t need to take a piss; he needed to wank. Badly. Ron chose the stall far on the right, and the hinges groaned in protest when he slammed the door after himself. The bolt clicked into place and now he could take care of himself. He needed to take care of himself.

His fingers were shaking so much with anticipation that he fumbled a few times before successfully unbuckling his belt. There was a soft metallic hum as he pushed it to the side and the buckle jounced, but he paid it no mind. The next to be undone was the flies on his trousers, and he hissed as he pulled down the zip and it made a rasping sound. Yeah. The fabric of his trousers got pushed aside as well and his hand slipped beneath it, brushing over his shorts. They felt warm and moist with musk and precome, and he couldn’t draw his cock out of his shorts fast enough to suit himself. God. It was hard and hot and so fucking ready and he had to this now so he could go back to Braxas. Oh, fuck. Braxas. Brilliant. His fingers ran up and down the length, pressing into the vein on the underside, pushing at the foreskin, prodding at the slit, and Yes and Oh yeah God— What?

He heard a noise. It was the sound of hinges squealing and grinding together as a door opened and shut, but it wasn’t coming from his stall. Ron stilled his hand on his cock and tried his damnedest not to make a ruddy peep.

After a moment or two of being absolutely still and quiet, it became apparent to Ron that this other bloke didn’t come in for a piss. The wall separating the stalls didn’t go all the way to the floor; there was enough space at the bottom to show feet and ankles. The bloke was just standing there as though he were waiting for something.

Leave, Ron thought desperately, aching to get back to the task at hand. Go on, leave.

There was a soft sound, the whisper of fabric shifting, and Ron nearly sighed in relief; the bloke was leaving.

Right?

A beat, and then Ron frowned. The now tell-tale sound of rusty hinges moving didn’t sound.

Bugger.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of movement. Curious, Ron edged closer to the wall and knelt down. What he’d seen were two fingers rubbing on the edge of a hole in the wall.

There was a hole in the wall.

Gasping softly in surprise, Ron released his cock and traced the edge of the hole on his side of the stall. It was cool to the touch and smooth; there wasn’t any telling how long it had been there. Below the hole there was something etched on the wall. Squinting, Ron leaned forward and read: Have it off here…or have a bloke off. There were a few other things carved in the paint, but Ron wasn’t about to take the time to read them all, not when he still needed to fucking come. The fingers on the other side of the wall pushed through, the pads brushing over Ron’s knuckles.

The touch startled him and Ron fell backwards onto the floor, directly on his arse. He scrambled to his knees and placed an eye to the hole again and caught a flash of grey and something black and silver.

Oh.

If it were possible, Ron got even harder at the sight, and he aimed to take the advice of whoever it was that had written on the wall.

Inhaling deeply, Ron peered through the hole again, excitement coursing through his veins, and he nearly fell on his bottom for a second time. An arse was pressed up right against the hole. A very tight, fit arse that looked so…so very suckable and fuckable and fuck but it had been ages since Ron’d had any action. Cautiously, wanting to make sure that he had the right impression, Ron stuck a finger though the hole and brushed it against the curve of the ass presented to him. There was no movement for a long moment, and then the bum wriggled even closer still to the hole. Ron took that as an invitation and retracted his hand so that he could slick up his fingers. Next, his fingers delved into the hole and slid in between arse cheeks to push against a tight ring of muscle and then in. He stretched and pulled and latched his free hand onto his own cock, feeling the weight of it in his palm. Then he was ready, they both were ready, and Ron replaced his fingers with his mouth. The metal of the wall pressed coolly and almost cruelly against his face, but Ron didn’t care. All he cared about was feeling, and he sealed his lips over the hole, tonguing the puckered muscle, and then he sucked.

He sucked and there was a grunt followed by a delicious groan on the other side of the wall, which only served to encourage him further. Ron moaned in response and lapped at the opening, pushing and smoothing with his tongue, willing it to relax, until he was shaking so badly that he could barely keep hold of his cock. He paused to inhale and then, and then, he needed more. Dove in. His tongue manoeuvred inside quickly, darting and swirling and jabbing, and he pressed his face even harder against the metal, needing to get as much of his tongue as possible inside. The moment the pucker began to pulse around his tongue, Ron felt his cock twitch something fierce, and he forced himself to continue, to thrust his tongue into that hole, to fuck it, to take. He couldn’t continue for much longer, though, because the tension was mounting and he had to—

Keening and sighing and lapping at that bum as though it were the most delectable meal he’d ever tasted, Ron took pity on him, on his moaning and hissing and trembling, and pulled back, scooting until his back was against the opposite wall. He lay there panting, his cock needing release, but he was too spent to do it. His eyes fell shut and he listened to the sounds of his chest rising and falling for a moment before a sated feeling overtook him and he drifted away, allowing himself to bask in pleasure and the moment.

A rap on his stall door brought Ron back to reality. “Yeah?” he croaked, staring at the black shoes and the hem of black trousers.

