Uncertainty

"This is all your fault, and when we get out of here I am going to kick your arse harder than it's ever been kicked before," said Weasley, breathless, sweaty and sprinting as fast as possible down an aisle in a disused section of the Auror archives. Draco glared at his back, not bothering to answer as he tried to keep up, even though their predicament was absolutely not his fault. Weasley skidded round a corner and headed down another aisle, not checking to see if Draco was behind him. Draco tried to nurture a sense of grievance over the slight, but it was impossible when nearly all his energy was going into keeping his heart from pounding out of his chest. The rest was divided between wondering how the hell to get out of here and jealous contemplation of how fast Ron Weasley's long legs could run.   Weasley jerked to a stop so abrupt that Draco nearly crashed into his back. He pushed open a door set into one of the towering shelves and Draco had just enough time to take in the heavy wood and plain ring in the centre before he was pushed through the door and stumbling across an uneven floor. The door slammed shut as Weasley bolted in behind him and threw himself against it.
Draco stood where he'd come to a halt and hunched over, putting his hands on his hips and concentrating on not spitting his lungs out after his exertions. The sound of running footsteps outside, in the archives, slowly faded, and Draco cautiously hoped that he might yet make it out of this fix alive. How many people had the monumental bad luck to come down to the archives to get a few papers on a long ago case, find Ron Weasley grimly ransacking the same section for some unindentified file, then stumble onto a nest of feral Death Eater remnants? He shivered inwardly as he remembered the ravenous, toothy smiles on their skeletal faces, the way Weasley had looked at the wands levelled at them and ordered him to run. Everything after that was a blur of dusty floors, dimly heard curses flying, Weasley pushing past him to lead him away from the pursuit. He'd had no doubt, for a moment there, that he was going to be dinner.
 
Finally, just as Draco was getting his breathing under control, Weasley moved away from the door and cast a quiet Lumos. Draco glanced round the space apprehensively, expecting cobwebs and dust and maybe mould and a few skeletons. Instead, the space was clean and dry, and Draco caught a glimpse of chairs and a bed and thick rugs before Ron extinguished his wand. The ways of the archives were beyond him, but a bedroom tucked into the middle of a stack of shelves seemed even more willfully perverse than the archives usually were.
 
"It's only a matter of time before they realise we must have gone another way, so we have two priorities," said Weasley, in that 'commanding Auror' tone that had never failed to get under Draco's skin every time they had come into contact in the past five years. He was grateful that Weasley had not had it at school. "First, secure our position so we don't get chopped to bits and eaten by rabid Death Eaters. Second, get word to the top that we're stuck down here so they can mount a mission. The charms will work better with two of us behind them."
 
Draco was sweaty and tired and his ribs hurt. He was furious. He wanted to scream. Instead, he slid into his coldest and haughtiest persona. "Thank you, Auror States-The-Obvious, I would never have guessed that we should secure our position. Even though it's not standard training for Wizengamot senior clerks, I didn't have my common sense removed at any stage of my employment."
 
"That's nice." Weasley's voice in the darkness remained smooth and unruffled, perhaps shaded with amusement. Draco went stiff with outrage, but his bitter rejoiner was lost when Weasley let out a triumphant noise that made Draco's mouth go dry. Candles flared a moment later and Ron pulled a bag from an inner pocket of his robes and tapped it with his wand to enlarge it. In the flickering glow, Draco could see a satisfied smile linger round Weasley's mouth. His residual fury flared for a few seconds before Weasley thrust a bag of salt into his hands. "Right," said Weasley, back to his commanding voice, "we're going to use Habitum angulus in conjunction with standard warding spells. I assume you know some standard warding spells?"
 
"Yes," said Draco, trying to infuse his voice with maximum scorn, "funnily enough, I did learn some at school." Weasley ignored the tone.
 
"Excellent. I will hold the corners of the room while you layer the wards on top. Make sure you include some kind of notice-me-not."
 
"Thank you again for pointing out basic warding skills that I mastered years ago," snarked Draco. He was sweaty and his lungs still hurt like hell, and now Weasley, of all people, was treating him as if he was a nervous third year trying to master a silencing spell.
 
"Best to make sure of these things," said Weasley, cheerfully. Draco scowled. Ron Weasley was a smug bastard, with his long legs and smirky competence. Draco had much preferred him at school, when his ears had burned crimson and his control had been a tenuous thread ready to snap. He inwardly cursed Auror training again. Weasley's voice interrupted his musings. "Ready to start?"
 
