Walls

Eight years.

It had been eight years since they had left Hogwarts.

It had been eight years and it felt like a lifetime ago.

When Ron closed his eyes shut tightly, he could see Harry and Hermione on the platform at King's Cross just before they went their separate ways. The Dursleys were there, waiting impatiently for Harry. His round, red-faced uncle kept bellowing on at him about finding a job and moving out while his aunt would bray for Harry to hurry up because poor Dudders didn't like being around Harry's sort of people. (After his run-in with the dementor when they had been fifteen, Dudley, according to Harry, had gone on a slew of tablets to help him deal with the psychological trauma he had endured.) Hermione's parents had stood back and chatted with Ron's mum and dad while the trio said their goodbyes.

Harry ignored his uncle, instead focusing his attention on Ron and Hermione, wearing a small and rather smug sort of smile all the while. Ron didn't know why he didn't just turn around and inform the Dursleys right then and there that he did find a job already--managing Quality Quidditch Supplies and training for Arrows trials that following Spring-- and was only returning to Privet Drive to pack up any sparse belongings he had there and would be out of their way. (In a few weeks' time, Harry's spectacular exit from Number Four Privet Drive for good pretty much cleared up any confusion Ron had on the matter that day at King's Cross and explained the smug smile quite nicely.) Hermione kept fussing over both boys, fixing their lapels and hair. Although he wanted very badly to lightly smack Hermione's hand away, Ron did not. Fretting and focusing on crooked lapels and messy hair was something that she always did in regards to them and, with the ways their schedules were going to be now that they were leaving school, since Ron wasn't sure when he would see Hermione again, he didn't want to take this away from her. It was something of a daily ritual with her and Ron would miss it.

Ron would be returning to the Burrow for a few weeks to help his mum out and then would be moving in with Fred and George. Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was doing brilliantly; the twins were so busy now that they needed all the help they could get. Although Ron did well enough on his N.E.W.T.s to study being an Auror, he wanted to take some time to just live life before undertaking such a serious occupation--and there was no better way to just live life than running a booming joke shop with your twin brothers.

Hermione would be entering into an apprenticeship at Saint Mungos. Personally, Ron had been quite relieved when Hermione had told he and Harry the news. For a while there, Ron had been expecting her to tromp off somewhere to aid the plight of under-appreciated grindylows or some such thing. When she told Harry and him of her plans to study to be a Healer, they were beyond pleased. With her keen sense observation, ability to cut to the core of any problem in no time at all, and her shrewd and often clinically-focused mind, they knew she would be an excellent addition to the Healing Arts field.

Seven years and nine months.

It had been seven years and nine months since they had become members of the Order of the Phoenix.

It had been seven years and nine months and it felt like a lifetime ago.

When Ron closed his eyes tightly, he could see Harry and Hermione standing next to him in the corridor of 12 Grimmauld Place. Harry's jaw was set and Hermione kept shifting her weight while Dumbledore spoke to the three of them in hushed tones. Tonks, Hestia Jones, his dad and mum.... They were all gathered in a semi-circle behind Dumbledore, eyeing the three of them sharply as Dumbledore explained the Secrecy Oath and then had Harry, Hermione, and Ron recite it back to him. Afterwards, the newest members of the Order of the Phoenix followed Ron's mum to the kitchen for a spot of shepard's pie. Harry had barely touched his, instead silently brooding. Ron knew without even asking that Harry was dwelling on being in Sirius' home knowing that his godfather would never walk through that front door again.

Seven years and three months.

It had been seven years and three months since Harry had first kissed Ron.

It had been seven years and three months and it felt like a lifetime ago.

When Ron closed his eyes tightly, he could see Harry walking him to his flat after a rather raucous celebration at Kingsley Shacklebolt's home. Earlier that evening, several members of the Order had performed a sting operation on several key Death Eaters, resulting in a number of arrests. After Hestia Jones and the handful of Aurors that had been summoned to the scene had departed to take the captures Death Eaters to the Ministry of Magic for processing, Kingsley had proclaimed that his abode would host a party to commemorate the victory that evening.

