Round 3 - Slick - Team A - "One Step - (1/2)"
Title: One Step (1/2)
LJ username: l3petitemort
Team: Draco
Prompt: Slick
Rating: NC-17
Length: 13,170 words
Warnings: Boysmexing. Mention of past abuse (not between Draco/Ron.) Mild, schoolboy violence. Language. AU shoved gracelessly into canon (Oh, fine… it's basically vicious canon rape. Or at least canon molestation.)
Notes: I interpreted my prompt in both a literal and metaphorical fashion; hopefully it shows through! Thank you to my lovely beta KT, who exhibited remarkable patience in the face of my tantrums. And thank you, dear Mods, for putting this together and doing such a bang-up job!
Disclaimer: All sexual activity portrayed in this fic is between two consenting adults who are at least 18 years of age. I do not own any of the characters.
One Step (1/2)
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 discernable 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 enfuriating!
And he was enfuriatingly stiff. Ungodly, enfuriatingly, 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.
(Part Two)
LJ username: l3petitemort
Team: Draco
Prompt: Slick
Rating: NC-17
Length: 13,170 words
Warnings: Boysmexing. Mention of past abuse (not between Draco/Ron.) Mild, schoolboy violence. Language. AU shoved gracelessly into canon (Oh, fine… it's basically vicious canon rape. Or at least canon molestation.)
Notes: I interpreted my prompt in both a literal and metaphorical fashion; hopefully it shows through! Thank you to my lovely beta KT, who exhibited remarkable patience in the face of my tantrums. And thank you, dear Mods, for putting this together and doing such a bang-up job!
Disclaimer: All sexual activity portrayed in this fic is between two consenting adults who are at least 18 years of age. I do not own any of the characters.
One Step (1/2)
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 discernable 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 enfuriating!
And he was enfuriatingly stiff. Ungodly, enfuriatingly, 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.
(Part Two)