Draco smacked his glass of Ogden's finest onto the library table, nearly cracking the delicate thing in a fit of helpless frustration. Bloody Weasel! How dare the freckled bastard treat him that way?! It wasn’t like he kissed the beautiful Gryffindor dork out of the blue, was it?!
The redheaded menace accepted his invitation for a drink, didn’t he?! For Merlin’s sake, why did the gorgeous idiot think he bothered? Surely not for conversational purposes! Though, as it turned out, talking to Weasel wasn’t quite as tedious as he expected it to be – it was almost… pleasant… well, it was certainly easy – but that hadn’t been the purpose! They were flirting, for fuck’s sake! How was there another name for all that soft talk, easy smiles and the way the space between them kept slowly disappearing? How oblivious could a man be, seriously?! Even a Gryffindor… seriously?!
But, honestly, Draco should have known better. Weasel’s obliviousness was a thing of legends, and the last couple of hours they spent together was the ultimate proof that his reputation was clearly well deserved. Sitting next to a man whose warm, earthy scent was a failproof recipe for “How to dissolve a Malfoy into a pool of most desperate want”, has left Draco with a horrendous case of a throbbing cock, and by the end of the evening he was exasperated enough to hump any wood, even the humble leg of the less-than-impeccable table in the Leaky Cauldron had come to mind.
He was quickly running out of subtle ways to spell out to the gorgeous fire-head “I want you! Want to fuck! F.U.C.K. Yes?!”, so in his state of diminished mental capacity, he opted for the one move of sheer desperation that was left: in the enactment of the modern equivalent of clubbing your chosen one on the head and dragging him in your cave, he kissed delicious, oblivious Weasel on that decadent, sweet mouth. Good and proper. Out in the open. For everyone to see… yeah. That bad. Not the kiss, that is. The kiss was… uhm, kind of earth-shattering, to be honest. But the fact that there had been the need for a kiss… ugh.
But what else could he have done? That soft, generous mouth had been smiling at him the whole evening – smiling, mind you, like never before! – and closing around the rim of the bottle in a filthy, suggestive way that had Draco barely swallowing his mewling. At the sight of Weasel sucking the liquid straight out of the bottle, with his eyes closed, and so greedily that the thin rivulets of it ran from the corners of his absurdly tempting mouth, Draco’s horny imagination instantly projected a hundred and one situation of uhm… other liquid filling the redhead’s mouth and it had made his balls absolutely ache for release… And then that utter berk wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled at him apologetically, the twinkle in those blue eyes oh-so-innocent… ohhhh… well, that was it, really. Draco had literally jumped him. And he never jumped anyone. And because it was bloody Weasel, it was, of course, totally worth it.
The bloody time seemed to stop. Probably there were church towers crumbling around the globe, and angels falling from the sky, because a Malfoy was kissing a Weasley… but it had to be done. He had to. If only for a little taste… he was desperate for it. This had been a long time coming.
He’s had a thing for it, you see – for that little thing Weasley had that no one else did. One could always count on Potter and Granger to do the right thing, but the redhead… there was a flicker of dark and untamed about him, a shadow at the bottom of those alluring blue eyes, an unexpected violent outburst, or an act of careless ruthlessness that an unequivocally good person would never be capable of – and it always made Draco’s knees weak to witness it.
Weasley had been his first shocking meeting with brute force he could not manipulate away with clever words… and, uhm, yeah, his first unfortunate hard-on. He still remembered how flabbergasted he had been, when the dirt-poor boy with fiery red hair and fierce blue eyes never bothered to return his mean jab at his poverty with a smart reply or even a nifty spell. Instead, he had smashed right into him, knocking him flat over before those buffoons of his friends even had a chance to react, and bloodied his face before Draco even had a chance to squeal. He still vividly remembered how stunned he had been, when those long limbs wrapped around him, and he’d been suddenly flooded by another boy’s body heat, with that hot breath teasing his skin from up close, and blue eyes burning in front of his face. He had barely felt the first punch – though he damn sure felt it for days afterwards! – he’s been way too busy being introduced to an alien feeling of being close to someone.
