new: A Soft Spot for Lost Causes
So perhaps I've discussed my whole don't-explain-don't-complain model for posting dirty stories on the internet. Um, right. To illustrate just how shameless this story is, I will note that I considered the following [in keeping with the shamelessnes of said story]
1. Doing a find/replace to change the story to Harry/Draco and offering people a choice of pairing.
2. Posting it in 2000 word sections.
2a. Over the next six weeks.
2b. with mysterious cookies and missing scenes.
but um, I decided to do none of those things. so, with thanks to schuyler and crimsonclad for the read-through, here:
A Soft Spot for Lost Causes
by Helen
Neville had taken the east wing, running the stairs two at a time with only a backward nod at Ron, and Boot had taken one look in the door and turned away, mouth twisted in disgust.
"I’ll do it," Ron had said. "You take the team and clean up the last of them."
* * * * *
He had expected children, maybe, or one of their own, flayed and staked like deerskin; the war was ending slowly. He had not expected Draco Malfoy, naked, kneeling, hands tied behind him with a length of black silk that trailed down over his feet, onto the flawlessly polished wood floor. Ron stifled what felt like a hysterical laugh; this was the thing about Death Eatersthe reason, perhaps, that Order was winning the war in the first placethey did tend towards the predictable.
Draco was very still; head bent, hair long enough to fall smoothly across his shoulders, a line of deep, deliberate, surgical cuts running the length of his spine.
Ron took a breath; Draco didn’t move. There were shouts outside, footsteps passing briskly in the hall, but this room was silent, peaceful, late afternoon sunlight streaming through high windows, a few candles in the shadowed corners beginning to wink into flame. Ron circled until Draco could see him, but Draco didn’t lift his head; his eyes didn’t flicker. He was, Ron noted, wearing a thin, leather collar, just a shade too tight across the tendons of his throat. Of course.
From behind Draco’s skin had been smooth, pale, unbroken but for the knife wounds, but his front was a confusion of brutal bruises limned in broken skin. An ugly line of bites marched down his left thigh, and there were deep finger marks on his jaw, his hips, most of them new and purple-black.
Ron crouched, and Draco’s head dipped lower, as if to avoid eye-contact. Ron lifted his hand to the collar carefully, without touching Draco’s skin.
"S’there a spell on this?" he said.
"No," Draco said, his voice a little rusty.
"Look at me," Ron said, and Draco’s eyes fixed obediently on his; unsettling, but clear. "Do you know who I am?"
"Weasley," Draco said, after a minute.
"Do you know who you are?" Ron said. He put his fingers carefully on Draco’s neck, near the collar, and when nothing happened, unbuckled it quickly, having to pull it tightly across Draco’s throat to get it open at all. The skin underneath was raw.
"Draco Malfoy."
"Yeah," Ron said. He expected to have to cut the silk tie open, but it gave easily under his fingers, and Draco’s arms fell limply, knuckles hitting the floor. Ron stuffed the collar and scarf in his pocket and pulled off his robe, wrapping it around Draco’s shoulders.
"Can you walk?"
He couldn’t.
* * * * *
The healer on duty fixed the cuts, the scabbed rash on Draco’s neck, a few of the uglier bruises blooming across his chest, and said,
"Take him home."
"There’s nohe’s not well."
"He’s not ill."
Ron pulled her out into the hallway and lowered his voice. He stood so he could keep an eye on Draco, who had put his hands carefully on his knees, but had not otherwise moved.
"He’s been missing for three years," Ron said. "We had initially believed that he had joined the Death Eaters, but"
"You’re sadly mistaken if you think this is the first Death Eater fucktoy I’ve"
"I knew him," Ron said sharply.
"My apologies."
"You don’t understand," Ron said. "I knew him before and he’s notthere’s something wrong with him."
"Mr. Weasley," she said. "People are dying in my hallway. He can’t stay here."
* * * * *
Ron’s flat was cluttered and a little musty; he hadn’t been home in three weeks for more than a shower and change of clothes. Draco stood quietly just inside the door, his eyes trained on the floor.
"You can sit down," Ron said. "Are you hungry?"
"If you wish," Draco said. He seemed to want to kneel in the living room, next to the couch. His hair fell smoothly over his cheeks, his shoulders, motionless beneath Ron’s second-oldest work robe, which he had fallen into a habit of wearing for important raids; it felt lucky. The robe was too large on Draco, shapeless, the sleeves drooping over his hands. Ron realized he was staring and went into the kitchen.
He made sandwiches and heated up a tin of soup, and then shoved the books and papers on his kitchen table aside and went back into the living room. Draco hadn’t moved.
"There’s food," Ron said. "You should come and sit down."
Draco didn’t use his hands to eat, just stuffed his face eagerly into the bowl of soup. Ron ate half his sandwich and gave up. After Draco vomited up his dinner - politely, neatly - back into the bowl, he’d lost his appetite entirely, anyhow.
* * * * *
He started a shower for Draco, found extra towels and a flannel, a pair of pajama bottoms and a clean t-shirt, shoved the magazines on the back of the toilet tank into a single stack, hit the sink and the bathmat with a fast cleansing spell. Draco was kneeling next to the chair in the kitchen when he came back.
"You don’t" Ron said, and stopped. "Come on."
He was in the living room before he realized Draco was crawling.
"No," Ron said. He hadn’t said it loudly, but Draco flinched anyhow.
"I"
"No," Ron said again, and winced as Draco’s shoulders twitched in alarm, "stand," he said, as gently as he could, and somehow got Draco into the bathroom, where Draco let him peel off the robe without complaint. Ron took in the faint grayish tinge of Draco’s cheeks, his bowed shoulders, the small tremor in his hands, and switched the shower to a bath. He waited while Draco lowered himself carefully into the water, gasping a little when it hit his chest.
"I’ll leave you alone," Ron said. "Youcall me if you need help."
He left the door open, and listened intently from the bedroom, where he kicked robes and trousers back into the closet and tapped out a brisk spell on the footboard to fix the sheets.
"Better?" he said, when Draco was hovering in the bedroom doorway, his hair lank, making damp patches on Ron’s t-shirt, the pajamas sliding down his hips.
"Yes, thank you," Draco said.
"You should sleep," Ron said. Draco took two hesitant steps towards the bed, and then said,
"Are you, do you need, um" his voice trailed off.
"I’ll have to take you in for debrief tomorrow," Ron said. He fished his wand out of his pocket to dry Draco’s hair. "Rest, for now. You can have the bed."
