A Completely Roundabout Way of Getting Your Worst Enemy Into Bed

Ron Weasley, by order of the Ministry—because Harry was, occasionally, a prick—was currently standing on the balcony of his beautiful room in his beautiful hotel surveying the beautiful view of Italy in vague disgruntlement.

Ron was an Auror, Special Unit. Hermione made it a point every time she spoke to him to tease him about it. Contrary to popular opinion, the girl had a sense of humor, but just because Ron was a Diviner didn’t mean she had to speak in a whispery Trelawney voice all the bloody time.

He had been working the case of a missing little girl, and when they’d found her, she’d been dead. Blood let, and Ron had taken it hard, wondering why he didn’t See it coming, why he couldn’t get to her sooner. Harry, having a massive amount of connections in the Ministry—really, he nearly ran it—pulled a few strings and got Ron thrown out on his bum, right smack dab into the middle of Italy. A vacation, he called it. Ron scowled into the morning light. Forced leave, more like.

Ron took in a deep breath and decided to actually go out, since he couldn’t set foot in the Ministry for the next three weeks. He pulled on a white linen shirt that had mysteriously appeared in his suitcase (“Hermione,” thought Ron, annoyed) and grabbed his hotel key.

That was how the redhead had come to be sitting in a small café on a river in the middle of April, an espresso in his hand, thinking that maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad.

Then he heard a drawling voice demanding something in Italian, and any thought of enjoyment collapsed like a flan in a cupboard.

He turned his head slowly, knowing what he was going to see, but hoping he could delay it, and caught a glimpse of pale hair and paler skin and suppressed a groan. Malfoy. He was the only other person besides Ron who was routinely at work until the early hours of the morning, and he was also the most annoying person ever.

Draco Malfoy had come to the Order in the middle of Harry, Ron and Hermione’s quest for the Horcruxes. He was a very unlikely spy, and had provided the Order with much needed information. Whenever anyone asked him why, he shut down and stared at them until they went away. Ron thought it had something to do with the brutal murders of his parents, but that was just him.

The man had become a spectacular Auror, relentless and ruthless, and was responsible for over half the Death Eater captures in his department. Ron had learned to tolerate him, if barely, and Harry was his dubious friend. Draco, Ron had learned, was sort of funny. It made him no less of a prat, but it made it slightly better to stomach.

Ron had just decided to ignore Draco when the blonde sat down at his table in a whirl of robes and coffee steam. Blue eyes widened as Draco dropped two shopping bags by his feet and leaned back, letting out a sigh.

“Hand me the sugar then, Weasley.”

Ron, mouth open, handed Draco the sugar, then checked himself.

“Malfoy, what the bloody hell are you doing?”

The blonde blinked at him. “Putting sugar in my coffee, Weasley, what does it look like?”

Ron narrowed his eyes at Draco. “You know what I mean.”

Draco rolled his eyes and sighed as if explaining just what the hell was going on was a great inconvenience. “I’m on vacation, Weasley.” He took a sip of his espresso, grimaced, and added more sugar.

“Here?!” Ron sputtered, spraying some of the espresso he had managed to get into his mouth onto Draco’s robes.

Draco made a disgusted face and wiped himself off. “Yes, Weasley, right here. I sleep under this table. No, I’m staying in a hotel.”

“Which one?”

Draco, looking incredibly put out, told him, and Ron nearly sprayed more espresso over the table. “But that’s my hotel!”

“Joy,” Malfoy said dryly. Ron “Why are you here? Aren’t you still working? You didn’t get binned, did you?” Ron asked, a bit of hope entering his voice. It would be easier work if Draco weren’t strutting around, being a bloody terror.

“Ha ha, Weasley, no. I’ve been…well, suffice it to say the Ministry is paying for everything.”

