Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Number One:

It all starts with the arrival of one of those obnoxious gossipy mags Pansy subscribes to. Or, perhaps, more accurately, it started about five years ago when, after graduating Hogwarts properly after their second time doing seventh year, he decided that moving in with his long-time best friend was the best idea.

To be fair, it had been either that, or going back to the Mansion, where he would be forced to wander the hallways where his nightmares lived, dine at the table where blood was shed, return to the empty, shallow husk of a man he had become there.

Although, in all honesty, it had not been much of a choice at all, really. He thinks, maybe, some days, that this is why Pansy asked him to become roommates in the first place: her parents had disowned her after finding out she had partaken in the Battle of Hogwarts, fighting on Potter’s side, and she probably wouldn’t be able to afford a flat on her own – let alone the absolutely plush two bedroom penthouse they rented – without the Malfoy family fund to support her.

They had needed each other to move on from that, together. And though they’ve never said it aloud, in those exact words, they are grateful for each other, too.

Nonetheless, if it weren’t for that decision that he made when he was, admittedly, only 18 and perhaps a little more impressionable, he wouldn’t be in this current predicament.

And the day had started off so well, too.

He had had a great session with the Healer in St-Mungo’s, whom he saw weekly to work through his fear and trauma, and on his way back home he had dropped by the Apothecary in Diagon Alley which he now managed, to check on the inventory. He usually took the day off when he saw his Healer, but they had a big order for WWW that was going out today, and he preferred to personally oversee it. His relationship with the Weasleys was tentative at best, and it wouldn’t do to mess that up over a business matter.

Aside from that, he knew how important that shop was to the family, keeping the spirit of the late Fred Weasley alive. Providing faulty potions so close to the summer when they were counting on an influx of Hogwarts students, would surely have dire consequences for the family business, and he refused to have any more of the Weasley’s horror on his conscience. So he had diligently checked the order and then brought it right over to the shop himself, making polite small talk with the twin before heading back to the flat.

The blond had naturally assumed that that would be the last he saw of any redhead for at least the rest of the day. He had gotten groceries and had had a certain swing to his step because life was going well. The past was not forgotten, or even forgiven, but he was making amends, and away from the parental clutches and with his gruesome aunt no longer amongst them and almost all Death Eaters behind lock and key he was finally starting to feel like a human being again. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced since he had been six, when his father had first taken him to Knockturn Alley and he had been forced to watch as he used his Cruciatus on the shopkeeper.

All in all, things have been looking up, right up until the moment he walked into the flat, put the groceries up on the marble counter, and his eyes caught sight of the magazine. He scanned the cover almost casually, until realisation sunk in.

There, on the front page, is none other than Ronald Weasley, dressed in his obnoxiously orange Chudley Canons jersey and, from what the blond can see with his bags blocking part of the magazine from view, sparsely anything else.

The famous Quidditch Keeper’s jersey hung open, showing off his broad, scarred chest, and he is winking rather lewdly at the camera. It is such a far cry from the lanky, awkward teenager he’d been at Hogwarts, that Draco has to double-check the heading just to be sure.

And that’s where it went south.

“I just can’t think straight!” it says in big bold letters, obnoxious quotation marks and all, and then, “Ronald Weasley, three time Keeper of the Year, comes out”.

He recoils as if burned by fire.

“Ugh,” he snarls, and his heart is pounding so loudly he doesn’t even wince at how much like his thirteen-year-old self he sounds, “Weasley is a poofter?! Disgusting.”

His words sit heavily in the air for a few long moments. When he finally tears his gaze away from the magazine cover and looks up, he realises Pansy is home already, seated on the white leather couch in their kitchen slash dining room slash living.

She is nursing a very big glass of wine, her bare feet in her girlfriend Astoria’s lap, who is painting her toenails a sparkling silver. Both women are looking at him with a rather blank expression, but Pansy’s bright red lips are pursed in what he knows is disappointment.

And then all at once he feels disgusted with himself, and he’s kind of finding it hard to breathe.

“That’s not—” he goes to stutter out, feeling an uncomfortable blush rising to his cheeks, “I don’t—”

“I know.”

Pansy looks all at once too soft for the moment, and he doesn’t miss the way Astoria’s fingers gently brush her ankle. He thinks he might be sick.

“I love you,” he says, and he means it too – because he does, and they do.

But mostly, he says it because this is what they’ve learned too. To say I love you and to mean it, to speak it honestly and truthfully between the two of them. To say “I see you and your mistakes and your shortcomings and I still think you’re worthwhile”.

It’s a little bit too much and at the same time not nearly enough when Pansy’s head tilts to the side, and she replies, unwavering, “I love you too.”

***

His current plan is to perhaps just never leave the safety of his own bedroom again. There’s a whole assortment of wines he keeps there and if he drinks fast enough – he’s typically more of a nurser – the buzz gets to his head just in time for him to stop thinking about…

About whatever the fuck that had been about.

Perhaps the plan is not perfect, but his brain is also not supplying him with much else. Every time he tries to focus his mind sort of wanders back to the sight of Weasley’s bare chest and Pansy’s look of disappointment and he thinks he might be sick all over again.

He thinks of being eight and learning about his family tree and why there are scorch marks where the youngest Black siblings’ faces should be. His mother’s mouth a tight line as she explains one of them was a deranged young woman who thought she was a man, whom they had taken under their wing only for her to betray them, and how the other was a nasty man who had bedded other males.

At eleven, he remembers his Godfather warning him in haughty whispers not to trust the Headmaster, who is an old pervert that takes advantage of young boys; thinks of seeing Blaise take his shirt off before bed and feeling a heat in his chest that he knows is all wrong.

In his mind’s eye he sees his aunt prancing through the house, bragging about how she had slaughtered that disgusting cousin of hers, right in front of his werewolf lover. He remembers the abject terror of discovering the trio and refusing to identify them, knowing it would mean the end for them, and the stupid, irrational heat in his belly at the sight of them, safe.

He thinks of his parents, disappointed in him, always. Of a disgrace worse than moving out, worse than offering testimonies against the Death Eaters, worse than being weak.

But then he thinks of Pansy and Astoria, and how the Slytherin Queen’s eyes never quite light up the way they do around her girlfriend. Of her willingly facing parental rejection to go her own way. He thinks of Regina – no, he reminds himself, Regulus – Black, the bravest Slytherin ever to live and fight, and he thinks maybe there are worse things than his parents’ disappointment.

And then he thinks of that bright red hair, shaved sides and bared canines, dozens of freckles sprinkled down his neck and—

He groans exasperated, pressing a pillow to his face. This is going to take a while.

***

The next morning he wakes ridiculously early just so he can soak in the shower and wash the stench of too much red wine off. He takes his hangover potion after, because he thinks he deserves a bit of suffering for having been such a prat – to his best friend, nonetheless!

By the time Pansy wakes up about an hour later, he’s cooked up quite the breakfast spread.

It’s not that five years of talking to a Healer have made him magically perfect at communication, because that shit is hard. But he’s learned it’s worth a try and that it’s better to take responsibility and try to explain yourself and have a misunderstanding, than just pretend nothing’s the matter and ending up having a misunderstanding any way.

So he makes pancakes and mixes her granola the way he knows she likes it, and brews coffee, even though he cannot stand the scent of it, all dark and bitter.

She doesn’t look particularly cross with him, but then he also knows they are both exceptionally good liars with scary good poker faces. It’s the trauma, he reminds himself when he senses himself getting a bit too bitter, and he reminds himself that she’s not purposely trying to lead him on.