"Where will you sleep?"
"The couch isis comfortable," Ron said slowly. Draco was standing a little too close to him, and before Ron could move, he lifted his hand and ran his fingers over the back of Ron’s knuckles.
"Come to bed with me," he said, his voice low and inviting, the tips of his fingers just brushing Ron’s. He had looked weak and ill earlier, but with his hair soft around his face, his eyes huge, the clean sharp arc of his eyebrows, he looked suddenly beautiful, tempting.
"What? No, DracoI"
"You can"
"No, thank you," Ron said firmly, falling back a step.
"I’d be honored," Draco said, but he didn’t protest when Ron steered him into bed, and pulled the blankets up over him.
"You’re safe," Ron said. Draco stared up at him intently. "No one will hurt you. I won’t."
* * * * *
Ron took a long shower, as hot as he could stand, poured himself a generous drink, and fell asleep halfway into his report, hunched uncomfortably over the coffee table. He woke up dry-mouthed and disoriented, tumbling off the couch wand in hand. There were rustling noises coming from the bedroom, and as he got closer, he heard distressed, shaken gasping. Nightmare, he thought, and was unprepared to see Draco sitting up in bed to claw his shirt over his head, his mouth trembling. He was naked by the time Ron was in the doorway, shoulders shaking, panting, and as Ron watched, he scrambled out of the bed and crawled across the floor to kneel in front of him and put one careful hand on his thigh.
"Please," Draco said.
"It’s a bad dream," Ron said. "You’ve been rescued." He and Neville had barely slept for the last week, taking turns on the broken down couch in the break room, and spending the last night before the bust napping fitfully in a ditch twenty miles from the site. It appeared, Ron thought, that it was too much to ask to get a decent night’s sleep at any point, and then he lost track of his thoughts entirely as Draco leaned forward and pressed his face against his thigh, turned his head and rubbed his cheek against Ron’s cock, through his undershorts.
"No," Ron said. "You don’t"
"Please," Draco said. "Fuck me," and then he made a low, horrible noise in the back of his throat, his whole body twitching.
"Draco" Ron said. He crouched, and caught Draco’s shoulder; Draco’s back was clammy under his hands, and when his head flopped weakly back over Ron’s arm, his irises were alien, flooded wide grey.
"Oh, fuck," Ron said. He got Draco onto the bed, somehow, smoothed his tangled hair off his forehead, and Draco turned his face into Ron’s hand, curled his tongue around his wrist.
"Fuck me," Draco said, "Please. Fuck me, I want you to, I need you to split me open"
"Now, justDraco," Ron said. Draco stilled for a minute, staring up at him; his pulse was quick and uneven under Ron’s fingers.
"Fuck me," he mumbled.
"yes, right, I know, shh"
"Fuck me," Draco said, frantically, rolling his hips under Ron’s desperate hands.
"I get it," Ron said. "You don’t have tosay that."
"I’m a slut," Draco said earnestly. "I can suck your prick, I"
"How about not," Ron said. He was blushing to the tips of his ears, his shoulders felt hot and miserable, this fucking, fucking war, he thought, and said "Do you need to come?"
"Please," Draco said, licking his lips. "Please"
"Maybecan you jerk off?" Ron said. "You’reI could give you some privacy to"
"Please, no," Draco said, "Fuck me, please, Ilet me come, I’ll doI can do" He was twisting eagerly under Ron’s hands, his chest blotchily flushed, but when Ron said,
"lie still," he went obediently silent, only a faint tremor in his hands to show how difficult he found it.
"Someone has to help you," Ron said. "Is that it?"
"Please," Draco said, and the faint edge of something like contempt for how slow he was, as though it might really be Draco Malfoy inside all that, made it somehow easier to put his hand on Draco’s thigh.
Draco’s cock was hard, and he winced at Ron’s first touch, but slid his thighs open.. He twisted his hands in the loose sheets, waiting, his arms taut. Ron pressed his lips together and got to it.
* * * * *
In the morning, Draco was, inexplicably, better. Ron found him waiting patiently at the kitchen table. In the morning sunlight, the bruises looked worse, dappling his cheek, ringing his throat. Ron heated water for tea and put a stack of toast down on the table in front of Draco, who blinked a little, but then swallowed, and pulled the plate towards him. By the time Ron had finished fiddling with the tea, Draco was spreading a thick layer of jam on his second slice.
"How are you feeling?" Ron said.
"Fine, thank you," Draco said, around his toast. He looked warily at Ron and then took another slice of bread, adding jam to it until it was oozing off the edges.
"You’ll make yourself sick," Ron said. Draco put the spoon down.
"I’m sorry."
"I didn’thave as much jam as you want," Ron said. Draco stared nervously at him. Ron changed the subject. "I’ll take you in for debrief today, if you feel up to it."
"And then?"
"I don’t know."
"Azkaban?"
"What? No. You’re not under suspicion," Ron said.
"I was a Death Eater," Draco said.
"Was," Ron said.
"How do you know I’m not still? I could have killed you in your sleep last night."
"I doubt that."
"I hadn’t realized the resistance had such shoddy methods," Draco said. "Perhaps I can do wandless magic. Perhaps they poisoned my cock."
"Yourthey didn’t," Ron said. "And we’re not the resistance. We’re winning. We have the office space. And last nightlast night you weren’t in much shape to do anything."
Draco looked down at the table. "I hadn’t eaten in some time," he said. "I was. confused."
"Malfoy," Ron slowly. Draco took another furtive spoonful of jam. "We knew about you. We thought you were dead. And I’veDeath Eaters haven’t been exactly original in the punishments they choose to mete out to the followers who decide not to toe the party line. "
"I"
"You’d been out of school, what, six months when you began passing information? And then you managed it for a year before you got sloppy"
"Two years," Draco said.
"And then you got caught, and you were so pretty they didn’t want to kill you right away, and they. And now here you are."
Draco sucked in a quick breath and took the last piece of toast. "And do all the little whores get to stay at Ron Weasley’s fantastic therapeutic get-away?" he said finally.
"No," Ron said.
* * * * *
"Malfoy," Hermione said, ushering them into her office, which was long and narrow and lit with floating glass baubles which Hermione had invented. They tended to hang a little too low, and Hermione batted one out of the way and turned back to Draco. "Where did they find you? I thought we only recovered some kind of sex"
"Hermione," Ron said.
"That was me," Draco said helpfully.