Draco burned with the urge to tell him everything about him that had ever annoyed him, with particular emphasis on the last hour, but the memory of the starving look in the Death Eaters' eyes was enough to deter him. "Of course," he said instead, in his haughtiest tone, aggravated even further when Weasley merely smiled happily, with an unmistakable air of indulgence. He sniffed and lifted his wand, ready to cast the spells when Ron had finished pinning the corners.
 
The wards finished, Weasley lit a few more candles and Draco wondered idly where they had come from, finding a chair and sinking into it. His lungs still burned. Weasley added a variety of other spells and charms to the room until even Draco was impressed. Reluctantly. Then Weasley sank down onto the edge of the bed in the corner and looked at Draco. Hastily straightening in his chair and arranging his face into a suitable sneer, Draco looked back.
 
"How often does someone from your department come down here?" asked Weasley, stretching out those long legs. Draco dragged his mind back to the question.
 
"Judging by the look I was given when I announced I was coming down here, my little jaunt to sub-basement 14Q is the first in many years."
 
"I thought so," said Weasley. "The last person from the Auror Department to come down here was lost for two weeks before they eventually found him tucked inside an enchanted filing cabinet in sub-sector LK245 on the third floor. That was ten years ago."
 
"Then how do we get word of our predicament to the Department?" demanded Draco. "I can well imagine that they might not notice you were missing for three weeks, what with all your redhead tribe looking the same, but I should think that my absence will be noticed. Did you miss the presence of the feral Death Eaters in the mad dash through the stacks? I'd rather not feed anyone else to them."
 
"No, I'm sure it won't have to come to that," said Weasley, lip twitching slightly. Draco sneered. He hated being laughed at, and to have it coming from Ron Weasley, who had spent seven years at school unable to control himself at all, made it even more galling.
 
"Well? Suggestions, Mr Know-it-all?" He infused his voice with all his scathing bite.
 
"I suggest," said Weasley, pulling a small rectangle from his pocket, "that I call Kingsley on the department mobile and tell him the whole story. Since we can't get past those Death Eaters, or risk sending a Patronus"
 
"On the what?" hissed Draco. "I hope you realise that the imminent dismemberment and consumption of my colleagues is not a joke, Weasley."
 
Ron raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure your colleagues will be touched by your concern," he said, opening the small rectangle. "Luckily, I doubt they will end up eaten. This is a Muggle fellytone that's been adapted to work in the Ministry." He punched a string of buttons on the fatter part of the rectangle and held it up to his ear. Draco watched in smouldering silence. He was not accustomed to this sort of adventure, and Weasley's proximity was grating on every nerve he possessed. He listened in dissatisfied silence to the one-sided conversation. When Ron closed the rectangle thing and put it back in his pocket, Draco opened his mouth to complain more. Ron stood and grabbed his arm, jerking him forward and into full-length contact with his body. Taking ruthless advantage of his open mouth, Weasley ran his other hand into Draco's hair and tilted his head back while kissing him soundly.
 
"My third priority," said Weasley, twisting his hand a little tighter in Draco's hair, "is to stop you from panicking." Draco shoved him backwards, hard, not bothering for once to hide the rush of anger winding through him. He couldn't find his sneer or his smirk or his cold hauteur, and it left a little trail of uncertainty under the rage. Weasley's hand slid out of his hair, but he didn't move back far, leaving Draco staring up into his face.
 
"And that's supposed to stop me?" Draco asked, barely keeping his voice from shaking. "Keep your filthy Muggle-loving hands off me."
 
"But Malfoy, where would the entertainment be in that?" asked Weasley, still looking damnably calm. Draco felt his hatred rise like bile in his throat. He was the one who should be in control here, not Weasley, no matter that he was disturbingly competent. He hated what Auror training had done for Ron Weasley, the way it had made him easy in his skin. He should have the upper hand here, not Weasley. He was the one who made pointed little jibes and got under Weasley's freckled skin, making him twitch and blush and stammer. Making him flush red with anger and growl.
 
"I am not your entertainment," Draco ground out. Turning, he flung himself back into his chair, glaring at the other wizard. The shrill ring of the black rectangle in Weasley's pocket startled him. Weasley merely flipped it open and listened, speaking quietly in response.
 
>>>>
 
Ron flipped the phone closed with a sigh. He knew that Malfoy wasn't going to take this well and cursed again the fate that had sent him down to the Archives this afternoon. Things had been going so well too, even if he had been dusty, and confused by a filing system that appeared to sort things by the first letter of the Senior Investigator's middle name. He'd had no idea that Umbrageous had once been a popular middle name. He looked at Malfoy speculatively, sprawled in the chair in a far approximation of his usual arrogance, but Ron could see the faint tension in his shoulders.
 
