Don't Let's Start

Chapter Eight

Draco was all angles covered in soft skin and Ron decided he could live on the man's right hip. He nuzzled it sleepily, running a palm up the underside of his thigh to cup his arse.

"What're you doing?" Draco growled, barely awake.

The redhead swiped his tongue along the hollow of his pelvis, chuckling when Draco's breath caught. "You've pretty hipbones," he answered, leaning back to take in his handy work, the reddening of Draco's skin from his teeth and lips and the slight stubble shading his jaw.

Rolling onto his stomach with a grunt, Draco grumbled, "Sleep," and burrowed his head into the pillows.

Undeterred, Ron's fingers ran over the small of Draco's back, following the trail of his tailbone down his arse, grinning almost stupidly when Draco let his legs fall open, allowing the digits to dip down and brush his balls. "Done playing?"

Draco groaned and arched his back, throwing an unreadable glance over his shoulder. "Aren't you the least bit tired?"

"Not in the most important parts." Shifting, Ron pressed his erection up against Draco's leg, and the other man dropped his head to the pillow again, bending his arms up under it and giving a low, "Mmmm."

The sound from the blond was somewhat agreeable, and Ron nibbled at his folded bicep, coaxing Draco onto his back again, smoothing his palm over his pale sternum and lean belly. His eyes were closed, but his lashes fluttered against his cheeks and a small, soundless gasp passed his lips when Ron wrapped a hand around his cock.

"You're being so good," Ron whispered harshly, and when Draco's eyes popped open, gleaming with indignation, Ron curled down and licked at his lips. "Ah, ah," he admonished. "No talking. You know what happens when you talk, Malfoy. You wouldn't want me to stop doing this," he jerked his hand slightly, "would you?"

Draco's head fell back, neck curving, and Ron made an approving hum in his throat. "Good boy," he said, and he knew Draco would make him pay for it later, but it was just too much fun having the blond under his thumb.

Afterwards, Ron draped himself bonelessly over him, melting almost immediately off into a dream-filled sleep, wide, lazy smile curving his lips, leaving Draco conversely wide awake. Fuck.

Thing was, Draco really didn't like cuddling. Didn't like the hot, sweaty stick of skin against skin, the weight of another body pressing on him, the wet puffs of air from steady, sleeping breaths. So when he found himself not minding all those things, or the large hand curled loosely around his wrist, he panicked a bit.

A quiet sort of panic, though, since he didn't want the redhead to wake up. Didn't want Ron to pull away, either, and yeah. Whole different level of scary.

Sex was sex. Great sex was great. And sex with Ron was very nearly fantastic; not something he was sure he'd want to give up. Ever. So he made himself gently shake Ron's grip from his arms, slipping silently towards the edge of the bed, resolutely planting both feet on the soft, shorn carpet.

He hated romantic, fanciful intimacy, and he wasn't going to give up those truths for a Weasley who wouldn't admit anything past reluctantly coveting his body.

Ron made a soft chuffing noise, almost a protest, and rolled over, pulling a pillow half under his chest. Draco sighed and leant down to tug the sheet up and over the curve of his back, eyes wandering across the smooth skin he wouldn't let his fingers touch. In the near blackness, he couldn't see the splash of freckles that gathered close to his spine, dispersing into light brown-pink specks along his shoulders before darkening again on the skin of his arms, and he shook his head in self-disgust. He hadn't seen the bloke naked enough to warrant remembering those details so vividly, and he really, really didn't like the way things were heading.

Ron would be ecstatic when Draco was out of his hair again, and Draco was horribly afraid he'd be miserable. Which was completely unacceptable. So he decided to do the first thing that popped into his mind; he'd fire-call Granger.

In the dark, he managed to find his boxers, and what was probably Ron's t-shirt, judging by the size of it. The door creaked when he opened it, but Ron didn't stir, and he padded quickly down the steps and through the hall to the den. Finding his trousers haphazardly tossed over the back of an armchair, he pulled them on and knelt in front of the hearth, then called out for Hermione's lodging at Hogwarts, sticking his head into the green flames.

"Granger," he said loudly, not caring the least bit that it was sometime after midnight. "Granger!"

A lump on the bed in front of him turned over, and Hermione blinked her eyes open, sleep-blurred and confused. "Malfoy?" she murmured, hefting herself up on an elbow and shoving back her mass of hair.

"Yes, yes, it's me. Now, get your arse out of bed and over here."