"Ah, right," Hermione said. She walked to the opposite wall and yanked an intricately coded map dotted with pins down the wall. "Now, you were the one with the fantastic cryptograms, correct? I thought as much. Or it could have been Gregory Goyle, as he was quite gifted in arithmancy as well. Is he"
"Dead," Draco said.
"Pity," Hermione said. She touching three of the pins and the map projected hugely enlarged cryptograms on the opposite wall, symbols scrolling too quickly for Ron to follow. "How are you? I expect you’ll want to get vetted by one of our medics"
"I’m fine," Draco said. He had crossed the room to examine the map, and touched a fourth pin.
"You weren’t last night," Ron said. Draco had been calm during debrief, sipping veritaserum-doctored cocoa, obligingly listing everyone he could recall having met in the past three years, and Ron had not wanted to bring it up on the record, in front of Neville. Hermione, however, had always been good for a private consultation. She met Ron’s eyes as Draco looked curiously at the map, and then over his shoulder at the projected figures across the room.
"What about last night?" Hermione said. Draco lifted one shoulder.
"Nothing."
"It might happen again," Ron said, "and then what"
Draco sighed. Hermione waved her wand and the cryptograms obediently rearranged themselves.
"I asked nicely, and Weasley jerked me off," Draco said.
"What?" The cryptograms stilled, for a split second, one of them sliding lopsidedly into the window and disappearing.
"That’s not" Ron said. "I didn’t"
"That’s what happened," Draco said.
"He was feverish, illhe was in pain," Ron said to Hermione. "I had to."
"In pain," Hermione said, giving Ron her full attention. "Julian Huggins tried that one on me when we were fifteen, and I didn’t believe him then."
"It’s not funny," Ron said.
"I think it’s funny," Draco said.
"You" Ron said, at a loss for words, at the same time that Hermione said, "Come here," to Draco, and put the tip of her wand against his breastbone.
"Hermione," Ron said.
"Shut up," she said. She frowned for a minute and drew in a quick breath through her nose. They stood in silence for nearly five minutes while Hermione stared blankly ahead. She muttered a spell, now and again. Ron stared at Draco’s hands, quiet and open against his thighs.
"All right," Hermione said, finally. "I apologize, Ron. As near as I can tell, it’s a slow acting spell in the Imperius family. It’s a torture device designed for amusementwould you happen to recall something of the sort being cast?"
Draco shook his head. Hermione frowned and tapped her teeth with her wand. "But you recall other incidents where you requiredassistance?"
"It was rare for it to get as bad asas last night. No one usually waited that long to fuck me."
"It’s dependent on your achieving orgasm, however," Hermione said calmly. Ron flinched.
"Correct."
"Interesting," Hermione said. "Sadistic, of course. My sympathies. Did it subside if you were beaten, or knocked unconcious"
"No," Draco said.
"Hermione," Ron said. "That’s enough."
"Right, well, it will wear off," Hermione said.
"Wait, what?" Ron said. "Itwhen?"
"I don’t know," Hermione said. ‘It depends on how long he was under the spell, the frequency, caster’s strength, a number of factorsit’s Bolactarum’s Algorithm," she added, turning her attention back to Draco.
"Yeah, of course," Draco said. "Has anyone developed a reliable measure of"
"Not yet," Hermione said, turning to her bookshelf and pulling out a small, fat book. "Some Americans are very close, I believe," she said, handing the book to Draco. "Page 569, you’ll find a very interesting article"
"Excuse me," Ron said. A forgotten cryptogram scrolled across his face. Hermione had already opened the book and was pointing out formulae; both she and Draco stared dimly at Ron, as though they had forgotten his presence. "This is going to keep happening?" Ron said. "IHermione, there’s got to be something you can give him, or a spell."
"There isn’t," Hermione said, "and you know well enough that potion interactions on top of complex spells can be permanently crippling so"
"But people can throw off Imperius."
"Sometimes," Hermione said. "This is a targeted behavior spell, so it’s stronger, more difficult to fight."
"Look, I don’t want to be a bother," Draco said. "It shouldn’t too hard to find someone else to fuck me
"DracoI’m not, I didn’t, Hermione," Ron said. "I just helped."
"because something like 200 Death Eaters can’t be wrong" Draco said, shrugging.
"Yes, they can" Ron said.
"Shut up," Hermione said. Draco fell instantly silent.
"Stop following orders," Ron said loudly. "You don’t have to listen to her."
"You too," Hermione said. "In fact, Ron, just wait in the hallway for a minute."
The chairs outside Hermione’s office were very uncomfortable. Ron rubbed at his eyes and rested his elbows on his knees, and thought good thoughts, about naps, or perhaps being in a peaceful coma for a few weeks.
"All right," Hermione said finally, swinging open the door. "You can take him home."
"Hermione"
"Ron, is now the time to be selfish?"
"I am not being selfish," Ron said, standing. "It’s just that Malfoy is clearly traumatized, and I’mI’m trying to help."
"Just take him back to your flat and give him a handjob every couple of days, it’s not the end of the world."
"It’s, it’s, please don’t say handjob," Ron said. "It’scouldn’t we find him a girl, or. Someone who isn’t me?"
"He’s great-looking," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Did he look like that at school?"
"No," Ron said dourly.
"I didn’t think so. How long has it been since you had a shag?"
"Don’t say shag"
"Since you had a f"
"How can you eventhey tied him up and raped him for six months and you want me to do the same thing to him, and act as though it’s some kind of dating service?"
"Save it, Weasley," Hermione said. "Consider this your punishment for callously laughing at SPEW."
"That was ten years ago."
"Six. Draco likes you."
"He doesn’t like me," Ron hissed. "He’s been brainwashed, it’s not as though I’m exactly getting to use my winning personality."
"probably a good thing," Hermione muttered.
"Maybe the first step to help the Death Eater Whore feel humanized again would be to stop talking about him like he’s not there," Draco said, from the doorway, now clutching a book, two heavily bound periodicals, and a folder. "Just a tip."
* * * * *
"Do you have a girlfriend or what?" Draco said, prowling around the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets.
"No."
"Boyfriend?"
"No."
"Shouldn’t you be neck deep in it around here?" Draco said.
"In what?"
"Sluts."
Ron opened his mouth and then closed it. "I’m having a drink," he said.
"Can we fuck?" Draco said.
"What, already?"
"Nevermind," Draco said.
"It’s fine," Ron said. "It’s fine."
