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On Friday night, Ron realised, with sudden, mad clarity, that Draco Malfoy was part of their lives.
This realisation hit him like a particularly spicy curry would: all tingly at first, then before you knew it your mouth was aflame and you were coughing up a storm and water wasn’t helping, and Hermione was thumping you on the back concernedly and Harry was getting up from his side of the table, presumably to perform the Heimlich maneuver, and Ron realised he had to do something before Harry crunched three of his ribs in an attempt to release the non-existent morsel of food blocking his airway.
He waved a desperate hand that hopefully meant Away, away, I am not dying except internally now that I have realised that one of our sworn enemies in childhood now regularly attends our pub nights, he is now helping plan Hermione’s birthday, Harry, what will we do, and made a valiant effort to stop choking on nothing.
“Ron!” Hermione said. “Are you alright!”
“Ron!” Harry said. “What just happened, mate?”
“Ron!” Draco said. “You almost ruined pub night by dying on us, honestly.”
Ron recovered his voice enough to croak out, “Firewhisky down the wrong hole,” and responded to Draco’s eyeroll that seemed to imply Typical with a narrow-eyed glare that meant, if it wouldn’t upset Harry so much you’d be the one choking, with my hands around your throat.
That was another thing. They were all calling him Draco, now. Even Ron. It was most disconcerting.
He had just- managed to insinuate himself into their lives, was the thing. Sure, he’d started Auror training with Harry, and they were assigned as partners, and sure, he’d had to save Harry’s life a time or two when Harry did dumb stuff like rush recklessly into dangerous situations in one of his fits of histrionic heroics, and sure, now they all trusted him to have Harry’s back, and then he’d started hanging out with Harry, which okay, mutual partner bonding, Ron got that, and then, sure, he had kind of apologised to each of them - in a months-long dickish, roundabout process - for how he’d behaved in school, and he and Hermione now talked about Runes and Arithmancy Theory and stuff Ravenclaws tended to find interesting, and it was nice Hermione had someone fairly intelligent (as prattish and boastful as he was about said intelligence) to talk to about this, since Ron knew he and Harry were hopeless at preventing their eyes from glazing over once she got started, and then somehow between all of that he’d managed to save Harry’s life like two more times, and strike up an odd and unlikely friendship with Seamus over ‘70s Muggle disco, and attend a couple of weekend Quidditch matches, and bring his pals over for pub night and maybe Millie was a bit hilarious and Theo and Parvati seemed to have a thing going on and Pansy always had the best alcoholic chocolates since her aunt had basically monopolised the whole industry with a combination of underhand tactics and genuinely amazing candy. And she and Harry appeared to have made up over the whole about-to-sell-him-out-to-megalomaniac-killer issue.
But still. How had this happened without anyone really noticing? How was it two years on, and they were all here, talking and laughing and being pretty good pals with a bunch of Slytherins who came and went from Friday pub night as they pleased, and how most of all, was Draco an integral part of their lives? Surely there had to be some Dark Magic going on here, a little voice in Ron’s head that spoke strangely like obsessive sixteen year old Harry assured him.
What they really needed in these troubled times was Harry in sixth year, who had kept swearing up and down that Malfoy was up to something, and would not rest until he proved that Malfoy was the Evilest of the Evil, perhaps a rung down from You Know Who but just as bad, clearly. Perhaps he needed that Harry with a lot less skipping Exploding Snap games to hang around Draco creepily in an Invisibility Cloak, but still. That Harry would have been appalled at current Harry’s behaviour, this Harry who was comfortably chuckling at a snide remark Draco had made about him (all of Draco’s remarks, even Draco reformed, seemed unable to be anything but) and returning that even if his sunburn looked awful at least he was able to tan, and not look like either a ghost or a lobster, no in between, this Harry who was leaning in close to grin indulgently as Draco let out a squawk, and who was not leaning away even as Draco attempted to slap at him and demand he take it back.