Life feels remarkably harder than it did twenty four hours ago.

When he pours her coffee, she smiles, finally. Her almond shaped eyes are still a little crusty with sleep and it’s a little nasty how she came from her room for breakfast without even washing up, but he loves her.

He takes a deep breath.

“I don’t think you’re disgusting,” he says, because he doesn’t.

I mean, obviously, he does, because Pansy hasn’t even brushed her teeth and she’s nursing a cup of bitter death and if that isn’t disgusting he doesn’t know what is. But not… not that.

“Draco,” Pansy lowers her cup and she’s wearing that look again and it frustrates him beyond control. It’s far too soft and it implies things he cannot even fathom because he’s explaining, she has no right looking so heart-broken, “I know that. Do you think you’re disgusting?”

He makes a sound that isn’t exactly a gasp and not really a sob. It kind of bubbles in his throat, and he misses his wine bottles.

For all his preparing and pancake-making and reminders that communication is important he hadn’t really prepared for this. Because Pansy is supposed to be cross with him, not… whatever the hell this is.

The silence kind of sits between them. Pansy drinks her coffee and keeps her eyes on him, too soft, while he looks at the pancake in his plate, his stomach suddenly feeling remarkably hollow. He thinks he knows what she means, but he wishes he didn’t.

Because it’s been years now, and he is an adult. Adults don’t have stupid boyhood crushes and they don’t—

No. He has to forcefully shake his head. Because what Pansy feels for Astoria is not just a childish crush, and the part where they’re both women doesn’t change anything in the purity of their love so if he happens to like—

This time it is a sob, pretty fucking gross too. He does a weird snort thing as he tries to keep it in because otherwise, he might start crying over the pancakes he worked so hard on. Life is anything but fair.

It doesn’t help that they’re both absolutely shite at emotions, so Pansy ends up doing this awkward “oh Draco,” thing before coming over to hug him and pushing the coffee pot over in the process, soaking her elbows and creating a mess on the kitchen island.

The whole situation is absurd because Draco doesn’t usually cry. Crying is uncomfortable for everyone involved and he only does it in the sanctity of his Healer’s office, because he pays her, she can deal with his crying, it’s a fair exchange.

Pansy gets absolutely no compensation for this, and if he’s being honest, he wouldn’t offer her any either because she’s doing a pretty shit job. Nonetheless, she holds his hand and puts her face against his shoulder and he’s not usually touchy-feely but it is grounding.

Because, he reminds himself, he loves her and she loves him and it’s all very unconditional. That’s kind of the deal between them, and it goes both ways. It’s just very easy to forget sometimes.

So, he allows himself to kind of sob a little harder while she strokes his hair. It’s going to be a long day.

***

Really it’s just going to be a long rest of his life.

It takes him a while to sort of get used to the idea that maybe, okay, maybe he does like… But then, to be fair, it’s not as if he’d gotten a lot of time for that growing up, and he decides to be gentle with himself. Because with everything going on, and the war and then recovering from the war, romance has just never really been a top priority! So really, can he even know?

Instinctively, he thinks he’s pretty damn sure that yes, he knows. But there’s still this very annoying part of himself that wants to throw himself at the next available woman and have a go just to be sure. His stomach coils at the mere idea and he thinks that’s enough of an answer, but the part of his brain that is still very much “son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy” disagrees.

But then he’s learned that that part is very loud and very obnoxious and it just needs a lot of talking back to and unlearning and sometimes a good long hug.

He’ll get there, really.

For a big part of it he listens to Pansy and then Astoria and then sits, in silence. Because it’s a lot of shitty experiences and a lot of upset parents are known to use fear against their own children. It’s a lot of old-fashioned beliefs and a lot of hurt and not a whole lot of people to look up to. So Pansy doesn’t apologise for getting the magazine and turning her best friend’s life all topsy turvy, upside down, because they need people like this.

And he thinks that for two Slytherins, these women are enormously brave, and he kind of feels a weird sense of pride for them, too. There’s a lot more hugging than he is accustomed to, but he thinks this is what being friends is, too.

Mostly, it’s a lot of telling himself “it’s okay”. When he dresses in the morning there are these little things that he always did without thinking that he now wonders, does this mean I’m…? It’s a lot of massaging creams into his face and fixing his hair and looking himself in the eye and saying sternly, “this is fine.”

It’s a lot of fitting into his clothes and sighing and trying to convince himself that “I’ve always dressed like this! This means nothing!” even as he fits into jeans that are a little tighter than strictly necessary. He has a good bum, okay, it doesn’t have to mean anything.

When a week later WWW puts in a new order on a variety of healing potions and ingredients, he gets a little fidgety. Because George’s own brother is… So can he? Tell?

It takes him all of his willpower not to take his bottle of wine to work that day, but it’s Pansy’s huffed, “you’re gonna get a wine belly at this rate,” that convinces him he might want to lay back a bit.

He prepares the order as diligently as ever and tells himself he looks exactly the same. No one knows of this weird inner turmoil and he has not magically turned into a flashing sign with a rainbow flag and go-go dancers.

Before leaving the Apothecary he takes a look at himself in the mirror and tells himself he looks normal, and then immediately gets annoyed with himself.

“I am normal,” he says sternly, and deftly ignores the look the cashier gives him.

When he makes it over to WWW the business is already booming. There are a ton of Hogwarts students flocking the entrance and when he enters it takes him a while to spot the owner. The inside of the shop is so shockingly orange and bright and colourful, it always makes him feel a little overwhelmed.

He eventually spots the twin, who is wearing an orange suit and almost blends into the décor of the shop completely. When he waves, the man moves his mouth as if to say something, pointing at the crowd of teenagers surrounding him and then at the back of the store. Draco gets the hint, and gives a clear nod.

It isn’t the first time the shop is so busy that he’s been asked to bring the goods to the back and wait there. There’s a quiet workroom there where he guesses Weasley does his creating and inventing and packaging, and he’s brought the man’s order there a handful of times on busy days.

Today, however, he enters the backroom already a little self-conscious, and then promptly becomes a whole lot more self-conscious.

Ronald Weasley looks a whole lot bigger than he rightly should, with ridiculously broad shoulders and strong arms and wearing a stupid, obnoxiously orange apron on top of his casual jeans and a t-shirt that makes his forearms look edible. He still has that ridiculous smattering of freckles on his stupid tan face and he’s waving his wand around with a look of concentration, brows smudged together and the tip of his tongue sticking out between his teeth.

Draco Malfoy wants to spontaneously combust or perhaps melt into a puddle or just be obliviated, right now, and forget life ever was a thing he was a part of.

Except, of course, nothing actually happens. Besides Ron glancing at him and then his face turning as surprised as the blond feels on the inside, his wand dropping down by his side and the wrappers he was working with fall to the bench.

“Malfoy?”

He even sounds like a man, which is such a fucking outrageous thought because they are men.

It takes him about half a second to realise he probably looks like a dolt, and then he does his best to look natural as he takes out the order he’s shrunk to fit in his robe pockets.

“Your brother ordered these,” he explains, tapping the boxes once with his wand to de-shrink them.

Ron just sort of blinks and stares, so he decides to just unpack everything so that the man’s brother can check the inventory before signing off on the delivery.

It’s really quiet for a moment, now that the wrapping Ron was working on is no longer rustling about, and for some reason Draco can hear the sound of his own heartbeat really loud in his own ears. He’s not usually bad with silences, but he thinks there are actually a thousand things he wants to say and now suddenly they’re all stuck behind his teeth.

