Work Header

Thrall [+podfic]

Work Text:

It was Hermione who found the note.

I need to get away for a bit. I'll see you when I see you.
- Harry

"Where d'you suppose he's gone?" Ron asked.

"Does it matter?" said Hermione. "He'll come back when he's ready. Speaking of which --"


She bit her lip, looking guilty. "I need to go away for a bit, too. I have to find my parents and bring them home."

Ron pulled her into an embrace, planting a kiss on the crown of her frizzy head. In spite of the tragic losses that had marked the end of the war with Voldemort two weeks before, he was euphoric. He and the woman he loved had survived, and they had realised that their feelings for one another were mutual. As the dust began to settle, the two of them finally had the time and the freedom to explore their deepening bond.

"You did what you had to do to protect them," he told her. "I'll come with you. I want to meet your family properly."


Hermione pulled away from him. When she saw the hurt and confusion on his face, her expression softened.

"I'm sorry, Ron. It's sweet of you to offer, but I have to do this by myself. It's been too long since I spent any time with them."

His disappointment must have showed. She came back to him, kissing him lingeringly on the mouth.

"I'll be back in a few weeks," she promised. "You ought to spend some time with your family, too."

"Yeah," Ron said. "I probably should."

Ron was bored. Everything that urgently needed doing in the wake of the Battle of Hogwarts had been done. His father and Percy spent every waking hour at work, helping Kingsley Shacklebolt get the Ministry of Magic back on track. Bill and Fleur were enjoying a long-delayed honeymoon in France. Charlie had returned to Romania and his dragons. Ginny was spending the summer helping Lee Jordan at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and often spent the night above the shop in the twins' old rooms. George had unexpectedly eloped with Angelina Johnson the day after Fred's funeral. The only people left at the Burrow were Ron and his mother.

When Molly grew tired of her son's complaints of boredom, she banished him to the attic to sort through the detritus piled there, and pack it neatly away into boxes. It did not stop his complaints, but at least it put enough distance between them that she did not have to listen to him.

Ron scowled at the piles of dusty, useless junk, and pronounced a few choice words, which, if his mother had heard them, would have caused her eyes to narrow. The ghoul rattling in the corner giggled.

"Shut it, you," he said without heat as he knelt by the nearest pile.

There was a time when Ron would have simply shoved everything in boxes, willy-nilly, and been done with it, but the first object he picked up was an old Junior Potioneer's kit that had belonged to Fred. He sat for a long moment, staring at the dusty wooden box, remembering how much his brother had loved that kit. It dawned on him that every item stored in the Burrow's attic had meaning to someone in his family. Resolving to take as much care with their treasured possessions as he would with his own, Ron lined up nine boxes, wrote a name on each, and began more or less carefully tossing items into them.

He was an hour into the task, and filthy to the eyebrows, when he came across his mother's collection of vinyl records. They were already stored in a box of their own, so Ron's initial hesitation was over whether to put that box into the larger one bearing his mother's name, or to leave it aside as it was. As he considered, he flipped absently through the records.

A few of the musical artists, he recognised from his childhood, or from the Wizarding Wireless Network. But at the very back of the box were half a dozen albums, all by the same artist: Lorcan d'Eath. The name struck a chord in Ron's memory, but he was unable to place it.

Brow furrowed, he frowned at the image of the artist on the cover. D'Eath was a pale, handsome man with dark hair and high cheekbones. He wore formfitting black clothing in a style nearly twenty years out of date. His dark eyes seemed to stare straight into Ron's, and the corner of his mouth curled up in a smile that suggested a wealth of illicit secrets, smugly kept.

Glancing up, Ron peered into the dark corners of the attic. Somewhere, he had seen his mother's old gramophone: an ancient, hand-cranked dinosaur of a contraption. Maybe hearing a song or two would help him place the mysterious d'Eath. Locating the device, Ron tapped it with his wand to remove years of dusty neglect, and placed one of the vinyl discs on the turntable.

The music began with a throbbing pulse, slow and deep as the beat of a heart. It was joined by the eloquent sound of a mournful violin. The music flowed over him, resonating through his mind and singing in his blood. But when d'Eath began to sing, all else faded into insignificance. His voice was captivating, haunting, enthralling. It overwhelmed Ron's senses, so that the power and emotion of every word echoed in his soul. D'Eath sang of passion, desire, and burning hunger with an intensity that left Ron breathless.

When he became aware of his surroundings once more, the record had finished. He was lying on the attic floor, staring up at the cobwebbed beams above him, filled with a bone-deep ache of loss and longing. The songs of Lorcan d'Eath had spoken to him on a profound level, but try though he might, he could not remember a single word. All Ron knew was that he needed to hear more. Gathering up the gramophone and the six precious albums, he carried them down to his bedroom.

The music surrounds him, penetrating every cell of his body, shivering deliciously down his spine. He can see d'Eath on the stage before him, the words that bind Ron's world together flowing from his lips. Ron is aware of a crowd of people around him, but he takes no notice of them. He only has eyes for d'Eath.

The dark-haired man is walking towards him, singing directly to him, and no other. Ron's pulse races. He can barely breathe. D'Eath leans in close -- so close that his breath ruffles Ron's hair as d'Eath sings softly in his ear.

Ron closes his eyes, shivering, as pale fingers caress his chest. He realises that he is naked, but he does not care. There is a hand on his cock. He moans, pushing against it. Whether it is his own hand or d'Eath's seems unimportant. The only thing that matters is that d'Eath never, ever stops singing to him.

The record came to an end, and Ron awoke with a start in a tangle of sweaty bedsheets. It was not the first time that he had fallen asleep listening to d'Eath's music, nor was it the first time he had dreamed of the singer, and woken hard and panting. It was, however, the first time his mother had been standing in the doorway of his room when he awoke.