Ron’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Something was going on here; he’d learned to trust this feeling. Perhaps he’d take Harry aside later, and risk Harry’s hurt expression and stubborn pushed-out lip, the way he got so protective about the people he trusted, to ask if Harry was sure Draco wasn’t up to anything, because even if he might be an almost-alright bloke these days you couldn’t ever trust Slytherins as far as you could throw a Crup, a fact that they even seemed to take pride in. And Ron’s gut was informing him quite insistently that there was something he was missing, and to trust his suspicions. Being an Auror helped hone these kinds of things.
He was distracted by Blaise slouching in his chair, and raising an eyebrow and offering, “I could striptease, that’d be entertainment enough.”
“You are not stripping at my girlfriend’s birthday party!”
“We appear to be running out of options that we can all agree on,” Blaise said, shrugging. “I’m sure we can all agree that we all want to see more of this.” He indicated himself, up and down.
Neville elbowed him, laughing. “Shut up, wanker.”
“We really don’t need to make a big deal about this,” Hermione put in, half-heartedly, more because she felt she had to rather than out of any real objection to a big party with cake and gifts that were undoubtedly mostly books.
Everybody ignored her.
“Blaise has a point,” Draco said thoughtfully. Ron made a strangled noise. “Have you ever experienced a wizarding striptease?” he asked Hermione. “When I did Muggle Studies-”
“-it always amazes me that you did Muggle Studies-”
“Know thy enemy, Granger. As I was saying, before Professor Litya refused my request, I was thinking of doing my final presentation on the differences between the Muggle and Wizarding sex industry. I did a lot of research on it, did you all know? Same general history of exploitation of women, but very interesting differences. For example, how Muggles creatively branched out into written, spoken, televised, even aminamated-”
“Animated,” said Dean.
“-amimated pornography, while wizards focused on sex toys, potions, charms to enhance the sexual experience. The Lubricating Charm, of course, is relatively new, and until today, we keep working on new and different variations of it-”
“Draco,” said Harry, who looked quite red about the face, bless his heart. Anyone would be, having to hear Draco Malfoy natter on about lube that tingled with varying degrees of intensity according to how aroused someone was during intercourse. “Is there a point to all of this?”
“Oh yes,” Draco said cheerfully. “As I was saying, before Litya killed my innocent, childish, spirit of enquiry-”
There was a general snort around the table.
“-by denying my request to present this as part of my final grade, I did learn about how Muggle and wizarding strippers differ.”
“Do they?” Blaise asked with great interest. “What do Muggle strippers do?”
“They take off their clothes while dancing to music,” Draco said, in the tones of one who has to divulge some tragic and terrible secret.
“And?”
“And... that is all,” Draco said, hushed.
Blaise gasped loudly. Pansy took a chocolate from the box. Greg and Vince furrowed their brows. Even Neville and Parvati squinted confusedly.
“But,” Seamus said, “not even the tails?”
“The tails,” Harry repeated, faintly.
“Surely not,” Blaise said, looking a little like they needed to apply some smelling salts to his nose soon.
“Is that true?” Ron asked Hermione. “The Muggles don’t have the tails?”
“What are the tails for,” Hermione asked, sounding a bit concerned and rather amused.
Blaise opened his mouth, but Draco said: “Nuh-uh-uh!” and flicked his wrist in a lordly gesture. Perhaps Draco had changed, but in some ways, he was still that kid over at the Slytherin table, holding court over his people, and somewhere along the weird way, they’d all become his people, too. Their booth at the table had become his court, and it wasn’t all that bad, Ron had to conclude, leaning back and readying himself for what fresh horror Draco could plan next, was the absolute absurdity of it all.
Draco held a weird kind of spell over his people, too. Blaise, confrontational with most people and their grandmothers, immediately shushed, as if Draco had cast a Silencio. Harry was staring at him sort of entrancedly, and also in a way that suggested he was a bit terrified about what was to come, which thankfully meant he hadn’t quite taken leave of all his senses quite yet.
“Then it’s decided,” Draco announced, at his most purebloodedly prattish. “You’re getting a traditional wizarding striptease, Hermione. Not Blaise, not to worry.”