He dropped his robe over the back of the couch, and, and after a moment, Draco followed suit, hanging his robe over the armchair, standing quietly in the middle of the room, wearing a pair of trousers and a shirt Hermione had scrounged for him out of the lost and found. Ron stepped towards him, and Draco took one small step back, and then another, until his shoulders hit the wall.
"Are you"
"Fine," Draco said faintly.
"Good," Ron said. He shoved up his sleeves. Draco unbuttoned his trousers, his fingers a little awkward. He was only half-hard when Ron leaned up against the wall over him and slid his hand down Draco’s stomach to his cock, but it didn’t take long, all the same. The night before Draco had winced and strained upwards towards him, begged unintelligibly, twisted sweatily in the sheets, but this was short, and neat, and almost easy, Draco’s forehead tipped against his shoulder. He sighed a little when he came. Ron fetched a flannel from the bathroom.
"We can go to Diagon to get you a wand tomorrow, if you’re up to it," he said, after, for something to say.
"I don’t have any money," Draco said.
"You can pay me back," Ron said.
* * * * *
The following Tuesday, Draco followed Hermione into the break room, and Ron spilled tea on his hand, already half out of his seat.
"What are youis something wrong?"
"Draco is working as my research assistant," Hermione said.
"Don’t you need clearance for that?" Harry said, hunched earnestly over his lunch.
"As of this morning," Hermione said briskly, "He has clearance."
"Fair enough," Harry said. He ate a handful of crisps. Ron realized that Draco was wearing his second best shirt, sleeves rolled up, the pocket almost comically low on his chest, a Gryffindor tie, a pair of green trousers that Ron had shrunk by mistake, which still lapped over Draco’s feet, and the pair of sandals Draco had appropriated the first week he’d moved in. It was summer, and Ron’s flat didn’t hold cooling charms very well, so Draco had been wearing his old t-shirts and shorts, using one of the robes Ron had shortened for him when he went out. It had not occurred to him that Draco might want clothes that fit, and Draco hadn’t mentioned it. Ron fished out his wallet and shoved the sickles he had left towards Draco.
"There’s a machine out in the hallway," he said. "House elves’ll make you up a sandwich."
"Stay away from the egg salad, if it’s that little greenish one with the stripy hat," Harry said.
Draco’s hand hesitated over the money for a minute, but then he gathered it into his palm and walked out the door. Ron took a listless bite of his sandwich, which was egg salad.
"Well, you can’t just coop him up indoors all day long, doing your washing." Hermione said.
"He doesn’t do my washing," Ron said.
"Who does your washing?" Neville said, who had just come in.
"Not Draco," Ron said.
* * * * *
It was oddly easy to get used to. Neville had slept on his couch for a month after Death Eaters had firebombed his flat, and Ginny and Charlie always stayed with him when they came through, and Draco was quiet and neat, and nearly always fast asleep when Ron left in the morning, tucked in on himself, face pressed into the couch cushions. Draco wore his clothes without asking and got a lot of pale, fine hair all over everything, but he didn’t seem to actively object to shopping for food, given specific directions, and on two occasions, left a sandwich waiting on the counter for Ron when he got home. Without the sex, it was exactly like the tiny apartment he’d shared with Harry their first year out of school, except that Harry had loud fights with his girlfriend at two in the morning and tended to leave pans covered with congealed bacon fat in the sink for weeks. With the sex, it was a lot like the half a dozen short-lived relationships Ron had had since seventeen, except that Draco wasn’t cold and silent when he came home after ten for the fourth or fifth night running, and he was better looking - clean, sharp eyes, soft mouth - than anyone Ron had ever convinced to have sex with him without the benefit of unforgivable Death Eater spells.
Mostly, they got to it before it was too late, and it was almost more difficult, to see Draco and know that he would remember everything, afterwards, to see the awareness and resignation in his face when he opened the button on his trousers. They were awkward with each other at first, and Draco let it go long enough that he twitched at Ron’s touch, sobbed a little as he came, but the last of Draco’s bruises had hardly faded before Ron became accustomed to it, to Draco sliding in his lap, face buried in his shoulder, his fingers clasped around Ron’s, riding his rhythm. He could anticipate the hitch in Draco’s throat when he came, the damp of the back of his neck under his hair. Draco tasted good, his skin soft, heated, the one time Ron’s mouth hit his temple by accident, and Ron remembered suddenly, before Draco had even been living with him a fortnight, that the real problem with living with Harry had been that a person couldn’t get any privacy to wank off, ever.
"I can" Draco said, one night, his face still buried in Ron’s shoulder, his cheek hot even through Ron’s shirt.
"That’s okay," Ron said. Draco moved a little, his trousers crumpled open around his hips, lifted Ron’s wet hand off his cock and smeared it down his chest, shaped Ron’s fingers around one nipple.
"Draco," Ron said. He tipped Draco sideways on the couch and slid awkwardly out from underneath him.
"Where are you going?" Draco said, kneeling up, his shirt open, nipples still tight from orgasm.
"I’m going," Ron said, with as much dignity as he could muster, "to wank in the bathroom. If that’s all right."
"Okay," Draco said.
Ron leaned back against the bathroom door and unzipped his trousers hastily, and achieved a perfect, wet rhythm, hand tight around his cock, while thinking about absolutely nothing except maybe the one time he’d walked in on Hermione and Viktor Krum in fourth year, with Hermione’s shirt down around her waist, Viktor’s trousers open.
"Sorry," he had said, and tumbled back out of the room. "Sorry."
He managed five, six long rough strokes before he bit his lip and stuffed his cock back in his pants. Draco was in the kitchen, drying his chest with a hand-towel.
"It’s not that I think you’re dirty," Ron said.
"Right."
"Or damaged goods, orbecause I don’t."
"I know," Draco said, but he wouldn’t meet Ron’s eyes.
"Can’t a person wank off in peace in his own bathroom?" Ron said.
"Be my guest," Draco said.
"It’s that you’re brainwashed," Ron said. "You’re very confused. You don’t even like me."
"Yeah, all right," Draco said. "Do you want a sandwich?"
"Remember at school? Weasel? You’re so poor and dirty?" Ron said encouragingly "You hated me."
"I did," Draco said.
"Good. You should just keep that in mind."
"You can fuck me," Draco said. He had sliced cheese and cold steak and was assembling two sandwiches on the kitchen table. "I know you want to."