Tired and a bit sore from the mission, Hermione bowed out of the party early, pressing the tips of one finger to the 'sweet spot' on each of the boys' cheeks in farewell and Disapparating to her flat with a -Pop-! Ron's mood was damped after her departure; he had wanted to revel in the Order's victory with his two closest friends. No stranger to Ron's body language, Harry realised this and took it upon himself to cheer Ron up.

And what, to an eighteen year old boy, was the preferred means of cheering another bloke up?

Butterbeer.

Lots and lots of butterbeer.

So much butterbeer, in fact, that Ron had a bugger of a time walking a straight line when Harry hauled him to his feet and told him it was time to go. If it hadn't been for Harry's arm warm and strong around his shoulders, Ron likely could have quickly become mistaken for a new addition to Kingsley's collection of exotic throw rugs. Some way or another (Ron couldn't remember exactly), Harry managed to navigate them in the proper direction and they set off to Ron's flat. Thank Merlin Harry had been sober (or at least, the most sober of the two) to realise that Apparating was no good--they would probably splinch themselves in their current condition--and that walking was the way to go.

Ron hadn't even been able to really handle walking. His knees kept giving out and he would slump against Harry who would chuckle and hoist Ron upright again. Ron would groan and at one point he slung his own arm around Harry's waist for leverage, leaning his shoulder on him. Harry had been recounting the fantastic row that Tonks and Mundungus Fletcher had when Ron stepped into a divot in the street, his ankle turning over. Ron's arms pin-wheeled as he lost his balance and fell to the ground in a heap. Cursing and grumbling, he rubbed at his tender ankle.

Let me see, Harry had said, crouching down and reaching a hand out toward Ron's ankle.

No, Ron slurred in response, feeling embarrassed and warm from all the alcohol.

Harry's fingertips grazed the hem of Ron's pants and then Ron yanked his foot away, over balancing and toppling over. His head bounced off of the pavement and the sound of it was enough to make him half-sick.

And that was when it happened.

One minute, he had been picking his head up off of the street and reaching a hand back there to feel if there was a lump and, the next, out of nowhere there was a very warm and insistent pair of Harry lips making a meal of his mouth.

And the best part of it all? It felt right. And it felt even more right when he kissed back and Harry sighed into his mouth.

Six years and eleven months.

It had been six years and eleven months since they first consummated their relationship.

It had been six years and eleven months and it felt like a lifetime ago.

When Ron closed his eyes shut tightly, he could see the smirk on Harry's face as he used an Unlocking Charm on the broom shed by the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts. They had travelled to Hogwarts under the premise of giving a flying demonstration to Madam Hooch's ickle firsties class. They did give a demonstration...but they had also stolen into Professor Dumbledore's office to give him field reports on the Order mission they had just returned from. Owls were becoming more and more dangerous; in the prior weeks a number had been intercepted by the wrong side and Harry and Ron hadn't wanted to risk such a thing happening to Hedwig or Pig.

At the conclusion of Madam Hooch's last class, they said their goodbyes and offered to restock the school brooms. Harry claimed he wanted to do it because it would give him the chance to cross the Quidditch pitch for the first time in nearly a year and a half. Ron had suspected otherwise but didn't call him out on it. After Harry opened the door, Ron stepped inside and waved inside the brooms he had been levitating behind them with a flick of his wand.

All done, he said, replacing his wand in his pocket and turning toward the door once more.

Not quite, Harry replied with a devilish glint in his eyes. And before Ron could question or protest, Harry's lips were upon him, the door was shut with a Locking Charm, and Ron's back was firmly against the wall. Not that he minded any of this, of course. How could he, really, when Harry's long fingers had snaked behind the waistband of his trousers and boxer shorts and were doing that thing to his cock that reduced him to whimpers and Harry's teeth were biting along his jaw-line, only to be followed by a slight vacuum pressure of his mouth and a thorough laving of the tongue?