Ron said: “Oi-”
Blaise said: “But-”
Hannah gave a choked-off giggle.
Harry said, like a broken record: “Tails-”
Pansy wordlessly offered Ron a whisky white in the shape of a Kneazle. Ron took it to rally his strength, and opened his mouth to argue.
Luna said, sadly: “I don’t think it’s much use, Ron.”
Hermione said, brightly: “I think it might be really interesting! I’ve never heard of this before,” which meant that the world was ending and Luna had made an astute observation of her surroundings.
“And we’ll all be there, and there will be no touching, or- or lap dancing-” she flushed a bit pink, but carried on- “involved, right? What exactly goes on in this- ritual- anyway?”
“Everybody be quiet and don’t spoil Granger’s birthday surprise,” Draco said sternly.
“I haven’t actually seen one live,” Ron answered her. “All I’ve heard is what Fred and George and Bill and Charlie have told me.”
“A wizarding striptease,” Dean said, “is a, um. How do I put this. A performance. Seamus took me to one. It is, ah. A Show.” They could all hear the sound of his capital letters.
“Tails,” Harry intoned to no-one in particular.
“Harry,” Draco said kindly, “perhaps it is getting a bit too late for you. You are gibbering again.”
Harry moaned lowly in fear of what was happening on Hermione’s birthday. Draco smiled down at his head on the table, cheek on the wooden surface and face turned towards Draco. On anyone else, Ron would have called this expression fond. But then he patted Harry’s cheek and said something awful, given Harry’s swat at him, and Ron was reminded that this was the git who was Still Clearly Up To The No-Good Things. Tonight had only proved this indomitable truth.
He confided his fears to Hermione on Saturday night, as they got ready for bed after dinner at the Burrow. Hermione was pulling her terribly endearing yellow pajamas on, the ones with the purple quills on her dad had picked out for her oh, years ago. It was the same way she wore the Hippogriff socks Harry had gotten her for Christmas and slid the chunky bracelet Ginny had advised against but Ron had got for her anyway on below the arm of her robes and managed to choke down three of Hagrid’s latest attempt at cupcakes. Ron loved his girlfriend dearly.
“Oh, I am glad you’ve finally noticed,” Hermione said, pleased with him.
Ron was a bit surprised. He was expecting something more in line with the affectionately exasperated Oh, come on, Ron, are we still harping on this let’s not still be fifteen that was very comforting in its own way.
“I thought you liked him!” he exclaimed.
“I do!” she said. “Which is why it’s great you’ve realised there’s something going on with him and Harry! And how calmly you’re behaving about it!”
“How can you be so cheerful that he is plotting something evil again?”
“Plotting- oh, Ron,” Hermione said, all fond exasperation. “Are we still harping on this? We’re not still fifteen, you know.”
“Exactly- wait,” Ron said.
Hermione busied herself very suddenly with the thorough and efficient plumping up of her pillow. When she was done with that, she started on Ron’s. “Have you brushed your teeth?” she asked, despite the fact that they’d done it at the same time in the bathroom, small but theirs, grinning at each other with the foam clouding up their gums, all wide and silly about it, barely ten minutes ago.
“Hermione,” Ron said, very slowly, with terrible dawning comprehension. “What did you think I’d realised about what is going on with Harry and Draco?”
“How about some supper,” Hermione said, desperately.
If anyone was curious as to whether it was possible to for someone to have a coronary for a day straight, well, now it was well and truly proven. Ron should get a whole St Mungo’s ward named after him for his contribution to medical research.
“Now, Ron,” Hermione wheedled for the last time before she clutched his arm and they Apparated, “it’s my birthday.”
“I intend on behaving like a first rate mate to Harry,” he said through his ongoing heart attack, a bit indignant that she would think otherwise and start lecturing him again on how important it was to be supportive to one’s friends regardless of their preferences in sexualities and Slytherins.
She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and they whirled away to Harry’s flat.
