Don't Let's Start

Chapter Seven

Ron was understandably suspicious when Draco flashed him a disarming smile the next morning, since he was for once cheerfully up at the crack of dawn, denim-clad and, strangely enough, shirtless. His silvery blond hair fell in a shining mass, almost artfully disarrayed, and his eyes were heavy-lidded and sleep-blurred.

"Hullo," Draco greeted him in a pleasant purr, then yawned and stretched, arms folding behind the back of his head.

Ron's eyes followed the lean lines of his body, watching the already low-riding jeans settle lower on his hipbones as Draco's stomach muscles contracted, affording Ron a stirring image of the smooth expanse of skin just above the blond's groin. The redhead shifted in his seat and dropped his eyes to his coffee. "Morning," he mumbled.

"Twins aren't up?" Draco asked, turning to reach for a mug.

If Ron didn't know better, he'd think the blond was deliberately trying to entice him. "Not yet."

"Hmmm. Mind giving me a hand, Weasley?" He gestured towards the open cabinet. "Cup's a bit further back than I can reach."

Ron's brows shot up. He was asking for his help? Draco, who hated his height with a passion and would never, ever deliberately give Ron a chance to see him at a disadvantage, wanted his help? Something was definitely up with the blond.

"Weasley?"

"Uh... yeah," he said, shaking his head slightly and rising to his feet. "Sure."

Draco cocked a hip on the edge of the counter, not bothering to budge as Ron walked towards him, his mouth still in an amiable curve that the ex-Gryffindor found somewhat creepy. As even a heated glare failed to cause the blond to move out of the way, Ron had to reach around him to stretch his arm up to the shelf, the side of his body brushing Draco's bare chest.

Ron's t-shirt was soft and worn thin from repeated washings, proving little protection against the heat of the other man's skin. He gritted his teeth and wrapped his fingers around a white mug, then slammed it down on the counter and turned away, resisting the urge to cage the blond up to the marble slab and press himself more firmly along him.

It didn't occur to him until after he'd sat back down that he could've avoided brushing against Draco altogether by using his wand. Cursing his stupidity, he refreshed his cup of coffee and stared blindly at that morning's Daily Prophet, pretending not to notice the sway of the blond's hips as he wandered slowly over to the table.

Draco was playing with fire.

He was actually enjoying it, too. Settling down next to Ron, he filled his mug with coffee and accidentally brushed his bare foot along the man's jean-encased calf, earning a glare and a slight shove from the redhead, but also pinked-cheeks and a barely perceptible growl. Promising. Very promising.

"Are you blushing, Weasley?" Draco asked, one brow quirked in amusement.

Ron narrowed his eyes at him. "What game are you playing?" he demanded.

Ignoring the question, Draco smiled around the rim of his mug as he held it to his lips, and a soft moan drifted up from his throat as he took a sip. "Excellent."

"Are you trying to drive me crazy?" Ron burst out in sudden frustration.

"Why, no," he said, glancing over at him, eyes wide with overt innocence. Inside he was cackling evilly, and more than a little turned on by the way Ron was staring at his lips. Blaise was a genius.

He could annoy and seduce Ron at the same time. Of course, as Blaise had predicted, the two practically went hand in hand with the redhead. The only way he was going to get anywhere with the stubborn git was to frustrate him enough to snap his control, and hope that Ron would jump him instead of trying to rip out his throat. A bit of a risky gamble, but Draco figured the pay-off would be worth it.

Ron tightened his grip on his coffee mug, relishing the heat that burned through the porcelain. "I'm taking the boys to Diagon Alley this afternoon."

The blond straightened in his seat. "Can I--"

"No," Ron cut him off.

"But--"

"No."

Narrowing his eyes, Draco scowled at him. "Why the hell not?"

"You honestly don't know?" Ron asked, incredulous. "Your father wants you dead, Malfoy, and you want to stroll about Wizarding London?"

"We went to visit your mum," Draco pointed out with a slight pout.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Who lives not a mile away in a heavily warded house. You're not going out in public, Malfoy. That's final."

Draco's previous high spirits dropped considerably. How was he supposed to test out his Blaise-inspired wiles if Ron wasn't even going to be around? "How long will you be gone?"