"I don’t know what kind of person you think I am but"
"I think you’re the person who’s letting Potter and Longbottom nail all the grateful witch pussy."
"I am not," Ron said.
* * * * *
Part Two
1. Doing a find/replace to change the story to Harry/Draco and offering people a choice of pairing.
2. Posting it in 2000 word sections.
2a. Over the next six weeks.
2b. with mysterious cookies and missing scenes.
but um, I decided to do none of those things. so, with thanks to schuyler and crimsonclad for the read-through, here:
A Soft Spot for Lost Causes
by Helen
Neville had taken the east wing, running the stairs two at a time with only a backward nod at Ron, and Boot had taken one look in the door and turned away, mouth twisted in disgust.
"I’ll do it," Ron had said. "You take the team and clean up the last of them."
* * * * *
He had expected children, maybe, or one of their own, flayed and staked like deerskin; the war was ending slowly. He had not expected Draco Malfoy, naked, kneeling, hands tied behind him with a length of black silk that trailed down over his feet, onto the flawlessly polished wood floor. Ron stifled what felt like a hysterical laugh; this was the thing about Death Eatersthe reason, perhaps, that Order was winning the war in the first placethey did tend towards the predictable.
Draco was very still; head bent, hair long enough to fall smoothly across his shoulders, a line of deep, deliberate, surgical cuts running the length of his spine.
Ron took a breath; Draco didn’t move. There were shouts outside, footsteps passing briskly in the hall, but this room was silent, peaceful, late afternoon sunlight streaming through high windows, a few candles in the shadowed corners beginning to wink into flame. Ron circled until Draco could see him, but Draco didn’t lift his head; his eyes didn’t flicker. He was, Ron noted, wearing a thin, leather collar, just a shade too tight across the tendons of his throat. Of course.
From behind Draco’s skin had been smooth, pale, unbroken but for the knife wounds, but his front was a confusion of brutal bruises limned in broken skin. An ugly line of bites marched down his left thigh, and there were deep finger marks on his jaw, his hips, most of them new and purple-black.
Ron crouched, and Draco’s head dipped lower, as if to avoid eye-contact. Ron lifted his hand to the collar carefully, without touching Draco’s skin.
"S’there a spell on this?" he said.
"No," Draco said, his voice a little rusty.
"Look at me," Ron said, and Draco’s eyes fixed obediently on his; unsettling, but clear. "Do you know who I am?"
"Weasley," Draco said, after a minute.
"Do you know who you are?" Ron said. He put his fingers carefully on Draco’s neck, near the collar, and when nothing happened, unbuckled it quickly, having to pull it tightly across Draco’s throat to get it open at all. The skin underneath was raw.
"Draco Malfoy."
"Yeah," Ron said. He expected to have to cut the silk tie open, but it gave easily under his fingers, and Draco’s arms fell limply, knuckles hitting the floor. Ron stuffed the collar and scarf in his pocket and pulled off his robe, wrapping it around Draco’s shoulders.
"Can you walk?"
He couldn’t.
* * * * *
The healer on duty fixed the cuts, the scabbed rash on Draco’s neck, a few of the uglier bruises blooming across his chest, and said,
"Take him home."
"There’s nohe’s not well."
"He’s not ill."
Ron pulled her out into the hallway and lowered his voice. He stood so he could keep an eye on Draco, who had put his hands carefully on his knees, but had not otherwise moved.
"He’s been missing for three years," Ron said. "We had initially believed that he had joined the Death Eaters, but"
"You’re sadly mistaken if you think this is the first Death Eater fucktoy I’ve"
"I knew him," Ron said sharply.
"My apologies."
"You don’t understand," Ron said. "I knew him before and he’s notthere’s something wrong with him."
"Mr. Weasley," she said. "People are dying in my hallway. He can’t stay here."
* * * * *
Ron’s flat was cluttered and a little musty; he hadn’t been home in three weeks for more than a shower and change of clothes. Draco stood quietly just inside the door, his eyes trained on the floor.
"You can sit down," Ron said. "Are you hungry?"
"If you wish," Draco said. He seemed to want to kneel in the living room, next to the couch. His hair fell smoothly over his cheeks, his shoulders, motionless beneath Ron’s second-oldest work robe, which he had fallen into a habit of wearing for important raids; it felt lucky. The robe was too large on Draco, shapeless, the sleeves drooping over his hands. Ron realized he was staring and went into the kitchen.
He made sandwiches and heated up a tin of soup, and then shoved the books and papers on his kitchen table aside and went back into the living room. Draco hadn’t moved.
"There’s food," Ron said. "You should come and sit down."
Draco didn’t use his hands to eat, just stuffed his face eagerly into the bowl of soup. Ron ate half his sandwich and gave up. After Draco vomited up his dinner - politely, neatly - back into the bowl, he’d lost his appetite entirely, anyhow.
* * * * *
He started a shower for Draco, found extra towels and a flannel, a pair of pajama bottoms and a clean t-shirt, shoved the magazines on the back of the toilet tank into a single stack, hit the sink and the bathmat with a fast cleansing spell. Draco was kneeling next to the chair in the kitchen when he came back.
"You don’t" Ron said, and stopped. "Come on."
He was in the living room before he realized Draco was crawling.
"No," Ron said. He hadn’t said it loudly, but Draco flinched anyhow.
"I"
"No," Ron said again, and winced as Draco’s shoulders twitched in alarm, "stand," he said, as gently as he could, and somehow got Draco into the bathroom, where Draco let him peel off the robe without complaint. Ron took in the faint grayish tinge of Draco’s cheeks, his bowed shoulders, the small tremor in his hands, and switched the shower to a bath. He waited while Draco lowered himself carefully into the water, gasping a little when it hit his chest.
"I’ll leave you alone," Ron said. "Youcall me if you need help."
He left the door open, and listened intently from the bedroom, where he kicked robes and trousers back into the closet and tapped out a brisk spell on the footboard to fix the sheets.
"Better?" he said, when Draco was hovering in the bedroom doorway, his hair lank, making damp patches on Ron’s t-shirt, the pajamas sliding down his hips.
"Yes, thank you," Draco said.
"You should sleep," Ron said. Draco took two hesitant steps towards the bed, and then said,
"Are you, do you need, um" his voice trailed off.
"I’ll have to take you in for debrief tomorrow," Ron said. He fished his wand out of his pocket to dry Draco’s hair. "Rest, for now. You can have the bed."
"Where will you sleep?"