Sleepily, Hermione pulled on a robe as she walked towards her hearth, covering a yawn with one hand. "What? What's going on?" she asked in a low voice, throwing a look over her shoulder to where Blaise was sprawled out across the mattress. The man was sound asleep, though, and wasn't likely to wake up. She'd learned he could sleep through just about anything when Crookshanks had taken to yowling in her face at three each night, protesting another male presence in her bed.

"I slept with Weasley," Draco stated calmly. He was rather proud of his lack of inflection.

Hermione managed to pull off a somewhat impressive smirk. "Shouldn't you be calling him Ron, then?"

The blond narrowed his eyes and glared at her. "I made you tea," he whined.

"Oh, fine," she said, tightening the loop at her waist. "I'll be right over."

******

"You're a bit of a mess, Malfoy," Hermione said when she stepped into the room, shirt and trousers hastily donned and hair tied back with a thick, black ribbon.

Draco looked down at himself and shrugged, knowing he probably looked disheveled and sweaty and completely fucked. He didn't have to make himself presentable for Granger. Although he probably could have done with a shower. He wrinkled his nose and ran a hand through his tangled hair. "Obviously," he said finally.

"I'm also not exactly sure what the problem is here," she went on, brushing past him and heading towards the kitchen.

"I slept with Weasley." Draco rolled his eyes. "Had sex."

Hermione cringed visibly, but forced out, "Good sex?"

Draco nodded. "Excellent."

"See..." She reached for the kettle, filling it and setting it on the lit stove before continuing. "I'm still not getting the problem."

"I." He paused, not really sure what he wanted to say, why he'd wanted Hermione there in the first place. He wasn't about to admit to his fear and insecurities. He didn't want her to know how fucking attached he'd become to Ron.

She seemed to read it all on his face anyhow, though, which was worrying, since he'd long ago perfected his cold, blank mask.

"This is Ron, Malfoy," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "He's got maybe... one malicious bone in his entire body, if that. And he's stubborn and possessive, and I seriously doubt you have anything to worry about."

"But this is me," Draco protested. "Occasionally I don't even like me." He frowned, placing a hand on a cocked hip. "All right, I suppose that isn't exactly true. But I'm well aware I've acquired a great deal of enemies over the years, as well as many Wizards and Witches who simply hate me on principle. Including Weasley."

"You're assuming an awful lot about Ron."

Draco shoved his hands in his hair, tugging on the ends in a rare display of visible frustration. "He's always... always hated me! And... well..." He pursed his lips, recalling Ron's anger and veiled allusions to feeling something, something perhaps that would completely contradict hate, though he'd refused to clarify anything, and... "I don't think he hates me," he ended quietly.

The kettle whistled and Hermione fixed their tea, steering Draco, who seemed a bit stunned and spacey, into a seat at the table. "There's some sort of squirrel in your head, isn't there, that doesn't let your brain rest?"

Draco snorted. "You're one to talk," he groused.

"You're over-thinking everything," she said, ignoring him. "Ron's possibly the simplest, most straightforward man in the world, and you're trying to analyze him like he's... well, you. Relax a little."

"I don't see where you get off giving that sort of advice," Draco grumbled into his cup, "after your breakdown a few days ago. And considering that my father's plotting my demise as we speak, relaxing isn't exactly on the agenda."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "Your father aside," she said tightly, "I really don't think Ron has it in for you. Emotionally, at least. I doubt you could combine your lives without the occasional blow to the head."

"So you're saying I shouldn't have left him passed out alone on his bed after two lovely rounds of enthusiastic shagging?"

"Yes," Hermione said, closing her eyes and pressing fingers to her forehead. "That's sort of what I'm saying, although I really didn't need to know that."

"Blaise would've wanted to know."

"Blaise would've wanted pictures, labeled diagrams, and perhaps a re-enactment," she said with amused disgust. "But I'm not Blaise, am I? Just because we're sha--sleeping together doesn't mean we're suddenly one entity."

Draco's brows rose. "Like he'd ever let you out of his sight now that he's got you."

"He's not here now, is he?" Hermione pointed out, draining her teacup and rising to place it in the sink.

"Only because a banshee isn't even likely to wake him up after sex," Draco commented lightly.

She shook her head and murmured, "Don't even want to know how you know that," then asked louder, "Are you over your crisis?"

"Somewhat," he conceded.

"All right, then." On impulse she bent down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, something she'd gotten into the habit of doing with Ron and Harry at Hogwarts, and although he wrinkled his brow and gave her a strange look, he didn't wipe it off. "Night, Malfoy."

