One Step

They hit the dirt in a chaos of limbs, both of them stumbling and coughing as the air squeezed back into their lungs; both of them, miraculously, landing upright (a terrific feat for Draco, whose hands were still bound behind his back.)

Then, Ron swung.

He was not sure exactly why he swung. Maybe he did it just because he could; because there was nobody to get in the way this time, nobody to play hero. Maybe it was because he was disoriented and terrified, and he was testing to make sure that they were both, in fact, still alive. Maybe it was because he was still so fucking angry – angry at himself for running out on Harry; angry at Hermione for siding with him; angry at his own merciless hunger and frustration – and Malfoy had simply appeared at the right time; some hard-won, convenient punching bag.

Whatever the reason, Ron swung. He swung hard, and the moment when his fist connected with Malfoy’s jaw was, for a brief second, one of the most satisfying moments of his short life. Draco’s delicate little bird-bones did not crack, but they shifted a little, dropped slack, and he jerked his shoulders towards his face with a howl of surprise. He had not seen it coming; he had not been able to brace himself. How could he? He was still blindfolded by his own grimy shirt.

This was what made Ron’s momentary satisfaction vanish. Stepping back from what he had done, he instantly regretted it. He felt like a coward. He felt underhanded and sleazy and, if it were possible, even more angry at himself. For all that Malfoy had done in his life to earn the bruise blooming along his jaw line, he was, at the moment, about as dangerous as a Pygmy Puff.

Draco was barely discernible as himself. His slenderness had become gauntness, and Ron could have counted his ribs if he had wanted to, sharp-looking and jutting painfully at his skin, which had turned from the colour of milk to the colour of fog, sick and grey. He was covered in wounds: scars cut across his bare chest and disappeared into the waist of his tattered black trousers; fresh, angry-looking scrapes covered his body; and, Ron noticed with a sick feeling, the skin on his left forearm was raw and bloody and shot through with the remainder of his Dark Mark, as though someone had tried to peel it off. His feet were bare and scabbed.

Back in the forest, Ron had been able to recognize him only by his hair – dirty, but still distinctively platinum – and the half-Mark on his arm. Otherwise, he would never have pegged this filthy, feral-looking thing as a Malfoy.

Neither of them spoke for a moment after the blow; they just stood there, chests heaving. Finally, Ron decided that he should probably take charge of the situation before Draco tried to, and he ordered Malfoy to his knees.

“Fuck you,” Malfoy spat, but to Ron’s surprise, he complied.

Ron walked a quick circle around him, and, finding Malfoy wandless (and finding his back as equally appalling-looking as his front, crosshatched with what looked like poorly healing claw-marks), cut his bindings with a well-placed Diffindo. Draco fell forward, his hands suddenly free, and tore the shirt from around his head.

His face took Ron completely aback. One of his eyes was swollen almost shut. The whole right side of his face – forehead, cheekbone, jaw – was purple and puffy and peppered with broken skin. Some of the hair near his temple was matted down with blood.

When their eyes met, they just stared. Finally, his wand trained on Malfoy, who was sitting back on his knees and not even trying to stand, Ron croaked, “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Had a run in with one of your brothers, Weasel. I was buggering your sister, and he didn’t want to wait his turn.”

Ron lunged forward, some of his earlier guilt assuaged by the insult, catching Malfoy under the chin with his wand and pushing it against his throat. “Shut up, you filthy bit of scum!” he growled. “Tell me what the fuck you were doing beat to shite in the middle of the bloody forest, or I’ll tie you back up and toss your manky arse over that fucking cliff!” Ron jerked his head at the foreboding-looking rocks that carved the landscape around Shell Cottage, where they had just Apparated.

Draco appeared to debate this option seriously for a moment before answering, his mouth ticcing a little as he responded. “I ducked out on them.”

Ron’s eyes narrowed. “Ducked out on who?

“All of them.” He paused. “Two weeks ago. And then that charming crew of Snatchers you just met caught up with me this morning.” He stopped and spat at the ground, blood colouring his saliva.

Ron’s wand-arm faltered only slightly, and then he thrust it anew against Malfoy’s skin. “Why?” he asked. “Why did you bail, Malfoy?”

His inclination was not to trust a word that came out of Draco Malfoy’s mouth, and yet he had still, for whatever reason, rescued the slick little git, acting on a last-second pang of pity and grabbing him after socking the Snatcher and nicking his wand back. Ron was shocked, actually, that it had worked. He had never even attempted to take the lead in Side-Along Apparition before, and he had been reasonably confident that Malfoy no longer had a wand, which – he had not known for sure – may or may not have presented a problem. It had been surprisingly simple, really; Malfoy’s lack of a wand clearly had not made a difference, as they had not even Splinched. At least, Ron did not think they had Splinched. Malfoy was so battered and bloody that he could not be entirely certain.

Malfoy glared up at him through his one good eye. Ron saw him swallow bracingly before he replied. “I assume you’ve noted my scars?”

Ron’s eyes darted across Draco’s face, crossed his chest, and then slunk down to his hip.

“Not those,” snarled Malfoy. “Those are courtesy of the Snatchers. And your pal Potter. I’m talking about the ones on my back.”

Ron nodded sharply.

“Well, Weasel. Those are what you get when the company gets restless and starts passing you around like a rentboy. Only without the rent.”

Ron flinched, his wand-arm dropping further and his eyes widening. Draco seemed to gather strength from watching him squirm. He continued. “Greyback was especially considerate. Full of romance, that one.”

Ron suddenly realized why the patterns on Malfoy’s back had looked familiar. His stomach twisted, and he could feel acid at the back of his throat. Greyback. His eyes narrowing further, he began, “Are you…”

Draco spat more blood into the dirt. “No, I’m not a fucking werewolf, you colossal fucking idiot. He wasn't turned when he did it. Likes it better that way.” He laughed bitterly.

As if on cue, the sound of running footsteps came from their left. The tall, slender figure of Bill Weasley appeared over a rocky hill, his wife at his heels, her silvery-blond hair trailing behind her. Shoving Fleur (who scowled but stayed put, her own wand drawn) back with one hand, Bill stepped in front of her, pointed his wand squarely at Ron, and barked, “Identify yourself!”

Ron blinked in surprise, his arm dropping to his side. “Bill! It’s… it’s me!”

Bill did not back down. His eyes seemed to bore a hole into Ron’s skull. “What did Fred transfigure your teddy bear into when you were a child?”

“A… a bloody spider,” Ron sputtered, confused and a little embarrassed. He chanced a quick glance at Draco, who, to Ron’s relief, held his face stone-still.

Bill moved his wand to point at Malfoy and held out a hand to Ron, who walked awkwardly over and allowed himself to be pulled into a brief, one-armed embrace. “What the hell are you doing here?” Bill asked, not taking his eyes off of Malfoy. “And who’s this?”

Fleur had come to stand beside her husband, and she also had her wand trained on Malfoy. Malfoy said nothing.

“Draco Malfoy,” Ron answered, and Bill and Fleur both turned to look sharply at him. “It’s all right,” Ron said quickly, not wanting his brother to think that he had put him and Fleur - or their home - purposefully in danger. “He’s not armed. He hasn’t got a wand. He… he’s defected. I think. At least, that’s what he told me. I… I found him in the woods. The Snatchers got a hold of him, and then they got a hold of me. They had him when they found me. And then I socked one in the gut and took my wand back, and… and I Disapparated and took him with me.”

Bill arched his eyebrows, one of which was cut in half by a slanted scar. “Nice escape. Defected, you said?”

Ron nodded. “That’s what he told me just now.”

Bill gestured with his wand at Malfoy. “Stand up.”

Malfoy got gingerly to his feet, his dirty shirt balled tightly in his fist. Bill approached him, and Ron and Fleur stood with their wands at the ready. “You’re Draco Malfoy?”

Malfoy nodded.

“Lucius Malfoy’s son?”

Malfoy nodded again.

“What happened to you?”

Malfoy cleared his throat and spat more blood into the dirt. Bill’s eyebrows rose again in surprise. “I escaped. They’re all staying at my ho… my parents’ home. Two weeks ago, I got on my broom in the middle of the night and left. Nobody saw me go. I got a decent head start, but I knew they’d be looking for me. I hid in the forest. The Snatchers caught up with me this morning.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Nice price on my head, there is.”