Weasley has no way of knowing that, of course, because they don’t really know each other at all. Over the years they’ve occasionally seen one another when Potter needs his help babysitting and there’s been the odd time Weasley was there when Draco went to pick Teddy up. Overall it’s only been a handful of conversations over the past years and it’s been mostly polite nodding and affirming each other’s presence.

But it’s different now, because yes, Weasley is a Gryffindor and yes, Gryffindors are brave, but he’s also a pureblood and purebloods are notoriously obsessed with continuing their bloodline, blood traitors or no.

And, more importantly, if none of that had been the case, what Weasley did would still be considered a big deal, and also probably one of the bravest things anyone had done, ever. Yes, that includes Potter willingly walking to his death to save the world. No, he is not exaggerating.

So he finishes his wandless unboxing and balls his fists and then looks Weasley straight in the eye and says, “That’s a really brave thing you did. People really needed that,” and he thinks of Pansy and Astoria and maybe, he thinks of himself too.

Ron’s face continues to get progressively more shell-shocked looking, and his eyes are wide as saucers now. His plump lips are slightly parted as if to say something, but no words come out.

And then before he can even wrap his mouth around a single syllable, George barges in, looking absolutely manic with a way too cheerful energy.

“Oh good!” he says as he steps between them, going to count the goods Draco brought over, “I was afraid I was going to find you spouting profanity and hexes.”

Draco harumphs, setting both hands on his hips, “I am a professional.”

“I wasn’t talking about you,” the redhead winks and it’s Ronald’s turn to look insulted.

“Hey!” he objects, punching his brother’s arm, “I have grown!”

The blond can’t help it, he thinks it and then he’s saying it out loud before he can stop himself, “Well you’ve certainly grown bigger.”

It takes half a beat and then George is doubling over laughing and Ronald has the audacity to pout. A grown man. The blond has to resist an eyeroll, but now he’s grinning and he can’t help it.

They unpack the rest of George’s order and go through the counting before exchanging documents and signing contracts. For some reason the taller redhead keeps meeting Draco’s eye and there’s this little grin lingering in the corner of his mouth and he looks so damn proud and it’s strange because yes, definitely, a Gryffindor, but the Ron back at Hogwarts had been all angry fuming rage, not… this.

For some unfathomable reason, he goes ahead and offers his help around the shop, too, claiming that the Apothecary can go without him for the time being – which is probably mostly true, but that’s beside the point – and that he is an excellent shop help.

George doesn’t even need to be asked twice, and it’s a little weird how this is his life now, where Weasley trusts him to the point where he’ll let him help out in the shop. It’s good though, for the most part, because some days he thinks nothing has changed, and then things like this happen.

It’s a lot of non-verbal magic to stack the ever emptying shelves and a lot of helping behind the register, because as a famous athlete, Ron only helps his brother out behind the scenes. For some reason the idea that all these years, Weasley’s been hiding out in that same little room where Draco’s visited, makes his cheeks flush.

Silly, he thinks, and he doesn’t scold himself either, because it is arguably a very silly reaction to have.

When it’s time to close up shop Draco helps with the tidying too, because he always enjoys showing off his non-verbal magic skills. Besides, George whisks out a bottle of Firewhisky and shakes it very seductively and now he is not an alcoholic but he hasn’t had any wine in days and Firewhisky is, in moderation, even better.

This is how he finds himself seated in one of the comfortable couches squished in the workroom, a tumbler in hand, listening amusedly as the Weasleys share tales of their youth. It could have been a painfully awkward affair, and the fact that it’s not is more of a testament to how good the Firewhisky is than to how much they’ve all grown, Draco is sure. Nonetheless, he allows himself to bask in the moment, grinning whenever the youngest redhead’s eyes meet his own.

He’s not exactly sure what time it is when they suddenly hear the shop bell clinging, and there’s the sound of heels on the tiled floors.

“Draco?” a woman’s voice calls for him, and it takes him a moment to realise who it is.

Then Pansy and Astoria appear in the doorway, pushing the door of the backroom open and peering inside curiously. They both look exceptionally pretty tonight, their makeup done to a T and both their lips painted red. Pansy is wearing a soft suede dress he thinks looks particularly stunning on her, and her heels are so thin he’s pretty sure she could use them for murder. He has always really adored the will-kill-if-provoked look on his best friend.

“Parkinson?” Ron sounds confused from his seat across from the blond, eyes flitting between the two Slytherins, “Oh… are you two…?”

Draco makes a face and Astoria raises an eyebrow, fitting her arm around her girlfriend’s waist. The redhead’s eyes widen and Pansy smirks, “This is my girlfriend Weasley, Astoria was a couple of years below us in Hogwarts.”

“Mostly just below you,” Draco teases, much to the girls’ amusements – they don’t bother denying it, either, and the Weasleys snort.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Pansy continues, waving a long manicured finger his way, “you had us looking all over for you!”

“Is something the matter?” Draco frowns. When he looks down at his tumbler, it’s a lot less empty than he remembers making it.

His friend merely rolls her eyes, heaving a big sigh, “Babe,” she says, a bad sign, because she only uses pet names towards him when he’s done something wrong – which this time, he swears he hasn’t, “this is the fifth year in a row you’ve done this. It’s your birthday.”

The blond’s frown possibly deepens. He’s pretty sure she’s wrong, but then when he thinks about it he realises maybe she’s not.

“Oh,” he remarks. Then, as the two dressed up women continue to just stare at him, realisation dawns on him, “oh, you’ve got something planned.”

Pansy looks ridiculously proud of how he’s figured that out all on his own, and it’s probably a testament to how drunk she thinks he is.

“Blaise and Theo are back at the flat,” Astoria supplies sweetly, offering a smile far too gentle to be real.

Because Blaise and Theo are absolute party animals and Draco feels far too all over the place to entertain the thought of going dancing. And Astoria, in all her infinite wisdom, probably knows that, too, which is why she’s trying to play it coy. Honestly, there are days he wonders if it’s wise to have an all-Slytherin friends group.

“Do I have to?” Draco resists pouting, because, as he reminds himself, it had looked really stupid when Weasley had done it.

“Seeing how you love them, yes, you have to,” Pansy taps her foot impatiently on the tiled floor, waving a hand over at the Weasley brothers, “besides, no offence, but if they find out you ditched them to hang out with a bunch of Gryffindors they’re going to be insufferable.”

Both Weasleys present their best fake offended faces, but it’s far too obvious there’s no real offence. Draco however, gets off his chair a little wobbly, and uses his best eleven-year-old self voice to contest, “Excuse you, we were doing very important business things!”

Pansy just takes the empty tumbler from his hands and gives him a stern look.

He once again resists the urge to pout, and instead takes his jacket off the chair in defeat. Astoria comes over to properly shake the Weasleys hands because she is the picture of politeness, and when she shakes Ronald’s she gives him a broad smile.

“I loved the article,” she admits, “thank you.”

Ronald’s ears flush red the way they used to back at Hogwarts and he looks very very silly, the blond reasons. Then his brother is pulling him into a choke hold, rubbing his knuckles over his red curls affectionately, “Can you believe this one? Had to find out from a magazine he’s batting for the other team!”

“George!”

“I mean we had a hunch of course but a heads up would’ve been nice,” George grins at the girls broadly, “could’ve set him up years ago!”

“George!” Ronald is looking increasingly more mortified, eyes skirting between the door and his brother as if trying to figure out his best way of escape.