Ron suddenly got it, and almost wanted to laugh, but wanted to kill Harry more. He knew it had been a horrible, horrible idea to tell Harry about his teensy, itty bitty, tiny, little crush on Draco Malfoy. It wasn’t like it was uncommon, the man was unbelievably gorgeous, and Ron’d bet his job that at least half of the people working at the Ministry had crushes on Draco Malfoy. It wasn’t really anything, actually. Harry just blew it out of proportion.

“Forced vacation, eh? Me too,” Ron said glumly, downing the rest of his espresso and nearly choking on it. He stood up. “We’ll see you around then, Malfoy.”

The blonde got a strange sort of look in his eyes as he murmured, “I expect we will, Weasley.”

Ron woke the next morning with the distinct feeling that everything was about to go wonky. Two seconds later, the door to his room banged open, and Draco sodding Malfoy strolled into his room, hold two plastic bags and looking for all the world as if he owned the place. Ron buried his head in his pillow, hoping to God that it was all a dream.

That bubble was burst a few moments later as Draco poked him hard in the side. Ron moaned and cursed into the sheets.

“You’ll have to repeat that, Weasley, I can’t understand you if you converse with the bedding.”

Ron sat up blearily and glared at the blonde man. “Fuck off Malfoy. What the hell are you doing here?”

Draco smiled beatifically. “I brought breakfast. Get up, you lazy sod.”

Ron, against his own good judgment, rolled out of bed and followed Draco to the living room of his suite. Draco had set up a lovely breakfast of cheeses, little cakes, delicious smelling rolls, and fruits.

“What’s all this, Malfoy?”

“Breakfast, Weasley.” Ron shot him a look. “It’s mini frittatas, hazelnut cinnamon rolls with mascarpone cheese icing, a cheese platter, a fruit platter, and iced cappuccinos with some amaretto liqueur.” Ron blinked. “Sit down.”

Draco pushed him into one of the comfy chairs and poured him a tall glass of the cappuccino. Ron took a sip and near shuddered in delight. “Wow, Malfoy.”

They ate breakfast in silence, enjoying the early morning light and good food. Ron watched Draco, the blonde silent and staring out the window. He was amazingly handsome with a sharp, equine face and delicate features; he was a study in contrasts, a relatively small man, but wiry and strong. His eyes were a startling shade of grey, and the long, pale scar than ran down his cheek to his neck fair begged Ron to drag his finger—or his tongue—down it. When they finished eating, Draco grabbed the other bag he had and pushed Ron into the bedroom.

“Here,” he said, giving him the bag.

“What’s this?”

Draco gave him a withering look. “Clothes, you numbskull, go put them on.”

“I have my own clothes, Malfoy.”

Draco sneered. “No you don’t. Go put that on, and hurry.” He slammed the door in Ron’s face, and Ron snorted, bemused. He pulled the clothing out of the bag. There was a pair of soft khaki slacks and a deep blue silk button-up that even Ron knew would look fantastic with his skin tone and bring out his eyes. He put the clothing on, still wondering why Draco Malfoy was waltzing into his room at 7 in the morning, feeding him breakfast and then pushing clothes on him.

Though, Ron had to admit, he looked really, really good in what he was wearing. The slacks fit him perfectly, and were really comfortable and soft against his skin. The blue shirt felt as if he were wearing air, and the deep ocean color made him look less sallow, and his eyes almost as bright as his hair.
He looked downright edible, if he did say so himself.

When he walked out the door, something flitted across Malfoy’s face, but before Ron could identify it, the blonde smirked.

“Clean up well, Weasley.” Ron just glared. “Well, come on, let’s go.”

“Go where?”

Draco grinned, and Ron was struck dumb by how the smile transformed his face. All of a sudden, it was softer, happier, and he looked beautiful, even though boys weren’t supposed to be beautiful. Ron was so caught up in the smile that he sort of forgot to ask where they were going and let Draco lead him out of the hotel.

