Archive of Our Own

It was Tuesday afternoon, and Ron was bored out of his mind.

At least on Monday, there'd been a couple of new incidents to break up the monotony—a skateboard enhanced with a low-level flying charm in Liverpool (apparently the children had recently viewed a Muggle film about time-turners of some sort and had been inspired) and a report of a cursed "computer" in Bristol that turned out to have nothing wrong with it aside from whatever was wrong with every other Muggle "computer." Today, though…

Ron sighed and eyed the skateboard he'd confiscated yesterday. Maybe if he tried it only in the backyard at the Burrow…

Really, it was alarmingly easy to see how his father had accumulated his shed of Muggle junk after years of working in this department.

"Wotcher, Ron," said a voice, and Ron looked up to see a head of vivid magenta hair in the doorway.

"Hey, Tonks," he replied, sounding listless even to his own ears.

She propped a shoulder against the doorframe. "We've got a report of a door on a Muggle flat with a Muggle Repelling Charm on it. Thought you might be willing to take a look."

"Not really my jurisdiction, is it? Unless the door is biting people or something…"

She shook her head. "Nope, just the repelling charm. Seems the landlord's been overheard remarking about how every time he means to stop by that tenant's flat, he remembers an urgent need to be elsewhere."

"Tenant not paying the rent?"

"No," Tonks said. "Apparently he's a model tenant. It's just that no Muggles can approach that door."

"So why should we care?"

"Well, technically it's illegal to use that kind of spell without a permit from the Ministry, especially in a Muggle neighborhood. Suppose he should move out of the flat without removing the spell? No Muggle would ever find it again."

"Who's living in the flat, then?"

Tonks shrugged. "Well, see, that's the thing. The name on the lease is 'Luke Black,' but we've had an Auror monitoring the building, and it looks like the tenant is actually…well…Draco Malfoy."

Ron sat up straighter. "Malfoy?"

"We haven't made contact with him," Tonks said, "but it sure looks like him." She tossed a roll of parchment on Ron's desk, and he unrolled it to find the Aurors' report, including surveillance photos of someone who looked very much like the Malfoy he remembered—thin and ferrety and unpleasant, with shadows under his eyes.

"But," Ron said, mind spinning, "why would Draco Malfoy be living in a Muggle neighborhood in the first place?"

"Dunno," said Tonks. "He fell off the radar just after the war, and there was no reason for our department to keep tabs on him after he was acquitted. The last contact the Ministry had with him was when he owled to turn down his commendation."

"Oh, so Malfoy did get an Order of Merlin after all?"

"Well," Tonks said, "no, not exactly. It was just a commendation—a scroll, a bit of ribbon—"

"Wait a minute." Ron set down the parchment. "The Ministry didn't give Malfoy an Order of Merlin? Even Third Class?"

"Well—"

"Even Stan Shunpike got an Order of Merlin, Third Class, and all he did was sit in Azkaban!"

"He was erroneously imprisoned—"

"Malfoy risked his life—"

Tonks raised an eyebrow. "Never thought I'd see the day when you would defend a Malfoy."

Ron turned away. "You weren't there that day. You don't know what we all went through. And Harry—" His voice broke off.

"Ron—"

He ostentatiously turned his attention back to the scroll. "So why don't the Aurors want to handle this one?"

"We're running high on cases and low on staff right now, and since there's no evidence of wrongdoing other than the Muggle Repelling Charm on the door, it's closer to your jurisdiction than to ours." She glanced around the office at the stacks of parchment teetering on every available surface. "Besides, I thought you might welcome a chance to get out of here for a while."

He shrugged. "You already clear this with Kingsley?"

"Oh, sure," she said. "The transfer's been approved. It's all noted at the bottom of the scroll."

"Not like I have a choice then, anyway, do I?"

"Ron—" she said again.

He shook his head. "No, whatever, you're right. 'Sides, it'll give me something to do. Dead boring in here some days. Nothing to do but bloody paperwork."

"We can always use Aurors," she said, not for the first time. "I once thought for sure that you and Harry—"

"Yeah, well," Ron said, "that was me and Harry. Now it's just me." He stood up and stuffed the scroll in his robe pocket. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a Muggle door to attend to."

Three years of working in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office had provided Ron an unanticipated education in Muggle London geography, an eye-opening experience for a man who previously had barely known how to find the Leaky Cauldron without Apparating or Flooing. So he was surprised to recognize supposed-Malfoy's address not as one of the posh city neighborhoods, but a more run-down section—the sort of area he couldn't imagine a Malfoy even knowing of, let alone living in.

When he reached the flat, a quick magic detection charm told him that, sure enough, the door was spelled to repel Muggles. Readying his wand, but keeping it discreetly up his sleeve, he knocked at the door. No answer.

He knocked again, louder. "Open up," he said. "Ministry."

He was considering Alohomora-ing himself into the flat when the doorknob rattled and the door cracked open to reveal a pale, pinched face, eyes heavy with sleep and cheek bearing evidence of pillowcase creases. "—the fuck?" the man mumbled, squinting at Ron. "Weasley?"

"Malfoy?" Ron asked, a little surprised, even after the Aurors' report, to find it was really him.

"—the fuck do you want?"