The redhead shrugged. "A few hours. Might stay out for dinner." He arched a brow. "I'm sure you can scrounge up something for yourself if that happens."

"Of course," Draco stated imperiously. Which was true, of course, even though he really wasn't the best cook. But then, he was a wizard. Conjuring was quite possibly the best use of magic ever invented.

And then he remembered his lecherous intentions, and how whining wouldn't necessarily tempt Ron into ravishing him. Quickly, he twisted his pouted lips into a semi-pleasant smirk.

"What?" Ron asked warily.

Draco shrugged and glanced down at his coffee cup, swirling the contents absently. "Blaise has some odd notions, doesn't he?"

"Zabini is a sick bastard," the redhead said emphatically, pushing back from the table and dumping his now chilled coffee into the sink.

"You think so?" Draco asked, jerking his head up in surprise. He hadn't actually thought that Blaise had approached Ron with his current desire to have the two of them shagging, but apparently he must have said something. And while Blaise's obsessive harping about it was somewhat disturbing, sick bastard wasn't exactly the first description that popped into Draco's head. Amazingly insightful, perhaps. Although Draco was well past being shocked by his own desire to bed the Weasel.

Ron obviously needed some convincing.

The ex-Gryffindor gave him a narrowed look, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. "I suppose you don't?"

Draco cocked his head quizzically. "Not particularly, no."

"Figures," Ron muttered.

Frowning, Draco opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by the twins skidding through the doorway, laughing and, as always, shoving each other as they fought their way to the lower cabinet that housed their cereal.

Ron ruffled their hair and got out milk, thankful for the distraction, then stalked out of the kitchen to get ready for work.

Draco sank down lower in his seat, absently chewing on his lower lip, and watched him leave. With a sigh, he drummed his fingertips against the side of his mug and mentally skimmed over the finer points of Blaise's note - which had, of course, already been torn up into bitty pieces and fed to the dog. Rage, Blaise had written, is key. The Weasley temper is a force that can be used for both good and evil. And by evil, I mean unleashed furious shagging. The blond smirked. Weasley can't argue his way out of a bag, so it won't take much to get physical. This, Draco had readily conceded, was absolutely true.

Use food, and use it well. The mention of food was unsurprising, knowing Ron's appetite, but the exact meaning of the suggestion was somewhat obscured by the fact that Blaise may or may not have had actually eating the food in mind. At least, not in the conventional way.

Exploit his Gryffindoric tendencies. Accidents happen, and a few tears wouldn't hurt either. Never underestimate the sympathy vote. Well, he certainly wasn't going to cry in front of the man, even if the tears were merely feigned. And what did Blaise expect him to do, jump into the dragon pen? Have Ron - in some sort of unoriginal fairly-tale maneuver - literally slay the menacing beast for him?

Draco snorted derisively, and then his mouth turned down in a scowl as recalled the fourth item. You're pretty; flaunt it. Even more than usual. Weasley likes shiny things. How the hell did Blaise know about the redhead's preferences?

In fact, when he thought about it in the revealing light of day, the whole list reeked of ex-lover. Draco's stomach roiled, and he suddenly felt inexplicably nauseous. If all else fails, Blaise had ended grandly, his obliviousness is clearly voluntary. He only sees what he wants to see. Bluntness works, and may be your only option. Bluntness works. Had the dark-haired ex-Slytherin had the opportunity to test that theory out? The confidently worded phrase seemed to suggest it, and Draco could hardly believe the emotion bubbling up inside of him.

He was jealous.

The blond had never been particularly jealous about anything in his entire life. Well, if he discounted the praise and attention the fucking Boy Wonder had gotten all through Hogwarts. He suspected, though, that stemmed directly from his hate and disgust for the Gyffindor, and his own issues with being dismissed out of hand.

But to feel this pure possessiveness over a man he was only marginally fond of, despite any attraction? That, he suddenly realized, was the root of his wariness over the entire situation. An unexplainable, deep-seated awareness that Ron was his. And he was back to being scared shitless; because he wasn't at all sure he had a firm handle on his emotions after all.

The chair next to him made a horrible screeching noise, and Draco jumped slightly, then turned to watch one of the boys scramble up onto it, cereal clutched in his hands.

