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The wooden swing creaked softly beneath Draco’s weight, the persistent, low groan of the ropes a rhythmic counterpoint to his slow, gentle sway. He was far from the polished, almost brittle image he usually projected. His hair was a tousled mess, liberated from the usual war crimes of pomade and charm that his father insisted upon.
A deep emerald jumper, the kind of expensive cashmere that felt soft even when faded, hugged his lean frame. Beneath it, a pair of worn, comfortable jeans—distinctly torn at the knees—and a scuffed pair of black Chuck Taylors completed the ensemble. It was a deliberate sartorial rebellion. His father, Lucius Malfoy, would be utterly horrified by the casual disregard for presentation. His mother, Narcissa, bless her strange, artistic soul, would likely call it "bohemian chic."
Either way, Draco didn’t care. The small, secluded space behind the manor’s old greenhouse was his sanctuary, a place where the Malfoy name held no currency.
The afternoon stretched out lazily, a golden, hazy expanse of late autumn light. The air was crisp and smelled of damp earth and decaying leaves. The wind, a constant, sighing presence, tugged at the last vestiges of green and gold overhead, each rustle a whispering reminder of things he desperately didn't want to think about. Chief among them was the predictable, suffocating anger of his father.
Lucius Malfoy had a way of turning the intimate setting of the dinner table into a cold, merciless interrogation, and tonight’s meal had been no different. The interrogation centered on the latest perceived failure to uphold the family's immaculate social standing. Apparently, Draco had committed a grievous sin: he had “embarrassed the family” by publicly offending the daughter of Elias Thorne, one of Lucius’s most crucial new business partners in the city council.
Draco let out a harsh, silent breath, the sound swallowed by the swing’s creak. As if that were his fault. The girl, a vapid, simpering heiress named Clarissa, couldn't take a hint, mistaking his polite indifference for shy admiration. Every word she spoke was a calculated piece of social maneuvering, and every flutter of her eyelashes felt like a trap. The worst of it was his father, who, desperate to secure the Thorne family’s political favor, had practically locked Draco and Clarissa in the conservatory together after the dinner, leaving them to "get acquainted."
Draco had endured a torturous half hour of listening to Clarissa detail her upcoming charity gala, culminating in her overly familiar suggestion that he accompany her. His refusal, apparently delivered with too much truth and not enough Malfoy polish, had sent her fleeing in tears, which, in turn, had sent Lucius into a controlled but terrifying rage. The echoing silence in the small garden was infinitely better than the suffocating atmosphere of the house. He kicked his feet lightly, lifting the swing just a few inches higher, and momentarily lost himself in the simple, meaningless rhythm.
Irritation, hot and metallic, simmered just beneath his skin, a constant companion these days. He knew what this recent, suffocating interest from his father was truly about. Lucius Malfoy didn't give a damn about Anya, or whatever her name was, or any of the polished, self-serving rubbish he spouted. No. Lucius only cared about one thing, one person: Weasley. Ron.
The silence of the vast, manicured manor grounds was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic squeak of the swing. He could almost hear his father's voice, smooth as silk and sharp as shattered glass. To Lucius, Ron was merely a "phase." A foolish, adolescent rebellion fueled by too much cheap whiskey and not enough exposure to the 'proper' order of things. An infatuation, Lucius had assured him with a patronizing pat on the shoulder, that would burn itself out like a faulty firework, leaving only an embarrassing whiff of sulfur and regret.
Draco smirked bitterly, the expression a painful tug on his mouth. Maybe it was rebellious. How could it not be? It was a colossal, glorious, middle-finger salute to everything his Father believed in, everything he had raised him to be. But Ron was more than just a political statement. Ron had something the Malfoys—with their ancestral portraits, their vaults of wealth, and their ice-cold propriety—never, ever would possess.
He had warmth. A genuine, blazing, all-consuming warmth that could melt the cold knot in Draco’s chest and make him feel, for the first time in his life, like a person and not just an heirloom. Ron was loud, messy, and infuriatingly loyal, and that loyalty felt like an impenetrable fortress, a place where Draco could finally put down the armor he’d worn since childhood. He wasn't going to let that burn out. He was going to hold onto it until his fingers bled.