It turned out Draco Malfoy was a closet romantic. He had taken Ron to a dizzying array of museums and fountains and ridiculously old buildings, practically swooning over everything. He snapped pictures with an enthusiasm reminiscent of Colin Creevey and treated Ron to all sorts of delicious Italian food and desserts. Ron was ready to drop by the time they got back to the hotel. When he flopped down on the bed, Draco poked his head in. “C’mon Weasley, we don’t have all night.”

Ron raised his head in disbelief. “What? We’re going somewhere else?”

Draco just fixed him with a look. “Of course. Put these on.” More clothes plopped down on Ron’s back and he groaned, burying his head in the pillows again. “Before we’re old, Weasley.”

Ron picked up the clothes, threw a pillow at Draco’s head and stomped into the bathroom. He walked back out in a violet shirt and black slacks, looking distinctly disgruntled. “Where are we going? Haven’t you seen enough of Italy for one day? Besides, I know you’ve been here before, why’re you acting like such a tourist?”
Draco scowled. “We’re going out, there’s never enough Italy for one day, and for the first time in my life I can be in Italy and see it, so stop complaining, you giant prat and come out with me.”

Ron listened with wide eyes, wondering how Draco could talk so much without breathing. “Out where?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Dancing.”

Ron balked. Draco put his hand on Ron’s arm. It was warm, very warm. Ron wanted to pull away, but he didn’t. He watched Draco’s expression, which didn’t change, but something sparked in his eyes. Ron went dancing.

It was strangely enjoyable, the dancing, despite Ron’s utter inability to actually dance. Draco was fairly tolerable, and only insulted him a few times-“What are you, descended from a monkey?”-and generally was being strange. Not that this was new; he’d been strange since the beginning of the trip that Ron accidentally seemed to be on with him.

They spent the night by the speakers, slowly going deaf, with short breaks to get more alcohol, which the bartender seemed quite happy to liberate. By 2 in the morning, on and Draco were completely sloshed and stumbling back to the hotel. Draco followed on back to his room and fell face first on Ron’s bed. Ron tried to muster a glare, but the sight of the small blond man snuggling into his bedclothes was incurably cute. It made

Ron wanted to squeeze him and possibly do inappropriate things with his hands.

He woke up the next morning in boxers, socks, and with a pounding headache. Ron moaned and turned over, burrowing more into the large pillow of the sofa. The sun was warm on his back and helped the aching a bit.

What did not help was a whole bunch of blond man barreling into the room, holding four bags and two steaming cups of coffee, grinning like a madman. Which Ron was sure he was, because in all the years Ron’d known Draco, he had never, ever smiled like that, as if Christmas, his birthday, Boxing day, Kwanzaa and Hanukkah had all happened at once. Ron moaned again and buried his head further into the pillow.

“Get up, you lazy excuse for a pureblood.”

Ron mumbled some choice curses and a few “Ngh’s” in Draco’s vague direction. Draco tutted, and then everything went quiet. Ron blessed the sudden silence and started to drift off.

A sudden cold wet shock woke him up, and he jumped to his feet, yowling. “What the bloody hell, Malfoy!”

Draco smirked and set the ice bucket down. “I brought breakfast, but I’m not sure you deserve any anymore.”

Ron grumbled and almost stomped out of the room, but once he was up, he could smell the scent of something delicious wafting from Draco’s general direction. That could’ve been Draco himself, but Ron decided not to go there. He sent a curious glance towards the bags. “What’s in there?”

“Food.” Draco took a sip of his coffee. “Drink yours. There’s a potion in it.”

Ron looked suspicious. “This is supposed to make me feel safe about drinking it how?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s a hangover potion, you great galumphing lizard.”
Ron took a sip, and immediately the pounding that he had almost gotten used to dulled. He drank all of it in one more gulp, and the blond man looked mildly horrified.

“No taste,” he muttered. Ron reached into one of the bags, grabbed a small pastry and gulped that too. Draco looked away. Ron grinned.