"The couch isis comfortable," Ron said slowly. Draco was standing a little too close to him, and before Ron could move, he lifted his hand and ran his fingers over the back of Ron’s knuckles.
"Come to bed with me," he said, his voice low and inviting, the tips of his fingers just brushing Ron’s. He had looked weak and ill earlier, but with his hair soft around his face, his eyes huge, the clean sharp arc of his eyebrows, he looked suddenly beautiful, tempting.
"What? No, DracoI"
"You can"
"No, thank you," Ron said firmly, falling back a step.
"I’d be honored," Draco said, but he didn’t protest when Ron steered him into bed, and pulled the blankets up over him.
"You’re safe," Ron said. Draco stared up at him intently. "No one will hurt you. I won’t."
* * * * *
Ron took a long shower, as hot as he could stand, poured himself a generous drink, and fell asleep halfway into his report, hunched uncomfortably over the coffee table. He woke up dry-mouthed and disoriented, tumbling off the couch wand in hand. There were rustling noises coming from the bedroom, and as he got closer, he heard distressed, shaken gasping. Nightmare, he thought, and was unprepared to see Draco sitting up in bed to claw his shirt over his head, his mouth trembling. He was naked by the time Ron was in the doorway, shoulders shaking, panting, and as Ron watched, he scrambled out of the bed and crawled across the floor to kneel in front of him and put one careful hand on his thigh.
"Please," Draco said.
"It’s a bad dream," Ron said. "You’ve been rescued." He and Neville had barely slept for the last week, taking turns on the broken down couch in the break room, and spending the last night before the bust napping fitfully in a ditch twenty miles from the site. It appeared, Ron thought, that it was too much to ask to get a decent night’s sleep at any point, and then he lost track of his thoughts entirely as Draco leaned forward and pressed his face against his thigh, turned his head and rubbed his cheek against Ron’s cock, through his undershorts.
"No," Ron said. "You don’t"
"Please," Draco said. "Fuck me," and then he made a low, horrible noise in the back of his throat, his whole body twitching.
"Draco" Ron said. He crouched, and caught Draco’s shoulder; Draco’s back was clammy under his hands, and when his head flopped weakly back over Ron’s arm, his irises were alien, flooded wide grey.
"Oh, fuck," Ron said. He got Draco onto the bed, somehow, smoothed his tangled hair off his forehead, and Draco turned his face into Ron’s hand, curled his tongue around his wrist.
"Fuck me," Draco said, "Please. Fuck me, I want you to, I need you to split me open"
"Now, justDraco," Ron said. Draco stilled for a minute, staring up at him; his pulse was quick and uneven under Ron’s fingers.
"Fuck me," he mumbled.
"yes, right, I know, shh"
"Fuck me," Draco said, frantically, rolling his hips under Ron’s desperate hands.
"I get it," Ron said. "You don’t have tosay that."
"I’m a slut," Draco said earnestly. "I can suck your prick, I"
"How about not," Ron said. He was blushing to the tips of his ears, his shoulders felt hot and miserable, this fucking, fucking war, he thought, and said "Do you need to come?"
"Please," Draco said, licking his lips. "Please"
"Maybecan you jerk off?" Ron said. "You’reI could give you some privacy to"
"Please, no," Draco said, "Fuck me, please, Ilet me come, I’ll doI can do" He was twisting eagerly under Ron’s hands, his chest blotchily flushed, but when Ron said,
"lie still," he went obediently silent, only a faint tremor in his hands to show how difficult he found it.
"Someone has to help you," Ron said. "Is that it?"
"Please," Draco said, and the faint edge of something like contempt for how slow he was, as though it might really be Draco Malfoy inside all that, made it somehow easier to put his hand on Draco’s thigh.
Draco’s cock was hard, and he winced at Ron’s first touch, but slid his thighs open.. He twisted his hands in the loose sheets, waiting, his arms taut. Ron pressed his lips together and got to it.
* * * * *
In the morning, Draco was, inexplicably, better. Ron found him waiting patiently at the kitchen table. In the morning sunlight, the bruises looked worse, dappling his cheek, ringing his throat. Ron heated water for tea and put a stack of toast down on the table in front of Draco, who blinked a little, but then swallowed, and pulled the plate towards him. By the time Ron had finished fiddling with the tea, Draco was spreading a thick layer of jam on his second slice.
"How are you feeling?" Ron said.
"Fine, thank you," Draco said, around his toast. He looked warily at Ron and then took another slice of bread, adding jam to it until it was oozing off the edges.
"You’ll make yourself sick," Ron said. Draco put the spoon down.
"I’m sorry."
"I didn’thave as much jam as you want," Ron said. Draco stared nervously at him. Ron changed the subject. "I’ll take you in for debrief today, if you feel up to it."
"And then?"
"I don’t know."
"Azkaban?"
"What? No. You’re not under suspicion," Ron said.
"I was a Death Eater," Draco said.
"Was," Ron said.
"How do you know I’m not still? I could have killed you in your sleep last night."
"I doubt that."
"I hadn’t realized the resistance had such shoddy methods," Draco said. "Perhaps I can do wandless magic. Perhaps they poisoned my cock."
"Yourthey didn’t," Ron said. "And we’re not the resistance. We’re winning. We have the office space. And last nightlast night you weren’t in much shape to do anything."
Draco looked down at the table. "I hadn’t eaten in some time," he said. "I was. confused."
"Malfoy," Ron slowly. Draco took another furtive spoonful of jam. "We knew about you. We thought you were dead. And I’veDeath Eaters haven’t been exactly original in the punishments they choose to mete out to the followers who decide not to toe the party line. "
"I"
"You’d been out of school, what, six months when you began passing information? And then you managed it for a year before you got sloppy"
"Two years," Draco said.
"And then you got caught, and you were so pretty they didn’t want to kill you right away, and they. And now here you are."
Draco sucked in a quick breath and took the last piece of toast. "And do all the little whores get to stay at Ron Weasley’s fantastic therapeutic get-away?" he said finally.
"No," Ron said.
* * * * *
"Malfoy," Hermione said, ushering them into her office, which was long and narrow and lit with floating glass baubles which Hermione had invented. They tended to hang a little too low, and Hermione batted one out of the way and turned back to Draco. "Where did they find you? I thought we only recovered some kind of sex"
"Hermione," Ron said.
"That was me," Draco said helpfully.