“Who is staying at your parents’ home?” Bill asked.

“All of them. The Death Eaters. The Dark Lord, sometimes. The Snatchers are in and out. All of them.”

Bill considered him for a moment and then asked Fleur to turn around. With a haughty look, she obeyed, and Bill ordered Draco to strip.

Draco balked, his eyes flashing. “The only thing I’m hiding in there is my arse. Lovely though I’ve been told it is…” he started, but Bill interrupted.

“That’s enough lip. You’re speaking in front of my wife. Just do it and get it over with. The quicker I can clear you, the quicker we can get you inside and get you fixed up.”

Ron averted his eyes, but he bit back the beginnings of a small, smug smile. He was loathe to show it, but witnessing Malfoy endure just a bit more humiliation was not entirely unpleasant. He heard the swish of fabric as Malfoy’s remaining clothing fell to the ground, and he heard Bill shake it out and cast revealing spells over it. Next, Bill muttered something and drew his wand over Draco's body.

Malfoy gave a yelp, and the remnants of his Dark Mark turned a strange shade of pink and began to undulate oddly. He gripped his arm, his face contorted in pain. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, "I don't... I don't think they can track me with it. Else they'd've found me by now, wouldn't they? I tried to scrape it off... just in case."

The sensation in his arm seemed to subside, and Malfoy let go of it and gave it a perfunctory shake. Bill looked at him appraisingly, and then, apparently satisfied at Malfoy's explanation, he let him redress and gestured them toward the cottage with a wave of his arm.

Malfoy walked in front with Fleur still holding him at wandpoint, and Ron hung back with his brother.

“Those marks are from a werewolf,” Bill said quietly, pointing at Malfoy’s wounded back.

Ron swallowed hard. He still found it difficult, sometimes, to look at his brother, not because of his scars, but because of what they meant. “I know,” he muttered. “Greyback, he says.” He paused, debating whether to reveal what else Malfoy had told him, and then decided against it.

Bill shook his head savagely. “Fucking monster, he is.” Then, looking shrewdly at Ron, Bill asked him what in Merlin’s name he was doing here.

This was the question Ron had been hoping to avoid, at least until after he had had something to eat and a decent bath. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he told Bill what had transpired between himself and Harry and Hermione, quite unable to meet his brothers’ eyes the entire time, shame and self-loathing twisting through his insides like daggers.

Bill listened carefully, and to Ron’s great relief, did not reproach him. “Well, I’m glad you thought to come to us,” he said instead. “Been awhile, hasn’t it? Bet you’re hungry.”

“Bloody starving,” Ron said, his stomach suddenly clenching at the mention of food.

Bill dropped his voice even lower. “Fleur’s not much of a cook, but we’ll find you something,” he muttered with a wink. “I can usually fix whatever she mucks up. Just don’t do it in front of her.” He paused, his voice sounding tight and slightly choked when he spoke again. “I meant what I said, about escaping, you know. Nice work. Glad you’re safe.”


____________________

Once inside, the process of fixing Malfoy up turned out to be rather complicated.

Ron’s own physical damage was mostly superficial, and a simple cleaning and some Dittany were more than adequate. He cheerfully allowed himself to be poked and prodded by Fleur (during which time he noticed that he actually had Splinched himself and was missing two fingernails; he had attributed the pain in his hand to punching Malfoy in the face), who turned out to be quite gifted at wound care, and after quickly wolfing down a triple helping of something he, truthfully, did not even taste (which was likely a good thing, from what Bill had said), he felt fairly decent, though exhausted.

Malfoy was another story. He was just as ravenous as Ron, and he asked for food before allowing his wounds to be attended to. He ate everything placed before him with a polite, if chilly, “Thank you,” chewing cautiously and stopping to dab blood from the corners of his mouth every few bites. It took a very long time and appeared to be painful, but he cleaned his plate twice over, nevertheless. While Malfoy ate – under Bill and Fleur’s watchful eyes and continued intermittent interrogation – Ron bathed and did his best not to think about anything at all.

Emerging from the bathroom in a pair of Bill’s pyjama pants, Ron saw Fleur mopping at Malfoy’s injured face as he winced and gripped the kitchen counter, white-knuckled, his mottled jaw tight. She rubbed different salves over him, tutting and tsk-ing, occasionally employing her wand in what was, apparently, highly uncomfortable healing magic. After several minutes of this, she escorted him down the little corridor to the bathroom, gesturing for Ron to follow.

“You will have to watch ‘im,” she said briskly, turning on the tap. “’E cannot be left alone, and zere are potions ‘e requires zat I must attend to.”

Ron shook his head violently, appalled at the idea of playing nursemaid to Malfoy in the bathroom. “Why can’t Bill…”

Fleur interrupted, sprinkling various powdery things into the water, which bubbled up and steamed. “Your job, ‘e says. You have brought him ‘ere, you will stay with ‘im. Bill is busy.” The look in her eyes left no room for argument. “If ze water gets full of blood or of pus, you must use Tergeo, yes?”

She gave Malfoy instructions for proper bathing and swept out of the door, hair flying behind her. Ron and Malfoy stared at each other, both apparently thinking the same thing: that this was the second time in as many hours that Malfoy had been instructed to strip naked in front of a Weasley.

“Try not to stare, Weasel,” Malfoy said at last, unceremoniously dropping his trousers into a puddle at his feet. “I know you’re used to something a little smaller.” He stood, for a moment, naked and defiant, daring Ron to look at him.

Ron did not. Instead, he plopped down on the lid of the closed toilet and faced the door, snapping back, “Get under the bloody water. You’ll blind someone.”

Malfoy snorted, but Ron heard the water splash as he sunk down into it, hissing as though it stung.

Neither of them spoke at first. Steam filled the bathroom, fogging up the mirror and condensing a little on Ron’s cooled-down skin. Malfoy washed himself timidly, testing his body with his hands and grimacing.

After several minutes, he spoke reluctantly. “The water, Weasel. It’s foul.”

“You’re foul,” Ron answered, staring determinedly at the door. “So I reckon it suits you.”

“That… veela woman said to clean it,” Malfoy retorted.

“Her name is Fleur,” Ron spat back. “She’s my brother’s wife. She was in the bloody Triwizard Tournament, you arsehole. And I don’t give a damn what she said to do. You can rot in it for all I care.”

“Then give me your bloody wand, and I’ll do it myself.”

Ron laughed aloud. “Right, Malfoy. That’s brilliant. I’ll hand it right over. Maybe you’d like me to lick your bollocks while I’m at it?”

“Randy, are we, Weasel? Sorry. I’ve had enough filth near my bollocks lately.”

Ron cringed. “Shut the fuck up,” he said, and then, when Malfoy did not reply, glanced quickly over his shoulder, aimed his wand, and cleaned the water, muttering the spell under his breath.

To Ron’s surprise, Malfoy muttered back, “Thank you.”

Ron nodded shortly.

Malfoy’s voice came again, quiet and strangled-sounding, as though he were forcing it out against his will. “For bringing me here.” He paused. The water rippled and splashed around him as he soaped himself some more. “He would have killed me.”

Ron shrugged uncomfortably.

“Why did you do it?”

Ron thought for a moment. “Dunno,” he said, finally. “Guess you sort of looked like me.”

____________________

Ron watched Malfoy sleep.

Fleur had poured him a rather large mug of Draught of Dreamless Sleep (for reasons Ron tried not to dwell upon, she and Bill kept a large supply on hand), and he had taken it without hesitation, an expression of utter relief on his drawn, exhausted face. Malfoy had downed it on the sofa, and it had taken effect almost immediately. Ron had been offered some, as well, but he had declined; preferring, instead, to keep an eye on Malfoy. Bill had approved of this and shuffled off to bed, his own mug in hand.
Now Malfoy slept, and Ron watched, perched in a chair across the room, arms folded, eyebrows knit, wand lying across his lap. Watching Malfoy gave him something to do; some way to feel useful. It gave him something to focus on outside of his own head, which was the last place he wanted to be, and for this, he was grateful. So Malfoy slept. And Ron watched.