Most of their days were lazy, after that. Draco fair moved into Ron’s room, and Ron, after one late night, gave up trying to sleep on the couch. Waking up to Draco was like waking up to an angel. A dark angel, obviously, who had sadistical tendencies, but he looked better when he was asleep. All the lines Ron had never noticed around his eyes went away, and he looked unstressed. Ron reckoned Draco had needed the vacation more than he himself had.

They got up in the late morning, lounged in the living room with coffee and the newspaper, silent and comfortable. During the rest of the day they walked around the town, sometimes talking, mostly not. Being around Draco was, surprisingly, a balm to Ron’s haggard soul. The man’s witty remarks and snarky attitude were a nice break from the careful way everyone acted around him, trying not to mention the war, or talk about their families, as if it would send Ron into hysterical fits because he’d lost two brothers. It tired Ron more than angered him these days. But no topic was off limits for Draco. He’d even taught Ron more about the true way dark wizards worked, more unwilling to let the lies perpetuate that he was to reveal his secrets (“Ignorance is curable. Stupidity is fatal.”).

Three weeks passed far too quickly. When Ron woke up in his own bed, away from the warmth Draco’s body had offered him and the warm orange Italian sunlight, he knew he was screwed. He just lay there for half an hour, trying to make himself believe that, no, he was not in love with Draco Malfoy, he had not just spent the past three weeks flirting and effectively trying to seduce the other man without even knowing it. He did not miss seeing the irritable little blonde’s face every morning, or the silent mornings together. He didn’t.

Dammit.

He did.

Dammit.

Ron put off going to work as long as possible, which resulted in a less-than-perfect appearance as he rushed into his office, tie askew, hair un-brushed and robes wrinkled. Darryl looked up amusedly. “Have fun on vacation, Ron?”

Ron blinked. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did. Great time. Wonderful city. Must go back sometime.” Ron was aware he was on the verge of babbling but he felt no control over himself. His ears had just turned as red as his hair—he could feel it—when one of the bloody flying memos hit him hard on the head. Ron cursed and snatched the damnable thing from the air. It was from Harry. Bloody hell, he’d been back three minutes ad already they were hounding him.

Ron didn’t stop to think that three weeks ago, this summons would have been a welcome distraction from his paperwork and another project to throw himself into.
Ron fixed himself up a bit and then strode out of his office, murmuring something to Darryl. He wasn’t exactly sure what he had said, something along the lines of looking after the office, but Darryl nodded anyway, and Ron trusted him.

The meeting was uneventful. The wealthy daughter of an American businessman had gone missing in London, and it took Ron almost no time to figure out the girl was safe and sound in a hotel, wrapped up in some British aristocrat and spending Daddy’s money like it was coming out her ears. Ron rolled his eyes, told the man where to go, warned him to knock first and then started back to his office to get started on months of backlogged paperwork.

A call stopped him in his tracks. “Weaselby.” And damn that should make him angry, because hello, Weaselby, but instead Ron found himself starting to smile.

“Yeah, Ferret-face?” Ron turned in time to see Draco make a disgusted face.

“Must you use that ridiculous moniker?”

“Look who’s talking. What did you want?” Ron felt his heart sink a bit. What if Draco just needed help on a project or something? What if-his fearful train of thought was cut off and Draco grinned. Ron felt his knees go somewhat shaky and he silently cursed them to work, dammit.

“Want to catch some lunch?”

Ron blinked. “Lunch?” He glanced at his watch. “Malfoy, it’s not even ten yet.”

“So?”

Ron blinked again, but Draco was smiling and offering himself, and why wasn’t he saying yes already? “Uh, sure. Brunch it is.”

Draco let out a soft laugh, and Ron’s breath caught. He berated himself, but it seemed to do nothing to help. Self-beration was not his forte.