Draco watched silently as Hermione disappeared down the hall, then sighed and got to his feet. Upstairs, he hesitated only a moment before pushing Ron's door open again, clicking it shut behind him. He lifted the t-shirt over his head as he walked towards the bed, shucking his boxers and trousers in one go, then easing under the covers with as much care as he'd slipped out of them.

He nudged Ron with a hip, urging him over, and shoved the pillow still wrapped in his arms up to the head of the mattress.

"Wha?" Ron slurred, eyes cracking open minutely.

"Nothing," Draco said, turning his back to him and squirming into Ron's chest, humming low when the redhead obligingly draped an arm over his waist and pulled him closer. Spooning. Another act that Draco absolutely loathed. He drifted off to sleep rather quickly anyway.

******

Even with the harsh, ringing morning crow from Butter, Ron was slow to wake. He groaned a stretch, smiling with his eyes closed as the warm body lying next to him wriggled closer.

He was in a good mood. A really good mood, actually, and it was strange that it'd been brought about by Draco. Sex with Draco, specifically, but anything pleasant didn't exactly go hand and hand with the blond prat on a normal basis.

Ron felt the instant Draco woke up, the slight restless movements before his body stiffened completely against him. His lips curled into a wry grin against Draco's shoulder. "Morning."

"Weasley," Draco mumbled, and Ron failed to swallow a short laugh.

"Don't get weird on me now," Ron said, falling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling, watching the pink-gray dawn light flare weakly over the puckered texture. "You're the one who started this whole mess."

Draco twisted onto his stomach and wedged himself up on an elbow, glaring down at him. "Oh, so this is a mess, is it?" he snarled.

The redhead grinned and smoothed a hand through Draco's fly-away hair, fingers trailing down to rub at a pillow crease just under his right eye. "I'd say you're a mess, yes."

"It's too early for this." The blond scowled, burrowing back down into the covers, mouth open against Ron's forearm. And then Butter crowed again and his breath fanned out in a deep sigh, burning a damp, spangling path across Ron's skin.

"Work," Ron groused, as if chastising himself. Then he thought, Fuck it. There were some definite advantages to working where you lived. With barely a warning growl, he rolled over, pressing Draco into the mattress, hands curling loosely around the base of his skull, fitting his mouth open against his. The blond pushed at his chest with his palms, and Ron reluctantly broke off, breathing hitched.

"Ugh, Weasley. Morning breath."

Ron gazed steadily at him, incredulous. "You can't be serious, Malfoy," he returned, then shifted more firmly between Draco's legs, one large hand moving to cup his hip, thrusting almost instinctively to every fourth beat of his heart.

Letting out a soft groan, Draco arched into him and bit out a harsh, "Fine," before his slim, grasping hands found their way to Ron's nape, pulling him down again.

******

When his panting finally slowed, Ron rasped, "Work," again, even more bitterly, then added, "Gina," for good measure. The nosy bint was more than likely to come looking for him if he wasn't out in the barn office by seven.

"Shower," Draco breathed, scratching his lower belly.

Ron graced him with a blinding grin. "Yeah."

******

Ron completely expected Gina to be perched at the kitchen table by the time they stumbled down the steps, but instead they found Harry, freshly brewed cup of coffee in hand and suspiciously twinkling smile directed towards them.

"Good news," he said cheerily.

Stomach churning, Ron knew from the bright, sated glow in Harry's eyes that he'd just figured out something monumental. Which meant that, at the worst possible moment, absolutely predictable for Harry...

"We've caught your father, Malfoy."

It just figured. They'd finally gotten around to sweaty, grappling, mind-stunning sex, and so of course Lucius had been found. Otherwise, there would've been more intensely satisfying shags, and wouldn't that just be tragic?

Ron couldn't help the grim quality of his return grin and nod. "That's great. Right, Malfoy?"

Draco shot him an unreadable glance before giving Harry a superior sneer. "About time, Potter. I was starting to rot away of boredom out here."

Narrowing his eyes, Ron viciously pinched Draco's arm, and the blond jumped away with a yelp.

"Now children," Harry chided light-heartedly.

Ron turned a dark scowl on the man. Really, Harry wasn't being the least bit helpful. "How did you finally get a hold of him?" he managed to ask levelly. Draco twitched away and went for the cupboard, and Ron's eyes followed him absently as he reached for a mug; always his favorite sight in the morning.