Draco was curled into the corner of the sofa with his knees tucked against his chest, one arm under the pillow beneath his head, the other wrapped protectively across his legs. He wore a pair of Bill’s pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt, which, despite their similar builds, seemed to swallow his emaciated body. His hair had dried at odd angles and stuck out around his pallid face, where the bruises were beginning to fade, thanks to Fleur’s ministrations. His eyelids, thin-veined and almost transparent, never fluttered; his white lashes lay against his cheeks in the telltale peace of the potion. The only part of his body that stirred at all was his narrow chest, moving in a shallow rise and fall.

He looked small. Very small. Ron tried to picture him as Harry had described him atop the Astronomy tower, full of impotent rage and bravado, but all he could call up in his mind right now was Malfoy’s final act: lowering his wand, trembling and terrified. From here, his mind wandered to what Malfoy had said to him earlier, kneeling in the dirt. Those are what you get when the company gets restless and starts passing you around like a rentboy. Only without the rent.

Ron shuddered a little, unable to keep the revulsion from creeping through his stomach, and was hit with a wave of sympathy so strong he thought it might knock him out of his chair. He stared across at Malfoy’s sleeping form and shook his head. That’s what you get for signing up with those nutters, he thought briefly, but he could not help but share some of Malfoy’s relief that tonight, at least, his sleep was untroubled by dreams.

That night was the first of many nights where Ron would not sleep, unable to stop the images -- Malfoy's fragile, brutalized body; Harry's ferocious anger; Hermione's desperate, pleading eyes -- from all slipping against each other, running together in a mess of cowardice and powerlessness and, he supposed, enough impotent rage of his own.

It was in these moments that Ron understood war.

_______________


After that first night, Malfoy was not much for sleep, either. He would drop off at random times throughout the day and night, but never very soundly, and never for longer than an hour or two. Often, he woke with a dramatic start, and sometimes, he woke in a hard sweat.

This meant that he and Ron were frequently left to wander Shell Cottage like a pair of restless ghosts, moving through its cramped spaces at every conceivable hour. They tried to avoid one another as much as possible, but it was rather difficult, considering the size of the place.

During the day, while Bill and Fleur were at Gringotts, Ron would poke at the wireless for outside news while Draco positioned himself carefully to eavesdrop, a book held in front of his slowly-healing face. A fast and voracious reader (especially now that he had regained the use of both eyes), Malfoy was steadily working his way through Bill’s library. Ron suspected that he was teaching himself French, as he would sometimes have one of Fleur’s volumes propped in his lap, muttering indistinctly to himself. Under any other circumstances, Ron would have been inordinately amused by this, but he was so intent on the wireless that he had no room in his mind for it.

One evening, Ron wheedled Bill into allowing him a few laps around the cottage on Bill’s broom, and Malfoy was unable to stop himself from raising his pale eyebrows in interest. Remembering that Malfoy had escaped from the manor on his broom and was no longer in possession of it, Ron felt renewed empathy. If there was anything he and Malfoy shared, it was an appreciation for the sense of normalcy, of freedom, that being on a broomstick provided, and so Ron muttered, “You can come if you like.”

Malfoy hesitated, but after watching Ron through the window (ducking behind the curtain, of course), he finally swallowed his pride and went to stand in the doorway. The half-smile on his face when he let go of the back of Ron’s shirt, which he had fisted tightly to keep his balance, and hopped to the ground afterwards was the only sign of any true enjoyment from him since they had been there.

That was, at least, until one night in mid-December.

Ron wandered from the tiny spare bedroom at the end of the corridor around one in the morning to find Malfoy leaning against the wall opposite Bill and Fleur’s room. Normally, he would have just walked right by, but he had been feeling anxious and jittery since catching Potterwatch earlier that day – more bad news, more death, more disappearances – and his nervous energy somehow translated itself into a strange need for conversation.

“You ever sleep, Malfoy?”

Malfoy shrugged, his thumbs hooked through the elastic of Bill’s striped pyjamas. “No.”

“You should take a bit of that sleeping shite. Worked last time.”

“It tastes vile. And I don’t like how it makes me feel. I can’t remember anything in the morning.”

“That’s because you’re sleeping, genius. You know, unconscious?”

Malfoy shrugged again. “I don’t care for it.”

“What the hell are you doing standing here, anyway?”

“Oh, just working on my Christmas list. I think this year I’d like, oh, about…” his fingers traversed his chest, slipping underneath his t-shirt, “three new ribs. Perhaps a replacement for the chip you so heroically took out of my jaw, too,” he continued pointedly, narrowing his eyes. “Maybe a place to live. And…” he stopped and turned his gaze toward Bill and Fleur’s bedroom. “I’ll take some of what she’s having.”

A brief but heavy silence followed, and Ron suddenly realized exactly what Malfoy was doing. Coming from behind the door were the rather distinctive sounds of his brother and Fleur making love. Most of them seemed to be coming from Fleur. In French. Ron could feel his ears starting to burn even before he could form the words. “You bloody pervert!”

He wanted to turn on his heel and storm off, but he felt oddly rooted to the spot by a combination of embarrassment, indignation, and, if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, a healthy streak of amusement.

Amusement seemed to be precisely Malfoy’s response to the whole scenario, because the corners of his thin mouth twitched up, along with his eyebrows, and he appeared to be fighting a full-on grin.

Ron coughed quietly before he finally spoke. “Reckon they know we don’t sleep?”

When Malfoy opened his mouth to respond, his smile – the first one that Ron could ever recall seeing on his face that did not smack of malice and a faintly evil delight – opened in earnest, and it seemed to surprise even Malfoy, because he bit down on his lower lip as if reigning it in. “It would appear not. Or…” he continued, his expression suddenly going arch, “maybe they do, and they’re putting on a little show. That would be rather like a Weasley, wouldn’t it? Completely uncouth.”

A dramatic moan from Fleur punctuated Malfoy’s words, and Malfoy motioned towards the door as if to say, exactly.

Ron’s eyebrows shot up, and he could feel his skin burning hotter by the moment. He was swallowing down a laugh when he said, “Well, at least we’re good at it. Why do you think there are so many of us?”

Through the thin grey of the corridor, he locked eyes with Malfoy, and for a moment, they stood together, teetering on the edge of an all-out riot, both taking shaky breaths and going pink in the face in their attempt to avoid being the first to cave. Ron bit his tongue; Malfoy sucked in his cheeks, and from behind the door, Bill grunted loudly and Fleur gave a squeal, which was capped off with a breathless exclamation of Oh, mon Dieu! Plus dur! Donne-moi ton foutre!

His voice quavering with effort, Ron whispered, “You’ve been studying hard, haven’t you? What did she say?”

Draco coughed, drew a thin breath, then coughed lightly again in an exaggerated throat-clearing gesture. His quiet, wry voice gave the impression of being held together by a vibrating string. “The lady said – and I quote – Oh, my God. Harder. Give me your come.”

Both Ron and Draco gave in at the same time. Ron’s hand flew to his mouth, and he pressed his forehead into the wall, his belly heaving with mirth. Draco collapsed backward, sinking into a crouch (and apparently, he did it too fast, as he winced a bit on the way down), and dropped his head between his knees to stifle the sound.

The moment did not last long, as both of them seemed to realize quickly what was happening between them, and they fought valiantly to regain control of themselves. Malfoy struggled to his feet, taking great, soothing breaths, and Ron wiped the tears streaming from his eyes and pushed the heels of his hands into them until he could keep his face from cracking wide open.

Finally, both of them brushed their palms against their thighs dismissively and resumed their posturing against the wall.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” began Malfoy, calm once more and reaching his hand towards the bathroom door, “I’m going to go have a wank. You can give me a hand if you’d like. Pretend you’re in the changing rooms with Potter.” He turned the doorknob and disappeared through the threshold.

Ron gaped for a moment and then rolled his eyes, deciding that Malfoy was just trying to wind him up. Approaching the door, he called through it, as quietly as he could, “Oh, sod off, you creepy git. Giving yourself a tug over my sister-in-law.”

Malfoy’s voice carried back. “She’s not exactly my type, Weasel.”

“Right. Well, don’t get your filthy spunk on my brother’s pyjamas.” Ron stood quiet for a moment, his ear against the door, waiting. He was sure Malfoy was going to take a piss and be done with it, but he did not. No. That was not at all what Malfoy was doing.

All was quiet for a moment, and then Ron recognized the slippery-wet sound, and he knew that Malfoy was doing exactly what he said he was going to do… and doing it rather enthusiastically. Bill and Fleur were still having at it, and there stood Ron, alone in the corridor between two shut doors (actually, he realized, the bathroom door was not, in fact, entirely shut; Malfoy had left an eye-width crack), the only one in the whole bloody place not getting his rocks off.