"Little matter of an illegal spell on your door, Malfoy."

Malfoy opened the door a bit wider and leaned against the doorjamb, idly scratching his chest. He was clad only in a pair of pajama bottoms that clearly had seen better days and were a tad too large for the man who wore them, if the way they balanced precariously on Malfoy's hips was any indication. "Last I heard, Muggle Repelling Charms were perfectly legal," he replied, eyeing Ron narrowly. "The Ministry uses them all the time."

"They're not legal without a permit, especially not in a Muggle neighborhood."

Malfoy shrugged. "So I'll apply for a permit. Fancy laying a wager on whether our noble Ministry will actually approve it?"

"Why wouldn't they?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe the whole former Death Eater thing?"

"But you were acquitted."

"Only because they lacked evidence definitively tying me to any known crimes, seeing as how most of the witnesses were dead."

"Nobody believes anymore that you would—"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Right. Because the Ministry is sending Aurors to my door in a gesture of fucking goodwill."

Ron frowned. "I'm not an Auror."

Malfoy hmmed and appeared to truly focus on Ron for the first time. "That's right—you're distinctly lacking in scarlet."

"We don't wear robes in Muggle neighborhoods," Ron replied stiffly.

"Funny," Malfoy continued, as though Ron hadn't spoken, "I thought for certain you and Potter were headed for the Auror corps after the war."

"We were," Ron said. "I didn't."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at that, but seemed to think better of pursuing that line of questioning. "So which fine Ministry department are you representing?"

"Misuse of Muggle Artifacts."

A smirk appeared. "Following in dear old Dad's footsteps, are we?"

"You'd know a lot about that, wouldn't you, Malfoy?" Ron retorted before he could bite back the words.

The other man's expression shuttered. "I think you need to leave now, Weasley."

"Damn it, Malfoy—"

"Are you here to arrest me?"

"No," Ron said, wishing he could say the opposite. "Just a warning."

"Well, then, consider me warned."

Malfoy made to slam the door in Ron's face, but Ron shot out an arm to stop it. "Wait—are you going to remove the spell?"

Cold, gray eyes glared at him. "If I don't, does that mean I'll be receiving another visit from you?"

"Probably," Ron said.

"Then, yes."

Slam.

By the time Ron returned to the Ministry, it was very nearly the end of the workday, so he scribbled an addendum to the report on Malfoy and stuck it in a file, then headed for the Leaky Cauldron to order a double firewhiskey. Or maybe something even stronger.

The crowd wasn't too thick on a Tuesday evening, and he was headed for a seat at the bar when he heard a female voice call his name. Turning, he realized Hermione was waving to him from a corner booth. Almost anyone else, he could have greeted and walked away from, but not Hermione. Resigned, he ordered a lager at the bar and carried it over to Hermione's table.

"Hey," he said as he slid onto the bench opposite her. "What brings you here?"

It was remarkable enough to see her away from the Ministry this early in the evening—she was all but single-handedly reorganizing the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and as such frequently was to be found toiling in her office late into the night—but she also had already swapped her prim work robes for something blue and stylish-looking. She somehow seemed to have grown prettier in the years since the war. Not that her features had changed at all, and her hair was as frizzy as ever. But she looked…happy. He didn't want to begrudge her that, although it was hard sometimes, considering.

"I promised Ginny I would meet her here for a drink after work and before we head out to dinner tonight," she replied, watching him carefully. "It's our anniversary, you know."

He hadn't known, but then he'd never been good at keeping track of things like that—although the day your ex-fiancee hooked up with your kid sister was something that was hard to forget without intense effort and perhaps the application of a Memory Charm or two. Not that he'd resorted to that. He'd thought about it, though.

He offered his best attempt at a grin and patted Hermione's hand, careful not to let his touch linger. "Well, hey, that's great. Two years already, huh? Time flies."

"Ron—" she said, her expression tightening with concern.

"I should go, so you two can have some time alone together."

"Ron." Her hand gripped his wrist as he prepared to slide out of the booth. He unwillingly met her gaze, finding hers entreating. "Ginny isn't here yet, and I'd like to talk to you. Please."

He sighed, but slumped back into his seat and took a deep draught of his lager. "Hermione, I'm really not very good company tonight."

"I can see that. What happened?"

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back with a groan. "Draco fucking Malfoy, that's what happened."

"Malfoy?" The shock was clear in her voice. "How—"

"Illegal spell on his door. Had to go give him a warning about it." He sighed and opened his eyes again. "Of all people in the world, it had to be Draco fucking Malfoy."

"Is he all right?" she asked. "After the war, he just…disappeared."

"I dunno, he seemed OK." Ron shrugged. "I didn't see much of him, and he slammed the door in my face, so…"

Hermione frowned. "Did he seem scared?"

"Oh, no, just angry."

"Angry? Why?"

Ron turned away. "I, ah…may have made a remark about his father."

"Ronald!"

"He started it!"

"That's no excuse and you know it."

"Yeah, I know, but—he did start it!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "The man disappears for three years, and the first thing you do when you find him again is get into a pissing match over your fathers. Typical."

"Look, if he weren't such a bloody—"

"Ron, do you remember what it was like back then?"