Draco led them to a small café around the corner from the Ministry that Ron had totally never known was there and promptly ordered something in Italian. Ron thought it was just like Draco to do something like that. A few moments later, a very large and very dirty man bustled out of the back and nearly smothered Draco with his rolls of extra skin. Draco didn’t look outright sickened, but it was close. The blond smoothed his hair back down and said something to the large man, babbling away in strangely musical Italian. Ron had always thought the language was a bit bizarre, what with its ups and downs. Of course, he’d never heard Draco speak it, and oh my god he was going right round the bed. The redhead buried his face in his drink—which happened to be ice water—and concentrated on not turning ten shades of red.

The large man went away eventually, and Draco breathed a sigh of relief. “He always was a bit overly friendly.”

Ron looked up. “You just attract people like that, Draco.” Ron’s heart skipped a beat at his slip, but if Draco noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead he scowled. “Thanks, Weasley. Wonderful to know that I attract giant greasy people.”

Ron snorted into his water, envisioning Draco drowning in a mass of Italian chefs. “It’s because you’re just so personable, Malfoy!”

A strange look crossed Draco’s face, and Ron tried not to read into it. “Ah, but beneath this boyish exterior beats the heart of a ruthless, sadistic maniac!”

Ron was absolutely sure water was not supposed to go that far up his nose.

Their brunch was long. Ron wasn’t back at work until three hours later, but he was in a better mood. No less confused, really, but a better mood.

As Draco had left his office, having inexplicably walked Ron to it, arguing the whole time, Ron had cheerfully called out, “Be careful with that door! Your head might get stuck in it!”

Draco had glared and walked gracefully out the door. Ron had chuckled and caught the look Darryl was giving him. “What?”

“Nothing,” said Darryl innocently, returning to his work with a slight smirk on his face.

Ron narrowed his eyes but didn’t pursue it.

The next morning, he and Draco were riding in the lift at the same time, and while Draco was ranting about some new “obviously useless beaurocratic invention,” their shoulders brushed, Ron shivered, Draco had looked at him with something dark and needy in his eyes and Ron had looked away, flushing. “Are you blushing, Weaselby?”
Once upon a time that particular name had thrown Ron into apoplectic fits. Now, it made his heart beat a little faster, and a small smile appear on his lips.

“No. I don’t blush,” Ron very blatantly lied, and everyone who’d ever heard of Ron Weasley knew that he cursed like a sailor and blushed like a schoolgirl.

Draco had snorted in amusement. “What are you then, selectively sunburned?”

The lift had arrived at their at that moment and Ron was saved making up a comeback. Draco had brushed against him again as they exited the lift, and Ron just knew it was intentional. Well, he thought so. Maybe. Damn.

It was another week gone by of Ron trying to get used to sleeping alone and waking up without that haughty drawl in his ears when Draco dropped by his office. Ron didn’t even look up at the knock, just continued to make dark ink marks all over his paperwork and worry about the small girl who’s photo he had to the left of his hand.

“Weaselby. Come on, let’s go.”

Ron looked up in surprise. “Draco?” The blond had shifted slightly, and Ron had a near collide with more blushing. “I wasn’t aware we had plans.”

“We didn’t. Come on, I’m starving.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Yes Master. Because, god forbid, I have a life to lead. Or, you know, usher in a vague direction.”

Draco laughed out loud, startling Ron with its sincerity and pure delight. “Nice to know you’re figured out how to address your betters, Weasel,” Draco said, the bite and sarcasm that most heard translated into fond amusement for Ron. He gave a slight noncommittal noise.

Draco plopped down in one the spare chairs, looking utterly indecent in grey slacks and a white shirt that should have made him look pasty but instead gave him an ethereal glow. Ron wondered what catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought Draco to him. Then he wondered if he possibly had a temperature, and decided a break with Draco would do quite fine, as he was paying for the food and his blood sugar was obviously quite low.