Suddenly, he felt trapped; felt like the sounds were closing in on him: ecstatic French babbling and rhythmic grunting to his left; a quiet but distinct slap, slap, slap to his right, punctuated with a sharp intake of breath, and… oh, shite. His prick was half-hard. Ron swore aloud and stalked off towards the sitting room, where he heaved himself into a chair, breathing hard.

Bill and Fleur? Really? Malfoy? Really? He had the bizarre urge to scold his cock like a disobedient child; chastise it in decidedly Hermione-esque fashion for reacting to, of all people, fucking Malfoy. Malfoy, who did, after all, have hair rather like Fleur’s, and his face was sort of girlish, was it not, with its delicate bones, and…? Fuck you, he muttered aloud to himself, or maybe to his cock, but neither listened anyhow. Against his will, his mind conjured up an image of what, precisely, Malfoy was doing behind the bathroom door, and he stomped his foot in rage when he found himself harder because of it. He felt mid-way between having a tantrum and wanking himself right there, and it was infuriating!

And he was infuriatingly stiff. Ungodly, infuriatingly, ridiculously stiff. It actually hurt. He could feel his pulse in a thousand different places, and… shite. This was it. He was going to have to do it, and he was going to have to do it quickly, before Malfoy finished (Oh, sweet fucking Merlin – finished. Why did he think that word?) and came wandering out here, his face flushed and his hair messy and…

Ron jammed his hand roughly under the elastic of his pyjamas and gave his cock a tug that made his toes curl. He yanked his hand out and spat into it, then squeezed his eyes shut and slid it back in. Quick, he thought, and he ran his thumb in wet, insistent circles around the head until he felt his muscles jerk and pre-come slick his fingers. He groaned against the back of his clenched teeth and made a tight circle with his fist, and there was that sound – that slippery, rhythmic sound – and he did not bother to fight with himself now, because it was working, and he had to be fast, and in his head, there was Malfoy, those stupid too-big pyjama bottoms around his knees, his back against the wall and arching into his own hand, his cock (What did it look like? Fuck, what did it look like?) leaking, his mouth open just a little, lips wet, hips rocking, and so fucking what, because it was working for him, and he had to do this fast, and Oh, sweet fucking SHIT, and this part Ron actually said aloud.

Ron’s eyes fluttered open briefly – once, twice – and then shot open wide at what he saw: Malfoy, pale and ethereal in a slant of moonlight, leaning casually against the doorframe and watching him come all over his belly.

An involuntary noise – somewhere between a gasp and a heady moan – slipped from Ron’s throat as their gazes locked.

His voice clear and full of mock reproach, Malfoy said, simply, “No manners, any of you,” and sauntered back through the kitchen, swinging his sweaty t-shirt at his side.

_______________

Ron managed to avoid Malfoy almost entirely for three whole days. He slunk around the cottage like a thief, peering shiftily around corners and listening for the sounds of water running or pages turning. For it being winter, he found a surprising number of things to keep him occupied outdoors; he even shoveled – manually shoveled, using a garden spade – a footpath around the cottage, which Bill greeted with a small chuckle and a bemused, “Thank you.” Ron shrugged and pretended not to notice the way his brother looked at him.

Mealtimes forced them together. Ron shoveled food into his mouth in much the same manner as he had shoveled the snow, looking anywhere but at Malfoy (one evening he managed to dump an entire bowl of peas across the table as he tried to pass them Malfoy’s way, sending them skidding everywhere, which earned him a glare from Fleur, a raucous laugh from Bill, and one arched eyebrow from Malfoy.) Draco, on the other hand, ate at his characteristically slow pace, watching Ron closely over the top of his fork, his expression unreadable.

This careful avoidance, however, came to a necessary halt one Thursday morning when Ron woke from an unusual three-hour sleep to find Malfoy missing.

In order to stay clear of Draco, he had to know where he was. Generally, Ron could count on him to be either sprawled across the sofa with a book in his lap or soaking himself in the bathtub, but on this particular morning, he was in neither place. Nor was he in the kitchen with a bowl of cold cereal, tuning the wireless’s dial fruitlessly, or poking at the fire in the sitting room.

Cold dread started to pool and twist dangerously in Ron’s stomach. He had been charged with keeping an eye on Malfoy, and he had been neglecting his duty, and now Malfoy was gone. He was gone, and he knew things, and that could be awfully, unbearably bad.

Ron gripped his wand tightly in his fist and pushed open the front door of Shell Cottage, barefoot under his wellies and wearing no jacket, and began to trudge his way through the snow. He watched his breath curl like smoke from his mouth, feeling the sting of the air in his lungs. His entire chest felt constricted and frozen. Again. He had done it again, failed again, let his emotions interfere with his duties again.

He stomped heavily, stopping occasionally to holler Malfoy’s name and hearing nothing back. “Where the FUCK are you Malfoy?” he screamed into the silence, snow starting to drift down again, sticking in his eyelashes and settling across his bare arms like white freckles. “You’re fucking DEAD! You hear me? When I find you, you’re fucking DEAD! You’ll wish you were still arse-up for fucking GREYBACK when I’m finished with you!”

Ron’s dread turned to panic as he covered more of the grounds and still found nothing. As he made his way around to the far side of the cottage, however, he saw them: a set of footprints leading towards the rocky cliff where they had Apparated that first day. Breaking into a run – or, as close to a run as he could manage in his clumsy boots – Ron took off in the direction of the cliff, his heart hammering madly.

Coming up over the hill, he saw him. Malfoy, barefoot. Malfoy, in that same striped pair of pyjama bottoms and black t-shirt. Malfoy, hatless and gloveless and coatless. Malfoy, his hair and skin so pale that he was almost indistinguishable from the landscape. Malfoy, staring out at the steel-coloured sea, silent and frozen and quite, quite alone.

Ron came up behind him, panting and red-faced, and grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, spinning him around. “What the FUCK, Malfoy?” he said, breathing hard and furious. “What the bloody hell are you doing out here?”

Draco’s face was a curious blend of red and white. His cheeks, nose, and ears were tipped pink with cold. His eyes – the same colour as the waves – were ringed red and raw-looking. His lashes sparkled oddly, as though they had bits of ice stuck to them. Looking at him, Ron realized that he had been crying. He dropped his hand from Draco’s bony shoulder and stood back, catching his breath as some of his anger morphed into awkwardness.

“Thinking. That’s what I’m doing out here. I understand that may be a foreign concept to you, but it’s hardly worth getting your knickers into a knot.”

“You’re mental. It’s bloody freezing out here. You can’t have been thinking too bloody hard, can you? Where’re your shoes?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten. I don’t have any shoes. And your brother’s are ugly.”

Ron shook his head in a gesture of amazement.

Malfoy jerked his chin at Ron. “Maybe you ought to take your own advice, Weasel. Not exactly dressed for the weather either, are you?”

Ron scowled. “That’s because I had to run out here after your stupid arse.”

“Charming of you. I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t.”

Malfoy stared for a moment before he responded. “Then what’s stopping you from tossing me straight over, hm? I was just thinking it was a lovely day for a swim. Why not? You’ve got your wand, haven’t you? Or just do it the Muggle way. You seem to favour it.”

Ron stared back. He said, slowly, “You’re serious, aren’t you? You really are mental.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do here, hm? Sit around and teach myself French all day so I can beg for my life in two languages? Or brush up on my knowledge of the Goblin Wars, perhaps? Do you think they might let my mother live if I send an owl with the correct dates? That is, if they haven’t killed her yet for letting me get away. Or maybe,” Malfoy said, his voice rising as he bent down to grab a handful of snow, “I can trade them this for something, do you think?” He threw the snowball savagely over the cliff. “Maybe I’ll make them a clever little snowman and they’ll give me my wand back! Do you think?”

“Doubt it, mate,” said Ron quietly, staring baldly into Malfoy’s tormented face.

“I’m your mate now, am I?” spat Malfoy. “A few minutes ago, you were…”

“Bloody cheesed off,” interrupted Ron. “You ruddy disappeared! I’m supposed to be watching you, and you just trot off like…”

“Like what? Like I can just come and go as I please?” Malfoy replied bitterly.