"Of course I do, damn it."

"Then you remember that we couldn't have won the war without Malfoy's help. That he put his own life on the line to help us find the Horcruxes and get to Voldemort."

Ron's gaze fixed on his half-empty glass as he rolled it between his palms. "Yes, I know. I remember."

"Don't you think he deserves a little better treatment, then, than to be mocked about the father he watched die in front of him?"

"Yeah, I know. I know. It's just—he's—"

"He's a war hero," Hermione said. "Even if no one believes that but us."

They were quiet for a moment. Ron rubbed his thumbs along the rim of his glass. "They tried to give him a commendation, you know. The Ministry did."

"A commendation?"

"Yeah," Ron said, scowling at the glass. "Not even an Order of Merlin. How fucked up is that?"

Hermione sighed. "They only had our word on the matter."

"If Harry had—" Ron swallowed.

"Yeah," Hermione said, her voice quiet and sad. "Everything would have been different."

They sat silently together for several minutes before Ginny arrived. Ron walked home through the twilight, his desire to drink himself into oblivion having abruptly passed.

It was two days later before Ron could work up the nerve to stop by Malfoy's flat again. He knew he ought to apologize, but the thought was bitter, in spite of all they had gone through together three years ago.

Out of a sense of curiosity, he cast the magic detection charm on the door again, relieved to realize Malfoy really had removed the repelling charm, so Ron wouldn't have to have him arrested. He knocked on the door, half-hoping Malfoy wouldn't respond, so he could tell himself, Oh, well, can't say I didn't try.

But the door swung open almost immediately. "Now what do you want?" Malfoy demanded.

"I, ah…I came to apologize," Ron said, feeling distinctly gauche, towering over Malfoy as he did.

Malfoy scowled. "Bloody Gryffindors. Always have to do the 'noble' thing, don't you?" He sighed. "And since I'm an upstanding, rehabilitated member of the community, I suppose that means I should invite you in for a drink so we can rehash the 'good old days.'"

"Ah—no, that's perfectly OK. No need to—"

"Oh, but I insist." He grabbed Ron's arm and yanked him inside; he was surprisingly strong for such a skinny thing.

Malfoy slammed the door behind them, and Ron stood in the middle of a sparse living room, rubbing at his wrist. "Bloody hell, what was that for?"

Malfoy turned on him with sharp eyes. "That was because I don't want any of the neighbors to see when I hex you."

"I said I came to apologize, you prat!"

"Right, and who put you up to it? Granger?"

"No! She—"

"Of course she did. Bet you ran right home to her and your half-dozen ginger-haired brats—"

"It's not—"

"—and had a good, long laugh about Draco Malfoy living among Muggles, and she—"

"No, I told you—"

"—smacked you upside the head and told you to be kind to your inferiors—"

"What in Merlin's name—"

"—and said you wouldn't be getting any until you'd apologized—"

"MALFOY!"

Malfoy shut his mouth.

"Number one," Ron said, feeling perilously close to doing his own smacking, "nobody put me up to this. I said something I shouldn't have, and I apologize."

Malfoy frowned.

"Number two," he continued, "not that it's any of your business, but Hermione and I aren't married, and we definitely don't have any kids."

Malfoy pursed his lips.

"And number three, after everything you did to help us win the war, why on earth would you even joke that either of us would consider you inferior?"

There was a moment of silence. Finally, Malfoy said, "Not married to Granger, huh?"

Ron laughed, for what felt like the first time in months. "Trust you to seize on the most important point."

He shrugged. "Well, it's the most surprising, at least. Always figured you two were a sure thing. That much fighting has to mean great sex, right?"

Ron felt his ears burn. "Ah, no comment."

Malfoy snickered. "So what happened to love's sweet Gryffindor dream? You weren't man enough to slake her carnal lusts?"

"Er, rather too much man, I suppose."

"Really." When Malfoy's gaze dropped to Ron's crotch, he realized what he'd said.

"No, no!" Now his whole face was burning. "I mean, she's living with my sister now."

Malfoy's eyebrows shot up. "Really. Two-timed you with your own sister? I'm gaining new respect for that girl."

"Oh—er, no. She'd already broken it off with me at that point." He jerked a shoulder, as if trying to shrug off the memory. "I'd hoped we'd get back together, but—there you go."

"Can't say I'm terribly surprised, though," Malfoy said thoughtfully. "The really smart ones always turn out to be dykes, don't they?"

Ron stared in shock at the other man's audacity, then shook his head when he realized Malfoy was baiting him, his eyes bright with suppressed laughter. "Very funny, Malfoy."

"Nice of you to finally admit it." He offered Ron what appeared to be a genuine smile and nodded his head toward the sofa. "Have a seat. I believe I owe you a drink."

Ron sat down on one end of the worn-looking but surprisingly comfortable green sofa and took the opportunity to check out his surroundings while Malfoy pulled out a dusty bottle of firewhiskey. The furniture—what little there was—seemed well-used but not shabby. There was nothing on the walls, but framed photographs on an end table depicted a chilly Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, a knot of smirking Slytherins, and, curiously, what appeared to be a photograph of Harry, clipped from the Prophet. Something that looked suspiciously like an upright piano perched silently against the opposite wall.