"Well," Harry drawled, rocking back on his heels, flicking a look between the two men and then giving Ron an amused half-smile. Ron pretty much suspected Harry'd guessed what had transpired the night before, and was doing his very best to taunt him as slyly as possible. Given that Harry hated Draco, Ron somewhat grudgingly had to thank Merlin for his restrained mirth; he could have easily gone in the entire opposite direction, and having Harry upset with him was never a fun thing for Ron. Though perhaps he needed to thank Gina for that instead.

"Yes?" Ron prompted testily.

"Well," Harry started again, "after he nicked his wife's ashes, we figured he'd need to gain access to the museums housing the bulk of the Malfoy's Dark Arts artifacts. Books and such."

Ron's brows rose. Draco hadn't said a word to him about his mum. "You set a trap at all of them?" There'd been a great many texts and items that had been confiscated from the Malfoy estate, and most of them were spread out around the world for Wizards and Witches to 'ooo' and 'ahhh' at it. It had always seemed a bit gruesome to Ron, but the Ministry officials gleefully sold them off - with certain 'restrictions,' of course - raking in coins for what they'd deemed the war deficit. Ron had yet to see any real rebuilding of battle-worn districts, though, and cynically suspected Fudge and those other yahoos were pocketing as much as they could.

Harry shrugged. "Just the one's with any reanimation spells and objects. Mainly Germany and a few southern US states, although we really didn't expect him to travel overseas."

"Günter's Guide to the Undead," Draco muttered, head bent to his cup as he poured the coffee.

"Yes, exactly," Harry said, nodding. "That's the one Colin was most worried about, though we actually caught him hunched over a signed copy of Evil Undead: Avoiding the Zombie Faux Pas."

"He always loved Mother best," Draco said, trying for flippancy, amending the statement slightly in his head. If his father had ever loved him at all, he'd eat Potter's wand. Pun intended.

"Point is, Malfoy," Harry went on, "you're free to go home."

Draco slid his gaze over to Ron, but the redhead was staring morosely down at Harry, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Right," Draco said, watching Ron's face for any hint of a reaction. He really had no idea what he was doing, but knew that if the ex-Gryffindor gave him any reason at all, he'd stay.

When Ron's eyes lifted to his, though, they were smiling slightly along with his mouth. A nice smile. Friendly, even, but nothing deeper, nothing promising, and it wasn't quite what he'd been looking for. Wasn't quite enough for him to throw caution to the wind. And perhaps he'd regret it - actually, he was fairly sure he would - but he let his lips flick into a small, quick smirk and echoed Harry's earlier remark. "Good news."

******

He'd left. The bastard had left. Strangely, Ron didn't have any trouble believing it, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow.

"You are in an incredibly bad mood," Gina pointed out unhelpfully, swiping her palms on her trousers and stepping back from the tiny, orphaned hippogriff that'd been brought in that morning.

"I'm in a perfectly fine mood," Ron grumbled.

She gave him a wry, disbelieving look. "You've been scowling for nearly two days straight. Ever since," she waggled her brows, "Draco went home."

"My mood has nothing to do with Malfoy."

"Didn't say it did," she stated mildly. "It's purely coincidental of course."

Ron glared at her. "None of my moods have anything to do with Malfoy."

Gina nodded, eyes wide with shining, mock innocence. "Oh, I know, Ron."

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Looking at me like that," he growled. "I'm not going to do anything."

"Perfectly understandable," Gina agreed, starting off down the hill towards the barn.

"Seriously," Ron added, falling into step beside her. "Nothing at all."

She bobbed her head again. "You're right, Ron. I mean, he would have stayed if he'd really wanted to."

"Exactly," Ron said emphatically.

"He must've known you'd be okay with it. Great, even, what with you two being best mates and all. And you know he's always been able to read you like a book! It's not as if he's completely paranoid most of the time. Or has a nasty habit of getting meanly defensive when he's uncertain. He's the most together bloke I know. Not at all spazzy, prone to temper fits or delusions of occasionally mammoth proportions."

There was a lengthy, speaking silence, Gina's sarcasm hanging thickly in the air above them.

"I hate you," Ron spat out finally.

"No," Gina countered smoothly, "you adore me. And you especially worship me for giving you this kick in the arse, because you're terribly afraid Draco is your One True Love," she paused to clasp her hands together and bat her eyelashes annoyingly, "and that you'll lose him forever if you don't take immediate action."

Ron nearly gagged, because affection he may feel, but it wasn't anything at all resembling love. He wasn't going to quibble with her though, since she did have the right of it for the most part. Draco was very nearly socially retarded, and there was a healthy chance he'd had left simply because Ron hadn't begged him to stay. Not that Ron would ever beg anything of the man, of course. But he could have at least said something.