Ron shrugged. “Live or die, Malfoy. Up to you. I reckon you’re a lot more likely to stay alive if you stick around.”

“What the hell are you doing here, anyway?” Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “Your brother seemed awfully surprised to see you turn up. What were you doing in the middle of the forest getting caught up by Snatchers if you could have been safe here, hm?”

“None of your bloody business!”

“Oh, come on, Weasel. We’re mates now, aren’t we?” He laughed derisively. “What are you hiding from?”

“Nothing,” Ron snapped.

“Liar,” Malfoy answered. “We’re all hiding, aren’t we? Isn’t that the game now? Hide and Seek? Maybe you’re not hiding, then. Maybe you’re seeking. What are you looking for?”

“I was looking for your ugly mug a minute ago,” Ron answered, trying desperately to shift the conversation.

“You weren’t terribly thrilled to see it the other night, were you?” Malfoy said, smirking a bit.

At that, Ron turned abruptly on his heel, trying to hide the colour rising in his face, and started to walk back to the cottage, aware the entire time of Malfoy's presence behind him, moving as quickly as he could on his frozen feet. Despite the chill of the air, he could feel the burn spreading across his cheeks and into his ears as he went, thinking only of his need to get away. Neither spoke.

Not even two yards from the cottage, Malfoy made his move. He took a long, quick stride forward, seizing Ron by the arm. Ron shook violently to dislodge him, but Malfoy’s grip was tight, and finally Ron was forced to turn back to look at him, trying to throw his arms sideways to get free. His wand slipped from his grip in the struggle and fell soundlessly into the snow.

Ron bent to snatch it back up, but Malfoy intervened, grabbing swiftly for Ron’s other arm and pulling him nose to nose until they touched. It was so cold, and their faces were both so numb, that Ron barely registered the contact, but his field of vision was now completely taken up by Malfoy: grey eyes and icy lashes and white, white skin.

“You’re blushing, Weasel,” Malfoy muttered. “What were you thinking about?”

Malfoy’s breath brushed up against Ron’s lips, its surprising heat serving as a reminder of just how cold it was out there, how cold he was, how cold they were, and suddenly Ron needed desperately to get inside, get warm. He tried again to pull out of Malfoy’s grasp, but Malfoy’s fingers were long, and they were wrapped securely around both of his wrists. Again, he asked, “What were you thinking about?”

“Let go of me, you fucking git,” Ron hissed. “You’re a bloody pervert, skulking around spying like a…”

“You were right out in the open, Weasel,” Malfoy interrupted, yanking on Ron’s arms a bit for emphasis. “Putting on a little show of your own, were you? Runs in the family, does it? What were you thinking about?”

Ron was breathing hard now, his feet too frozen to move again now that they had stopped, his heart jumping around in his chest like it had been when he had been running through the snow. Knowing he shouldn’t, but unable to stop himself, he spat, “Your mother, Malfoy.”

“Like fuck you were,” Malfoy shot back, and he released one of Ron’s arms and drew his fist back to swing.

Ron reacted in time, bringing his forearm up to block the blow and ducking down. Malfoy’s arm glanced off of Ron’s and over Ron’s shoulder, and then his hand was behind Ron’s head, and he had a fistful of snowy, red hair. Neither of them was sure who moved first, but they were suddenly mashed together in a kiss that felt more ferocious than any battle either of them had ever fought.

Malfoy’s mouth was brutal; thin and chapped, with merciless teeth. At first, the cold kept the sting away, but as the warmth started to spread between them, their lips pulsed where they had been bitten, and the kiss tasted like copper. The blood did nothing but fuel them, and their tongues pushed back and forth and their hands gripped each other with a venomous passion.

It hurt. More than anything else, it hurt. Ron could feel Malfoy’s thin fingers tangling through his damp, shaggy hair, pulling it into knots, and he knew that where his own hands were now – digging at Malfoy’s waist through the thin fabric of Bill’s old t-shirt – there would be bruises tomorrow. He clawed harder; Malfoy yanked tighter, and the wooden door of Shell Cottage was soon at Ron’s back as Malfoy walked forward and Ron scrambled to stay on his feet.

The door gave way easily, as Ron had not bothered to shut it all the way, and he hit it hard, his shoulders sending it crashing back against the wall as Malfoy shoved him through. Ron felt rather than heard Malfoy’s startled noise of protest as the door bounced off his pale knuckles, still clasped behind Ron’s head.

Two steps and they were against the sitting room wall, hitting it with such force that one of Bill and Fleur’s wedding pictures fell from its nail, the glass shattering across the floor. Ron felt Malfoy’s teeth slip from his wet lower lip with the impact, and they glanced across his cheek and took hold of his ear. He gave a grunt of surprise and raked his fingernails up Malfoy’s spine, running under his shirt. The skin there was tight and chilly and thin, and beneath his hands, Ron could feel the raised patterns of scarring that Greyback had left there. He had the fleeting thought that he had gone too far, but the shudder and arch that went through Malfoy's back was not one of revulsion, and by the time Malfoy bit down harder, all such wondering had passed.

Now inside, pressed together, their bodies were thawing, and snow melted into rivulets. One drop slid from Malfoy’s temple onto his neck, and Ron saw it through half-closed eyes and, without thinking, licked at it. It tasted strangely bitter, and Malfoy’s narrow hips ground hard into his at the sensation. Their bones collided, slipping against one another like tectonic plates, and Malfoy’s teeth let go of Ron’s ear and he groaned into it. The sound went through Ron’s body like a Stunning spell, or maybe it was more like an Incendio, because all of the heat returned to his blood in one heady rush. He was suddenly aware of the fabric separating their bodies, and how it had gone damp with melting snow and maybe even some sweat, and how it was clinging to itself and to their skin.

Malfoy now had Ron’s hips pinned against the wall with his own and was sucking viciously at his throat. Both of Ron’s hands had crawled up the front of Malfoy’s shirt, and he had one thumb jammed against Malfoy’s navel, clutching at his slippery, flat belly, and the other was pressed hard against his chest. When Malfoy bit into Ron’s shoulder, Ron jerked and a moan escaped through his lips. He tried to cut it off, but it was too late. Malfoy had heard, and he pushed his body roughly into Ron’s. He was hard now, and Ron could feel his cock sliding against the inside of his hip. Ron’s stomach leapt into his throat, taking his heart with it, and he felt like his entire body was a ball of pulsing flame.

Swallowing hard, Ron dropped his hand from Malfoy’s belly and yanked at the elastic below. It caught between them, and Malfoy pulled away so Ron could pull it over his cock and down under his hips. The pyjama bottoms dropped to the floor and Malfoy kicked them away.

Ron seized Malfoy’s cock in his fist. “You were wrong,” he growled against the white skin of Malfoy’s neck. “Mine’s bigger.”

Malfoy leaned forward so that Ron’s cock pushed into his thigh. Ron drew a sharp breath, the contact bringing to his attention exactly how hard he was, and Malfoy muttered back, “Length is less important than you think, Weasel. It’s girth that matters, yeah?” He leaned forward, pushing his own erection through the tunnel of Ron’s hand and forcing Ron’s thumb sideways.

Immediately, Ron started to run his hand roughly over Malfoy’s entire length, frantic and fast, allowing no time for Malfoy to adjust. It was difficult, though; too dry. Ron let go and grabbed a fistful of Malfoy’s t-shirt, twisting the hem and wringing water out over Malfoy’s erection. Malfoy flinched at the cold but did not pull back, and Ron set to work again. It still was not enough. He raised his hand to Malfoy’s mouth. “Lick,” he commanded.

There was no hesitation. Malfoy ran his tongue over Ron’s palm in broad, sloppy strokes, drawing a wet circle in the middle then sucking each one of Ron’s fingers into his mouth in turn. He licked in between them, bit the tip of Ron’s ring finger, then pressed his teeth into the web of skin between his thumb and his index finger. The hair on the back of Ron’s neck prickled in response. He jerked his hand away and wrapped it again around Malfoy’s stiff prick. Doing this, he discovered that it was already slick, pre-come coating the head. “You dirty bastard,” he muttered. “You get off on that? Like things in your mouth, do you?”