"What're you doing?" he asked, and Draco realized he'd been staring silently off into space for an inordinate length of time.

"Thinking," he offered wanly.

The other boy peeked curiously above the edge of the table, fingers curling over the edge. "'bout what?"

Draco clenched his hand tightly around his mug. "Nothing."

******

The afternoon stretched out before him, empty and hot and heavy with humidity. He was deliberately not thinking about Ron. And about the list. And Blaise's delusions and possible romps of debauchery with his redhead. And anything at all that had to do with sex in general. Consequently, he was slightly agitated and falling into a rapidly yawning chasm of boredom.

"I'm bored," Draco stated, lazily pushing his foot off the wooden porch, causing the chair he was ensconced in to rock back with a protesting creak. "More bored than I've ever been in my entire life."

Beside him, Dastardly cocked his head, ears pricked and furry brows lifted in curiosity.

"Don't take it personally," Draco said to him, tipping a butterbeer to his mouth. "But you're just a dog, after all."

Das' tongue lolled out in what Draco surmised was doggy laughter. And it was at that exact moment that he decided he was minutely close to losing his mind. Malfoys didn't talk to dogs.

Although, according to his homicidal father, Malfoys didn't do a lot of things that Draco did on a daily basis. Fantasize about Ron Weasley, for one. Rescue cats and climb trees and ask Muggle-borns for advice and befriend bluebirds... Adding 'talking to a dog' didn't seem so bad after that. There really wasn't anything, he thought, that could make Lucius hate him more.

"You're better than nothing, I suppose," Draco said resignedly.

The black dog growled.

"Fine, fine," Draco capitulated with a sigh, then said with forced cheerfulness, "You're the best possible companion for the current situation." This seemed to placate the beast, who wasn't at all adept at picking up on sarcasm.

The dog really was better than being truly alone, though, and soon Draco found himself on the back lawn, head resting on his hands, a few empty butterbeer bottles scattered around, with Dastardly sprawled similarly beside him. He was well into the third verse of Rum, Rum, the Night's Full o' Rum - a terribly catchy tune without much substance - when a shadow fell across him.

"What the hell are you doing, Malfoy?"

Draco sighed into the grass and propped his chin in his hands. "Singing."

"Yes, I heard," Harry said, crouching down next to him and palming a discarded bottle. "Are you drunk?"

"Actually no," the blond drawled, rolling onto his back and blinking up at him. "And I'm not at all surprised that you'd think butterbeer actually contains alcohol." His voice was dispassionate, with only a hint of dry wit. "I'm bored." Dastardly barked sharply, and Draco amended graciously, "We're bored."

Harry arched a brow, but held out a hand to him. "Come on, then. I'll save you."

Draco ignored the hand and clutched his chest, tossing his head back melodramatically. "You can't help me, Harry," he cried. "I'm too far gone for you and your enormous head to save." He sent Harry a disgusted sneer. "Your hero-complex is rapidly getting old, Potter."

"It was old ten years ago, Malfoy," Harry said wryly, hand still outstretched. "I would've thought you'd noticed."

Draco rolled his eyes and finally allowed Harry to help him to his feet. "Believe it or not, Potter, but I try to notice as little about you as I possibly can," he said, brushing off his trousers. "Now what?" he asked, somewhat petulantly.

"Now," Harry said, clapping his palms together, "we have a little chat."

"About...?" Draco arched a suspicious brow. He hoped to Merlin the man wasn't going to give him a belated stay-away-from-Ron speech.

"Your father." Harry jerked his head towards the back of the house, gesturing for Draco to follow him, and the blond noticed that someone was standing by the door, Auror robes parted and hands stuffed in pockets.

The man was almost as slight as him, with mousy brown hair and a wide smile, and he looked vaguely familiar, though Draco couldn't quite place him.

"Malfoy," Harry said as they drew closer, "you remember Colin Creevey, don't you?"

"Creevey?" Draco asked, lips quirked. "Living your dream, are you, following Potter around?"

Colin's smile didn't falter; in fact it widened some as he rocked back on his heels. "You could say that. Good to see you, Malfoy."

"A shame I can't return the sentiment."

"Careful, Malfoy," Harry admonished. "Colin here is an integral Auror on your case."