They all laugh, except that Draco feels a sort of lump in his throat and then when they’re saying their goodbyes he thinks he might feel a little nauseous again.

By the time they’ve reached the flat he feels a lot more sober and it’s absolutely no fun. He can’t stop thinking about what George had said. Did his parents… know?

In familiar Blaise and Theo fashion they end up going clubbing, and he tells himself another cocktail won’t hurt because maybe he’ll forget. Instead, he finds himself staring at Pansy and Astoria for a big chunk of time because those two had known since Hogwarts.

And then, even worse, when Blaise finds himself mushed between two taller men, he thinks that although they’ve never actually spoken about it – mostly because Blaise is very promiscuous and has never settled down long enough for it to virtue a conversation – Blaise is definitely batting for both teams and they’ve known that since back in second year.

He feels so incredibly stupid, and having an extra cocktail doesn’t really help.

When a slightly older man makes a move on him he doesn’t really think twice. Pansy is giving him an encouraging nod and it’s been a lot of confusion and not nearly enough actual proof for him to feel validated in said confusion to begin with.

So he gets his first kiss at twenty-three years old in the dimly lit bathroom of some club off in muggle London and it’s a lot. It’s also ridiculously clarifying somehow, because that heat in his chest grows and bursts and spreads out to his fingertips and he thinks if he’d known this is what kissing feels like he would have done it ages ago.

And then there are hands on his hips and he’s feeling up a hard, strong chest and he thinks okay, he’s probably… yes.

He kind of ends up making out with five different men much to his friends’ amusement, and then they toast to his birthday and, implicitly, to his recently discovered sexuality and he doesn’t say it out loud but knowing that none of them judge him feels really good.

By the end of the night he’s drunk on the floor of their flat and Pansy is combing her fingers through his hair again and she’s telling him how it doesn’t matter if anyone ever knew, it doesn’t matter what his parents think and it doesn’t matter what random strangers think. Because his friends love him, and they’re his family now, and what matters is that he loves himself, and if he can’t yet, they will teach him how to.

And for that moment in time, he believes her, too, and he feels loved and good and most importantly, no longer unsure.

***

The next morning he gets to be unsure all over again, when he wakes up to hooting outside his window. He gets up and feels like absolute death on legs and just barely manages to make his way over to let the excited ball of feathers in. The tiny owl drops a letter on his pillow and then flits right back out and it all happens so fast he’s pretty sure he’s dreamed it and goes right back to sleep instead.

The second time he wakes up, Pansy is seated besides him, jiggling a glass of hangover potion rather adoringly. He is infinitely grateful for her presence in his life, right up until the moment where she reveals that actually, the letter had not been a fiction of his imagination, and he had, in fact, received a free ticket to see the Chudley Canons play, with a letter from Ronald reading only “Happy birthday! Hope to see you there” and, then, as if she’d known it would make his heart skip a beat, she says, “He’s signed it, ‘xoxo, Ronald’.”

And there goes his life, topsy turvy, again.

Chapter Text

“It’s just funny is all,” Harry tells him over a smoke after they’ve put Teddy to bed.

He’s not entirely sure what to make of it, because they’d been talking about Teddy’s ballet classes just ten minutes ago and then he’d suggested he and Ron share a spliff and they’d been sitting in the small courtyard of Grimmauld Place, smoking, ever since.

Except then he remembers, and he kind of wishes he could forget again, because Harry’s been absolutely nagging him about it for literally months now. It had been going on ever since he’d sent Malfoy the tickets for his birthday and then they’d made small talk after the match and Ron had been too much of an absolute coward to say anything else and he’d been pretty damn sure that was going to be the last he saw of Malfoy too. But then he was there the next match, and the one after that, too. And summer was coming to an end and yet he showed up at every match and they made awkward small talk afterwards.

And, for some obnoxious reason that Ron did not exactly comprehend – because his best mate is an Auror, for Merlin’s sake, and a single father, he has better things to worry about than… whatever this is – Harry would not shut the fuck up about it.

“It’s a coincidence is what it is,” Ron hums, taking the spliff from his mate, “the bloke likes Quidditch.”

“He only started attending matches since you came out though,” the raven points out heatedly, like he’s done about half a dozen times this past week alone, “he must be—”

“He’s straight,” Ron insists, and he doesn’t mean to sound that upset about it either, but he kind of can’t help it, and he feels his ears going red with embarrassment.

“All his friends are gay!” Harry claims triumphantly, as if that means anything at all – which it doesn’t – and it’s too dark to really see, but Ron is pretty sure his mate is looking ridiculously proud of himself.

Which would be understandable, if he hadn’t made the same argument about a week ago.

“Well all my friends are straight! We don’t all travel in packs mate, although I definitely should’ve, queer friends wouldn’t try to set me up with a straight man,” he sounds a little bit too bitter, and feels slightly guilty over it, too.

Which lasts about half a second, because then the raven is taking back the spliff and grunts, “Not all your friends are straight, and I’ll have you know Seamus one hundred percent agrees with me!”

Never mind the fact that that’s a ridiculous argument, as Seamus thinks every man that has a pulse is at least a little gay, which Harry knows as well as the next man whom the Irish lad has drunkenly tried to seduce into a threesome with his boyfriend.

It doesn’t help that they all live together either, and that Seamus has literally no qualms about engaging in very public displays of affection, much to Dean’s mortification.

All of that aside though, it takes Ron about half a minute to realise what exactly his best mate is telling him and then he’s one hundred percent fuming and ready to sink through the floor in mortification.

“You told Seamus?!” he all but hollers, kicking the tip of his shoe against the mossy tiles a little harder than strictly necessary.

“I told Dean,” Harry concedes, throwing his hands up in defence, “I had to, it’s Malfoy.”

It’s not as if Ron doesn’t logically know that. Because that’s the exact same thing he’s been telling himself for literal years. It’s Malfoy. There is no conceivable future with a man who thinks only purebloods are worthy of life.

Except y’know, they were kids back then, really misinformed too, and basically brainwashed, and Draco was a right git, definitely, but he’d also kind of helped them out when it counted. And more importantly, he has changed a lot over the years, because he shows up on time to pick up Teddy and is overall super-involved with the raising of the lad and absolutely spoils him rotten and from what George has told him, he gives WWW insane discounts.

And according to Dean he has zero contact with his parents and uses his allowance to support post-war reconstruction funds and reparations and is the anonymous founder of the scholarship for Muggleborns at Hogwarts and he sends free potions to St-Mungo’s every month to support their permanent-stay ward. A lot of it is hearsay though, because Dean does designing jobs for the Apothecary and doesn’t talk to Malfoy himself much outside of business, but apparently the shopkeeper has her eye on the blond and will not shut up about him.

The thing is that for a long time it was all just speculation and Harry telling him “he’s so good with Teddy it’s crazy” but then he’d had a front row seat to Malfoy offering to help his brother out and there’d been that thing he’d said about Ron being brave and it sort of hadn’t left his head ever since. And he knows that’s silly, because everyone’s been mostly nice and supportive, and he’s been told a lot of really sweet things and it’s all meant a lot.

But for some reason what Malfoy had said, in a tone so entirely different from any of their exchanges back at school, sincere and kind, has really stayed with him. And then hearing the bloke forgot about his own birthday – and had been forgetting about his own birthday for five damn years? – was sort of really heart-breaking, and it was strangely reminiscent of how Harry had been about his birthdays back at Hogwarts.