Before long, shirts and trousers and boxer shorts were removed and Ron was no longer pressed against the wall. Instead, he was laying on their discarded clothing, Harry straddling his thighs and surrounded by broomsticks. Their environment definitely turned Ron on; he imagined that they were still students and that anyone could walk in on them at any given moment. That made it all the more exciting, forbidden. He responded enthusiastically as Harry's hands ran all over his chest; the past few months they had often had heated shirtless-snogging sessions and, therefore, Harry's hands were no stranger to his chest. Being entirely naked head to toe and skin to skin was new, though. It was new and Ron had thought that he would never get enough of it, especially when their erections brushed against one another and his balls tightened. And then there was an incantation whispered and Harry was slicking himself with one hand and stretching Ron with the other and Ron knew for certain he would never get enough of it, of any of this and then...perfection.

Five years and four months.

It had been five years and four months since they became committed to one another.

It had been five years and four months and it felt like a lifetime ago.

When Ron closed his eyes shut tightly, he could see Harry standing there in his best dress robes, Ginny and Hermione by his side, and Dumbledore there before them all. Order and family members were behind them, watching as the Hogwarts Headmaster performed a double commitment ceremony joining Harry James Potter and Ronald Bilius Weasley together and Hermione Jane Granger and Ginevra Molly Weasley together for better or worse.

Ron had thanked Merlin that his parents managed to plan the event. And what an event it would be! A double commitment ceremony where the Hero of the Wizarding World and his childhood best friends would pledge their devotion to one another? For weeks leading up to the day, Ron worried that the media would somehow catch wind of this and ruin it. The last thing he wanted was for Harry or Hermione or his sister to be barraged by the press on their special day. Rita Skeeter had made so many things about their lives public and Ron would be damned if she would spoil this day for Harry or the girls. Hermione and Ginny had looked lovely and Ron couldn't remember the last time he had seen either look so happy; when he first learnt that Hermione and Ginny were an item he had been put off and worried, but on that day it was clear that they were meant to be. It was also clear that he himself was the luckiest wizard in all the world as every time he caught Harry's eyes the love held there--love for him--made him feel all weak in the knees like he had been the night they first kissed.

Four years and eleven months.

It had been four years and eleven months since the Great War started.

It had been five years and four months and it felt like a lifetime ago.

When Ron closed his eyes shut tightly, he could see Hedwig swooping in the open window of their flat in Dover, the tips of her tail feathers singed. A scorched envelope dropped from her beak and she flew into her open cage, making weak hoots that caused the colour to drain right out of Harry's face. While Harry tended to her, Ron retrieved the post and had to lean on the kitchen table for support. He heard Harry shut the door of his owl's cage and scooted over when Harry joined him at the table.

What is it? Harry asked, his voice tight.

Ron couldn't answer. Instead, he shoved the parchment into Harry's hand.

It's begun.

12 G.

Now.

Recognising Remus' handwriting, they at once made out for 12 Grimmauld Place, knowing that the moment they set foot in that house, their lives would be forever altered.

Four years and one month.

It had been four years and one month since Ron's world had been turned upside down.

It had been four years and one month and it felt like a lifetime ago.

When Ron closed his eyes shut tightly, he could see Hermione and Ginny sink down in the chairs at his bedside in that makeshift hospital outside of Brighton to where the war-wounded were being transferred. He didn't know how long he had been there, only that it had to have been over a week on account of the stubble on his chin. According to Ginny, he had been in and out of consciousness for the past six days and they were just beginning to give up hope on his ever fully coming around until just then when his eyes flickered open and he croaked his sister's name around chapped lips and a dry throat.

Harry, he implored in a voice raspy from disuse. I want to see him.