"It's not my case," Draco spat out. "My father's always been a crazy bastard, and I hardly think you want him caught merely because of my safety. I'd never believe that for a minute. I'm a fucking aside, Potter, and if you didn't want Lucius in custody for his past transgressions against the Order, you wouldn't care one wit about me."

"Lucky for you it all goes hand in hand, eh?" Harry tried for a sneer, but he'd never been very good at maliciousness, really, and his eyes shone with amusement more than anything else.

"What do you want to discuss, Potter?" Draco asked stiffly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Harry fidgeted a bit, his expression suddenly serious. "Ah, well... He's taken your mother."

Draco blinked at him. "What did you just say?" For a moment, it felt as if his heart had stopped.

"We got word this morning." Harry took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. "She's gone, Malfoy. I'm sorry."

The blond stared at him blankly. "My mother is dead, Potter."

Harry offered him a wan smile. "Your father isn't the sanest person at the moment, so I have my doubts he'd care."

"Are you telling me," Draco said tightly, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, "that Father's stolen her urn out of the family mausoleum?"

"That's the gist," Colin put in, nodding.

Draco pressed his fingers against his forehead. "And I suppose you have no good news to impart? Should I even bother being astounded by your incompetence?"

"He's a wily bastard," Colin said good-naturedly. "I'll give him that."

The blond's eyes rounded incredulously. "He's a half-witted crazy man lugging a vase of ashes around. I'd hardly call him wily." And then a deeply horrifying thought occurred to him. "Fuck. He wants to turn me into Mother, doesn't he?"

"I don't know how that's possible," Harry hedged, looking vaguely uncomfortable and shooting Colin sidelong glances.

Draco sighed and tilted his head back to stare at the gray clouds above. "You are complete rubbish at any sort of lies, Potter. Always have been. It's truly a wonder how you function properly as an Auror. Although," he jerked his gaze back to the dark-haired man, "I have my doubts that you actually do, considering the level of prowess you've been exhibiting chasing after my father."

Red stained Harry's cheeks, but Colin quickly defused his anger with a chuckle. "Harry doesn't need to lie," he said. "That's what I'm here for."

Draco gazed at Colin warily, for the first time noticing a tightness around the other man's eyes.

"We've got a trail on your father, Malfoy," Colin went on. "It's only a matter of time before he stumbles." With the unreadable hardness in his irises, his smile seemed a lot more feral than friendly. "Wish to Merlin Ron was with us though."

"You worked with Weasley?" Draco asked before he could stop himself.

"Partners." He cocked his head to the side. "Can I have a word alone with you?"

For some inexplicable reason, Draco sent a questioning look to Harry, but the Auror merely shrugged.

Taking his silence as compliance, Colin wrapped a hand around Draco's elbow and started walking towards the front of the house, his pace deliberately slow. "I hear things," Colin started, eyes locked on the expanse of lawn in front of them, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly on Draco's arm. "I hear things, and you know, Harry's not really the one you have to look out for."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Draco asked, genuinely confused.

"I know a hundred and seven ways to kill a man, Malfoy. Slowly." He slanted the blond a look. "And I've always been the protective sort. It's what makes me so good at my job."

"Are you threatening me, Creevey?" Draco demanded, pausing mid-stride.

"Merely stating a fact." Colin turned wide hazel eyes on Draco, letting his hand drop from the blond's arm. "I consider Ron family."

And that's when it hit him. He was getting the belated stay-away-from-Ron lecture from Colin Creevey. He would have laughed if the fierceness buried in Colin's eyes hadn't been so... fierce. "I'm not making you any promises," Draco bit out.

Colin clapped him companionably on the shoulder, boyish face still deceivingly pleasant. "Not asking you to," he said. "Just wanted to make you aware of the consequences."

There was all this worry over Weasley, Draco thought petulantly, and no one seemed the least concerned about him. "So I'm aware. Why don't you and Potter bugger off now?"

"Sure, Malfoy," Colin laughed. "Sure."

He refused to see them off, instead stalking into the house, even more agitated than before. With only a passing thought, he grabbed a handful of Floo powder and stepped into the den hearth, shouting "the Burrow" into the ashy air.

******

The house was empty.