He had no idea why he'd kissed Malfoy. His mouth still burned with the memory, and he could hardly stop himself from touching his lips. Malfoy had just been there, mouth open to say something - something derogratory, scathing, pointed or abusive, no doubt - and Ron had just wanted him to shut up. The way he'd leaned in, without thought, lips hard and hungry and devouring, had not been planned. The uncertainty that always lingered, deep and corrosive, under his hard-won calm, rose to choke him for a moment. He fought it down and took a few deep breaths. He hadn't been that impetuous boy, ready to snap at any insult Malfoy lobbed his way, in a long time.
 
Malfoy was watching the floor, lip curled contemptuously. That was enough to make his spine straighten and fill his voice with calm confidence. There was no way Malfoy was seeing inside his mask. He smiled, his cold, professional smile, and said, "Kingsley says there's likely to be some delay. They want to do a scouting mission and all that, make sure they catch the Death Eaters."
 
Draco's eyes rose from their contemplation of the floor at that. "Oh, really?" he sneered. "And just how long does he anticipate this delay to be?"
 
Ron took a very deep breath and braced himself before speaking, making sure that no trace of his trepidation showed on the surface. "No more than three days."
 
Malfoy bounded to his feet, glare scorching over Ron and fingers obviously itching for his wand. Ron felt his mouth go dry and all his muscles tense in the fight or flight reaction he'd had towards Malfoy years ago.
 
"Three days?" shreiked Malfoy. "Three days, stuck in this closet with the inbred, Muggle-loving spawn of a Weasley? Is your department stupid as well as incompetent and idle?"
 
"Do I need to kiss you again?" asked Ron, words slipping out before he could stop them. He schooled his face into supreme boredom, as if he was graciously offering  Malfoy a way to calm down, and hoped that his shaking fingers didn't give him away. Readying his wand for any sudden moves, he watched as Malfoy turned red, something he had never seen before.
 
Visibly seething, Malfoy struggled to control himself. Ron was fascinated by the way his fingers twitched towards his pocket, his mouth slowly relaxing from a snarl into his usual bland sneer. Ron had the sudden feeling that he had seen something inside Malfoy that people rarely got to see. Maybe that no one got to see. It felt shockingly intimate, and Ron was perversely disappointed when Malfoy stepped back, smoothing his hands down the front of his robes and settling gracefully into his chair. He wanted to see Malfoy's control slip again, wanted to see him so undone it was as if he was naked under Ron's gaze. All his defences down and open for Ron to plunder.
 
Shaken, Ron stepped back too, retreating to the other end of the bed and sitting slowly. He wasn't accustomed to such raw feelings flooding through him anymore. He'd thought they had been burned out long before, in the brutal days of Auror training. He'd learned to hold his tongue and push down his emotions in the face of worse provocation than Malfoy had ever thrown at him. He looked down at his hands, strong and capable and shaking finely as he held his wand gently in his fingertips.
 
>>>>
 
Draco slept badly, even after Weasley had wordlessly shared some food with him and given him the bed. The food had settled like stone in his belly, but Draco had not found the strength of will to complain, whether it had been a bad transfiguration or whether the result of some plebian Auror attempt at emergency rations. The next morning had seen him bad tempered and heavy eyed, scowling as Weasley ran his wand over the wards, testing them to see if anyone had tried to penetrate them. He rejected the food Weasley offered him with a sneer that he was sure came off as sulky rather than superior, and slumped resentfully back in the corner of the bed.
 
"Malfoy, you need to keep up your strength, just in case we have to fight and run," said Weasley, holding out the little plastic container. "It's okay, it's another of Kingsley's innovations. We all have a self-replenishing spell on a pocket in our robes. I'm not trying to poison you." Malfoy flinched back from the gentleness in Weasley's voice, automatically straightening his spine and glaring.
 
"You can hardly blame me for thinking that my humiliation is an object with you," he hissed. "You certainly had no hesitation yesterday." He watched Weasley shift his weight uneasily from one foot to another, the only sign of discomfort in the man. "Perhaps it's standard Auror technique. That would certainly explain the Department's somewhat unsavoury reputation in the rest of the Ministry, if they encourage our protectors to sexually harass us." He smirked as Ron stiffened at the suggestion of harassment.
 