Malfoy handed Ron a glass of firewhiskey and dropped onto the other end of the sofa, propping his feet up on the coffee table. At least he was fully clothed this time. The thought made Ron jerk his gaze away from where it had become fixed on Malfoy's thigh. "So, ah…what do you do these days?"

Malfoy arched an eyebrow at him as he sipped his firewhiskey. "Do you really want to know?"

Ron frowned, wondering if he'd stepped into a minefield without realizing it. "Yeah, I'd like to know."

"Actually," Malfoy said, looking at his firewhiskey glass as though it held all the secrets of the universe, "I'm a songwriter."

"A songwriter!" It was the last thing Ron had expected to hear. Or, at least, one of the last things he'd expected to hear, right up there with nursery school teacher and rentboy. "Like on the wireless, you mean?"

"Well." Malfoy still wasn't looking directly at Ron. "Something like."

Ron considered him. "How like?"

"Like…Muggle-style wireless."

"You write Muggle songs?"

"…Sort of."

"Malfoy. What, exactly, do you do?"

Malfoy tossed his head in annoyance. "I write jingles for Muggle adverts, all right? Satisfied now?"

Ron pondered this as Malfoy tossed back the remainder of his firewhiskey, looking sour. "Wow," he said.

"Yeah," Malfoy mocked. "Wow."

"No, really," Ron said. "It's—pretty cool. I mean, I never took you for the musical sort."

Malfoy snorted. "Really? Even after we serenaded you in fifth year?"

"Serenaded…?"

Malfoy smirked and began to sing in a surprisingly lovely tenor: "Weasley cannot save a thing, he cannot block a single ring…"

"You wrote that?"

"You doubted it?" He stared in disbelief when Ron shrugged. "Come on, don't tell me Potter never told you."

"No, he never said a thing. I figured it was a Slytherin joint effort."

Malfoy looked affronted. "Please! As though any of the rest of them had even an ounce of musical talent."

"Well, how was I supposed to know it was you?"

"No, I don't suppose I could count on you to recognize natural genius when you meet it." But his eyes twinkled as he said it, so Ron simply laughed and took another sip of his firewhiskey.

"What sorts of songs do you write for the Muggles? Maybe I've heard one."

"Ah—no, I doubt it."

"I work in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, remember. I've heard a lot of Muggle adverts."

"No, really—"

"I heard this really catchy one about nappies last week," Ron joked, then his jaw dropped when Malfoy froze, his eyes wide. "No. Tell me you did not write the 'Baby loves to be so dry, she won't make a single cry' song."

Malfoy set down his glass and promptly buried his face in his hands.

Ron laughed. "This is brilliant. Draco Malfoy, writing songs about Muggle nappies."

"I hate you," Malfoy said into his palms. "I have always hated you. Never forget that."

"And, really, you have me to thank," Ron continued, still chuckling, "because if you hadn't felt compelled to write songs in my honor back at Hogwarts, you wouldn't be where you are today." Realizing what he'd said and how it could be interpreted, Ron abruptly stopped laughing. "I didn't mean—"

Malfoy lifted his head and sighed. "No, I know what you meant." He shrugged. "And, yeah, it is funny. I've written about nappies, and chocolates, and shoes, and a lot of other things too. It pays the bills, and—I rather like it. Besides, it's not like anyone respectable in the wizarding world would have hired me—not with this." His hand ghosted over his left forearm.

Ron set down his glass on the coffee table. "Well, leave it to me to kill a mood."

Malfoy gave him a wan smile. "S'all right. It would have come up eventually anyway. And," he turned his face away, breaking eye contact, "I appreciate that you came back tonight. Really. It's—those were difficult times, there at the end of the war, and—well, I never liked you back in school, that's no secret. But—I guess I learned to respect you."

"Yeah," Ron said, looking down, his throat tight at the memories. "Same here. If you hadn't been able to lead us into You-Know-Who's headquarters—"

"You had to trust me first."

"I didn't trust you, not at first," Ron said, feeling shamed by the recollection. "Harry trusted you, and I trusted Harry. But—he was right."

He looked up to find Malfoy gazing at the photographs on the end table with an expression of immeasurable sadness. He might have been looking at Harry. But he could just as easily have been remembering his fellow Slytherins, most of whom had been killed in the war or imprisoned afterward, or his parents, both of whom had died at Voldemort's hand, the father as punishment for refusing to kill the son. Then again, if Lucius Malfoy hadn't died like that, perhaps his son would never have fled and sought sanctuary with the Order, and the war—it was too awful to contemplate.

"I should be going," Ron said, and Malfoy seemed to break out of whatever reverie he'd fallen into.

"Oh," he said, blinking. "Right."

"Thank you for the drink."

"You're welcome. Ah, thanks for stopping by."

Ron stood, and Malfoy walked with him to the door, where Ron paused, a question occurring to him. "Hey, what was with that Muggle Repelling Charm, anyway?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Irritating neighbor across the hall. She was always knocking at my door, trying to flirt with me. I got tired of her refusing to take a hint."

"Pretty girl?" Ron asked.

"I suppose."

"What's so wrong with a little flirting, then?"

"She's not exactly my type," Malfoy replied.