So he kind of thought doing a nice thing wouldn’t be weird or suspicious at all, because at any rate, Malfoy likes Quidditch and Ron is on the team so it’s not like the tickets cost him anything. And then he’d been nauseous just seeing him and he’d been such an absolute twat too because he’d been too scared to really say anything because every time their eyes met his heart did a stupid little thud-thump-thud.

Okay so he is definitely crushing on a straight man.

He realises belatedly that Harry is still looking at him and that he’s been sitting there, staring at his toe digging into the moss for probably the better half of five minutes.

When he meets the raven’s eye, Harry gives him this really pathetic look and he heaves a sigh. It’s not that Harry’s magically became a talker since Hogwarts, but his weekly sessions with his Healer have given him a keen insight on how important expressing your emotions is and he’s become all the more obnoxious for it, too.

So Ron takes what’s left of the spliff and inhales deeply. It’s going to be a long night.

***

The match is starting in fifteen minutes and he really needs to piss but the locker room bathrooms are out of order so he’s kind of racing hoping to make it to the guest bathrooms and back in time before he gives his coach a heart attack.

He’s halfway untucked and making his way to the urinals before he realises he’s not alone in the bathrooms, either.

Draco Malfoy has a particularly empty look on his face, wiped clean of any emotion save for a single cocked eyebrow. He’s wearing these really soft cotton pants today and is tucking in his shirt and there’s just a single button undone too deep, showing off his pale collarbones and Ron wants to kind of lick them, sink his teeth in them.

Which, y’know, is not cool.

He realises belatedly that he literally has his dick in his hand and is staring and then he promptly blushes bright red, lowering his gaze to his shoes instead. He’s not sure if he can pee knowing that Malfoy is right there but he kinda has to try for appearances’ sake.

When it becomes abundantly clear that the blond isn’t even going to say anything – just continue to stare with that arrogantly cocked eyebrow that makes Ron want to snog it right off – he rushes to explain: “locker-room loos are down,” and then continues to not piss.

They stand in silence half a beat, before the blond moves to wash his hands at the sink. Even then, their eyes meet in the recently cleaned mirror hanging above the sink, and at long last Malfoy’s expression changes somewhat, a smirk lurking in the corner of his pink lips.

“Nervous for the game?”

Ron’s laugh bubbles up from his throat in a mixture of surprise and honest amusement because no, despite this being a big game – “every game is a big game!” both Harry and his trainer would say – that’s not what’s making him nervous. But he can’t very well go ahead and tell Malfoy, “the thing is I’d rather like to have your dick in my mouth right here and now and it’s giving me an awful case of the jitters,” now can he?

Logically, he can, but it’s not a very decent thing to say to someone you barely know. His mother would be absolutely appalled if she ever found out, and he’d never live it down.

Besides, it doesn’t even begin to describe the emotions Malfoy evokes in him. Because there’s a lot of softness and tenderness too, really, it’s just that he’s running high on pre-game adrenaline and it’s hard to get his mind off his dick, definitely with the thing still uselessly resting in his hand.

Before he can say anything to break the very weird tension, the blond is already drying his hands and heading back out. He turns just before leaving, and then he flashes a devious smile and Ron thinks maybe he’s molten into a puddle with how weak it makes his knees feel.

“You better win Weasley,” he teases, voice just this side of a little too low to be casual.

And then he’s gone.

It takes him the better part of five minutes to calm himself down enough to actually finally take a piss, and then he has to rush back to where his team is waiting for him.

He gets stuck behind the pair of Beaters from the visiting team and he’s just about to overtake them so he can hurry back because the two broad men are walking at an absolute snail’s pace when the tallest brunet says, “…name’s Draco Malfoy, ‘m telling you, absolutely divine,” and he stops in his tracks, shell-shocked.

“Just be careful, we don’t want another scandal on our hands,” the other Beater quips, moving his broom to his other arm.

“Don’t worry, this guy is super deep in the closet,” the brunet lowers his voice, “besides, doesn’t seem the type to put out if he knew about my wife y’know.”

His teammate throws his head back in a laugh and Ron feels his stomach coil. He passes by the two players and can’t help but elbow the tallest brunet as he does so, throwing a look over his shoulder and offering an angry, “watch your step,” as he glares.

The match is all the more frantic because of it, too, and Ron feels at least a little bit guilty for angering the Beaters minutes before they had to play – Beaters are notoriously short-tempered and are also the players who can do the most damage, after all – except that he can’t stop thinking about what he’d overheard. Their whole attitude had been so disrespectful, and the mere idea that any person had the audacity to lie to someone just in hopes of getting laid makes him want to punch someone.

Ron’s blood boils just thinking about it. If there’s one thing he absolutely loathes it’s cheaters – and no, it’s not because he found out Viktor, his first ever crush and eventual boyfriend, was breaking up with him through leaked pictures of him with a brunette that ended up on the cover of some Hungarian tabloid – it’s just an overall very gross and despicable thing to do. Really.

It’s a good thing that Ron is actually an amazing Keeper and he swerves whenever a bludger is catapulted his way and uses his anger to make sure the opposite team doesn’t get in a single goal. Silly, but it feels like there’s more than just his own reputation on the line – maybe there’s this little part of himself that wants to shame this man in front of Malfoy. And it’s not jealousy, no, nothing to do with the fact that, of all the people in the whole wide world, it had been that pitiful excuse of a human that had apparently successfully asked the blond out for a date. It’s all just very healthy sporty rivalry, really.

He manages to do just that, too, keeps his goals clear and they win the match with a ridiculously great score. It’s not good enough though, he is still fuming.

By the time he makes it up to the top box where he knows Malfoy has his regular seat – because of course he does – the Beater has already beat him to it. He does not appreciate the irony.

There’s just something in the way the Beater’s hand is on Malfoy’s elbow and there’s this cautious little smile lurking in the corner of that pink mouth and Ron is just seeing-red-smoke-coming-out-of-his-ears angry. And he doesn’t have the mental capacity to unpack everything that’s going on and all that he’s feeling right at this very moment but he is a Gryffindor and he knows in his heart that he has to intervene, because if he doesn’t Malfoy might make the amazingly disastrous mistake of trusting the Beater and Ron will never forgive himself if he lets that happen.

So his brain just sort of shuts off and he marches right up to the two.

To his immense satisfaction the blond looks up and then full-on smiles – maybe not as broadly as other people would, but still, his lips quirk up and Ron has only seen him smile about a handful of times so he counts this as a win – at the sight of him. The Beater follows the blond’s gaze and then Ron can see the exact moment the other man realises he’s fucked up.

The brunet’s face falls and Ron feels some sort of maniac energy take over as he grins, baring his canines.

“Congratulations,” Draco greets him with a warm tone and maybe his anger melts a little, just because it’s very hard to stay fuming in the presence of such gentleness, “great game.”

Before he can reply the brunet has hastily butted in, “You two know each other?” and there’s a sharpness to his voice that makes Ron want to do a happy dance.

If the blond is confused, he doesn’t show it, just nods his head lightly and says, “We went to high school together.”

Ron waits half a beat for the silence to settle and then, cheerfully asks the brunet, “Oh yeah, I meant to ask earlier, how’s your wife? I heard she’s expecting?” and watches gleefully, as the man falters.

Draco doesn’t even flinch. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it, his face carefully blank as the Beater’s nose flares.

“She’s fine,” he snaps, tone sharp, before turning to the blond, his hand tightening in the man’s robes, “we should get going, we’ll miss our reservation.”