Ginny and Hermione exchanged a look and Ron could see their joined hands tremble.

Ron, Hermione started slowly. He could tell by the twitch in her right eye that she was trying very hard to remain calm. Picking up on this only made him begin to panic. Hermione never stalled or balked on any topic...ever. The fact that she was speaking so slowly and that her hand was shaking in Ginny's brought a sour taste to his mouth.

Shaking his head, he swallowed against the acidity in his mouth. I want to see him. Even as he continued, Ron knew. He knew but he wanted--it wouldn't be real unless someone said the words. Did he step out for a cuppa? Even his own words sounded ridiculous to his ears.

No, Hermione breathed, bowing her head, hair shielding her face from his.

He didn't make it, Ron, Ginny finally said, her voice sounding small and tinny and Ron wanted to hex her mouth shut.

He blinked. Didn't make it. Harry didn't make it. Well, that sounded odd. Didn't make what? Didn't make Quidditch captain? Didn't make the tube? Didn't make scones the way Molly did?

I see, Ron replied hollowly, Ginny's words reverberating in his mind. And then the tears came. They came and came and came and Ron didn't think they would ever stop.

Three years and seven months.

It had been three years and seven months since the Memorial Wall had been erected.

It had been three years and seven months and it felt like a lifetime ago.

When Ron closed his eyes shut tightly, he could see the headline in the Daily Prophet announcing that it was finally finished.

The Great War had ended two months prior to this day and the loss of life had been vast. In addition to creating relief funds for families who had lost loved ones in the fight against Voldemort and his followers, those at the Ministry of Magic wanted to do something to commemorate the lives lost in battle. After much deliberation, they had decided to build a wall in a remote and somewhat ethereal place outside of Iverness. For weeks the Ministry worked on this project, making the area Unplottable and keeping specific details of the tribute a secret.

The day that the Memorial Wall became open to the wizarding public, Ron didn't go. Hermione and Ginny did, however, and reported back to him on what the memorial entailed. According to Hermione, the monument stretched out for metres upon metres bearing the names of those who died in the War. Ron personally was unimpressed by this and said so, commenting that Harry and Seamus and Luna and the rest of them were more than just names. Ginny told him that it was more than just names and that, when the tip of your wand touched the name of the person to whom you were there to pay tribute, a silver mist would seep from their name and form their likeness, giving what essence remained of them to tell their loved ones the things they never got the chance to say.

Ginny had barely gotten through with her explanation before Ron lit out of his chair and packed his rucksack, ready to go to the Memorial Wall the next day to remember Harry.

It had been three years, six months, and twenty-nine days since he visited the Memorial Wall.

It had been three years, six months, and twenty-nine days and it felt like a lifetime ago.

When Ron closed his eyes shut tightly, he could see Harry's name carved in the thick granite and recalled how he traced his late lover's name with a fingertip before closing his eyes and resting his head against the cool stone. He had stood like that for a very long time, perhaps working up the nerve to touch his wand to Harry's name.

When the sun began to sink below the horizon, Ron forced himself to remove his wand from his pocket. He had been at the memorial since sunrise; it was time he do what he came to do. Steeling his nerves, he rested the tip of his wand to the left of the H in Harry's name and slowly slide the length of wood across his name. Inhaling deeply, Ron shoved his wand back in his pocket and coughed as the silvery mist came forth from Harry's name. His heart constricted painfully in his chest as the mist swirled and swirled on top of itself, spiralling into a shape that was Harry's likeness.

Merlin help me, Ron moaned, falling to his knees as he looked upon Harry's features for the first time in over four months. A little over four months had passed since he had been felled by Voldemort's hand.

Ron, the Harry-shape said, the voice sounding distorted and far away but still like Harry.

I--I--Ron sputtered, feeling as though his heart was shattering right in his chest.

To his left, something moved and he twisted toward it, frowning as he watched someone tall and lean stride quickly away in the opposite direction, their well-tailored robes flapping in the wind. When Ron turned back toward Harry's name, the silvery mist was gone.