The swing creaked again as he drifted, lost in thought. The world felt quieter out here, tucked away at the edge of the manor grounds. His childhood swing had always been a safe place—his first bit of freedom. It had held him through worse than this.
Then a presence loomed behind him. Draco tensed.
“I don’t even want to hear it, Father,” he snapped without turning. “Not today.”
A low chuckle answered him. The swing lurched forward suddenly, pushed from behind, and a pair of sneakers planted in the empty spaces on his side. Draco startled, eyes darting up—only to be blinded by red.
Ron’s flaming jumper, with a large ‘R’ embroidered on it, filled his vision, and Draco couldn’t help the small smile overtaking his face.
“You look like an overgrown strawberry,” Draco drawled. Ron, tall and practically glowing in the late-afternoon sun, grinned down at him, not at all sorry for crashing his moment.
“And you look like the brightest star in the sky,” Ron countered, his eyes locked intensely on just Draco. “For my eyes only, love.”
Draco felt that familiar, annoying warmth creep up his neck. He scowled, grabbing the cold metal chains tighter. “If you’re pulling lines from that bloody pickup book again—”
“Hey, it's working, right?” Ron's smile widened, a burst of simple, pure joy. He leaned in, his breath a warm puff against Draco's ear, and dropped a quick, innocent kiss on Draco’s tangled hair. The fierce blush blooming on Draco’s pale cheeks was all the confirmation Ron needed—silent proof that the ridiculous lines were undeniably, infuriatingly effective.
“What do you want, Weasley?” Draco managed, his voice low and a little rough. He hadn't just stopped the swing for himself; Ron, being his usual reckless self, had been leaning way too far back. Draco wasn't about to let the idiot fall off and give Lucius another reason to hate the Weasleys—and by extension, the choice his son had made.
“You,” Ron said simply, standing up and letting his gaze sweep over Draco, possessive and steady.
Draco gave him a practiced, tired eye-roll. “We already covered that. Did you hit your head coming over? Is this concussion-induced poetry hour?”
“Ouch. Harsh, Malfoy. Even for you.” Ron crouched down, getting closer to eye level, his expression shifting from playful to serious. He knew the drill. “Let me guess—daddy dearest wants you to butter up some business partner’s daughter again? The one with the terrible laugh and the trust fund?”
Draco winced, a sharp, automatic reaction that confirmed Ron's hunch. He let out a sharp breath, the movement sending a lock of golden hair falling across his eyes, momentarily hiding his distress. “Do you always have to be so crude?”
“Do you always have to be so gorgeous when you're mad?” Ron shot back instantly, his tone suddenly serious, laced with a gravity that always managed to shut Draco up.
Draco started to retort about Ron's own less-than-stellar looks when annoyed, but the words died. Ron’s fingers, large and rough, slid gently through his hair, brushing the strands away from his face. The touch was surprisingly gentle, slow, deliberate, meticulously untangling the little knots near his temples.
It was a grounding move, a physical anchor in Draco’s rising anxiety. Conflicting feelings churned inside him: the desperate urge to surrender to the affection, and the frantic need to rail against the unfairness of their complicated life.
Ron leaned in again, his lips brushing the shell of Draco’s ear. “I won’t let him take you away from me,” he whispered, the words not a romantic promise, but a fierce, binding vow.
Draco froze solid. The ache in his chest—a constant, dull throb since his last fight with Lucius—tightened into a searing, agonizing knot. His father’s voice, cold and precise, echoed like insidious poison in his head: ‘Weasleys are common. You need someone who can carry the family name. Someone with influence. Someone who understands that legacy is everything.’ The gap between Ron's simple, fierce love and his father's overwhelming, demanding expectations was huge, and Draco felt himself teetering on the edge.
The scent of old woodsmoke and drying lavender—a ghost of the Weasley Burrow—clung to Draco’s memory, a contrast to the manicured, sterile air of Malfoy Manor. Another image, clearer and sharper than the swing itself, rose to the forefront of his mind: the riot of red hair and mismatched mugs in the Weasley kitchen, the easy, unfiltered laughter that had no hidden barbs. He pictured arms—not his mother’s embrace or his father’s cold, assessing grip—but strong, slightly clumsy arms that wrapped him in warmth instead of the crushing weight of expectation and pure-blood lineage.