"Not into Muggles?" Ron asked, frowning at the thought that, even after the war, Malfoy had held onto his prejudices.

"Ah, no," Malfoy said, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Not into girls."

"Oh." Ron felt himself flushing scarlet to the roots of his hair.

"Oh, indeed." Malfoy smirked and opened the door for Ron.

"Luke!"

Ron glanced into the hallway at the sound of the voice, and saw a pretty blond girl who, truth be told, looked uncomfortably like Lavender Brown, and who was beaming at Malfoy.

"Speak of the devil," Malfoy muttered. "Liz," he said louder, with a patently false smile. "Hello."

"I haven't seen you in ages," she breathed.

"Well," Malfoy said, "I'm sure we've both been busy."

She swung her gaze to Ron. "Who's your friend?"

"Ah—I'm Ron," Ron said, stepping out into the hallway. "I was just leaving." Wrong as it was, he felt a streak of pure malicious joy rush through him at the thought of Malfoy being trapped here with Lavender—er, Liz.

"Oh," Malfoy said, brushing a hand down Ron's arm. Ron turned to him in some alarm and found Malfoy gazing up at him in a distinctly unsettling manner. "Surely you don't need to leave just yet, do you?"

"Work to do tonight," Ron said hastily. "Lots and lots of work."

"Well," Malfoy sighed. "If you insist. But don't be a stranger." And with that, he caught Ron by the front of his shirt and dragged him into a kiss.

Ron heard Liz gasp and felt the rush of air as she flounced away and slammed the door to her flat. But what he felt even more was the slick heat of Malfoy's mouth against his, the tongue that brushed across his lips, the abrasion of Malfoy's invisible white-blond whiskers against his chin. Ron jerked away. "What the hell was that for?" he gasped, his heart pounding.

Malfoy leaned against the doorjamb and folded his arms across his chest, the picture of calm. Ron tried to stop himself from staring at Malfoy's mouth. "Well," Malfoy said, "it's your fault I don't have a Muggle Repelling Charm on the door anymore. I had to get rid of her somehow."

Ron stood in the hallway, staring at Malfoy, his brain utterly devoid of appropriate rejoinders. Finally, he growled and stomped off down the hall.

Malfoy's strangely melodic laughter trailed after him.

As soon as he had an opportunity to duck into an alley outside, he Apparated back to the Ministry and sought Hermione out in her office.

"Ron," she said, startled, glancing up from her stack of parchment. "What are you doing here?"

"Did you know Malfoy's a…a poof?"

Hermione's face fell into lines of puzzlement. "Did you not know?"

"Of course I didn't know!" He began to pace, realizing he must look like a madman, but too restless to sit down.

"Ron…you don't have a problem with him being gay, do you?" There was an edge to Hermione's voice, and he stopped pacing to stare at her in disbelief.

"Right, Hermione, and that's why I came to see you tonight."

She colored slightly. "Right. Sorry."

He started moving again. "But, I just…I didn't know about Malfoy! How long have you known?"

"Ever since the war. To be honest, I always thought…"

"You thought what?"

"Well, that he maybe fancied Harry a little."

Ron sat down, hard.

"Ron?" Hermione said, her tone concerned.

"But Harry—he wasn't—"

"He might have been. I'm not saying it's likely, but—you never know."

Ron's head swam. "But…he dated Ginny."

Hermione simply raised her eyebrows.

"Oh," he said. "Right."

Hermione sighed and came out from behind the desk to sit in the chair next to him. She set a hand on his arm. "Ron, what is this really about?"

"Malfoy kissed me."

It was rare to see Hermione so obviously startled, but he was too agitated to enjoy it. "What happened?" she asked.

He recounted the full tale of his second visit to Malfoy's flat, while Hermione pursed her lips and looked thoughtful.

"It sounds like he was just trying to get rid of that neighbor," she said at last.

"Maybe. But why couldn't he have done it some other way?"

She shrugged. "It is Malfoy, after all. He may have simply wanted to rattle you."

"Well, mission accomplished!"

She leaned back in her chair and considered him in that studious, unsettling way she had. "Why is this bothering you so much?"

"Well, it's—it's Malfoy."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"No!"

She raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

He grimaced and avoided her eye.

She took a deep breath and sat back, her expression somber. "Ron, I'm going to tell you something I never meant to tell you, but I think it might be appropriate now, given the circumstances." She toyed with the ring on her right hand, a pretty Celtic design that he knew Ginny had given her. "How did you feel about Harry?"

"Harry?" Ron blinked. The question threw him, because it wasn't something he'd ever consciously considered. Harry had been—everything, for a while. Closer than a brother. As vital as his right arm—and even more painful to lose. "I—loved him, of course. He was…family."

"Is that all he was to you?"

"Is that all? Isn't that enough?"

Hermione clasped her hands in her lap. "Ron, Harry was clearly one of the most important people in your life."

"Yes," he said, unsure where this was going.

"I flatter myself that I was, too, once."

"You were," he said. "You are."

She smiled, but sadly. "We became engaged just after the war—just after Harry died."

"Yes."

"We'd never even really talked about getting married."

"There was a war going on—it was hardly the time…"

"Do you remember the first time we slept together?"