The flat was decorated with what was clearly both wizarding and Muggle influences; Ron could see multicoloured helium balloons which had to be Harry, and the much more familiar streamers which rained glitter and sang peaceful jingles in a chorus, which he attributed to Draco, who he realised had probably helped decorate Harry’s flat, alone together with him, now that Ron knew what he knew.
“Ron, your face is twisting into the migraine expression again,” Hermione said patiently.
“Hey!” Ginny said, “you’re early,” and she clutched Hermione into a hug and affixed a party hat in the shape of a leprechaun head onto her curls. Hermione gave Ron a warning look which meant my birthday before she let herself be tugged away, and Ron sighed back at her which meant why must you wound me by doubting me like this, love of my life.
“Ron!” Harry said, already wearing his hat, lion-shaped. “D’you want phoenix or Nocrome bear? Ron,” he said, alarmed, “why do you look ashen and like you’re in a lot of pain?”
So maybe Hermione had a reason for warning him that it was her birthday.
Ron resolved to be the best mate that had ever existed, even if the price was having Draco Malfoy around for the rest of his life.
“Did you just shudder violently?” Harry asked, sounding very concerned.
“Harry, let’s talk,” he said, with new resolve, and walked until they found themselves in Harry’s nice attic with the slanted ceiling.
“Now, Harry,” he started, and tried to recall some of the points Hermione had brought up in one of her several (eleven) little speeches last night. “We’ve been friends for quite some time.”
“Mate, you’re scaring me,” Harry said. The lion peered nervously down at Ron from the top of Harry’s wild hair.
“No, no,” Ron hastened to reassure him. “Nothing bad. Just that, whatever life choices you make, um, you can talk to us. The world is prejudiced and we are not. Yes,” he said, getting into the swing of things, “no matter race, species or gender, or House or history, we would never be judgemental of who you choose to-”
Comprehension materialised slowly on Harry’s face. It looked rather like Ron had felt last night. Terrible and dawning, like an oncoming meteor. “This was Hermione, wasn’t it,” he said. “Oh god. Why, Hermione. Why have you done this? I have been nothing but a good friend-”
“It wasn’t her fault!” Ron said. “I kind of figured it out.”
Harry looked insultingly doubtful of this. “Either way,” he said, “it’s- it’s just a crush, or I’mabitinlovewithhim or whatever, but it’s okay, you don’t have to make declarations of acceptance and friendship, although I appreciate it. He’s not interested in me like- like that.” Harry looked down at his scuffed sneakers at this. They both did, in a studious effort to ignore a certain part of what had just been said. Ron felt sure these were a new pair, and they already looked exactly like the ones he’d had for years.
“Uh,” Ron said, “why not?”
Harry smiled up ruefully at him. “Not everyone is, Ron, you know. It’s fine.”
“If I were Draco Malfoy, little skinny pointy-faced ferret git,” Ron announced, his voice rising in volume, “I would be crushing the fuck back out of you, what do you mean he isn’t interested?”
“Ron,” Harry said, half-laughing and half-shushing.
“Does his pasty inbred arse,” Ron demanded, “think he can do better than the Saviour of the wizarding world?”
“Ron!” Harry implored, waving his wand in a wild attempt at a Muffliato. From the lack of the shivery little rush of magic, Ron assumed he was a bit too distracted to perform it properly. “I assumed from your horrified, scrunched-up, tantrumy expression you weren’t particularly fond of the idea in the first place!”
“Well, I wasn’t,” Ron said mutinously. “But the bony little prat not being into you changes things. Who does he think he is, anyway, rejecting you-”
“Ron, he never-” Harry said, at the same time a sneery, terrifically annoying, terrifyingly familiar voice in the doorway said, drily, “If you’re going to make up falsehoods about me, Weasley, at least put more imagination into them.”
“Oh,” Harry said, eyes wide. “Oh, shit. Draco, how much did you-”
“All of it,” Draco said, quite calm and bitingly truthful. “I thought I’d follow you when Weasley carted you off; he had quite the murderous expression on his face.”
“Draco,” Harry said, sounding helpless.