It was yet another week before Draco dragged Ron out to dinner. It was nothing too special, a quiet, darkly lit jazz restaurant that had excellent service and mouth-wateringly good food. Ron had felt a bit underdressed, but that might’ve just been because the woman performing wasn’t wearing much more that strategically placed strips of fabric, and Draco looked resplendent in black and green. Ron wondered idly if Draco ever worked, or just spent all his time coordinating his outfits with the lighting. Draco asked him what he was thinking about, and Ron told him, earning him a partially bemused glare form Draco. Then he promptly stole a green bean from Ron’s plate, and Ron’d had to look away, because Draco was the most indecent bloke ever, and should not be allowed to eat like that in public. It made Ron want to throw away the table, drag Draco into the nearest dark corner and snog him senseless, and feeling he was getting more and more frequently.

The blond had already come to star in some of Ron’s best fantasies, and had proved to be the best wank material ever. Ron would have wondered about his sanity if it hadn’t felt to good to hear Draco’s voice whisper forbidden things in his ear as he frantically pulled himself off in the shower. Ron dreamed of running his large, callused hands over Draco’s smooth, pale abdomen, dreamed of Draco’s legs tangled around his, dreamed of the contrasts in skin tones and the absolute beauty of Draco, just Draco. He tasted Draco’s skin, cool and fresh, traced the lines of shadows on Draco’s body with his tongue. On the days he woke up from those dreams, he took long showers and was usually late for work.

Then Ron got caught in a new case, and it wasn’t just one child this time, it was a family, a whole family, brothers and aunts and uncles and mothers and fathers and sisters and relatives by marriage. Twenty-five people, gone without a trace, and it was his job to Divine where they were, how they were taken, and Ron didn’t have the luxury of dreams anymore. He knew Draco was on the case as well, but he couldn’t think about that. Everything he had was going into that family.

He didn’t look up when he heard Harry’s voice from the other side of his desk, didn’t stop writing even though he had to keep his head two inches from the page in order to focus on what he was writing. A warm hand settled over his shoulder.

“C’mon, mate. Time to go home.”

Ron looked up frantically. “What? Home? No! I have to—I need to—there’s so much—this isn’t—Harry—“

Harry had smiled one of those smiles Ron saw in his nightmares and grasped Ron under his arms. He hauled the redhead out of his chair, ignoring the whimpering pleas Ron was embarrassingly letting out and would be more worried about if Ron’d had sleep and every single one of those twenty-five missing people back into their beds.

“You’re no good to them if you’re too tired to think, Ron,” said Harry gently. “Go home, get some rest.” Ron nodded, having no intention to do that. Harry seemed to know this and actually walked him to the lift. “Good night, Ron. We’ll find them. We always do.” Ron nodded faintly, slumping helplessly against the lift wall as the doors pinged shut and he began the long ride up.

He woke to someone shaking him. Ron frowned. “Go the bloody hell away.” He heard someone chuckle, and a faint voice saying something. Ron opened one eyes to see Draco standing over him, looking—well, like death warmed over, but an amused death—and with his hand on Ron’s shoulder. Ron saw him saying something, but he wasn’t sure it was English and squinted at the blond man. “I…have no idea what you just said.”

Draco laughed. “It was along the lines of ‘Get up, Weasley, sleeping in a lift is beneath even you.’”

Ron glared.

“Get up, git, unless you want to sleep in the lift. I’ll get you home, since you look far too tired to walk, much less Apparate.”

“Only you can insult me and help me at the same time, Draco.”

Draco’s eyes brightened and Ron leaned into him as he stood up. He was tired, he needed something to lean on, he told himself. A little voice in the back of his head was singing a different tune, but luckily Ron was too tired to pay attention.

“I’m special like that. Now come on, Master Snail.”

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

They got to Ron’s flat fine, and Draco had politely gone to raid Ron’s fridge while Ron stumbled into pajamas. Well, alright, some sweat pants. He wasn’t exactly sure if he even owned actual pajamas. Draco came back munching on—dammit, was that his special stash of cashews?! Ron grunted his disapproval, but he wasn’t entirely sure the message got through. Draco came over as Ron slid his exhausted body under the covers. He reached out a pale hand to switch off the light and all of a sudden, the room was flooded with moonlight and magic and Ron couldn’t stop staring at the pale figure in his room. As Draco turned to leave, Ron called out in a very small voice, “Stay.” It was more of a plea that a command, but Draco stopped anyway.