Malfoy’s response came out in low gasps, punctuated by the wet sounds of his cock sliding through Ron’s fist. His voice shook with the fierceness of the rhythm. “You wish I did. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Ron did not answer. Instead, he picked up his pace, adding a savage twist on the upstroke that made Malfoy hiss and his knees start to knock. Through it, Malfoy spat, “Wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck you,” Ron snarled. Malfoy was leaning against him hard, one hand braced against the wall, his sharp chin digging into the joint where Ron’s neck met his shoulder. His other hand was fumbling clumsily with Ron’s zip, but he was having no luck at all. Through his denims, Ron could feel the pressure of Malfoy’s hand against his cock, moving senselessly, not the right way at all, and he gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to stop and help.

“Better talk nicely or you’ll get nothing,” panted Malfoy. His hips were rocking now in time with Ron’s hands, trying desperately to keep up. Ron felt the pressure change, felt Malfoy go still, felt him rise a little higher onto his toes, and he stopped.

“Ask nicely or you’ll get nothing,” he said, pulling his hand away and swatting Malfoy away from his zip. He undid it himself, his heart hammering as he slipped the button through its hole with slippery fingers.

Malfoy made an indecipherable noise of frustration and reached down to finish himself off, but Ron pulled his own zip down with a grunt of relief and caught Malfoy’s wrist just in time. “I said ask nicely,” he said again, and his cock sprang forward against Malfoy’s. They touched, and Ron bit down hard on his swollen lip.

“Fuck you!” It was Malfoy this time who said it, but there was desperation in his voice, and he was rising higher on his toes, trying to lean in, get friction. Ron had both of his wrists now, and Malfoy was trying to twist out of his grip.

Ron slouched his hips away. “Do it!” he spat. “Ask me!”

“No!”

“Tell me what you want!”

Malfoy’s cock twitched; Ron felt it brush up against his stomach as Malfoy canted forward again. “I don’t need your fucking permission to come,” he growled, and he threw all of his weight forward.

Ron had to let go of Malfoy’s wrists to hold his balance, and Malfoy seized Ron around the waist and pulled their bodies together, sliding his cock under Ron’s shirt and against the bare skin of his belly. Both of Ron’s hands came down against Malfoy’s shoulders and pushed back, but his fingertips dug in hard, not letting go. Malfoy had trapped Ron’s cock between them, also, and they slid against each other, against the freckled skin of Ron’s stomach and the pale skin of Malfoy’s (cut across with a slanted scar) and Malfoy grabbed Ron’s arse as he came, catching Ron’s mouth with his own and groaning down his throat.

Ron groaned his response as he felt his cock go hot and slippery with Malfoy’s come, and there was so fucking much of it, and even before he had finished, Malfoy had taken Ron’s cock in his hand and slicked it up. “Do you want your cock sucked, Weasel?” he mumbled, breathing hard against Ron’s chin, still pulsing against Ron’s hip.

Ron bit down hard on his lip to hold back a whine. It hurt, and he winced, but inside his brother’s boots, his toes curled at the words. Malfoy nudged at him, poking a finger hard into his side. “I said, do you want your fucking cock sucked?”

He could feel Malfoy’s ragged breathing against him. His cock was throbbing painfully, brushing the skin of Malfoy’s slippery belly and making his head feel fuzzy. His ribcage threatened to shatter like Bill’s wedding picture under the strain of holding his heart inside his chest. And then Malfoy’s words came back to him -- passing me around like a rentboy -- and Ron took a deep breath.

“You don’t have to,” he muttered, his body screaming otherwise.

Malfoy’s body stilled. “What?”

“I said you don’t have to. Are you bloody deaf?”

There was a pause. Malfoy dropped his forehead against the wall beside Ron’s head and slowly wrapped his fist around Ron’s erection. He stroked up lazily, drawing a circle with his thumb. Ron arched into it, unable to stop himself. Suddenly, Malfoy’s mouth was so close to his ear that his tongue slipped inside it when he spoke, hot and wet and maddening. “I know I don’t have to. I don’t owe you one fucking thing, Weasel. But I know what you want. I know what you were thinking about. In your head, you were coming right down my throat, weren’t you? Now if you’re not going to fuck my mouth, I think I’ll go have some tea and a bath. So which is it? Blowjob or bathtub?”

Ron did not immediately answer, just threw his head hard against the wall, shoving his hips forward to slide his cock through Malfoy’s hands. Malfoy pulled his hand back and asked again. “Which is it? I didn’t think the choice would be this difficult.”

“Suck it, Malfoy.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Malfoy dropped to his knees, and broken glass crunched underneath them, but he ignored it. He trailed his fingers over Ron’s body, dragging them through the mess on his stomach and over his cock, slicking it further. He opened his mouth and licked one long stripe along the underside. Ron shuddered and jerked, and Malfoy circled the head with the tip of his tongue. He ran it back and forth in quick strokes underneath, letting his lips brush against it until it leaked, bitter and salty as the sea, into his mouth.

Ron fisted the sides of his shirt until his knuckles were white and then thrust his hands into Malfoy’s damp, blond hair. It was soft, and he got a good handful of it, as neither of them had had a haircut in weeks and weeks. His blunt fingernails scraped against Malfoy’s scalp, and the hum of Malfoy’s moan around his prick made him arch forward, and Malfoy took all of him, swallowing around him and hollowing his cheeks.

He was brilliant, hot and slippery and gorgeous, and he gripped the back of Ron’s thighs hard, urging him back and forth until they found a rhythm, desperate and fast. It did not take long. Ron pulled back with a grunt, but Malfoy held fast, suddenly sucking so hard it almost hurt, and Ron hollered in earnest as he came. Malfoy kept his lips closed and pushed his tongue up, catching it all in the side of his mouth.

Ron pulled his cock out of Malfoy’s mouth, breathless and loose-limbed and exhausted, and slid down the wall. Malfoy spat onto the floor and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then crawled through the glass until they were sitting side by side, panting and flushed and battle-weary, heads propped back against the paneling.

Snow was drifting in through the open door. The floor was a mess of water and broken glass and blood; of spit and come and discarded clothing. Everything had settled into a strange, ringing silence that neither of them seemed keen to break.

Ron could feel Malfoy's body heat coming off of him in waves against one arm, and the cold breeze through the door on the other. He was almost afraid to open his eyes; to move.

After what felt like an extraordinarily long time, he finally spoke. “Always knew you were a poof.”

“Congratulations,” Malfoy answered, his voice unnaturally quiet. “It's a wonder you weren't Sorted into Ravenclaw.”

“Nice work with Parkinson.”

“She knows. Gave me up for a bad job a long time ago. She was in a bit of a snit for a while, though. Set my trousers on fire.” A ghost of a smile crossed Malfoy’s face.

“Hermione set birds on me last year for snogging Lavender Brown.”

“Looks like the Mud… Granger and I agree on something. That girl is vile. I’d rather snog a skrewt. Your taste is questionable at best.”

“Considering what just happened, I’d have to agree with you.”

Draco smiled wryly, his eyes shut. “Desperate times, Weasel. Desperate times.” Then, more quietly, he murmured, “Du sublime au ridicule il n'y a qu'un pas.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Get your wand, would you? You might be used to living in a sty, but I can’t in good conscience leave it like this.”

“When did you get a conscience?” Ron asked, rising and yanking his denims up.

“Oh, I’m just full of surprises. Or have you not noticed?”

Ron paused, staring down at Malfoy, who was struggling to get up. After hesitating for a moment, he reached out his hand. Malfoy took it, and Ron pulled him to his feet, muttering gruffly, “Wait a minute to get dressed, and I’ll get that glass out of you.”

Malfoy nodded.

Ron returned with his wand a few moments later. “I’m rubbish at household shite,” he said, turning it over in his hands and looking resignedly around the room. He waved it and cast a Reparo at the shattered picture. It sprung back together, glass flying out of Malfoy’s knees.

“You troll,” Malfoy mumbled, rubbing at his bloodied legs and grabbing for the discarded pyjamas. “You really did grow up in a sty, didn’t you?” Without thinking, he held out his hand to Ron. “Give it to me; I’ll do it.”

Their eyes met briefly. Ron gripped his wand more tightly, and, as if just truly recalling their situation, Malfoy began to lower his outstretched arm, his shoulders sagging almost imperceptibly. Then, Ron felt his hand loosen, and he nudged Malfoy’s palm with his wand tip. “Go ahead,” he said.

Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up. He hesitated for a moment, as if expecting Ron to change his mind and hex him instead, but Ron let go, and Malfoy caught the wand before it clattered to the floor. He stared at it and spun it through his hands, feeling the wood against his palm and running his fingers over its curves.

Ron regarded him suspiciously and was on the verge of lunging to grab it back when Malfoy asked, “What is it?”

“Willow. Unicorn hair.”

“Mine was unicorn hair, too,” Malfoy said softly. “But it was hawthorn.” He shook his head, as if waking from a weird sort of trance, and pointed Ron’s wand at the disaster. With ease, he siphoned the mess off the floor, rehung the picture (whose occupants were scowling), repaired a hole in the wall made by the doorknob (which Ron had not even noticed), and staunched the bleeding at his knees. Then he turned and pointed the wand at Ron.

Ron scrambled to duck, and Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I was going to fix your neck, you idiot. You’ve got yourself a shag tag. Unless you’d rather explain it?”

Ron straightened up, embarrassed. “Right. Have at it.”

Malfoy approached him and carefully touched the tip of the wand to Ron’s neck. A cool, tingling sensation shot briefly through him, then Malfoy withdrew the wand and considered his work. “Good enough.”

Half of Ron’s mouth twitched up into a smile. “Er… you’ve got one, too.”

“Where?”

Ron pointed at Malfoy’s neck.

Malfoy rolled his eyes again. “Touch it, would you? I’d like to avoid making myself anemic.”

Ron touched his finger gingerly to an angry-looking mark near Malfoy’s collarbone. Malfoy ran Ron’s wand down it until the tip rested in the correct spot, and the bruise faded slowly. Then he handed the wand back.

It was three days before Christmas.


_______________

Both Ron and Draco were awake as Christmas Eve turned into Christmas Day.

Ron eyed the clock with indifference, clicking absently at the Deluminator in his pocket, and Draco, as usual, had his pointed nose buried deep in a book, squinting at the tiny print so hard that his forehead was contracted. Ron suspected that he was trying exceptionally hard not to notice the time.

“Must you do that?” Malfoy muttered, not looking up. The candle beside Ron kept catching and releasing its light, causing odd shadows to flicker across the pages.

As he finished his sentence, the minute hand landed on midnight. “Happy Christmas,” Ron answered dully, sending the flame back to the candle one last time and closing the Deluminator. “There’s your present.”

“How thoughtful,” Malfoy answered.

“What’d you get me?” Ron asked acidly.

“If you’re angling for another suck-off, I’m sorry to disappoint you.” Malfoy arched one eyebrow over the top of his book.

“That’d be more of a gift to yourself, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, it would probably taste better than that infernal woman’s attempt at a mince pie; I’ll give you that.”

Despite himself, Ron’s mouth curled as he bit back a laugh. “Knew it was missing something.”

Malfoy met his eye and returned the half-smile. “Happy Christmas, Weasel.”

Ron shoved the Deluminator deeper into his pocket and stood up. He thought he might be tired enough to sleep, and he was going to need all the energy he could muster in order to tolerate Bill and Fleur’s First Christmas Too-gezzer, about which Fleur had been babbling mindlessly for weeks.

He stretched his arms languorously, rising onto his toes, and yawned. Opening his eyes, he caught Malfoy watching him from behind his book. “Stop perving,” Ron said, making a halfhearted attempt at a disgusted noise.

“Then stop preening,” Malfoy answered, directing his attention back to his lap.

Ron took a few steps towards the door, then stopped. “Malfoy?”

“Hm?”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

But Ron soon found out that this night was no better than any other, at least in terms of sleep. He sprawled across the overlarge bed in Shell Cottage’s spare room, tossing and turning and occasionally slipping into the haze between dreaming and not, only to be startled awake by his own nerves, unable to cleanly make the shift.

Around five in the morning, he decided that it was useless and rose, slick with sweat.

More out of habit than anything else, he made his way to the wireless in the far corner of the room and he turned its dials, whispering random words into it and not really expecting anything but driven, nevertheless, by some shred of hope. Threading through the thick annals of senseless static, his fingers wandered to his pocket and began to fiddle with the Deluminator.

And then he heard it.

Ron.

At first, he thought he had hit on the correct password and leaned in close, straining to hear through the noise. Why in Merlin’s name would they be talking about him on Potterwatch? Maybe it was some other Ron. He had a common name, after all. He listened hard, but when he heard it again – Ron – it was obvious that it was not coming from the wireless. It also sounded… like Hermione.

Now he was sure that he was going mad; sure that the isolation from every living soul save for Bill, Fleur, and Malfoy had finally gotten to him; sure that his guilt and his shame and his utter and complete feeling of powerlessness had cracked something inside of him. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and then he heard it again. And it sounded like it was coming from his pocket, of all places.

Ron snatched the Deluminator out and brought it to his ear. Ron. He had found the source. His eyes widening, he clicked it open. Immediately, the candle on his bedside table snuffed itself out. Ron was about to click it again to relight it when he saw it.

Just outside the window, an odd, bluish ball of light had appeared and was hovering over the garden. It reminded him of the aura that pulsed around a Portkey, but it seemed somehow warmer, almost organic. He narrowed his eyes at it, but at the same time, an odd sense of calm seemed to wash over him, rushing through his veins and filling his entire body with rightness and clarity and – yes, there it was – hope. Ron knew instantly what he had to do.

As quietly as he could, he rose to his feet and fished his battered old rucksack out from under the bed. He rifled through it, then began throwing the odd possessions he had unpacked back into it, shuffling and rearranging them to make room. He stripped off his pyjamas and dressed in denims and a long-sleeved shirt, and then he proceeded to his bedside table and opened the drawer.

For a moment, he stared at its contents, his stomach knotting uncomfortably. Closing his eyes, he tried to gather his thoughts; tried to access the strange wisdom that had seemed to overtake him upon glimpsing the ball of light. Nothing came, so he opened his eyes to make sure of its presence. It had not disappeared. It was glowing like a beacon in the thinning darkness outside, and suddenly, it was there: the wisdom he had asked for.

He gathered up everything from inside the drawer and shoved it into the front pocket of his rucksack, and then he headed for the door. Passing through the sitting room, he was halted briefly by the sight of Malfoy, still on the sofa but now fast asleep, his book lying haphazardly upon the floor.

His pale head lolled against the cushion; his hands lay in his lap, slack and unclenched. Across his belly, his t-shirt was rumpled, and the sharp slant of his hipbone jutted out from underneath. His face was utterly relaxed. It was the most peaceful Ron had seen him since they arrived at Shell Cottage. It was almost as though the serenity that emanated from the strange orb in the garden had washed over him, too; calmed him somehow, eased his nightmares. Ron swallowed hard as he walked through the door.

It was not far to the garden. Once there, the light seemed to know exactly what to do. Ron held out a hand to it, but it bypassed the greeting and floated purposefully towards his chest. It passed easily through the layers of fabric, through his skin, and wrapped itself around his heart like an embrace. For a moment, he shut his eyes, and warmth seeped through him, shielding his body from the chill. It was beautiful. All of his doubts, all of his anxiety, all of his self-loathing and fear and shame – they melted away like snow, and he was left with a glorious, pulsing yes in the center of his chest. He allowed himself a moment to bask in it, and then opened his eyes to the dawn, which was creeping up slowly over the sea.

There was something that he had to do before he left.

Slinging his rucksack back across his arm, Ron walked back through the door and into the sitting room of Shell Cottage. Malfoy was still sleeping, blissfully unaware. Ron walked quietly over to the sofa and set down his bag on the floor. He leaned down over Malfoy and gently shook him by the shoulder.

“Malfoy,” he whispered. Malfoy stirred. Ron shook again, and Malfoy’s eyes blinked into his face.

“What the hell?” he mumbled sleepily, licking his lips and rubbing at his nose. “I just got to sleep, you tosser. Best sleep I’ve had in months.”

“I’m leaving.”

Malfoy sat up straight, suddenly attentive and sharp-looking. “You’re what?”

“Leaving. I have to go.”

“What do you mean, you’re leaving? Where the hell are you going?”

“There’s something I have to do.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You were right. You know. Hide and seek. I have to go find something.”

Malfoy’s eyes now blazed with something that resembled defiance. “Who are you, Longbottom? Lost something? Well, then stop talking in fucking circles and go. What are you waking me up for? I’m not your mother, am I? You don’t need to check in.”