It’s not overtly aggressive, the way Malfoy shakes the hand off his elbow, but the smile he gives is very telling to Ron. It’s the same exact smile he gave back at Hogwarts, when they were much younger and the blond was a notoriously cold asshole possible of bloody murder with a single smirk.

“Oh I am so sorry,” he quips, in a tone that indicates no remorse whatsoever, “I forgot I have this thing—”

The blond pauses, and his eyes flit between Ronald and the brunet as if unsure how to proceed. Ron jumps in immediately, “Oh yeah, Harry said you have Teddy for the day,” waving his hands around, knowing fully well he is the one babysitting that day but hoping the blond will catch on.

“Yeah, Teddy, I promised—” Malfoy nods his head pensively, but then before he can take a step away from the Beater, said man has grabbed onto his wrist.

“Listen, babe—” he hisses, and there’s this little irrational part of Ron that wants to step in and beat the man into a pulp, but then he’s also pretty sure Malfoy would never forgive him for insinuating he cannot fight his own battles.

“Are you quite sure you want to do that?” he asks instead, drawing the brunet’s eyes to him instead, “Draco’s been the best at wandless magic since high school.”

It takes half a second for the meaning of his words to sink in. Then, the Beater’s eyes widen and he pulls back his hand as if touched by fire. With a last look between the two other men, he backs off, heading towards the dressing rooms in defeat.

Ron takes a quiet breath of relief, feeling the tension slide off his back like water. All at once he realises how sickly sweaty and grimy he is, still in his Chudley Canons uniform, and the implications of the entire exchange and how this means Malfoy—

The slightly smaller man looks a little paler than he usually does, and that asshole of a Beater’s words kind of echo in his mind, “this guy is super deep in the closet.”

If there’s a thing he hates more than cheaters, it’s possibly people who out others without consent. There is something so vile about the whole thing, knowing that homophobes are literally everywhere and that outing someone could have serious and dangerous repercussions. He sort of regrets not beating the man into a pulp now, but most of all he regrets having to find out one of Malfoy’s secrets in such a disgusting manner.

So he sort of shakes the uneasy silence off and reaches out to place his hands on the blond’s shoulder, drawing his gaze to meet his own. Then, with a smile that he hopes conveys all that he’s feeling right now, he says, “Looks like you’ve gone and made friends with the wrong sort, huh Malfoy?” echoing the words the blond had spoken so many years ago, back at him.

For about a minute he fears it was the absolute worst thing to say, ever in the history of humanity. But then a noise breaks free from those rosy lips and then the blond is laughing, full out. He kind of hugs his stomach with his arms and grasps at his own sides and then Ron sort of cracks up too and he realises that they must look really ridiculous for any outsiders, but he’s so happy he doesn’t even care.

They end up picking Teddy up from ballet together, and then Ron gets to watch the blond run around with the small child, racing him to the swing set and later taking him on his lap to go down the slide together. They hang out in the park close to Grimmauld Place for the better part of the afternoon, and Teddy is wearing the biggest grin for most of that time, too. There’s a little bit of a touch-and-go moment where he scrapes his knee falling down one of the climbers in his enthusiasm to get to the top but then Draco is hugging him and pressing a kiss to his little knee and then Teddy is smiling again, crocodile tears brimming in his eyes.

And all at once, Ron kind of realises that he is in love. It’s not one big thing, but he takes a break from trying to keep up with his companions after an already pretty exhausting Quidditch game and sits on a bench and watches Draco smile and it kind of hits him. Because for the past months the highlight of every match has been the awkward small talk they make after, and although he pretends to be annoyed he loves hearing titbits of the Slytherin’s life from his friends, and spends his days helping out at WWW hoping he might run into the man.

At this point he’s not even sure why he’s bothering denying it anymore, since it is almost painfully obvious to pretty much all his friends. But, before today, he’s also been pretty sure that Draco Malfoy is, in fact, the straightest person alive, and maybe even just entertaining the thought of a crush had been a little bit too painful. He’s given him that much, after all he’s been through, no one can deny that he deserves to go a little easy on himself.

“You okay?” Draco goes to carefully sit down beside him, keeping a cautious eye on where Teddy is making a sandcastle.

Ron feels a little elated at being caught in his thoughts like this, his cheeks heating up with what he is sure is a dark blush. He just offers a smile, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly as he explains, “I’m knackered and just remembered I promised the guys I’d cook ‘em dinner,” which isn’t actually a lie, either.

The blond gives him a calculating look, and they sit in silence for a moment. Then, almost offhandedly, the Slytherin prompts, “Have I ever told you how good my pasta al pomodoro is?” and Ron feels his face split into a grin.

***

So Draco Malfoy is in Grimmauld Place’s kitchen cooking while Teddy colours in pictures at the table and Ron is literally nursing a glass of white wine and he feels like a posh stay-at-home mom watching her husband cook and yes, he is going to indulge in that fantasy for a while, okay?

Draco is wearing an apron over his clothes and he looks so relaxed Ron thinks he might melt because Draco Malfoy is in his kitchen and relaxing, wow, if Teddy hadn’t accidentally kicked him in the stomach while roughhousing earlier, Ron might have thought he’s stuck in some very elaborate daydream.

And he can’t stop smiling, either, because Draco is funny, and he teases him while they cut tomatoes together and it’s not mean like back at Hogwarts, all mischievous as he quips, “Should’ve known you’d be as rubbish at this as you were at potions Weasley,” and even the use of his last name sounds more like an inside joke than anything else.

So okay, he is just floating, quite literally on cloud nine, by the time the guys start trickling in. Shay is first and they hear him coming and he hollers a “Ello, ‘t smells good in here!” as soon as he’s closed the front door.

He’s in the doorway a couple of seconds later and then raises an eyebrow suspiciously at the scene.

“Oh? Is that Draco Malfoy? Didn’t recognise you with that smile on your face,” Seamus leers, and Ron groans, suddenly mortally ashamed he consorts with such a twat.

“Well he’s not wrong,” the blond merely shrugs his shoulder and Seamus bursts out laughing before heading over to sit with Teddy, ruffling the boy’s bright blue hair.

“Don’t tell him that,” Ron complains, pouting at the Slytherin, “it will only inflate his already too-big ego.”

Draco rolls his eyes and playfully punches his shoulder and Ron thinks he’s going to die because the Flitterbies in his stomach are going crazy. Then, of course, Seamus ruins it by opening his mouth, “so y’all finally went—”

Ron realises belatedly what he’s trying to imply and before the Irish man can finish his train of thought he blurts out, “Draco is helping out with Teddy!” a little too frantically.

Both men stare at him rather blankly. He feels his ears go red again and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to stop blushing.

“Oh, yeah sure,” Seamus hums, voice edgy with suspicion, “that’s what this looks like.”

Ron watches as the blond’s brow furrows in confusion, but they are then luckily distracted by the sound of the floo in the other room.

Dean calls out in greeting and then before he can even make it into the kitchen Seamus is already yelling, “Babe! Guess who’s cooking in our kitchen right now!” voice pitched in excitement.

“Listen babe I only said I wouldn’t mind if you got with that Quidditch player because I was assuming that wasn’t ever gonna happen and I’m actually—oh,” the black man’s brows go up to meet his ‘fro and Seamus is cackling with laughter now.

Ron wants to floor to swallow him whole. He is mortified.

“I take it you don’t get Slytherin visitors often,” the blond prompts with a sly smirk, and that’s even worse because now Draco is being sexy and Ron is already feeling too many things all at once, okay?!