It had been three years and three days since he noticed Draco Malfoy at the Memorial Wall.

It had been three years and three days and it felt like a lifetime ago.

When Ron closed his eyes shut tightly, he could see the crowd of people thinning out as the sky began to darken. Every week he would come to the Memorial Wall on this day and time, preferring to visit when it was less crowded and the time he could spend either studying Harry's name or bringing forth the essence of Harry somehow stored within the wall without worrying about onlookers studying him.

On a whim, Ron decided to say goodbye to Harry's name earlier that evening than he usually did and to walk along the length of the wall to pay a tribute of sorts to the others whose names were listed there. Past the Rs, Ss, Xs he went, shuffling gradually past the tail end of the alphabet until he came upon the Zs. There was one person there and in the darkness all Ron could do was discern that they were thin and male. Kneeling before the large granite slab, the man's head was bowed. Ron stopped a few paces away from him, not wanting to disturb the man's mourning.

Time. The man's voice broke the silence hanging in the air and something about his voice prickled Ron's skin. It sounded familiar in a way he couldn't place his finger on.

In response, Ron's brow raised and he took a cautious step forward, wary of intruding upon the man still.

It takes time.

The wheels in Ron's mind began to turn at a furious pace, the voice sounding maddeningly familiar.

The voice was familiar and yet Ron was shocked to the very core when the man stood and faced him, meeting him eye to eye.

Malfoy, Ron said slowly, one hand reflexively clenching into a fist.

Weasley, he returned with a short nod, his mouth set in a firm line.

What the sod are you doing here?

Paying my respects, Draco returned as though it were quite obvious.

I thought Malfoys didn't pay, Ron spat, feeling his ears grow warm.

We pay respects to the dead deserving of it, Draco replied calmly, removing his runespoor gloves deftly and placing them in the breast pocket on his robe, the colourful fingertips sticking out.

No one listed on this wall needs your respect or anything else you have to offer, Ron said heatedly. Get out.

For a minute Ron thought he had gotten to Malfoy, as his jaw clenched, but he merely laughed and told Ron that the Memorial Wall was open to the public and he would pay tribute to whomever he liked.

Bowing mockingly, he tossed off It takes time before walking off into the night.

What exactly took time, Ron didn't know.

It had been two years and one month since Ron caught Draco Malfoy standing before Harry's name on the wall.

It had been two years and one month and it felt like a lifetime ago.

When Ron closed his eyes shut tightly, he could see that shock of white-blond hair falling in Malfoy's eyes and the way the sun's dying light glinted off of it. Malfoy's head was bowed and he had a strange expression on his face as his fingers traced over the letters in Harry's name.

Ron stood behind him for a good long while, utterly shocked by the sight and rooted to his spot.

What was even stranger than seeing Draco Malfoy standing before Harry Potter's name on the Memorial Wall was the fact that Ron wasn't even mad. He was not mad or offended by this sight at all. It was curious, really, that he was so calm about the matter. Ron was, quite frankly, surprised that his blood wasn't boiling over and that he hadn't hexed Malfoy six times over by now.

And even stranger than all of that was the fact that Ron turned on his heel and walked away when Draco took the tip of his wand to the name of Ron's late lover etched in the granite.

It had been one day since Ron confronted Draco Malfoy about his weekly visits to Harry's name at the Memorial Wall.

It had been one day and it felt like a lifetime ago.

When Ron closed his eyes shut tightly, he could see the hem of Malfoy's cloak billowing in the breeze, wrapping around his legs as he pivoted away from Harry's name, obviously intent on heading out before Ron or anyone else would come to visit Harry. His normally hooded eyes widened the tiniest of degrees when he came face to face with Ron.

Weasley, he said smoothly, taking a step as to move past Ron.