"So?" Gina nudged his arm, grinning slyly.

"Maybe," he conceded reluctantly.

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe I'll visit him. At some point in the vaguely near future. Or I could send him an Owl."

"You could," she said slowly, "but then I'd be forced to tell Harry that you were the one who replaced his broom polish with stick-ease at last year's annual Weasley Family Quidditch Bowl." Harry hadn't found that prank particularly funny, especially since it'd completely ruined the redesigned Firebolt 3000 he'd just purchased.

Ron shook his head. "Gina, you know that wasn't me."

"Well, yes, I know it was Seamus and you know it was Seamus..." She trailed off, one side of her bottom lip caught between her teeth, gaze gleaming and expectant.

"Bugger," Ron muttered under his breath. "You're a hard-hearted woman, Potter."

"I'm a romantic," Gina protested, then went on in an exaggerated gush, "I'm Cupid's little helper. I'm a gifted matchmaker, a soft touch, a Slytherin with a heart of gold. Just ask Harry."

Ron rolled his eyes. "You're all that and more," he said, knocking the side of her head with a palm before taking off at a run, laughing at her indignant sputtering.

******

For three days, Draco woke up with the sun. He knew he'd get over it soon, since he'd hardly been at Ron's long enough to spark a habitual rising, but that didn't much comfort him, sitting at his kitchen table alone at an ungodly hour in the morning.

It felt strange. Not just the waking up, but the whole day, stretched out before him with no promise of bickering arguments or quietly competitive games of chess. No slobbery black beast to knock him over or sticky fingers to tug at his hands. The most exciting part of his yesterday was helping Mrs. Ware with her groceries, and trouncing old Jeremy Fitzsimmons in Follow the Queen.

He sighed and stared glumly down at the cover of Dirt Dwellers, which he'd stolen from Ron in an idiotic fit of vengeance. Like the redhead would ever notice the dry, slim book was missing. It had to be the most boring read ever - and Draco'd been through it twice.

His heart jumped into his throat when a sharp rap sounded at the door, visitors of any sort being a rare occurrence, especially so early in the day. He refused to acknowledge the disappointment that settled in his throat when he found Miss Laura looking up at him, an over-sized brown trench coat covering her house dress and thick-soled white trainers on her feet.

"Cherry's gone missing again," she said gruffly, head tipped back and fluffy white hair a mad mess of crimped curls. "Been out all night, and she's not in the tree. Already poked my head out and looked."

Draco scrubbed a hand over his forehead. "You need to--"

"Get a screen, yes I know. You've been saying that for years."

Had he really lived there that long? It seemed a little hard to believe, actually, but... he counted back swiftly in his head. Almost four years exactly.

"All right," he said resignedly. "Just let me change." He steered her back across the hall, urging her inside her flat. "You don't need to wander about as well."

She turned and smiled up at him. "You're not bad, boy," she praised, then gave him a short, assessing once-over. "Where's the redheaded lad? The brawny fellow with the big blue eyes." She sighed, her worn face acquiring a somewhat dreamy cast. "My Douglass used to have eyes that color; dark, rich denim."

"Ah," he hedged. "That didn't work out quite the way I'd planned." Which wasn't a complete lie. Closer to the truth, actually, than not.

She nodded her head, shuffling inside her apartment. "Hardly ever does, boy," she said, slowly pulling the door closed. "Hardly ever does."

Quickly, Draco slipped on a pair of loose trousers and a blue t-shirt proclaiming to all and sundry that he'd danced his way through Miss Kipping's School of Jazz - another temper-inspired nicking - and jogged down the steps into the night-chilled morning, shadows still long and dark despite the red-gold sun peeking just above the slanted rooftops.

Hoping that the leafy branches had obscured the tabby from Miss Laura's view, he cupped a hand over his eyes and scanned the young maple. Nothing. If Cherry had managed to maneuver her way out of the tree, there was no telling where she could be.

He spent a good thirty minutes scouring both sides of the street, walking behind the buildings to call down alleyways. What kind of cat, though, would respond to a common summons like a dog? An hour and three streets later, there still wasn't any sign of the feline, and Draco started back to the apartment building with his head bowed, filled with dread. The old woman loved the beast, and he couldn't imagine telling her she was gone. Possibly forever.

He'd become entirely too soft-hearted in his old age.

"I'd really hate to know what you're thinking about, Malfoy."