Ron prowled the shadowed rooms of the first floor restlessly, then stalked out into the backyard, eyes scanning the dark tree line for any sign of his blond guest. Dastardly came loping towards him, his deep, playful woofs echoing across the grounds as the murky twilight sky broke open and let loose a pounding, heavy rain. Draco was no where to be seen.

Following the boys up to their bedroom, he stopped and slowly pushed open Draco's half ajar door, heart pounding faster when he found the chamber empty as well, a shaft of lightning illuminating the neatly made bed. The blond wasn't stupid enough to leave the refuge, was he? Could someone have broken through the wards and taken him?

There wasn't any sign of forced entry onto the grounds though, no alarms had been tripped, and Ron cursed himself for not thinking to make the wards impregnable from the inside as well. Draco had clearly left.

Fear and anger compounded to make the redhead break out into a cold sweat. Anything could have happened to him if he'd foolishly stepped off the refuge grounds, for any reason at all. Images of a broken and bloodied Draco flashed through his mind, Lucius' cold laughter mixing with the echoes of Percy's madness, and Ron swallowed down a panicky moan.

His hands were shaking, and he forced himself to take deep breaths through his nose. Checking to make sure the boys were all right, he ordered Dastardly to keep watch over them and Apparated directly to the Burrow. If he was going to go out on a manhunt, he'd have to ask his mum to stay with the twins.

He was immediately soaked to the bone as he landed on the dirt path, having forgotten in his haste that he'd armed his parents' home with anti-Apparition wards just the month before, and he hunched his shoulders protectively as he jogged down the short length of road that led to the Burrow.

Draco was wandering about the den, idly looking over the knickknacks and pictures that cluttered the room, when the door slammed open and a wet and bedraggled Ron stepped inside. He'd been admiring the photos, lined up neatly on the living room mantel, showcasing the shining faces of each of the Weasley offspring when they were younger, Ron's eight-year-old gap-toothed smile causing amusement to tug at Draco's lips. The mop of red hair, much more garish than its current shade, stuck up in all directions, and a plump hand reached into the frame every now and then, vainly trying to smooth it down. Dirt streaked along one side of his jaw, his eyes bright with laughter, and Draco couldn't recall a time, ever, that he'd seen the redhead so happy.

But then, there really hadn't been any call for Ron to be that happy around him.

And, at the moment, Draco recognized with dread the icy pale visage the redhead was currently sporting. Cold, hard fury. He couldn't think of what he'd done wrong, but he knew he was in deep shit.

Keeping his face expressionless, he tilted his chin up and said, "Weasley," his gaze raking over the sopping wet man.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Malfoy?" Ron demanded as he stalked towards him, his voice surprisingly low and controlled.

Draco forced himself to keep still and not retreat, when all he really wanted to do was run for the stairs and possibly lock himself in the bathroom. "I--"

"Do you have any idea," the redhead continued with a growl, advancing until their toes nearly touched, "how scary it is to come home to an empty house," he ducked his head slightly, piercing blue irises glaring directly into the gray, "with no possible reason for it to be empty? Because why would a man, currently being hunted down by his own bloody father, want to leave the safe haven I've provided? Why would that ever happen? Care to enlighten me, Malfoy?"

Draco's mouth gaped open like a fish, words refusing to bubble to the surface in the wake of Ron's so obviously dangerous anger.

Ron's eyes narrowed. "I can only think of one, really," he said, tone deceptively conversational. "That perhaps the fucker had gotten to him... lured him out of the wards, tricked him, hogtied him, slaughtered him and buried his body for Dastardly to dig up next week." Ron reached out and slipped a fist under Draco's jaw, clicking his mouth shut. "Do you have any idea how fucking frightening that is?"

Confusion clouded over Draco's eyes, trying to ferret out the exact reason for Ron's fury, the redhead's last question barely a hiss past his clenched teeth and lips. And then Ron uncurled his hand, fingers brushing his throat and smoothing down to cradle the side of his neck, and a warm feeling unfurled from his belly. Ron had been worried about him. Terrified for him, if the level of anger was any indication.

"You..." Draco swallowed and closed his eyes briefly before looking back up at Ron through lowered lashes. Unwittingly, a coy smile pulled at his mouth. "Worried about me, Weasley?"