"Oh, yes," agreed Weasley, obviously aiming for sarcasm, "the Aurors are all about screwing information out of bystanders and confessions out of perpetrators. It was purely a reflex, don't take it personally."
 
Malfoy was insensibly stung. It had felt personal, the hard press of lips over his, the hand in his hair holding him still against the full length of Weasley's unyielding body. It had felt real, truthful and honest after the madness and fear of the race through the stacks. He wasn't sure why he wanted it to be personal, just that he did.
 
"Oh, I think it was personal, Weasley," he retorted, letting malice drip through his voice, hardly aware of his words. "I think it was very personal, when you grabbed me and forced yourself on me." He waited, watching avidly, hoping that this would be the moment that Weasley's control slipped. Weasley's hands clenched, tightly, mouth straightening to a thin line. He watched the tense line of Weasley's lean back as he deliberately turned, removing himself from the conversation. Draco smirked, smug satisfaction spreading through him, as he refused to acknowledge his disappointment with Weasley's ability to control himself
 
"I think I will have that breakfast after all," he said, knowing the smugness shone through. Weasley tossed it to him without looking at him directly, moving over to the desk on the far side of the room. He began running another series of arcane spells, leaving Draco with nothing to do but fork up the unappetising food inside the plastic container and watch him.
 
Several hours later, Draco was tired of the silence weighing opressive in the shadowy corners of their closet. Jumping up, he paced restlessly over the thick rugs and worn, uneven stone flooring. Six steps forward, turn, six steps back, and now Weasley's gaze pressed down on him heavier than the silence had. He could feel the words bubbling up inside him, thick and hot in his throat. He slowed his steps, trying to hold back the urge to speak.
 
"When will your misbegotten Department be coming to get me out of here?" he demanded. "How long does it take them to organise the capture of half a dozen starving Death Eaters anyway? Why do we have to stay here?" He stopped, realising he'd gotten embarassingly shrill towards the end. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face Weasley. "It's your job to deal with situations like this," he said, sneer firmly in place, "and you don't seem to be doing a very good job. I always knew you got everywhere riding on Scarhead's coattails, but I hadn't realised just how true it was in the Aurors."
 
Weasley merely looked at him, face blank and professional mask in place. Draco couldn't hold back the words, letting them spill out of him, as caustic and biting as he could make them. "I suppose that's only right, though, in your family. There are so many of you, Pothead must have been like a honeyfall for you. A chance to dig yourselves out of the hole of being poor and a disgrace to wizarding kind. Tell me, did he fuck you, at school? Was it him who taught you to kiss like that? Like he could just take what he wanted?"
 
He had only a moment of satisfaction before Weasley loomed over him, hands fisted in his robes, pushing him hard against the wall. "That's not what he taught me, no," he snarled. "Do you want to try again?" Draco opened his mouth again and Ron's lips descended onto it, tongue shoving inside his mouth. Draco raised his hands to push Weasley away, but found his traitorous body yielding under Weasley's demands. His hands curled over Weasley's shoulders and he angled his head to open more for the kiss. He felt pinned, trapped, but also alive, blood rushing under his skin in dizzying floods. Weasley's mouth was hard and demanding, his body lean and perfect as it wedged Draco against the wall and gave him no chance of escape. Draco let one hand slide down Weasley's back, pressing over shifting muscles, and kissed back hotly. The other hand stroked softly over Weasley's throat, moving his jaw just a little.
 
Draco ached, cock hardening rapidly. He widened his thighs, hand in the small of Weasley's back encouraging him closer still. The first hard thrust of Weasley's hips was exquisite torture and Draco moaned, head falling back to thump against the wall. He shivered as Weasley's mouth transferred to his neck, biting and kissing roughly. The hot scrape of teeth over skin made Draco moan again, hips bucking forward to find Weasley's cock presenting hard and insistent against him. Weasley groaned into his neck and let go of Draco's robes, one hand running up to twine into his hair, the other sliding down to grab a handful of arse and drag Draco even closer. Lost in the haze of lust, Draco went eagerly, rubbing hard against Weasley.
 
The shrill ring of something across the room shattered the moment. Weasley jumped back, face flaming for the bare instant Draco saw it before the other man was across the room, back turned, talking quietly into that black rectangle thing he'd used last night. Draco stayed slumped against the wall for a moment longer, the sweet arousal in his blood draining abruptly. He straightened reluctantly and turned to sit on the bed, mind whirling with the enormity of what had just happened. He'd never been so lost to control in his life. Every sense had been crowding closer to Weasley, easing them together harder, tighter. He'd wanted it to continue.
 