He blushed. "Yeah, of course." It had been the summer after their sixth year, at the Burrow, not long before Bill's wedding. Before the hunt for the Horcruxes had begun in earnest. Before Malfoy had arrived on the doorstep of the Burrow, seeking sanctuary and a chance to plead his case with Harry. Before everything had gone to hell.

"Do you remember what happened just before?"

"I—yeah. I remember." The image was burned in his memory—walking into Ginny's room without knocking and finding Harry in her bed, hips moving rhythmically while Ginny wrapped herself around him and gasped his name. They hadn't even noticed Ron standing there in the half-open doorway, his jaw slack and a feeling very unlike brotherly outrage filling him. Distressed, he'd sought Hermione out, and it had just…happened.

"You were already hard when you came to find me."

The words startled him. "So?"

"You don't think it's a little odd that you were aroused by watching Harry—"

"That wasn't because of Harry," he protested. "That was—hell, I was seventeen years old and I'd just walked in on two people having sex—"

"One of whom was your sister."

"Yeah, believe me, I know it sounds gross—"

She sighed. "Look, all I'm saying is, a pattern emerged. Every time something—emotional—happened between you and Harry after that, you always came to me."

He thought hard, trying to remember everything that had happened during those long months.

"It took me a while to realize what was going on, but I didn't turn you away because…it was comforting and…well, pleasurable." She shrugged, a small, sad smile tugging at her mouth "And, I loved you."

Ron's eyes met hers, and in her gaze he could see her remembering all the joy they'd ever shared, all the hope, all the pain. He caught her hand in his, and she squeezed it.

"I knew you took Harry's death hard," she continued, softly. "We all did, but you worst of all. When you proposed, I wondered how much of it was that you truly loved me, and how much of it was that you were just terribly afraid of being alone."

"Hermione—"

She held up her other hand to stop his words. "I know you loved me, Ron. I've never doubted that."

"I still love you," he said, the words burning his throat.

She cradled his hand in both of hers. "I know you do," she said. "And I love you, too. But it's not the right kind of love, for either of us. It's not the kind of love to build a life and a family on." Her hands were narrow and warm—capable, like everything about her. "We both wanted something the other couldn't deliver. I was never going to be able to replace Harry for you, and he would always be there between us."

"And that's why you—"

"Yes," she said, with a sigh. "That's why I broke the engagement."

"It wasn't because you didn't love me anymore."

"No," she said. "It was because I loved you too much. Marriage would only have hurt both of us, worse than breaking the engagement ever could have."

He digested this in silence. It helped, somehow, to know what Hermione had been thinking during that time. When she'd given back his ring, it had been another blow in a year that had been full of them—his father's injury, Charlie's death, George's, Harry's. He had fixated on Hermione—he could admit that now—as the one good, hopeful thing in his life. It was little wonder she'd been unwilling to continue in that role. But…

"I still think you're wrong about me being gay," he said, and she laughed.

"You're not gay, Ron," she replied, patting his hand fondly. "But I do think you might be…surprised…if you were to open up your mind to the idea that you might also be attracted to men."

"Just because I loved Harry—and I don't mean that in an I wanted to shag him way—that doesn't mean I want to—to—get into some other bloke's pants."

"How do you know you wouldn't like it?"

"Hermione!"

"Well, honestly, have you ever tried it?"

"No!" He fought a blush at the very idea. "It's not—I wouldn't—"

"Ron." The serious tone of her voice caught his attention. "Have you ever done anything you weren't expected to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're a Gryffindor in a long line of Gryffindors," she said. "You were a Prefect. You took over your father's post in the Ministry. You proposed to a nice Gryffindor girl and had every intention of settling down into domestic bliss."

"Well, what's so wrong with that?"

"Nothing," she said, "if you want to live a carbon copy of your parents' lives."

He frowned.

"When you were a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?"

"I—" He tried to remember. "I dunno. Maybe a Quidditch player? Every kid wants to be a Quidditch player, though. It's not exactly a practical career goal."

"You played Quidditch at Hogwarts," she pointed out. "You were an excellent Keeper."

"Only after you—"

"You had plenty of talent. You just needed confidence."

He shrugged.

"Are you happy?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"A relatively simple one. Are you happy, Ron?"

"I don't—maybe?"

"That's not an answer."

"How am I supposed to answer that, though?" he asked. "I can't say absolutely, 'Yes, I'm happy,' because no one's absolutely happy. But I have a perfectly good job, and I have friends and family who love me. Isn't it enough not to be unhappy?" He tugged his hand out of Hermione's grip and stood.

"You have a right to be happy," she said, standing too.

"Maybe I just need to learn how to be happy with what I've got," he said, and left.

Inexplicably, he found himself back at Malfoy's flat the next evening.

It was Friday night, so Malfoy was probably out somewhere—wherever a gay wizard who wrote jingles for Muggle advertisements might go on a Friday night. But when he approached the door, he could hear the faint sounds of a piano from within. He hesitated for a moment, then knocked.

The music stopped, and the pause was long enough that Ron began to wonder if either he had imagined the music entirely or Malfoy was going to pretend not to be home. But then the door swung open, and Malfoy stood there, clearly surprised. "I wasn't expecting to see you again."

