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Voldemort seemed a lot less intimidating when he was stroking a fluffy white cat.
"Another random bureaucrat dropping by the party at my evil lair with perfect credentials that are obviously too good to be true? Well, I'm sure that you're not a government agent in disguise. They wouldn't dare be so bold." He held out a hand. "Welcome. Mr. - ?"
"Weasley. Ron Weasley."
"Charmed," said Voldemort, as the cat in his arms screeched. "Have you met my lovely unwilling Death Eater slaveboy, Draco? I'm sure he's around here somewhere..."
Ron straightened the lapel of his immaculate tuxedo. "Thank you. I'll just see myself to the bar to have a drink."
Ron made his way through the crowd, trying not to show his displeasure at the sight of all of the high society purebloods. He was here, after all, for a reason. Cho Chang had been found suffocated by a thick coating of gold paint. And whereas no one really cared that much that Cho was dead - Ron rather thought she was more fetching with the paint, really - it was obviously a beacon of things to come. So he was scoping out Voldemort's party for signs of evil doing.
"You knew Draco in school," Kingsley had told him as he rigged up his wand so that the end would explode and his tuxedo so that you could pull a string and the coat would turn into a parachute. "He belongs to Voldemort now. Find him and pump him for information."
"Yes," Hermione had piped in. "We'll just leave it up to Ron to decide how much pumping is necessary."
Now Ron couldn't help but admire the lean, sculpted lines of Draco's bare back as he leaned against the railing of the balcony.
"Hello, Draco," he said smoothly. "I always wondered how I'd feel if I ever saw you again."
Draco turned, regarded him for a second, and then promptly slapped him across the face.
Ron rubbed his jaw. "Now I know. Was it something I said?"
"How about the words, 'I'll be right back?'" Draco snapped.
"Oh, right. That."
"I'm not just one of those throw away girls with the stupid names that you can shag for a night and then forget the next morning." Draco turned away, looking back out over the balcony. "So if you're here to ask me to choose between you and Voldemort, don't bother. I've made my bed, and you don't sleep in it anymore. Tell me, Ron, do you still sleep with your wand under your pillow?"
Ron took a step forward. He remembered the pack of exploding condoms that Kingsley had given him, and suddenly wished that they were real condoms. "I'm going to go get drunk in my hotel room," he said. "I expect you'll be joining me there later?"
"Oh, all right."
"We'll have a slow, meaningful shag that will highlight my vulnerability."
"Fine."
"You'll most likely be dead by morning, you know. Because if Voldemort kills you, my vendetta against him will be personal."
Draco let out a sigh. "Whatever. Okay. I'll bring the lube."
"Shaken," Ron said. "Not stirred."