The realisation that he wanted Weasley struck Draco dumb. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the wall opposite, chin lifted in an approximation of his usual arrogance, but underneath was a maelstrom of confusion, desire and anger. He had to get hold of himself. He should be the one in charge here. He clung to that belief and let the rest of his thoughts jostle aimlessly behind his staring eyes.
 
>>>>
 
Ron shut the mobile fellytone and rested it back on the desk, resisting the urge to smash it to pieces and watch the black plastic shards scatter over the wood. He took one deep breath, then another, slowly letting out the tension curled up behind his solar plexus. It faded slowly, arousal and panic working their way out of his blood, leaving only the cold chill of uncertainty and confusion behind. He wasn't sure what had just happened, didn't want to think about it but couldn't avoid it, the images flashing back and forth in his mind's eye. He'd just kissed Malfoy again, and, somewhere under the hate and sneering distain, there had been lust and need so strong he'd thought his knees might buckle from it.
 
Turning, Ron found Malfoy seated on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. His arms were wrapped around himself and his chin was up in that familiar arrogant pose, but his shoulders slumped in resignation and maybe uncertainty. Ron wanted to push him backwards onto the bed and climb over him and devour him, one soft inch of warm skin at a time. He wanted to escape from this damn closet and forget that he'd ever been in here, forget what Draco Malfoy tasted like when he lost sneering posturing. He wanted to wrap around Malfoy and crawl inside and stay there.
 
There was no reason to be feeling like this. He'd endured worse conditions than this, and, depressing though it was to admit, worse company. Malfoy might be a supercilious wanker with an overweening sneer, but he wasn't the worst person he had ever had to share hidden quarters with. Ron sat down heavily at the desk and contemplated this galling fact, trying to block his mind to the desire humming subliminally through him, and the even more deeply buried urge to comfort and make those shoulders straighten in happiness.
 
Several hours passed in silence. Ron handed over another meal when his stomach growled. Malfoy took it without looking at him, eating it wordlessly and letting the container disappear when finished. Ron stretched his legs out in front of him and cursed the forced inaction. The need to be active and doing something gnawed at him relentlessly, making him twitch and fidget. He hated this, but hated more the knowledge that it was Malfoy's proximity that was causing most of the aching doubt in his gut. It chewed on his nerves and twisted restlessly in his belly.
 
"You have the bed tonight," said Malfoy unexpectedly. Ron looked up, startled, to find Malfoy stretching like a cat in the middle of the room. His eyes roamed down the slim body that tautened beautifully in the extension, unconsciously appreciating the lines of Malfoy's body.
 
"No, no," he said, "I'm fine with the chair."
 
Malfoy's lips tightened with what had to be annoyance. "I don't plan on taking advantage of you in the night, Weasley. I know that your family probably had to take turns sleeping in the beds because there weren't enough to go around in your hovel, but you don't need to posture here." Ron felt his stomach twist with all the hate he'd supressed for years, but he pushed it down, not rising to Malfoy's bait.
 
"Thank you, Malfoy, but I prefer to sleep in the chair," he stated.
 
"Merlin! I try to be sensitive and make an overture of friendship and you act like I just stabbed your mother in front of you! Take the fucking bed, Weasley! Get some sleep! Strip naked and do a jig in it, for all I care!" Malfoy threw up his hands in disgust and turned away, arms folding defensively over his chest. Ron stared at his back in amazement. Sensitive? Friendship? He felt a perilous bubble of amusement try to break free from his control. He couldn't help the small smile that crossed his face as some of the worry slid from him. Maybe he wasn't the only one feeling unfamiliar things here.
 
"We could share," he offered, keeping his voice as calm as possible. Without waiting for Malfoy's response, he stripped off his robes and shoes, sliding under the covers in his boxers and thin undershirt. He curled up on his side for long moments, waiting rigidly for Malfoy to make a move. A quiet charm extinguished the candles and the soft rustle of fabric followed. Finally, the bed dipped under Malfoy's weight as he eased in on the other side. Ron let go slowly, drifting down quietly into a sleep that was warm and soft and light.
 
He woke again, eight hours or so later, according to his body clock, to a heavy weight resting against him. Warm and boneless, Ron stretched slowly, enjoying the gentle pressure resting on him, the hair that tickled his nose, and the soft, smooth skin under his palms. A hand on his chest began to move slowly, tracing wide circles over the faded cotton. Sighing, Ron relaxed into the touch. It must be Malfoy, he realised, as full awareness slid back into his sleepy body. Content, Ron lay there, listening to the quiet rustle of skin over cotton, concentrating on the rise and fall of Malfoy's chest.
 