Ron shrugged, trying to affect nonchalance and knowing he wasn't doing a very good job of it. "Hey, you're the one who practically begged me to come back last time."

Malfoy smirked, but his eyes shone with what appeared to be genuine amusement. "I should have guessed you'd be back for more." He stepped back. "Come in."

Feeling a bit as though he'd accidentally stepped out of his own life and into someone else's—someone who would voluntarily visit a piano-playing former Death Eater on a Friday night—Ron did so. The piano's keyboard was uncovered, so he probably hadn't been imagining the music he'd heard in the hallway. He gestured at it. "If I'm interrupting anything—"

"No, no," Malfoy said, shutting the door. "I was just noodling around anyway."

"I never even knew you could play."

Malfoy shrugged. "It's not exactly something I advertised back in school."

"When did you start?"

"When I was five or so."

The image of a tiny, silver-haired Malfoy perched at the keyboard of a grand piano arose in Ron's mind, and it was all he could do to suppress a chuckle. "That young?" he asked.

"My mother played when she was young and thought it would be good for me. Surprisingly, my father had no objection. He mentioned once in passing that many of the great 'Muggle' composers were really wizards, so I think he secretly saw music as another way in which we were superior to Muggles."

"That's…"

"Fucked up. Yeah, I know."

Ron hesitated. "It's funny—it wasn't that long ago that you would have thought he had the right of it."

"Well," Malfoy said, his expression turning bitter, "that was before the Ministry confiscated my inheritance and most of the wizarding world shunned me. All in all, I've found Muggles to be a lot more forgiving." He moved to the piano and carefully, almost lovingly, slid the cover over the keys. "You want a drink?" he asked, not looking at Ron.

"Ah…sure, that'd be nice."

Ron sat down on the sofa, and Malfoy brought him a glass. "I hope you don't mind firewhiskey," Malfoy said. "It's the only thing I have that isn't of Muggle origin, and Muggle liquor really just doesn't compare."

"I'm surprised you have any wizarding liquor at all. Where'd you get it?"

Malfoy sat on the other end of the sofa and sloshed the liquid around in his glass, staring into it. Finally, he said, "I bought it the day after the war ended. Drank myself into unconsciousness. Then, when I finally woke up, I hid it away and swore I'd never touch the stuff again."

"Why bring it out now, then?"

Malfoy's smile, when he looked up, was grim. "You're the first wizard I've spoken to in almost three years. I guess it just seemed appropriate."

Their gazes held for several seconds, long enough for Ron to see that the shadows that had appeared in Malfoy's eyes in the Aurors' surveillance photos hadn't been merely a trick of the light. "You could have come to me or Hermione," he said.

Malfoy snorted and took a sip. "Malfoys don't accept charity."

"It wouldn't have been charity," Ron said. "It would have been justice."

Malfoy was silent, as though turning this over in his head. "Perhaps," he allowed at last. "But I wouldn’t have seen it that way. And, besides, I was…not entirely myself right after the war."

"I'm not sure any of us were," Ron muttered, staring into his own drink.

Malfoy only hmmed. After a few more moments of silence, he changed the subject. "So, what brings you here tonight?"

"Damned if I know," Ron admitted.

Malfoy smirked. "Oh, that's all right, you can't fool me. I know you've been sitting in your office all day thinking, If only I'd stayed longer at Draco's last night. Alas, I was frightened by his animal passions!"

Ron snorted. "Animal passions. Right. Neighbor deterrent, more like."

Malfoy hmmed again. "Think what you like," he said.

Ron narrowed his eyes at him. "You're not going to make me believe you actually wanted to kiss me."

"Well, true enough, I can't say ginger hair ever did it for me," Malfoy replied with a shrug. "Then again—" his lip curled into a taunting smile "—I must say there's something attractive about that whole reckless-Gryffindor-boy thing."

Ron stared. "Fuck, you did fancy Harry."

Malfoy's expression sharpened. "What?"

"You—" Fuck. "Hermione said she thought you fancied Harry during the war, and you did, didn't you?"

"That is none of your business."

"Is that the real reason you came to my parents' house the night you ran away from You-Know-Who? Because you were—because you fancied Harry?"

"No!" Malfoy stood up, his face white. "I was trying to find you, Potter, and Granger because I figured the odds were better that I would survive an encounter with you lot than if I were to turn myself in to anyone in the Ministry or at Hogwarts." He turned away, his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulders hunched. "At least Potter seemed sorry after he nearly killed me in the bathroom during sixth year," he said bitterly. "That's more than I ever got from anyone at Hogwarts after that maniac professor turned me into a ferret."

Ron set his drink down and stood up as well. "Malfoy, I'm—"

"Don't say you're sorry."

"Well, I am."

"Lot of good it does now."

"Yeah, well, you were a shit back in school," Ron said. "I'm not sorry about that."

Malfoy turned slightly and gave him an incredulous look. "Oh, and you were so much better."

"I'm not denying it," Ron said, shrugging. "But I am sorry for upsetting you now. I didn't mean to. I just—Hermione says I need to work on my tact."

"Smart girl," Malfoy muttered.