Don't, Ron said firmly, reaching one broad hand out to curl around Malfoy's forearm.

Malfoy's grey eyes flickered from Ron's blue ones down to the hand on his arm and back again, interestingly lacking the distain that Ron had been used to seeing there. How long...? Malfoy started, his jaw set.

Long enough.

And how long is long enough?

Two years and thirty days.

Malfoy lost a bit of his stoic expression then and Ron watched lips part to permit a rush of breath to escape. As quickly as his guard let down it went back up and Malfoy narrowed his eyes at Ron, voice taking on a mock-scolding tone. Like to watch, do you? So naughty for a Gryffindor.

Spare me, Ron hissed, unamused by this turn of events. We aren't schoolboys anymore, Malfoy. You can drop the goodie Gryffindor routine.

One pale brow arched and Ron swore he saw the corner of Malfoy's mouth twitch. Very observant of you, Weasley, Malfoy drawled, fingers curving around Ron's hand on his forearm. We may no longer be schoolboys but you'll always be a Gryffindor at heart.

For some reason this irked Ron more than it should have and red flashed before his eyes. Why've you been visiting Harry's name? he demanded, shaking off Malfoy's fingers and tightening his grip on Malfoy's forearm.

I told you already, said Malfoy in a bored tone.

Liar! Ron was beyond cross now, shaking Malfoy's arm with a great deal of force.

Careful, Weasley, warned Malfoy. You're making me angry...and you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

Fuck off, Ron ground out through clenched teeth, giving him another shake. His mind was racing, a mad cacophony of voices screaming inside. He didn't care how often Ginny or Hermione had told him of Draco Malfoy turning double agent for the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore had kept it secret from him and Harry--and nearly everyone else affiliated with the Order--for years. He could give a toss whether or not Draco Malfoy had turned his back on his father, Voldemort, and the Dark Mark on his arm. The fact was and always would be that Draco Malfoy had lived to torment Harry and now even in death Malfoy could not leave Harry alone.

I don't think I will, Malfoy said nonchalantly as he effortlessly wrenched his arm out of Ron's grasp. I think I'd rather fuck you.

Ron's jaw dropped nearly to his feet. What did you--

Before he could get the words out, Malfoy had grabbed a hold of his forearm and, the next thing he knew, Ron suddenly found himself in a blindingly white and pristine kitchen, Malfoy's hand around his arm like a vise.

Are you mad?! Ron shouted, kicking at Malfoy's shins.

He was startled to see Malfoy's eyes cloud over at this. I am, yes, Draco answered, letting go of Ron and stepping backward.

Where are we?

I thought the answer would be obvious, Weasley.

Ron backed up until he ran into the counter, glancing around the room and taking note of the sense of emptiness. It was vast and barren, something of a domestic wasteland...only with better china and appliances. When his eyes rested on Malfoy's form at last, Ron got it.

He got it.

You....

Malfoy nodded. Me.

But why--? Ron's brow was furrowed in confusion.

Something is missing now.

Swallowing, Ron averted his eyes. He knew. Oh, how he knew. Yeh...something is missing.

Something was missing and Ron would never get it back and neither would Malfoy even though his something that was missing was entirely different yet at the same time it was precisely what Ron was missing and that knowledge made him light-headed.

Help me find it, Malfoy said evenly, eyeing Ron with a confidence that wavered the longer Ron gazed back at him silently.

After a long pause, Ron finally answered him. No. You help me.

Malfoy blinked once and then one corner of his mouth turned up. All right, he said gamely as he crossed to Ron, unfastening the clasp of his cloak.

It had been one hour since Ron went inside Malfoy's loo and shut the door, pressing his back against it and sliding down until his arse was setting on the cool tiles.

It had been one hour and it felt like a lifetime ago.

When Ron closed his eyes shut tightly, he could see Malfoy's cloak pooling around his feet as it fell to the floor.

Flash.

He could see Malfoy's tie being loosened.

Flash.