In that moment, swinging gently, he felt the hollowness of his own ambition. For once, he didn’t crave the sharp edge of power, the cold comfort of prestige, or the approval of his peers. He simply wanted quiet. He wanted the profound, uncomplicated peace that came from not having to constantly watch his own back.
“You’re doing that thing where your face goes all furrowed like a kid trying to solve differential equations,” a voice broke the silence.
Draco swatted back instinctively, aiming for the general vicinity of Ron’s arm but misjudging the trajectory and nearly landing the hit in a very unfortunate, tender spot.
There was a high-pitched, surprised yelp—less a cry of pain and more a sound of sheer indignity—followed by a violent flail as Ron lost his balance, his arms windmilling wildly against the darkening sky. And then—a sickening, loud crack.
The old oak branch, already weakened by years of weather and youthful hijinks, snapped clean through. Both of them plummeted backward in a chaotic tangle of limbs, rope, and frayed dignity, landing in the damp, cool grass with a resounding thud that shook the air out of Draco’s lungs.
Draco blinked, the world a dizzying smear of green lawn and late afternoon sky, utterly dazed. The first thing he registered was the weight, the solid, uncomfortable pressure across his chest. He was sprawled across Ron, who was still gasping for air.
“You absolute menace,” Draco muttered, the words barely a breath. He didn’t bother to move. “You broke my swing.”
“You broke my ribs,” Ron wheezed in response, though a wide, utterly ridiculous grin was already splitting his face, shining even in the twilight. Ignoring the probable internal bruising, Ron shifted his position slightly, managing to wrap his arms securely around Draco, locking him in place against the grass.
“You’re entirely too dramatic,” Draco huffed, but the complaint lacked conviction. He didn’t try to escape the embrace.
He turned his head slightly, taking in the evidence of their destruction. The snapped branch hung pitifully from the trunk, a thick, splintered gash marking its demise, swinging gently, uselessly, in the cool evening breeze. The loss stung more than he expected. That swing hadn’t just been a recreational spot; it had been his anchor, a quiet, forgotten corner of his father’s estate where the suffocating Malfoy rules didn’t apply. It had been his solitary sanctuary—a place no one could touch him, physically or emotionally. Now it was gone, dismantled by the very person who had taught him he didn’t need an anchor anymore.
Warm lips, soft and surprisingly chapped, pressed gently against the sensitive curve of his neck, sending a surprising shiver down Draco’s spine. Ron’s fingers found his, lacing their hands together, his calloused thumbs brushing slow circles over Draco’s pale knuckles.
“It’s just a swing, Draco,” Ron whispered against his skin, the sound muffled and intimate.
Draco tilted his head toward him, his silver eyes losing their sharp, defensive edge, softening almost imperceptibly. Maybe Ron was right. Maybe it was just a swing. Or perhaps it wasn’t. Maybe that broken piece of wood, that solitary refuge, had finally accomplished its sole, quiet purpose: it had carried him, held him aloft, until he had found someone—or something—that meant he didn’t need its lonely support anymore.
He smiled, a faint, genuine curve of the lips that felt almost alien. “How did you even manage to get back here, anyway? I thought my father had the whole perimeter guarded. He would’ve had your head mounted on a spike if you’d dared to come through the front gate.”
“I climbed over the hedge,” Ron announced proudly, puffing out his chest as much as the supine position allowed.
Draco craned his neck, looking toward the far edge of the impeccably manicured lawn. Sure enough, the colossal, once-perfectly sculpted privet hedge—a hedge his father paid three full-time gardeners to maintain—was now a mangled disaster. There were clear signs of a hurried, heavy, and very red-haired person having used it as a human ladder. A small, sharp, utterly delighted laugh escaped him, a sound rarely heard within the manor walls.
“My parents are absolutely going to kill you for that,” Draco said, his voice laced with amusement rather than fear.
“Nah,” Ron murmured, a lazy, confident sound. He brushed his nose lightly against the fine silk of Draco’s hair. “You’d miss me too much to let them.”
Draco looked up into Ron’s eyes, the pale moonlight catching the warmth in them. He didn’t bother denying it. He simply tightened his grip on Ron’s hand, resting his head back on Ron’s chest and listening to the steady, reassuring thump of the heart beneath him. The broken swing could stay broken. He had found a better kind of anchor.