He’d never seen so much passion up close, he’d never been so… corporeal with anyone. Weasley had been his first. The first person who had savagely invaded his personal space, completely ignoring the fact that Draco was smarter, richer, more handsome – but simply delivering punch after punch, teaching Draco a valuable lesson about the fragility of his own status. He had always thought himself untouchable and able to get away with his petty cruelty. He’d considered his ability to insult the lesser creatures clever and funny, and he’d never expected to be punished for it. He was the only heir of a distinguished pureblood family after all; his father was influential, they had riches enough to splash around, and he was raised to believe he was going to be someone important. Well, none of it mattered under the hard fists of Ronald Weasley, cracking his skin and nearly his bones as well. None of that had helped him one bit in the eye of that blind rage he had caused with his derogatory arrogance.
That pretty mouth that made a bit of an involuntary worshiper out of him later, had been inches from his face, hissing insults, expletives and obscenities, he’d never even heard an adult utter, but what had shocked him the most was how much he’d liked it. Bloody Weasel would just spit out any damn thing Draco was appalled to even think, and the blond hadn’t really realised what this kind of rude boldness was doing to him, until the Gryffindor’s thigh pushed between his legs to pin him down – and Draco couldn’t hold back a helpless moan. Somewhere down the road, he had turned – oh, god – hard… and tense… and still pressed against that muscled thigh… He’d found himself hot, and bothered, and bloody under the body of one Ron Weasley he hated and despised and couldn’t help to bloody inhale like irresistible poison. So he’d done the only thing that’d been left for him to do.
“Please,” he had whimpered. “Please, stop.”
And Weasley, fist raised for another punch, had indeed stopped, looking shocked and bewildered as if someone had just woken him up. Blood had still been running down the thin, freckled face – because Draco had apparently managed to throw in a punch or two after all – and his blue eyes connected with Draco’s for a long, unforgettable moment. Draco had never felt so… assaulted by the mixed emotions before. He’d never felt more helpless, humiliated and damaged… but the way Weasley was looking at him, arched above him like a fiery wave about to crash down on him hard, had blurred everything else. He liked it. God help him, but he liked being at another boy’s mercy. It wasn’t just the friction of his swollen cock, pressing against the warm, hard flesh of the redhead’s thigh… it was the whole feeling of being mastered… that unbound savagery that made him breathless and had unravelled him so completely that he was willing to beg… that power he had over Weasley to say one word – “please” – that made him stop. He hadn’t known it at the time, but he was hooked. He’d been looking for another Weasley ever since. He couldn’t keep this one. Not back then, and clearly, not even now.
The lanky redhead had gotten up and backed away from him rather suddenly that day, and there might have been a flicker of shame flashing in those fiery blue eyes – Draco was smaller and more delicately built after all – but then he’d simply shrugged, wiped the blood off his face with his sleeve, and murmured defiantly: “Well, you had it coming, you arrogant little bugger.”
Later in his bedroom, the shame and the anger had come – and so had the funny little question: what would Weasley have done if he’d asked him not to stop? The thought had sent the shivers down Draco’s spine. He tried to chase it away – he had hated being assaulted like that, didn’t he, why would he even want that stupid ginger Neanderthal not to stop?! – but he could only bury it under his resentment and about a million heated vows to get back to the redhead and his crowd of sorry Gryffindor losers. Still, this incident was the one his father never found out about. As infuriating and humiliating as it was, it was somewhat… precious.
He would rather die than admit it, but he’d been chasing the same feeling for his entire stay at Hogwarts. He’d provoke, and irritate and take verbal shots at the redhead, hoping for a repeat, and sometimes he was indeed lucky enough to get a response – never quite long enough, never quite private enough. Every once in a while Draco’s taunting would push the redhead too far, and Weasel would lose it and push him against the wall in his rage. And as if by magic, Draco’s body would burst to life in the sweet expectation of that raw power, of the hot breath teasing his skin, of hissed, filthy expletives he’d later whisper to himself when he wanked, of that closeness he liked to fantasise the redhead knew about. The fiery Gryffindor would always get pulled back by one of the Slytherin goons Draco kept close, but Draco got his fix and another fill for forbidden day-dreams… until next time.