Pushed too far to think of backtracking, Ron's grip tightened on Draco's flesh. "What do you think?" he snarled.

The blond trailed his fingers up the center of Ron's damp shirt, flattening his palm over the redhead's heart. "I think," he drawled, reveling in the rapid pulse under his hand, "that you're much fonder of me then you let on."

Ron grabbed Draco's wrist and slid his other hand from the blond's neck, wrapping a strong arm around his waist and stepping closer so they were flush against each other, chest to thigh. Draco's mouth parted in surprise, eyes widening as Ron bent so their noses were brushing, hot breath ghosting his skin. "Let's get one thing straight, Malfoy," Ron growled against his lips. "No matter your feelings for me, you don't get to play with mine."

"Draco, would you like--oh, Ron!"

The redhead hastily dropped his hands and stepped away from Draco, turning to look at his mum, the tips of his ears burning bright red. She had a disturbing gleam in her eyes and a serving knife clutched in her fingers.

"You're just in time for dessert," she said, smiling wide and bouncing meaningful glances between him and Draco.

Suddenly bereft and cold, his now rain-damp clothes sticking uncomfortably to his body, Draco reached out in a bold move to grab Ron's arm and intoned pleasantly, "If you don't mind, Mrs. Weasley, we'd like to head back to the refuge."

"Of course," she beamed.

Ron tried to shake off Draco's grip, but the man clung to him like a limpet and he gave up with an exasperated sigh. "I'll Owl you tomorrow, Mum," Ron said tiredly, steering the blond towards the hearth.

"Dinner was lovely," Draco said over his shoulder as Ron shoved him into the fireplace, dropping a scoop of Floo powder into his hand. He called out for the refuge, and got to his feet just as Ron stepped out behind him, a bear-like scowl marring his face.

Draco himself was feeling just a bit giddy. Ron had, albeit in a backhanded way, just confessed to having feelings for him. "Did you mean it?"

The redhead shrugged, but his scowl slipped. "Does it matter?" Ron felt suddenly exhausted, the fear and anger draining out of him, leaving him simply... empty.

"I--"

"I don't want to hear it, Malfoy," Ron said wearily, holding up a hand.

"But--"

"Save it," the redhead snapped.

"Blaise was right," Draco huffed, lip curled in a sneer. "You are a contrary bastard. You don't want me to play with your feelings? How about owning up to them then? How about not fucking jerking me around?" He stepped up to him and poked a finger into his chest. "Why don't you tell me honestly what you feel?"

"I don't owe you any explanations," Ron said stonily, pushing his hand away.

Draco blinked at him, amazed by the redhead's stubbornness. "No, no you don't. So we're going to try for bluntness here. I'm going to tell you what I want," he stated imperiously, "and you're either going to say yes or no. No questions asked and no reasons given. Understand?"

The ex-Gryffindor nodded warily, wondering what the hell he was doing just standing there. He should leave. He should push past Draco and head up to his room because, honestly, he really didn't think he wanted to know what the blond wanted.

"I want you."

A jolt of lust shot through Ron's body to settle in his groin. "What?" he asked thickly.

"Sex, Weasley," Draco said, the bluntness coming easily to him now. "I want you in bed. Or on the floor, table, sofa." He ticked the places off lazily on his fingers, his stance deceptively relaxed as he watched for Ron's reaction to his words.

"Fuck, Malfoy," Ron groaned, clenching his eyes shut and digging his fingers into his forehead.

"That's the idea, yes." Although Draco wanted to step forward and wrap his arms around Ron, wanted to pull his head down and flick his tongue along those damp lips, smooth his palms over the small of his back to slide underneath the tough denim covering his arse, he forced himself to stay still, using only his heated gaze to caress the other man. "What's your answer, Weasley?"

Ron didn't want to say yes. Or rather he did want to say yes - too much - and thus he knew he should get as far away from Draco as possible, before the blond could shatter him into pieces.

"Well?" Draco prompted testily, growing slightly nervous at Ron's continued silence.

When it came right down to it, though, Ron didn't think he would survive either way. He might as well go down in flames. "Yes," he growled, grasping the back of Draco's neck with one hand, urging him forward. "Gods, yes."