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely what this is about, uh-huh,” Shay nods his head with a broad smirk, and Dean sort of awkwardly lingers in the doorway.

“So are you—”

“Cooking us dinner, yes, they are babe, ain’t that nice?” thankfully, despite being an insufferable twat, Seamus also has this magical ability to communicate with his boyfriend without using actual words and with one look in the raven’s direction Dean drops the subject and then joins the smaller Irish man at the table instead.

Luckily the rest of the evening is pretty uneventful if only because Harry and Neville are decent human beings who do not insist on constantly humiliating him, and they end up having a really great dinner and Ron also gets to watch the blond put Teddy to bed and it’s quite possibly the softest thing he’s ever seen.

Because Teddy likes Ron, sure, and they spend a lot of time together and they get along well. But the way the cousins change in each other’s presence is absolutely heart-wrenching, as if both of them achieve some sort of maximum comfort level when together. Teddy talks about missing his parents and Draco is empathetic towards his pain and they are so brutally honest with each other, it’s a little painful to watch.

Afterwards, they all have a Butterbeer together and Harry and Seamus smoke a blunt while Neville and Draco discuss Venomous Tentacula properties and Ron thinks that if this were to be the rest of his life, he’d be a happy man indeed.

***

Summer comes to an end and they see Neville off to another year of teaching Herbology at Hogwarts and he then helps his brother plan the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes’ Wickedly Wonderful Weekend event where they invite all their friends and neighbours to thank them for their support during the busiest time of year.

Ron meets Draco at least once a week for lunch when they're both working in the Alley, and about every other weekend to play chess after one of Ronald's matches. It's come to a point where Seamus fondly refers to Draco as "the stray Slytherin they've taken in," and Pansy and Astoria always get him a bottle of the white wine he likes when he visits the Slytherins’ flat. His teammates have begun recognising the blond, too, and although he is being teased mercilessly by all his friends, he's just not able to muster up the courage and actually do something about his crush.

Because Draco has been such a wonderful addition to his life and he is terrified of fucking that up.

He promises himself he’ll say something today, and then when he doesn’t, he tells himself at night, tomorrow. But he never actually gets the words out, “Will you go on a date with me?” is somehow the most complicated string of words he’s ever had to put together.

It doesn’t help that the longer he waits, the more he starts doubting himself. Maybe he’s misunderstood the situation with the Beater, maybe Draco isn’t interested in men at all. Maybe he is going to turn his newfound friendship with the very straight Slytherin into something horribly uncomfortable by asking him on a date.

To distract himself, he throws himself into practice and then uses all his free time to help his brother out. By Friday night he is pretty much too physically exhausted to think a single conscious thought, and Charlie shows up at the last minute and they end up pre-gaming in the guest room at Grimmauld Place.

Charlie tells him about the dragons he’s raising now and shows him pictures of tiny scaled creatures in unicorn sweaters and gets him pleasantly buzzed on the Romanian hooch he brought. Ron thinks maybe all his own talking is very Draco-centric but if his older brother notices, he surely doesn’t mention it and he’s endlessly grateful for it, too.

So they show up to their brother’s shop a little late, but they’re both proudly wearing their WWW jerseys embroidered with their names and George hugs them very tight and it feels right.

He doesn’t exactly look for Draco, not really. It’s just that the blond’s hair does this flickering thing in the candlelight and he’s wearing a gentle orange shirt with his faded jeans and it’s just really hard to miss.

What he doesn’t miss is Blaise Zabini’s arm around the slightly smaller man’s waist. They’re talking to Harry and Seamus and two other wizards Ron is pretty sure he’s seen around the shop before, and when Draco nurses his wine the Italian man gives him this look that makes Ronald see red.

It’s entirely irrational, but he feels jealousy burn in his heart and he can’t really disconnect, either. So he kind of lets it sit and then distracts himself with taking selfies with a few fans that are brave enough to ask – he realises his face is probably set on absolute murder and does his best to turn down the gloom for the pictures – and then joins the group in a manner that he hopes is entirely natural.

What’s probably a lot less natural is the way his voice cracks when he greets them. Draco is giving him this unreadable look, but nobody comments.

“We were just talking about whether or not Zabini should make a move on McLaggen,” Seamus offers, “I’m going with no just because McLaggen is literally the straightest bloke I’ve ever met and I imagine Slytherins are no fun when they’re heartbroken.”

Zabini’s bottom lip juts out and the blond rolls his eyes, quipping, “I’ll have you know Slytherins handle heartbreak just fine. Blaise however, is another matter entirely,” to which everyone laughs.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve heard he bats for both teams,” one of the older wizards remarks pensively, as they all cast a glance towards where McLaggen is chatting with Luna, “…might’ve been his dad actually.”

“He gives me a vibe,” Blaise hums.

“Everyone gives you a vibe,” Draco shakes his head disapprovingly and they all laugh – the whole situation is very reminiscent of how they talk to Seamus almost every time they go out for drinks.

“To be fair,” Ron says without really thinking, because he’s comfortable and he feels safe, “everyone’s pretty cool with it nowadays, so you might as well shoot your shot.”

He swears he’s not just egging Zabini on to make him let go of the blond’s waist, really. It would just be an added bonus.

Except it was a pretty bad thing to say, apparently, because although Seamus nods in agreement and Harry just shrugs his shoulders noncommittally to agreeing hums of the two other wizards, Zabini’s face falls. He doesn’t have to speak for Ron to know that his comment’s set something off, something dark and moody he hasn’t been privy to from the Slytherin since way back at Hogwarts.

“That’s a rather drastic oversimplification, don’t you think?” Zabini sneers, and then ignores his friend when Draco goes, “Blaise…”

“Let’s see shall we, Pansy gets tossed out of her home, Astoria’s parents no longer talk to her, and my mother who notoriously quite possibly killed seven husbands to give me all the riches in the world called me a faggot and disowned me after finding out I swing both ways,” Zabini is counting on his fingers, voice cold as ice, and everyone can only just stand and stare, guilt overtaking Ron as he lets the information sink in, “Oh, and let’s not forget Regulus Black’s tombstone still reading ‘Regina’ and the fact that Draco’s aunt would probably kill him if she were still alive, or you know, his own father if he wasn’t still in Azkaban.”

Everyone looks downright horrified, and they stand in uncomfortable silence.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—” Ron goes to take it back, but he doesn’t know how.

Because look, growing up wasn’t always the easiest thing. He’s always sort of been the odd one out in his family, and he’s spent a lot of time being the brunt of his brother’s jokes. It wasn’t easy with six siblings and then later it wasn’t easy with no redeeming properties at school, either. And sure, he butts heads with pretty much everyone of his relatives, every once in a while, but when coming out all his thoughts had been on “hopefully George keeps his jokes to a minimum because I am never getting laid like this” and never in a million years can he imagine what it must be like to have your thoughts set on “I hope my family doesn’t literally kill me over who I love”.

“Excuse me, I’m getting a refill,” Zabini jingles his empty tumbler and then resolutely turns his back on their group.

His hand leaves Draco’s hip, but the man’s gone a little paler than usual and Ron realises belatedly that the Italian just outed him to a whole group of people without any warning whatsoever. He hesitates half a moment and then says, “Excuse me,” before following his friend to the refreshment stand.

“Damn,” Seamus breaks the uncomfortable silence with a deep, drawn-out sigh, “I’ve never been so grateful not to be raised by bigoted parents before.”