"Ah, right," Hermione said. She walked to the opposite wall and yanked an intricately coded map dotted with pins down the wall. "Now, you were the one with the fantastic cryptograms, correct? I thought as much. Or it could have been Gregory Goyle, as he was quite gifted in arithmancy as well. Is he"
"Dead," Draco said.
"Pity," Hermione said. She touching three of the pins and the map projected hugely enlarged cryptograms on the opposite wall, symbols scrolling too quickly for Ron to follow. "How are you? I expect you’ll want to get vetted by one of our medics"
"I’m fine," Draco said. He had crossed the room to examine the map, and touched a fourth pin.
"You weren’t last night," Ron said. Draco had been calm during debrief, sipping veritaserum-doctored cocoa, obligingly listing everyone he could recall having met in the past three years, and Ron had not wanted to bring it up on the record, in front of Neville. Hermione, however, had always been good for a private consultation. She met Ron’s eyes as Draco looked curiously at the map, and then over his shoulder at the projected figures across the room.
"What about last night?" Hermione said. Draco lifted one shoulder.
"Nothing."
"It might happen again," Ron said, "and then what"
Draco sighed. Hermione waved her wand and the cryptograms obediently rearranged themselves.
"I asked nicely, and Weasley jerked me off," Draco said.
"What?" The cryptograms stilled, for a split second, one of them sliding lopsidedly into the window and disappearing.
"That’s not" Ron said. "I didn’t"
"That’s what happened," Draco said.
"He was feverish, illhe was in pain," Ron said to Hermione. "I had to."
"In pain," Hermione said, giving Ron her full attention. "Julian Huggins tried that one on me when we were fifteen, and I didn’t believe him then."
"It’s not funny," Ron said.
"I think it’s funny," Draco said.
"You" Ron said, at a loss for words, at the same time that Hermione said, "Come here," to Draco, and put the tip of her wand against his breastbone.
"Hermione," Ron said.
"Shut up," she said. She frowned for a minute and drew in a quick breath through her nose. They stood in silence for nearly five minutes while Hermione stared blankly ahead. She muttered a spell, now and again. Ron stared at Draco’s hands, quiet and open against his thighs.
"All right," Hermione said, finally. "I apologize, Ron. As near as I can tell, it’s a slow acting spell in the Imperius family. It’s a torture device designed for amusementwould you happen to recall something of the sort being cast?"
Draco shook his head. Hermione frowned and tapped her teeth with her wand. "But you recall other incidents where you requiredassistance?"
"It was rare for it to get as bad asas last night. No one usually waited that long to fuck me."
"It’s dependent on your achieving orgasm, however," Hermione said calmly. Ron flinched.
"Correct."
"Interesting," Hermione said. "Sadistic, of course. My sympathies. Did it subside if you were beaten, or knocked unconcious"
"No," Draco said.
"Hermione," Ron said. "That’s enough."
"Right, well, it will wear off," Hermione said.
"Wait, what?" Ron said. "Itwhen?"
"I don’t know," Hermione said. ‘It depends on how long he was under the spell, the frequency, caster’s strength, a number of factorsit’s Bolactarum’s Algorithm," she added, turning her attention back to Draco.
"Yeah, of course," Draco said. "Has anyone developed a reliable measure of"
"Not yet," Hermione said, turning to her bookshelf and pulling out a small, fat book. "Some Americans are very close, I believe," she said, handing the book to Draco. "Page 569, you’ll find a very interesting article"
"Excuse me," Ron said. A forgotten cryptogram scrolled across his face. Hermione had already opened the book and was pointing out formulae; both she and Draco stared dimly at Ron, as though they had forgotten his presence. "This is going to keep happening?" Ron said. "IHermione, there’s got to be something you can give him, or a spell."
"There isn’t," Hermione said, "and you know well enough that potion interactions on top of complex spells can be permanently crippling so"
"But people can throw off Imperius."
"Sometimes," Hermione said. "This is a targeted behavior spell, so it’s stronger, more difficult to fight."
"Look, I don’t want to be a bother," Draco said. "It shouldn’t too hard to find someone else to fuck me
"DracoI’m not, I didn’t, Hermione," Ron said. "I just helped."
"because something like 200 Death Eaters can’t be wrong" Draco said, shrugging.
"Yes, they can" Ron said.
"Shut up," Hermione said. Draco fell instantly silent.
"Stop following orders," Ron said loudly. "You don’t have to listen to her."
"You too," Hermione said. "In fact, Ron, just wait in the hallway for a minute."
The chairs outside Hermione’s office were very uncomfortable. Ron rubbed at his eyes and rested his elbows on his knees, and thought good thoughts, about naps, or perhaps being in a peaceful coma for a few weeks.
"All right," Hermione said finally, swinging open the door. "You can take him home."
"Hermione"
"Ron, is now the time to be selfish?"
"I am not being selfish," Ron said, standing. "It’s just that Malfoy is clearly traumatized, and I’mI’m trying to help."
"Just take him back to your flat and give him a handjob every couple of days, it’s not the end of the world."
"It’s, it’s, please don’t say handjob," Ron said. "It’scouldn’t we find him a girl, or. Someone who isn’t me?"
"He’s great-looking," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Did he look like that at school?"
"No," Ron said dourly.
"I didn’t think so. How long has it been since you had a shag?"
"Don’t say shag"
"Since you had a f"
"How can you eventhey tied him up and raped him for six months and you want me to do the same thing to him, and act as though it’s some kind of dating service?"
"Save it, Weasley," Hermione said. "Consider this your punishment for callously laughing at SPEW."
"That was ten years ago."
"Six. Draco likes you."
"He doesn’t like me," Ron hissed. "He’s been brainwashed, it’s not as though I’m exactly getting to use my winning personality."
"probably a good thing," Hermione muttered.
"Maybe the first step to help the Death Eater Whore feel humanized again would be to stop talking about him like he’s not there," Draco said, from the doorway, now clutching a book, two heavily bound periodicals, and a folder. "Just a tip."
* * * * *
"Do you have a girlfriend or what?" Draco said, prowling around the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets.
"No."
"Boyfriend?"
"No."
"Shouldn’t you be neck deep in it around here?" Draco said.
"In what?"
"Sluts."
Ron opened his mouth and then closed it. "I’m having a drink," he said.
"Can we fuck?" Draco said.
"What, already?"
"Nevermind," Draco said.
"It’s fine," Ron said. "It’s fine."