"So, I'm sorry I upset you, and I'm sorry I assumed things about you and Harry that weren't true."

Malfoy laughed, a sad sound. "Oh, but they were."

Ron stilled. "What?"

Malfoy hugged his arms tighter across his chest. "I fancied myself madly in love with Potter for a while." He slanted a look at Ron. "And a little bit with you as well, to tell the truth."

Ron felt his stomach drop. "But—"

"It's that stupid Gryffindor nobility. I don't know why it's so appealing. Must be something terribly wrong with me."

"But—me?"

Malfoy smirked. "Yes, you, ginger hair and all. But you were with Granger, so Potter was easier to—" his smirk faded "—think about."

"Did he know?"

A shrug. "I think he suspected. Probably hard not to, the way I shadowed him."

"So you never…?"

Malfoy laughed. "Hardly. The way he used to talk about your sister constantly? Even if he hadn't been completely straight, I wouldn't have stood a chance."

Ron watched him as he stood there, narrow and pale, arms wrapped around himself as though that alone could keep the memories at bay. He could see a thin, silvery scar just along the edge of Malfoy's jaw, and wondered if it was a remnant of Harry's long-ago spell. He began speaking, not sure what he was going to say until he'd already given voice to it. "Hermione says she thinks I fancied Harry."

Malfoy turned to face him, but didn't say anything.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Maybe she's right, I dunno. She's usually right." He met Malfoy's gaze. "Bloody irritating having a friend who's right so often."

Malfoy's lips quirked into a small smile.

"It's just—the more I think about it, the more I think—maybe. And then I wonder, what else? What have I missed because I was too blind to see it or too stupid to question it? All my life, I've been on the sidelines, and I was OK with that. I was the Weasleys' youngest son, and the hero's best friend. And now I'm at a point in my life where I'm not just somebody else's whatever, and what do I have to show for it?" He sat back down with a thump and exhaled heavily, closing his eyes. "A job I hate, an ex-fiancee, and a flat I never clean."

He felt the sofa shift as someone's weight settled next to him, and he opened his eyes to find Malfoy's face close to his. This time, it felt almost natural for Malfoy to press his lips against Ron's, one narrow hand cradling Ron's jaw as Malfoy's mouth coaxed his open. Ron's eyes fell closed again, and he relaxed into the cushions, letting the sensations wash over him—the damp heat of Malfoy's mouth, the softness of his lips, the insinuative advance and retreat of his tongue. Ron moaned softly and Malfoy shifted, straddling Ron's hips and diving into the kiss with even greater fervor. Ron's hands settled on Malfoy's thighs, and he groaned at the friction as Malfoy began to rock against him. Within moments, his cock felt harder than it had been in years, and he began to move his hips as well, thrusting up against Malfoy and sliding his hands to Malfoy's arse to better control the rhythm.

Malfoy panted against his mouth, then whimpered as their movements sped up. Finally, his body tensed and he buried his face against Ron's neck to muffle his shout. The feel of Malfoy's release set Ron off as well, and he thrust one, two, three more times before his orgasm roared through him and he groaned with the relief of it.

They lay against each other, catching their breath in the aftermath. Malfoy mouthed small kisses against Ron's neck, and Ron stroked a hand slowly up and down Malfoy's back, feeling the other man shiver. Finally, Malfoy drew back and met Ron's eyes, his mouth curving into a smug smile.

"Well," he said, "I don't think you could have missed that."

Ron laughed and tugged him back for another kiss.

The next morning, as they ate breakfast at the table Malfoy had wedged into the flat's small kitchen, Malfoy asked, "So what are you going to do now?"

"Do? About what?"

Malfoy kicked him under the table. "About everything, you twat."

"You mean, besides the part where I have amazing sex with this really fit bloke—"

"Weasley."

"—who looks fantastic naked—"

"…well…"

"—and shrieks like a girl when he comes—"

"I do not."

"—and who's concerned about my future, even though I'm just a ginger-haired Weasley?"

Ron smiled and nudged his foot against Malfoy's under the table. Malfoy rolled his eyes, but looked pleased. "Just answer the question already."

"Well, I was thinking about it a lot at the Ministry yesterday, and, well—the Chudley Cannons are having Keeper tryouts next month, so I thought I could—"

"The Chudley Cannons!" Malfoy squawked, sitting up straight. "That third-rate band of losers?"

"I happen to like the Chudley Cannons," Ron said, narrowing his eyes.

"Well, of course you would, not having any real taste to speak of."

"Especially not in men," Ron muttered.

"I heard that." Malfoy glared.

Ron glared right back.

After a moment, Malfoy heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Fine, fine. If you must align yourself with the Chudley Cannons, far be it from me to convince you otherwise."

"I appreciate your support on the matter," Ron said dryly.

Malfoy drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Well, if you do make the team, at least that will give me an opportunity to revive one of the classics of my musical oeuvre." He smirked and began to sing: "Weasley cannot save a thing, he cannot block a single ring…"

"Oi, you!" Ron pounced and sent the both of them tumbling to the floor, Malfoy howling with laughter. "I'll have you singing an entirely different tune," Ron threatened, grinning.

"Mmm," Malfoy said, drawing Ron's mouth down to his. "I think I like this song already."