“What?”

Suddenly everything was heavy and Ron knew through the haze of fatigue that something had just changed, but he was too tired to care. “Stay. With me. Don’t leave.”

Draco turned back and Ron’s breath caught, he was so beautiful, and then he moved, stripping off his shirt and shoes and climbing onto the bed, curling up on top of the blankets, curled towards Ron. Ron frowned. “Under the covers, git.”

Draco couldn’t quite stifle his laugh and he slid under and Ron shivered as he felt cold feet brush his own. “You’re like a fish,” he said, but softly, quietly, staring at Draco’s face. Draco smirked, lopsidedly, and Ron lost all control of reason and leaned forward just enough so that he could press his lips against Draco’s.

Draco was warm, and his lips were soft and put up no resistance. Ron sighed into Draco’s mouth and that was apparently all Draco needed, because suddenly his lips were all over, his hands reaching out and sliding down Ron’s body, one finding a resting place on Ron’s hip, where Draco’s thumb fit perfectly, and Ron moaned, placing one hand needily on Draco’s neck, enjoying the pull and shift of the muscles under skin, the warm he’d never expected, the warmth he’d never dared to hope for in his dreams and all of a sudden they were falling, tangled in sheets and holding on to each other as if as long as they held each other then everything would be okay.

Ron rather thought it would be.

Ron woke up to grey eyes. Well, not just grey eyes, which would’ve been creepy. The eyes were set in a Malfoy face. Draco was watching him calmly, looking peaceful. Ron blinked, trying to get the sleep out of his eyes, because Draco was right there, on the other pillow, his platinum hair ringed by sunlight and Ron really didn’t want to forget that image due to sleepy eyes.

“Morning, Draco,” he mumbled. He saw those grey eyes darken to slate, and an all-too familiar expression crossed Draco’s face. Ron had seen it numerous times in Italy, and every time Ron had called Draco by his name, and even when Draco had been insulting him. Now Ron knew what that look was. It was desire, longing, want. Draco wanted him, and really, Ron should have seen this coming. They had gone dancing, out to dinner, vacationed together, and slept in the same bed.

Merlin, thought Ron. We’ve been dating! He’d never noticed it before, and really should have seen this coming. Draco blinked lazily and titled towards Ron, and Ron, armed with this new knowledge, kissed him, hard and fast, the way he’d been wanting to every since the annoying little prat had sat down at his table and commandeered his sugar.

Draco responded immediately and with a tiny moan that Ron thought was unbelievably sexy. He pressed himself up against the warmth of Draco’s body, running his hands over Draco’s sides, down his chest, to settle at his hips and wow, he didn’t even notice he’d turned them over. Ron settled himself in between Draco’s legs and ground a little, which made Draco give out a shuddering little gasp and Ron nearly lost it, right there.
He almost didn’t bother asking ‘why’ because he was so drugged with the scent, the feel, the absolute bliss that was Draco, but he did stop, and he did ask, pantingly, ‘why him.’

“Because,” replied Draco, straining under Ron, “there’s a fine line between love and hate,” and Ron’s breath hitched, “and I thought we might be able to blur it.”

Ron groans and collapses on Draco, allowing those warm hands to glide up and down his back, allowing Draco to roll them over, allowing the kind of exploring intimacy he hadn’t allowed since seventh year and Hermione. Draco smelled like crisp autumn air, and parchment and green apples and he tasted even better, a hot, smooth spiciness that was entirely Draco and Ron knew he would never get enough of kissing him, touching him, feeling him everywhere.

It was around the time Draco’s tongue got to the waistband of Ron’s sweats when his alarm went off. Ron swore and looked at the small, portable Portcall and saw it was Harry. He dropped his head back and groaned, while Draco chuckled. The blond crawled up Ron’s body, placing kisses all the way, to settle his mouth by Ron’s ear.