“Yes?” Draco said. “Do you have more to add to Weasley’s succinct repertoire of insults? You left out the failed stint at racist almost-assassin,” he added to Ron, sounding quite bored and extremely disdainful. His mouth was twisted up on the left, and he looked very like that boy Ron remembered from school in this moment, and shockingly like his father, and very much someone who did not care about the way Harry looked stricken and vulnerable, staring at him like Draco was just drawing out the long, long second before he crushed his heart underfoot.
Ron realised Draco could, easily, and that was quite the issue, quite moreso than the lingering horror of this being the person Harry had chosen to hand his heart over to.
Ron also remembered something Harry had told him, when he’d just started getting along with Draco at work, and Draco had turned up beside Harry’s hospital bed when he’d just woken up and sneered haughtily down at him and said, “Merlin, if you’re still alive, they won’t assign me a partner less likely to kill me along with them,” and turned on his heel and left. Ron had made outraged noises, but Harry had sort of smiled tiredly and said, “He spent hours levitating the bits of cave that had crushed me,” and, more to himself than anyone, “he gets all- pureblood when he’s worried,” and asked for some water.
Perhaps Draco Malfoy being part of their lives- wouldn’t make the world end, as they had so often feared it would. Which was all the concession Ron felt he could give at this point in time, so-
“Oho,” Ron said, instead of charging up to Harry’s defence. “You’re- all nervous!”
Harry and Draco’s eyes darted to him now, Harry’s confused and Draco’s still blankly uncaring, but Ron could sense panic, having been a victim to its faint remnants for almost twenty-four hours now.
“Oho,” Ron crowed again. “You care!”
“Ron,” Harry said in great trepidation and confusion, and Draco said, “Weasley,” which sounded greatly like one of Hermione’s warnings. “I am quite sure I do not know what you are wittering on about.”
“What I mean to say,” Ron said, more kindly, and then added, “you little git,” for posterity’s sake, “is that you might be all of the things I said, and insufferable and delusional besides, but you’re okay for an almost ex-Death Eater. And you have Harry’s back, and you helped plan my girlfriend’s birthday party, and you round out our numbers for Quidditch, and you could be worse, considering what you were like in school.”
“Thanks ever so, Ronald,” Draco said, in a voice so dry it was parched. “No, do stop, I don’t know what Granger would say if she caught us in this intimate moment, it would break her-”
“You can shag Harry,” Ron said, very sure in this moment that he was the best friend that had ever existed in the history of both Muggle and wizardkind. “You have my blessing.”
There was a little silence.
“Jesus and Merlin,” Harry said to his slanted ceiling. “Godric and Buddha.”
“Thank you for that,” Draco said. “I was up nights worrying about how to ask for your permission to shag Harry.”
Harry flushed very slowly and deeply, from his neck, a bright red thing creeping up to his face. Draco looked at him, distracted. “So it’s true,” he said, voice gone from painfully posh to a bit- wondering.
Ron smiled very brightly. “Well, now you don’t have to anymore!” he said. “Just don’t do it in front of me,” he added as an afterthought, and was struck by the thought that they might do it right now, the way they were looking at each other, and swiftly fled.
He caught Hermione in the kitchen, laughing with Millie and Lavender. “Where’ve you been?” she asked. “Blaise says the stripper’s coming soon, I hear there’ll be fireworks in his show, the literal kind, oh dear.”
“Talking to Harry,” Ron told her. “And Draco.”
Alarm passed over her features.
“Don’t worry!” he assured her. “Everything’s fine.”
She got a slightly constipated look, but patted his arm and brightened as Blaine announced that they were about to witness one of the Wonders of the Wizarding World - The Wild, Wet and Wonderful Wally!
Ron spent the next hour alternating between choking silently on the charmed sex toys that appeared out of Wild, Wet and Wonderful Wally’s tails and tentacles, and Draco and Harry all huddled up on the sofa, Draco’s hand doing something under Harry’s shirt that made Harry squirm pleasurably and look up at Draco like Draco had saved the wizarding world, not him. Pansy passed over a Belgium Bourbon. Hermione serenely thumped him on the back.