“I thought I’d had it bad,” Harry agrees, taking a deep gulp of his Butterbeer, “At least my aunt and uncle didn’t try to kill me.”

“I mean,” Ron shrugs his shoulders, feeling an uncomfortable cold in his stomach, “there was that summer they only fed you canned soup and kept you locked up in your room.”

“Oh yeah…” the black man frowns, seemingly remembering what he’d probably tried hard to forget.

They’re saved by George, who comes over with a bright smile and more drinks and thankfully changes the subject back to the celebration at hand. The empty feeling in the pit of his tummy lingers, no matter how many colourful cocktails he pours on top of it.

He carries it with him through the rest of the night, too, and ends up excusing himself so he can escape through the back of the shop and have a smoke and contemplate his own idiocy in silence.

He’s already halfway through lighting his blunt when he spots a familiar blond in the corner of the darkened courtyard, seated on his hunches, blank stare focussed on the night sky. When their eyes meet the Slytherin doesn’t look particularly surprised or upset or even sad, but there’s something about his posture that makes it seem as if he is simply trying to disappear from this world altogether.

They don’t say anything as Ron joins him, a slight ache in his thighs because he is an athlete but not the most flexible at that. He waits for maybe half a second before he can no longer hold still and he kind of blurts, “I am so sorry I—” before getting interrupted with a pale hand placed on his knee.

“Ronald,” their eyes meet, Draco’s shockingly silver around his black irises, his voice stern, “you never have to apologise for being loved by your family. I mean it Weasley, you better bask in their acceptance, for all of us who can’t.”

There’s something so soft about how the blond speaks his first name only to throw Ron for a loop, stomach doing summersaults, with the teasing lilt he speaks his last name. Ron thinks he might be falling in love all over again, long fingers gentle and reassuring where they squeeze his knee, Draco’s eyes so bright with his honestly, his mouth pink and curved into half a smile.

“Draco…” Ron swallows the lump in his throat and tries to remind himself that he is a Gryffindor and he’s almost died half a dozen times and this is not more scary than that, really, “go on a date with me.”

It sounds less like a question and more like a command and he sorely regrets life and everything that’s brought him to this moment in time where he thinks that it’s acceptable to go around telling perfectly charming and handsome Slytherins that they must date him. And then Draco’s grinning, and suddenly he has absolutely zero regrets and wants to stay in this moment for literally the rest of his life.

“I was starting to think you’d never ask…” the blond teases, moving slightly to thump his shoulder into Ronald’s in an overly affectionate way that makes every single hair on Ron’s back and arm stand up in attention, “Can I kiss you now?”

Of course Draco is a lot more graceful about this, because he’s a Malfoy, he is graceful at everything, even calling people names. Ron nods, perhaps a little too enthusiastic, like an overly wound-up puppy, but he doesn’t miss the way it melts Draco’s grin into a cunning smirk, and then before he can contemplate it much further, they’re kissing.

Everything about it is bloody brilliant. Draco smells like spices and herbs from working with potions everyday and maybe there’s the lingering taste of the slightly too-sweet cocktail the man had earlier. His lips are plush and soft and his nails are digging into the tears of Ron’s ripped jeans and he never wants this to stop. He was wrong before, because it is in fact this moment that he wants to stay in for the rest of his life.

Except then he tries to reach out and his thighs protest and then he’s stumbling and they’re both keeling over and before he knows it he’s sprawled over on top of a very confused blond, scraped palm and elbow and all.

“Fuck,” Ron curses, awkwardly moving off the smaller man.

“Actually I prefer being on top,” the blond jokes and it’s not very funny because the idea immediately calls forward a whole lot of mental visions that Ron does not have the self-restraint to stop right now.

So instead he pulls Draco to his feet and then doesn’t stop pulling until he has the man in his arms, lips meeting for another kiss. And then another.

***

It’s a cold winter morning in Grimmauld Place when Ron wakes to the morning bustle of the house, slamming doors and curses as he figures Seamus is running late for work again.

Beside him, Draco is still dead to the world, back curved towards where Ron’s chest is, bare and warm against the marble skin. He indulges himself by running a hand down the naked side, knowing fully well the dangers of waking a sleeping dragon. Before he gets too tempted or too brave, he presses a kiss to where the silver hairs meet soft skin and then gets out of bed properly.

By the time he makes it to the kitchen, the house has gone quiet again. For most people Wednesday is a normal work day, but Ron doesn’t have training until Thursday and Draco doesn’t usually go in until the afternoon, particularly on days when he has Teddy.

The child is thankfully still asleep, and Ron prepares some extra pancakes to surprise him with later, and then adds a splash of coffee to milk to make what Draco swears is a latte.

When he makes it back into his bedroom, the blond is sitting up in bed, eyes a little bleary and his tender frame wrapped in Ronald’s Chudley Canons jersey to hide from the chill.

“I was wondering where you’d gone,” the smaller man, a rather reserved being when in public, makes grabby hands for him.

Ron feels soft, swishing his wand to deposit their plates and drinks on the bedside table. Then he has chilly fingers grasping his hips and he gets pulled down into the bed, the blond burying his head where his neck meets his shoulder.

“I missed you,” Draco hums, as if he’s been gone for months instead of an hour, at the most – Ron knows it’s best not to object, however, not only because those nails are sharp, but mostly because he wholeheartedly returns the sentiment, “Hold me properly.”

He feels the blond’s sharp teeth nip at his neck and can’t help but grin; those words often result in actions much more mischievous than mere holding one another.

Afterwards they have breakfast, comfortably meshed together. Draco sits with his back to Ronald and feeds him bits of pancakes while they wait for Teddy to wake, or the Daily Prophet to arrive; whichever comes first.

Today it’s the Prophet, brought by Pig, who drops it into their laps before chirping happily and pecking at Ron’s hands for some treats.

Draco goes to pick the paper up so he can read to the redhead, as he usually does on mornings when they sleep in. There’s a moment’s silence when Ron offers Pig some owl treats and then Draco reads the front page.

Then, the blond carefully holds out the paper for Ron to see, and he almost chokes on half a piece of pancake at the sight of the Daily Prophet.

There’s dozens of pictures of the two of them, smattered all over the front page. They’ve been keeping a low profile, he’s absolutely sure of it, but still, someone’s been catching them in all their intimate moments. There’s his hands protectively wrapped around Draco’s waist, their fingers interlinked during a date, Draco sitting in his lap during a teammate’s birthday party. All innocent enough, except there’s the one picture where they kiss and then fall over and kiss again, taken months ago, way back when they first kissed at the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes’ Wickedly Wonderful Weekend kick-off event.

He’s not sure whether to be furious or mortified, but to be honest he’s also just very much relieved that this perhaps means they no longer have to hide when out in public, and, most importantly, it also means he can snog Draco up in the top box after matches, instead of being forced to watch the man beat off players from the other team as they try to flirt with him.

As it is, mostly everyone that matters already knows, and Draco’s even been formally invited to the Weasley’s family Christmas held at Grimmauld Place, with the promise that Draco’s family in turn – Pansy, Astoria, Blaise and Theo – can host them for New Year’s at their place.

So really, he tells himself, it’s a none-issue at this point. He cuddles into the blond’s back for security, an odd little thumping in his stomach at the realisation that they will no longer have to hide making way for the rather uncomfortable thought that he is, in fact, forgetting something very important.

Then, with a single, gently asked question, Draco turns his life topsy turvy, upside down.

“How’d you feel about meeting my mother, then?”