Draco's head snapped up, focusing immediately on the tall redhead leaning against the maple, hands stuffed deep in his jean pockets, the denim straining just below his hipbones, rumpled white tee hitched just high enough to show a sliver of skin in his relaxed pose.

"What?" the blond asked, cocking his head to the side.

Ron pushed off from the tree, straightening to shift just a bit nervously from foot to foot. "You looked just about ready to weep," he said, secretly hoping Draco's gloom had more than a little to do with him.

Draco lifted his shoulders in a brief shrug. "I can't seem to find Miss Laura's cat."

"You mean her?" he asked, pointing up into the tree.

The blond cursed under his breath. Stupid, fucking cat. Learning to climb down and then back up again. "Yeah, that one."

Ron nodded his head. "So--"

"What are you doing here, Weasley?" Draco interrupted.

"Well, I'm here, specifically," he said, gesturing at the ground, a half-sheepish smile on his face, "because Miss Laura said you were out, and that if I stepped one foot in the building she'd ring some bloke named Bunker Larry to, quote, 'take care of me.'"

The blond flicked a dismissive hand. "Why are you here?"

"First of all," Ron took a step forward, sliding his gaze down Draco's torso, "I believe that shirt belongs to my ex-wife."

Draco crossed his arms over his chest defensively. He'd suspected it hadn't been Ron's, of course, since it fit him rather snugly. It was a pretty shade of blue, though, and nicely soft. And the fact that Draco had been wearing it for days had absolutely nothing to do with Ron at all.

Ron let out a long, slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, Draco--"

"What?"

He rolled his eyes. "I can't call you Malfoy when I'm asking you out, can I?"

"You..." Draco swallowed his immediate compulsion to smile, and tamped down on the arguably happy flutters welling in his stomach. Damn it, he was nauseous and completely disgusted by Ron on the whole. Except for the man's fine, fine arse. And the calloused pads of his fingers that felt so good on the inside of his thighs. Oh, and those six freckles that almost formed a perfect circle just under his collarbone--

Shit.

Ron arched a knowing brow, mocking gaze lingering at Draco's crotch.

Draco clenched his jaw, willing away the hot burn on his cheeks, and then tipped his head back, eyes slightly squinted against the glaring morning sunshine. "You'll have to take me some place expensive," the ex-Slytherin said once he'd regained his voice, gaze dropping to Ron's, noting the redhead's burgeoning annoyance with only a smidgen of trepidation, "with insulting, pretentious waiters." He cleared his throat and went on stronger, "We'll order wine by the bottle, and you won't say a word about my appetite, wardrobe, or height. You'll strike pretty, adorable and little from your vocabulary completely, and buy me dessert, even though I'll have no intention of eating it."

"Demanding bastard, aren't you?"

Draco tilted his chin up. "I'm simply selective with my company."

"Fine," Ron said tightly, hands balled into fists. "Fine, we'll do this your way."

The blond gave an imperious nod, turning slightly away from Ron to head for the front stoop. "Owl me when you've figured everything out, then."

"Not so fast," Ron growled, grabbing Draco's arm as he swept past. Without waiting for Draco's no doubt indignant reaction to being manhandled, Ron pulled him close, other arm banding around his waist, open palm settling at the small of his back. He grinned wolfishly at him, ire seeming to dissolve almost instantly. "The boys miss you."

"I've been reveling in the silence," Draco lied smoothly.

Bending down, Ron nuzzled the edge of his cheek, releasing Draco's arm to tighten his own in what felt suspiciously like an affectionate hug. "Das spent two hours howling after you left."

"Good." Involuntarily, Draco's hands clutched at Ron's sides, fingers stealing up under his shirt to press against warm, bare skin.

"Yeah," Ron breathed. "Good."

Hot breath tickling along his hairline, Draco finally relaxed against Ron, letting his head fall to his chest, and he thought that everything might be all right. "This doesn't mean anything, you know," he murmured, then inwardly grimaced. He had to have the biggest mouth on the planet.

But Ron just chuckled, knowing, finally, that Draco chronically stuck his foot in his maw for the express reason of being contrary, and said, "Shut up, Draco." And then he curled his hand around Draco's jaw, urging his head up to cover his lips with his own, just to make sure he did.

Simple, effective, and a tactic Ron suspected he'd have to use often to keep from killing the prat. He really didn't think he'd mind.

Draco wondered if any and all disparaging remarks would end up with the same results, and his mouth curved into a sly smile against Ron's. It would certainly prove worthwhile finding out.

The. End.