“I’m glad you came.”

Ron’s head lolled back, but he scarcely felt it bump against the wall. “So’m I, Braxas,” he whispered.

“It’s not Braxas. Abraxas was my grandfather.” Ron blinked at that, but he barely had time to wrap his mind around it before: “Open the door, Weasley.”

Ron stared blankly at the door, gob-smacked for perhaps a few seconds before the surprise left his system entirely. He’d had the feeling earlier that he knew Braxas, that he was familiar. Truth be told, one or two things he said and did would have made Ron wonder, had everything between them and around them not happened so quickly.

A long time ago he would have been disgusted or angry that Braxas was really Draco Malfoy, but Ron wasn’t a kid anymore. Neither was Malfoy. They’d both been through a hell of a lot in the war, became a bit different, became better men because of it. Everything Ron had shared with ‘Braxas’ in their posts had been real. The only thing he’d been untruthful about was his name, and somehow he knew the same went for Malfoy. Still, though…

Standing up, Ron tucked himself back in his trousers and re-did the zip. “How’d you know?” he asked, finally opening the door.

Malfoy quirked a brow – Ron knew he did, even though Malfoy still had on the mask and he couldn’t see it for himself – and placed a hand on the doorframe. “You don’t honestly think I would correspond with someone I’ve never met without investigating their background.”

Ron shook his head and removed his mask, grinning. “No, I don’t reckon you would.”

Malfoy returned the grin, and then removed his own mask. Ron reached a hand out and touched a thumb to Malfoy’s cheek. “You look older than I remember.”

“So do you,” Malfoy acknowledged. His eyes narrowed. “More freckled, too.”

“Yeah,” Ron shrugged, dropping his hand to his side. “I reckon I am.”

Malfoy grew quiet, watching Ron silently in the flickering candlelight. “I like your mouth.”

“So does this mean you aren’t going to try to hex it shut for old times sake?” Ron asked after a beat, one corner of his mouth twitching.

“If I hexed it shut, you couldn’t put it to use,” Malfoy smirked. “You’re fairly good at using it.”

“Fairly?” Ron coughed, then scowled. “You’re taking the mickey out of me, yeah? ‘Cos you can’t tell me this–” He broke off and made high keening sounds, imitating Malfoy from mere minutes ago. “—didn’t mean that you were enjoying the bloody fuck out of yourself.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and crossed his arms about his chest. “Perhaps I enjoyed myself a little.”

“Liar. That’s what you are,” Ron retorted, leaning in to give Malfoy’s ear a flick.

“You’re the one who signed your post with another name.”

“So did you.”

“You did it first.”

Well, Ron couldn’t argue with that. “So I did. Just wanted to be sure. You can understand that, yeah?”

Malfoy nodded, then jerked his head toward the bathroom door. “Come on, Weasley. Ron.”

“Where’re we going?” Ron asked curiously, following Malfoy – no, Draco – out of the loo.

“Somewhere a bit more private.” Draco took hold of his elbow and guided him to the end of the corridor to a dimly-lit stairwell. Down the stairs they went, cutting through a vacant room until they came to a door.

“What’s this?” Ron asked. The door wasn’t labelled, nor was there anyone else around. Faintly he could still hear the thumping of club music from upstairs, so he knew that whatever was behind this room was not another dance area.

“Privacy,” Draco answered, twisting the knob. The door opened and he ushered Ron inside before locking it behind them.

“It’s private all right,” Ron said, taking in the smallness of the room and the distinct lack of furniture save for a couch leaking stuffing at its seams. He stepped forward to run his hand along the back of the couch, and then he felt a hand brush hair off the nape of his neck, followed by lips pressing firmly against his skin there, a tongue tracing along the bumps of his vertebrae. With a sigh, Ron’s head fell forward and he pressed hard against the back of the couch. Thrusting shallowly forward and then pressing back against the hard length of Draco’s cock against his arse, Ron wanted nothing more than to turn around and rub their cocks together, to bite at that mouth, to suck on that tongue that was now tracing patterns on his skin. He couldn’t turn around though; Draco shoved against him, pushing Ron forward into the couch even more, his hand skating over Ron’s hip to cup his length. Draco moaned in his ear then and Ron thought it was the most brilliant sound ever. He liked hearing Draco like this, liked knowing that it was because of him that Draco made such sounds.

“What’s taking you so bloody long?” Ron gasped, rubbing himself back against Draco.

“Nothing,” Draco breathed, nipping at Ron’s ear before twisting him around so they were face to face. “Nothing at all.” And just like that, they were kissing and falling, tongues twining and bodies sliding over the couch back, landing on the cushions in a tangled pile of limbs. Ron grunted as his head hit an armrest, then grabbed a handful of Draco’s arse.

Draco thrust up and against him and the friction of their cocks brushing nearly made Ron’s eyes pop right out of his head.