He dropped his robe over the back of the couch, and, and after a moment, Draco followed suit, hanging his robe over the armchair, standing quietly in the middle of the room, wearing a pair of trousers and a shirt Hermione had scrounged for him out of the lost and found. Ron stepped towards him, and Draco took one small step back, and then another, until his shoulders hit the wall.
"Are you"
"Fine," Draco said faintly.
"Good," Ron said. He shoved up his sleeves. Draco unbuttoned his trousers, his fingers a little awkward. He was only half-hard when Ron leaned up against the wall over him and slid his hand down Draco’s stomach to his cock, but it didn’t take long, all the same. The night before Draco had winced and strained upwards towards him, begged unintelligibly, twisted sweatily in the sheets, but this was short, and neat, and almost easy, Draco’s forehead tipped against his shoulder. He sighed a little when he came. Ron fetched a flannel from the bathroom.
"We can go to Diagon to get you a wand tomorrow, if you’re up to it," he said, after, for something to say.
"I don’t have any money," Draco said.
"You can pay me back," Ron said.
* * * * *
The following Tuesday, Draco followed Hermione into the break room, and Ron spilled tea on his hand, already half out of his seat.
"What are youis something wrong?"
"Draco is working as my research assistant," Hermione said.
"Don’t you need clearance for that?" Harry said, hunched earnestly over his lunch.
"As of this morning," Hermione said briskly, "He has clearance."
"Fair enough," Harry said. He ate a handful of crisps. Ron realized that Draco was wearing his second best shirt, sleeves rolled up, the pocket almost comically low on his chest, a Gryffindor tie, a pair of green trousers that Ron had shrunk by mistake, which still lapped over Draco’s feet, and the pair of sandals Draco had appropriated the first week he’d moved in. It was summer, and Ron’s flat didn’t hold cooling charms very well, so Draco had been wearing his old t-shirts and shorts, using one of the robes Ron had shortened for him when he went out. It had not occurred to him that Draco might want clothes that fit, and Draco hadn’t mentioned it. Ron fished out his wallet and shoved the sickles he had left towards Draco.
"There’s a machine out in the hallway," he said. "House elves’ll make you up a sandwich."
"Stay away from the egg salad, if it’s that little greenish one with the stripy hat," Harry said.
Draco’s hand hesitated over the money for a minute, but then he gathered it into his palm and walked out the door. Ron took a listless bite of his sandwich, which was egg salad.
"Well, you can’t just coop him up indoors all day long, doing your washing." Hermione said.
"He doesn’t do my washing," Ron said.
"Who does your washing?" Neville said, who had just come in.
"Not Draco," Ron said.
* * * * *
It was oddly easy to get used to. Neville had slept on his couch for a month after Death Eaters had firebombed his flat, and Ginny and Charlie always stayed with him when they came through, and Draco was quiet and neat, and nearly always fast asleep when Ron left in the morning, tucked in on himself, face pressed into the couch cushions. Draco wore his clothes without asking and got a lot of pale, fine hair all over everything, but he didn’t seem to actively object to shopping for food, given specific directions, and on two occasions, left a sandwich waiting on the counter for Ron when he got home. Without the sex, it was exactly like the tiny apartment he’d shared with Harry their first year out of school, except that Harry had loud fights with his girlfriend at two in the morning and tended to leave pans covered with congealed bacon fat in the sink for weeks. With the sex, it was a lot like the half a dozen short-lived relationships Ron had had since seventeen, except that Draco wasn’t cold and silent when he came home after ten for the fourth or fifth night running, and he was better looking - clean, sharp eyes, soft mouth - than anyone Ron had ever convinced to have sex with him without the benefit of unforgivable Death Eater spells.
Mostly, they got to it before it was too late, and it was almost more difficult, to see Draco and know that he would remember everything, afterwards, to see the awareness and resignation in his face when he opened the button on his trousers. They were awkward with each other at first, and Draco let it go long enough that he twitched at Ron’s touch, sobbed a little as he came, but the last of Draco’s bruises had hardly faded before Ron became accustomed to it, to Draco sliding in his lap, face buried in his shoulder, his fingers clasped around Ron’s, riding his rhythm. He could anticipate the hitch in Draco’s throat when he came, the damp of the back of his neck under his hair. Draco tasted good, his skin soft, heated, the one time Ron’s mouth hit his temple by accident, and Ron remembered suddenly, before Draco had even been living with him a fortnight, that the real problem with living with Harry had been that a person couldn’t get any privacy to wank off, ever.
"I can" Draco said, one night, his face still buried in Ron’s shoulder, his cheek hot even through Ron’s shirt.
"That’s okay," Ron said. Draco moved a little, his trousers crumpled open around his hips, lifted Ron’s wet hand off his cock and smeared it down his chest, shaped Ron’s fingers around one nipple.
"Draco," Ron said. He tipped Draco sideways on the couch and slid awkwardly out from underneath him.
"Where are you going?" Draco said, kneeling up, his shirt open, nipples still tight from orgasm.
"I’m going," Ron said, with as much dignity as he could muster, "to wank in the bathroom. If that’s all right."
"Okay," Draco said.
Ron leaned back against the bathroom door and unzipped his trousers hastily, and achieved a perfect, wet rhythm, hand tight around his cock, while thinking about absolutely nothing except maybe the one time he’d walked in on Hermione and Viktor Krum in fourth year, with Hermione’s shirt down around her waist, Viktor’s trousers open.
"Sorry," he had said, and tumbled back out of the room. "Sorry."
He managed five, six long rough strokes before he bit his lip and stuffed his cock back in his pants. Draco was in the kitchen, drying his chest with a hand-towel.
"It’s not that I think you’re dirty," Ron said.
"Right."
"Or damaged goods, orbecause I don’t."
"I know," Draco said, but he wouldn’t meet Ron’s eyes.
"Can’t a person wank off in peace in his own bathroom?" Ron said.
"Be my guest," Draco said.
"It’s that you’re brainwashed," Ron said. "You’re very confused. You don’t even like me."
"Yeah, all right," Draco said. "Do you want a sandwich?"
"Remember at school? Weasel? You’re so poor and dirty?" Ron said encouragingly "You hated me."
"I did," Draco said.
"Good. You should just keep that in mind."
"You can fuck me," Draco said. He had sliced cheese and cold steak and was assembling two sandwiches on the kitchen table. "I know you want to."
"I don’t know what kind of person you think I am but"
"I think you’re the person who’s letting Potter and Longbottom nail all the grateful witch pussy."
"I am not," Ron said.
* * * * *
Part Two