“I have something for you before I go, you prat.” Ron could feel some of the anxiety he had experienced as he stared into that drawer return, but it was held at bay by the warm certainty he felt expanding through his chest. Malfoy was staring at him, a mixture of suspicion and something that almost looked like fear in his face.

Ron bent down and shuffled through his rucksack. From the front pocket, he withdrew a ten-inch-long wand made of hawthorn; its core, he was sure, was unicorn hair. Malfoy watched, his grey eyes going wide.

Ron held it out to him, and Malfoy reached for it in disbelief, his hand shaking. “What the fuck is this?” he whispered, his voice breaking like a wave over the words.

“It’s your wand, genius.”

“Obviously,” Malfoy said, recovering quickly as Ron dropped it into his palm. He turned it over and over between his hands, as if he were not entirely sure it was real. “Where the hell did you get it?”

“Before we Disapparated. I grabbed my wand back from the Snatcher, and I hit the bastard with an Expelliarmus. Got his wand and another one. Guess it’s yours.”

Malfoy looked up into Ron’s face. “That was you?”

“Obviously,” Ron said.

“I couldn’t tell who cast it. I figured afterward that it was them, and they’d missed you.”

“It was me. And I didn’t bloody miss, did I?”

“Apparently not.” Malfoy continued to toss his wand back and forth between his palms, staring into Ron’s face. Then he stood, bringing their eyes level. “Why are you giving me this?”

“It’s yours, innit? I’m not a bloody thief.”

“Oh, you’re not? Then what have you been up til now?” Malfoy looked slightly fierce again, but Ron was not perturbed.

“I’m not a thief, but I’m not a bloody moron, either. Would you have given it back? Honestly, Malfoy.” Ron rolled his eyes.

“First a Ravenclaw, now a Slytherin.” Malfoy arched an eyebrow. “Make up your mind, would you?”

“I’m a Gryffindor,” Ron said, a smile skidding across his face before he could stop it. “Through and through, yeah?”

“Why are you giving this back now?” asked Malfoy, his face suddenly unreadable.

“I told you. I’m leaving. And… I thought you should have it back. So don’t make me look like an arse with it, yeah?”

“Where are you going?”

Ron was surprised to hear a note of desperation in Malfoy’s voice, and he stopped the snappish retort that had flown to his lips before it could escape. He paused to consider his words. Finally, he said, “I have to go help Harry.”

“I knew it,” said Malfoy. “You were with Potter. I knew it. Skulked out on him, didn’t you?”

Ron nodded, his eyes going sharp, but he stopped himself from saying anything else, afraid he might give away more than he intended.

Malfoy swallowed thickly. His voice dropped low. “Can’t say I blame you. So I suppose that means you won’t be back for dinner, then, hm?”

“Not today.”

“Pity you’re going to miss the madam’s Christmas pudding.” Malfoy worried his bottom lip with his teeth before adding, quickly, as if unable to stop himself, “What’s going to happen to me then?”

“Well, I suppose you’re going to have to suck that shite down all on your own, aren’t you?”

Malfoy made his best attempt at a glare, but for the first time in his life, probably, Ron thought, it failed him. He was left staring into Ron’s face with undisguised apprehension.

“Don’t be such a nance,” Ron muttered. “They’re not going to toss you out on your arse. They’ve protected you so far, haven’t they?”

Malfoy continued to stare, his wand hanging limply between two fingers.

“Oh, stop,” Ron said. “Look. I’ll leave them a note or something. Tell them I had to go, and that I gave you back your wand and that you’re not going to bloody Crucio them with it. And that you’ll give them the damn thing to hold onto if they want it. Just… just stay here, all right? You… you hide, and I’ll seek. Yeah?” He pulled his gaze from Malfoy’s and began rummaging through his bag for parchment and a quill. He scribbled a hasty note to Bill and Fleur, bending over to lean on the coffee table as Malfoy watched, his expression now carefully blank.

When Ron straightened up, the parchment was on the table (containing, at the bottom, his favourite colour, date of birth – complete with the time – and the name he had given to his stuffed hippogriff at the age of four, just in case Bill had any doubts as to who had authored it), and Malfoy had regained his composure. What Ron saw in his face now was resolve. His eyes had gone the colour and texture of steel. “Kill them,” he said, his voice soft but clear.

“Sorry?” Ron frowned, suddenly wondering if he had made yet another grave mistake. His hand closed tightly around his wand.

“Listen to me. Carefully, Weasel. Can you do that?”

Ron nodded tersely.

“Kill them. This is a war, yeah? You either kill them, or you make sure that you die trying. You do not want them to take you alive. They have instructions to kill everyone but Potter, but they won’t. Not right away, at least. And I expect they’ll find you almost as pretty as I am. Do you understand what I mean?”

Ron did not want to, but he did. He felt a lump growing in his throat. He tried to swallow around it; tried to find words, but it was impossible. Instead, he jerked his head in an approximation of a nod.

“Right,” said Malfoy. His eyes were still steely, but behind them, Ron recognized a glimmer that had nothing to do with the light that was now starting to stream through the windows. Malfoy swallowed hard. “I don’t know what, precisely, the Gryffindor stance on killing is, but I’ve spent months with those lovely blokes, and I know what I’m talking about, yeah? If there’s anybody you can feel good about putting aside your bloody ethics for…” His voice trailed off.

Ron felt a shiver crawl up his arms. It was competing with the light glowing inside of him, and he shook his head to clear it. Finally he answered, and his voice was tremulous and low. “What makes you think I’ve got it in me? You couldn’t do it, could you? Not even to save your own life. So why… what makes you think I could? For mine?”

Malfoy stared, his face going ashen.

Ron continued. “I know what happened up there, Malfoy. With Dumbledore. Before Snape got to you.” There was no accusation in his words, just a quiet, cutting truth.

For a moment, they stared at one another, bare and raw and silent.

“I suppose I just haven’t got the stomach for it, do I?” Malfoy finally answered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I suppose I’m…”

“Better than they are,” Ron finished. “You thought they were going to kill you, didn’t you?”

Draco nodded almost imperceptibly.

“But you didn’t do it.”

Draco shook his head. “No.”

“You’re not like them.”

“No.”

Ron paused. His heart felt tight and tingly, like a muscle that had fallen asleep. The warmth pulsing around it was working hard to keep his hands steady; his purpose strong. He took a deep breath before continuing. “Were you scared?”

“Yes.” Malfoy’s eyes were bright. The tears were almost spilling through his lashes, but he did not look away, and he did not let them fall.

“Malfoy?” Ron’s voice was thin and ghostly.

“What?”

“I’m fucking terrified.”

“You should be.” He paused. “The difference, Weasel, between you and me, is that you’re going to do it anyway. And you had best come out of this alive if you know what’s good for you. Alive and intact. So don’t fucking muck it up, because I’ve got first dibs on your arse.”

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” Ron said, but there was no venom in his voice, and through his fear, the corners of his mouth were twitching up – just barely, just the tiniest bit – into a smile. The light inside of him was winning.

Malfoy blinked, and his tears disappeared as though they had never been there. “Is that a promise, then?” His mouth curved up to match.

“Might be.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“How’s this? If I get my arse out of this alive, then you can bugger it into next week. But I’m letting you explain it to Hermione.” Ron hitched his rucksack onto his back and began walking towards the door. With his hand on the knob, he paused and turned back. “Malfoy?”

“What?”

“What did you say? In French? After we…”

Malfoy smirked. “After we what?”

“You know what, you dirty bastard.”

“Right. There is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous.”

“Sorry?”

“That’s what I said. There is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous. Napoleon said it. Some short little Muggle arsehole who got himself thrown out of France. And Weasel?”

“What?”

“Sucking your cock was fucking ridiculous.” Malfoy was fighting back a laugh. Or maybe he was fighting back tears again. As Ron looked at him, shaking his head, he decided that it was probably both.

“Malfoy?”

“Hm?”

“You’re fucking ridiculous.”

“Touché.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Now. Are you going to fucking kiss me goodbye, or are you not? All this talk of sodomy has left me feeling a bit sentimental.”

Ron paused. “I suppose I'm going to fucking kiss you goodbye. But only because it’s Christmas.”

“Sublime,” Malfoy answered softly.

And it was.