The redhead indeed seemed to have inexhaustible reserves of anger and frustration ready for him and Draco had made sure it had stayed that way. He’d gone as far as to fly all the way up to Weasley’s family home during the summer holidays, just have some more material to taunt the Gryffindor who was clearly embarrassed by their poverty. Though, as Draco remembered with surprising ire even after all these years, that had somewhat backfired. He’d stumbled upon a scene of Weasley and Potter having a swim – and apparently a lot of fun – at the pond near the house and all that pale freckled skin and hearty, unabashed laughter had given him a raging hard-on and sent him into a massive fit of jealousy. How come Potter, with a bloody death-threat hanging over his head, got to have so much fun?! With his Weasel?!
He knew back then as he knew now that this obsession was not a healthy one – but he could not help himself and his perverted desires he could barely understand. It made no sense for someone like Draco, with high social standing and a bright future in front of him, to pine after a boy who was an insignificant side-kick at best. Well, Draco had a feeling that what he felt for Weasley had little to do with sense anyway. When it was just the redhead and himself, with no space between them, it felt right… as if things were as they should be. Fuck him, and his mad desires!
This evening’s calamity was all his own blood fault anyway. As soon as he found out that Weasley was no longer working as an Auror, that he took up a job at his brother’s store and finally decided to put some distance between himself and Potter, who cast a really long shadow these days, Draco had come running like a lost puppy. If he had a tail, he suspected he’d be wagging it. He didn’t really know what to expect, or why was he even having a go at contacting his alluring nemesis – but like any other thing that had to do with Weasley, this decision made no sense as well. He had to go… he had to try.
Perhaps his only reasonable excuse could be that he was facing a prospect of another lonely birthday – and he could no longer bear it. That bloody war had made a social pariah out of him, and though by some divine mercy and Potter’s long arm, he was allowed to keep the family wealth, he was ostracised in every walk of life. He could barely get out without getting shouted and spit at, or humiliated by the strangers who thought he had gotten off too easy and wanted to take justice into their own hands. After one such incident had landed him at St. Mungo’s, he was visited by Granger who sat by his bed awkwardly for about ten minutes and upon departure handed him his wand back.
“We think it’s best you should have this back… for defence and everyday spells only,” she warned him, and he could tell how uneasy it made her. “We’ll know if you try something funny.” He could still see the scars on her arm that his mad aunt inflicted upon her, and he almost didn’t take the offered wand. But in the end the reason prevailed. He had been feeling so very helpless without it, and as a true Slytherin, he knew his reluctance would soon be forgotten. It was the right choice and it did feel incredible to have some of his former power back. He never truly understood what a privilege it was to own a wand that responded to him perfectly, until he had lost it.
But even having his wand back hasn’t done much to improve his social life, and at nearly 25 he felt as lonely and forgotten as if, by ill chance, he had been locked in a glass box that would only let him watch the life go by while he could have no part of it.
And then he had woken this morning to that heart-stopping news, plastered all over the front page of the Prophet:
“Ronald Weasley leaving prestigious position at the Ministry to take part in family business”
The article – and its author, that harpy Skeeter – went on to say acidly, how “the least significant member of the Trio decided to leave rather abruptly from the position that was only ever his by the merit of being the Chosen One’s right hand man”. But the part of the article that had made Draco’s heart beat faster, hinted that “there was a number of rumours from various, very reliable sources that his relationship with his long-time girlfiend, the too-brilliant-to-settle-for-the-average-guy part of the Trio, Ms Hermione Granger, was on the rocks”. This… was too good to be true. Well, it was, in the end, wasn’t it?