He could see nimble fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Flash.

With the sweep of one arm, a vase full of narcissus falls to the floor, leaving a clearing on the oaken table.

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

It all happened so fast, in flashes...

And then it slowed down, speeded up, and slowed down all over again.

Lips. There were lips. Lips that he had always seen in a cruel, hard line; a smug, hard smirk; or a hateful, hard scowl. He never would have thought they would be so soft. But they were. They were soft and not what he expected at all but when those lips pressed exigently against his and the teeth behind those lips bit his, they were exactly as what he expected they would be. A coppery taste filled his mouth and he could feel a warm liquid drip from the corner of a lip and then there was a warm tongue lapping up the rivulet and bloody hell he was so hard--

Hands. There were hands. Hands that he had always thought were the hands of a poncy nancyboy. They were as pale as could be, the fingers were long and aristocratic, and he had never seen so much as a bit of dirt from an Herbology lesson beneath those fingernails. He never would have thought that they would be so firm. But they were. They were firm and not what he expected at all but when those hands grabbed his hips and hoisted him up to the table, they were exactly what he had never thought they would be. Firm. Firm and nimble simultaneously. When those hands removed his trousers and boxer shorts and cupped him as though they were examining him, his head bounced off of the table and the sound of it was enough to make him half-sick. He quickly forgot about that nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach when those hands Summoned a small tin and , almost immediately after it was Banished away, the fingers on those hands began to slide over his skin, one set of fingers stroking him thoroughly while the other slid beneath his arse, slippery fingers running along him there. In the same moment his hips arched off of the table, two of those slick fingers touched him intimately, and he clenched in response. Malfoy exhaled slowly, pushing his fingers further and Ron groaned, urging him to do more. Malfoy chuckled low in his throat and complied and Ron cursed, screwing his eyes shut against the white-hot bursts of stars he was seeing before his eyes.

Hard. They were both hard. Both hard and there. His own, which he never thought in a million years anyone would touch besides himself after Harry's death. His own and Malfoy's, which he never thought in a million years he would want to touch, much less have inside him (or have the opportunity to, at any rate). Oh, but how he did now. And how glad he was when Malfoy did just that. It made no sense. It made absolutely no sense and it was mad and it was wrong and it was right and it was everything all rolled into one glorious fuck that by all means shouldn't have happened.

By whose means? Ron's? Malfoy's? Whose? What did those means matter anymore, if at all? Something was missing but Ron was helping Malfoy find it and Malfoy was helping Ron find it and, in one scorching moment when violent tremors shook them both to their very core and Ron felt Malfoy's release as he reached his own climax, they found the missing something together.

It had been one minute since Malfoy rapped on the door to the loo.

It had been one minute and it felt like time was standing still.

When Ron opened his eyes, he could see the doorknob twist slightly to the left and to the right.

Open the door, Weasley, came the familiar drawl, the one he had loathed every waking minute of his life until 59 minutes ago.

Standing up slowly, Ron turned around and reached out, palming the knob and turning it slowly to the right.

Click.

The door opened little by little until it could open no further, revealing a rather flushed and naked Draco Malfoy--as naked and flushed as Ron was himself.

Hullo, Ron said hoarsely, staring at a spot on Malfoy's shoulder.

Hullo, he returned, stepping back slightly so that Ron could pass him.

Beginning to walk past him, Ron suddenly stopped and looked him dead in the eye, a myriad of emotions and thoughts evident on his face.

Why? His voice cracked and he found that he didn't even care one bit about that.

Malfoy did not respond. Rather, he gestured for Ron to follow him in the kitchen and pulled a chair out for him. Busying himself for a few minutes, Malfoy then crossed to the table and sat a cup of tea in front of the other man. Taking a seat directly across from Ron, he folded those aristocratic hands of his on the table before him, not bothering to brush the shock of white-blond hair that had fallen into his eyes out of his face.

It takes time.