“Later, Ron.”

And the promise in that voice made Ron shiver, and he looked at Draco burningly, for once understanding why Draco looked like that when Ron called him by name.

“Damn Harry to the depths of hell,” growled Ron as he swung himself out of bed. Draco smirked, obviously far too amused for his health. “I am sure he is already thoroughly damned and you may save your breath.”

Ron continued to grumble as he pulled on his work clothes. The grumbling got louder when he realized he’d only had six hours of sleep. Ron turned to Draco to say bye, and stopped. Draco had his eyes closed and a small smile on his lips Ron was willing to bet his broom Draco had no idea was there. Ron found he suddenly couldn’t speak. Draco opened his eyes. “Like what you see?”

Ron blushed furiously, but nodded. Draco stretched like a cat and Ron decided to leave before he was irredeemably late for work.

As it was, he was ten minutes late. He stumbled out of the lift and smack dab into Harry, who took one look at Ron’s haphazard appearance and burst out laughing.

“Shut up, Potter,” Ron said, with no small amount of mirth. Harry’s eyes twinkled.

“Did I interrupt something?”

Ron was instantly suspicious. “Why do you say that?”

Harry grinned. “Well, you and Draco left last night. Together.”

Ron went scarlet, he just knew it. “So?” he squeaked

“Come off it Ron, we all know you have a giant crush on the man.”

“What—I do not—all—wait, who?”

Harry ticked off his fingers, “Hermione, who noticed you staring at the git all the time, Ginny, who says she’s your sister and knows when you fancy someone, your mum, Fred and George, Neville, Darryl, Brad from accounting, and me, naturally.”

Ron’s mouth had dropped open in shock, and Harry’s eyes twinkled energetically.

“They all—but I—never did—I hate you all.” Harry laughed, and Ron suddenly twigged.

“Oh my god, you sent him to Italy too! Purposely! I can’t believe! That was no forced vacation for exhaustion, you were trying to get me laid!”

Harry nearly died laughing. “Did it work? And anyway, it wasn’t just me, there were a couple of people involved in that.”

Ron had gone past speaking. He stared at Harry and found he couldn’t form a single word. Harry clapped him on the back. “All for a good cause, mate. You look better rested, anyway. I Called you because we found the family, and they’re safe, in our custody.”

Ron found his voice. “Really?”

“Really, really.”

“I’m never forgiving you, you know.”

“Forgiving him for what?” asked a drawling voice from behind Ron. Ron turned around and saw Draco standing in front of him, looking immaculate as always and far too smug.

“For sending him to Italy to get him laid,” explained Harry helpfully.

“You’re not helping,” growled Ron.

“Oh, that. Yes, he wouldn’t have managed it without my help. He was planning on sending you to Egypt. Not exactly a romantic spot.”

Ron wanted to sit down. “You…knew about this?”

Draco looked superior. “Of course. No one tries to get a Malfoy to bed someone without that Malfoy’s express permission.”

“That means you…wanted this? Me? Before Italy?” Ron vaguely noticed Harry leaving, but was too focused on Draco to care .

“I’m still not sure how you missed it, Weasley.”
Ron glared. “I don’t usually expect my old enemies to suddenly want to shag me, Ferret.”

“Yes, well, you shouldn’t assume things, should you? We all know what assuming makes a person.”

“Argh!” yelled Ron, and he yanked Draco towards him by the front of his robes. “Draco, shut up.” And he kissed him. He felt Draco lean into him and he studiously ignored the various catcalls.

When they pulled apart, Draco looked at him with hooded eyes. “You just kissed me in front of the entire Auror contingent, Ron.”

“I know,” whispered Ron. “Want to do it again?”

Draco smirk was all the answer he needed.

~~~~~~~~ Back to Ron/Draco ~~~~~~~~

Review This Story