"I can't explain it, you know," said Malfoy, finally, breaking the silence with a whisper. Ron knew. He couldn't explain any of it either, why Malfoy still dragged all his wildest responses from him. "I shouldn't feel like this." Ron understood, the last tendrils of sleep fading as clear realisation flooded through him. Ron felt alive with Malfoy, more alive than he had in a long time. And he had never responded so viscerally to anyone before, as if their touch was a physical imperative. He knew that he would have to find a way to keep this contact after they got out of this closet.
 
"I can't explain it either," whispered Ron, "but I know I want to keep it." He turned his head slightly on the pillow, hoping to be able to see Malfoy's face. He muttered a charm and a lone candle flickered on, bathing the bed in wavering light, dim and shadowy. Malfoy's eyes turned up towards Ron's, and the shadows were laid thick there too. The hand on Ron's chest pressed hard for a moment as Malfoy shifted his weight, leaning forward to press a kiss to Ron's lips. It was slow and sweet and nothing like the frenzied haste of their first kisses. Then he dropped his head onto Ron's shoulder, hand resuming its sweeps over his chest.
 
"What do we do now?" he asked. He sounded lost, as if he didn't know quite what he was doing.
 
"I don't know," said Ron. "Maybe we start calling each other by our first names." A long silence answered him.
 
"You go first," said Malfoy, finally. His voice was a little cold, tone hard, but Ron could hear the querying tone to it.
 
"Draco," he said, testing the name on his tongue. "Draco, can I kiss you again?" he asked.
 
Draco leaned forward and slid his lips over Ron's. Ron wrapped a hand around the nape of Draco's neck and pulled him closer, opening his mouth to the exploration. Draco's tongue was eager and the kiss turned hot and wet. Draco's hand slid lower, reaching down to cup Ron's cock, already hard inside his boxer shorts. Ron got his other arm around Draco and pulled him over on top of him, pressed together at the chest and belly and thighs. Ron moaned into the kiss as Draco thrust down against him.
 
"Clothes," gasped Draco. "Off now." He tugged at Ron's shirt as he spoke, pushing the cotton up to get to the skin underneath. Ron returned the favour, pulling Draco's shirt up and tugging it over his head and down his arms. The planes of Draco's chest gleamed in the candlelight and Ron ran his fingers over it and down to the waistband of his boxers. Draco rolled off Ron, pushing his own boxers down. Ron dragged off the last items of his clothing and rolled over on top of Draco, pinning him to the bed and kissing him hard. Ron could still hardly believe this was happening, but the solid warmth of Draco's body under his was convincing. The sharp dig of his fingers into Ron's back reminded him of who he was with and what he was doing, even as Ron moved closer and kissed harder. He wanted to hear and feel Draco come apart under his hands and mouth. He wanted to know that Draco wanted this too, and was as helpless to resist as Ron was.
 
Kissing down Draco's neck, Ron slid one hand between their bodies. He was so close already and his skin burned and hummed with the pleasure. Draco's fingers clenched harder on his shoulders as Ron encircled both their cocks in one hand and a low wail broke from his lips at the first long stroke. Ron was racing hard, body sweating and straining towards orgasm already. Draco was taut under him, twisting and pushing and moaning in his passion.
 
"Ron," moaned Draco. "That's right, Ron, there," he gasped. He hooked one leg around one of Ron's and thrust up into Ron's grip. Ron swore low and raggedly, rapidly losing himself. He felt Draco shudder underneath him, coming with a low groan, and a few more hectic strokes sent him over the edge too.
 
Barely managing not to collapse there and then, Ron dropped onto his side next to Draco and waited for his breathing to return to normal. "Okay?" he gasped. Draco turned his head, eyes heavy and mouth red and full in the candlelight. Wrecked, satisfied, and very obviously well-fucked. Ron watched Draco's usual smirk form on his lips, but felt no urge to do anything more than kiss it off.
 
"Yes, I think I am," he said. He reached up, tangling one hand in Ron's hair, and urged him closer for a kiss.
 
The door banged open and light flooded in, followed by an agrieved shout. "Merlin, Ron, I think I've gone blind!" shouted Harry, and Ron buried his head in Draco's shoulder. He had no idea how things had come to this, but Draco was warm and comfortable beside him, even as he shouted back at Harry, and Ron knew that something had changed, something big that he might never be able to explain even to himself. He didn't care.

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