“Mine,” Draco growled, cupping Ron and giving him a squeeze while dipping down to nip along the line of his jaw.

“Fuck, yes. Yours, mine, ours,” Ron gasped, pushing his hips up against Draco. “Now.”

“Now,” Draco agreed, opening up Ron’s flies, freeing his cock from the confines of his shorts. He hissed as the air hit bare skin, the hiss turning into a whine as Draco pulled away to work on the closures of his own clothing. “Patience.”

Ron managed a short laugh, frantically kicking off boots and trousers and shorts. “You’re one to talk,” he said, yanking Draco on top of him as he fell back onto the couch.

A grin flashed across Draco’s face and then it was replaced by a look of concentration. Ron quickly realised why this was when he felt fingers press against and inside him, stretching. Ron moaned and pushed back against the finger, drawing his legs up toward his chest and spreading them further apart. In went another finger and yet another, and Ron squirmed, hard and hot and randy and ready.

Draco slowly removed his fingers and draped himself across Ron’s chest, his lips hovering over Ron’s mouth. “I’m going to fuck you now,” he whispered, and Ron could feel his lips moving against his own. “Would you like that?”

“Fucking right I would,” Ron swore, hooking a leg about Draco’s waist and digging his heel into his arse.

Draco laughed, cupping Ron’s face in his hands. “You sure?” he asked, tilting Ron’s head back.

“Yeah, I’m–” Ron cut off abruptly when he found himself staring up at a ceiling that wasn’t a ceiling at all. It was glass, actually, and…he could see people staring down through it at them. “Draco,” he hissed, placing a hand on Draco’s cheek and tilting his face up to see what he saw. “They’re watching us.”

“VIPs. And they are.” Draco turned his face back to Ron. “That doesn’t…bother you, does it?”

If it bothered Ron, he didn’t really know. He couldn’t think much beyond the fact that his cock was aching, Draco was hard and fit and there, and he quite wanted to have a shag. With Draco. Who was very fit and sardonic and whose skin felt better than brilliant against his. If those old blokes up there wanted to have a look-see, that was fine with Ron. Hell, if he were old and a VIP, he’d love to watch Draco shag something.

“No,” Ron said at last, shaking his head. “It doesn’t.” Then his mouth curved in a predatory, sly smile. “They only get to look, but I get to touch.”

“More than touch,” Draco whispered as he pushed himself inside of Ron. Trembling, Ron wrapped his other leg around Draco’s waist and pushed up against him, gritting his teeth as he heard Draco’s balls slap against his arse. He could feel himself squeezing down around Draco’s cock and he sighed, then whimpered as Draco rocked forward and took hold of his cock, twisting and fisting him.

“You’re so—fuck,” Ron grunted, pushing down to meet Draco as he thrust up hard. Oh, going slow wasn’t going to cut it, not at all. A dig of the heels was all it took to encourage Draco to go fast, fast, faster, and Ron whimpered and moaned and grunted as Draco pounded into him and pulled at his cock. Ron missed this, missed the feeling of being filled and being whole and the smells of sex and sweat and skin. He missed it, and he’d be damned if he was going to go without again. Forcing himself up on an elbow, he latched his mouth onto the curve of where neck met shoulder and bit down hard, marking Draco. Claiming him. Branding him. Draco had owned plenty of things in his life, plenty of brilliant things, but Ron never had. He’d had a lifetime of hand-me-downs and second-bests, and he wasn’t about to not mark what was good and properly his, what was good and properly part of him.

“Ours,” he whispered, the word tapering off to a moan against Draco’s skin.

“Yes,” Draco rasped, and then he began bucking wildly against Ron’s frame. Ron gritted his teeth and clenched down on him, squeezing up his muscles and milking Draco’s orgasm right out of him. Draco had barely stopped trembling before Ron followed suit, body jerking against and under Draco’s, his cock jumping in Draco’s hand before spurting warmth out and over fingers, his arse contracting around Draco’s cock again, and bloody brilliant.

When all the shaking had subsided, they stayed like that, all sticky and close and still connected, and Ron didn’t mind one bit that they didn’t have their wands about to perform a Cleaning Charm. It was nice to be close like that, to feel Draco’s heart beating against his own chest.

“I don’t like the Daily Prophet either,” Draco said, breaking the silence.

“Why’d you…?”

“I was tired.”

“So was I.” Ron raised his hand to brush back a lock of white-blond hair that clung to Draco’s forehead.

“Exploring seemed like the thing to do.”

“You’ve found what you were looking for, though?” Ron asked carefully, and the second after he asked it, he berated himself. He shouldn’t pressure Draco, shouldn’t make him feel obligated to say something he thought Ron might want to hear…

Draco frowned as he stared down into Ron’s eyes searchingly, and Ron thought his heart was going to seize up and die.

Daft, Ron. So fucking daft.

“Yes,” Draco said, his eyes unguarded and shining in the dim light. “I have.”

A new world was born.