"I see you've found Lorcan," she said in a tone that tried and failed to sound offhand. "I wondered why you'd barely left your room in days."

"It -- it's good, isn't it?" Ron babbled, flustered. "This music. Really -- good."

His face burned. Had she been able to tell what kind of dream he was having? It was a small mercy that the sheet still covered him from the waist down. He sat up, drawing his knees up to his chest as casually as he could manage, to hide an erection which refused to go away.

If Molly Weasley noticed, she hid it well. "They used to play him on the radio all the time. I'd almost forgotten. His music can be -- very affecting." There was a wistful note in his mother's voice.

Ron cocked his head, amusement warring with his embarrassment. "Did you fancy him, Mum?"

It was Molly's turn to blush. "Of course I did. Everyone did. Women. Girls. Men." The last was half a question.

Ron picked up the record sleeve, staring at it intently to avoid meeting her eyes. Sexual attraction to another man was a new experience for him, and he was not sure it was something he felt ready to discuss with his mother.

"I was just listening because I thought his name sounded familiar, and I couldn't remember where I'd heard of him."

"When you and Ginny were small, you used to dance around the sitting room to his music," Molly told him.

"Did we?" Ron's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I don't remember that."

Molly nodded. "Before I put him away."

She went to the gramophone and turned the record over, adjusting the volume so that d'Eath's voice was not so overpowering, and sat down at the foot of her son's bed. A change came over her as the music began. She looked less like his mother and more like -- like a woman.

"I met him once," Molly said dreamily. "Not long after Ginny was born. He was -- very charming."

"I'll bet he was," Ron said, a slow grin spreading across his face. His embarrassment had evaporated the moment the music had started again. He leaned back against the pillows, stretching luxuriantly, not caring about the tenting sheet. "Why'd you pack him away in the attic?"

"He went out of fashion." She bit her lip. "No, that's not true. He went to Azkaban."

"He was a Death Eater?" Ron exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. He did some quick mental arithmetic. "No, he can't have been. If Ginny was dancing to him, too, that had to be well after Voldemort disappeared the first time."

Molly shook her head. "He wasn't a Death Eater. At least, not that anyone knew of. He was part vampire."

"Part vampire?" Ron frowned in confusion. "How d'you work that out?"

"I don't know," his mother admitted. "But that's what people said. He was charged with using his music to ensnare the wills of the young and -- with drinking their blood. In the end, he couldn't control his nature."

She shivered visibly, and Ron thought it was not entirely with revulsion. His eyes narrowed.

"When you met him, Mum," he asked, "did he --?"

"It was a long time ago," she snapped, a blush staining her cheeks. "And it's hardly your business."

"Is he still in Azkaban?"

"I suppose so." Molly sighed. "Why do you ask?"

"Because if he is," said Ron slowly, "we could go and see him."

Molly gazed at her son, the breathless, flushed look she wore mirrored on his own face. Ron wondered if her heart was pounding half as hard as his, as he waited for her answer.

She licked her lips nervously, and nodded.

"Tomorrow. Your father won't be -- we can go tomorrow."

Azkaban, like Hogwarts, was impossible to Apparate into or out of, nor did the Floo network go anywhere near enough to be useful. Brooms might get them there, but they were not terribly comfortable for long-distance travel.

It was Ron's idea to take the motorbike. His father had spent a great deal of his time in hiding over the past year tinkering with it, restoring it to working condition after its crash-landing the previous summer, and it now looked almost like new. The fact that his mother made no comment about Muggle machines and illegal Flying charms told Ron just how deeply d'Eath's music had affected her. She showed no hesitation as she swung her leg over the bike behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

They flew east over southern England, the green patchwork of countryside slipping by, unnoticed, beneath them as their eyes gazed, unfocused, into the distance. D'Eath's music still echoed in Ron's mind, a siren song drawing him onwards towards its source.

"But how are we to get in?" Molly asked, dismounting stiffly when they landed at last on the barren, rocky island, just outside the towering walls of the prison fortress.

"Leave that to me," said Ron.

The chill of despair had gone from Azkaban with the Dementors. The guards who watched the prison now were only human, and humans, Ron could deal with.

"We're here to see a prisoner," he told the guard stationed at the gate.

"Which prisoner?" the guard asked suspiciously, looking from Ron to Molly to the motorbike.

Ron met his gaze impassively. "Lorcan d'Eath."

The guard raised his eyebrows. "And what business d'you have with him?"

Ron drew himself up to his full height -- several inches taller than the guard -- and frowned in a show of displeasure. "Do you know who I am? I'm Ron Weasley. I spent the last year working with my best mate, Harry Potter, to bring down Voldemort and save the whole bloody world. I helped put half the Death Eaters you've got here behind bars. This is my mother. D'you really think we're here to cause trouble or spring one of your prisoners?"

The wizard's eyes flicked to the Sneakoscope which stood on the desk before him. It remained still and silent.

"Well -- all right," he said at last. "I suppose it's fine. But you'll have to leave your wands here. No wands inside the prison. Those are the rules."

The two Weasleys handed over their wands, which the guard tagged and placed in a cubbyhole. He issued them claim tickets before summoning a second guard, who introduced herself as Guardswitch Murray, to escort them into the prison.

"Azkaban is a different place without the Dementors," she explained as she led them into the echoing stone entryway of the fortress. "All prisoners are regularly drained of their magic, and only the guards are permitted to carry wands inside the walls. Of course, several of the inmates are still suffering the aftereffects of being under the Dementors' influence for years, but they're decently-treated now."

She gestured towards a cell as they passed. A man lay on a bunk, reading from a thick book. "They're not allowed spell books or anything dangerous like that, of course," Murray went on. "The prison keeps an extensive library of Muggle fiction now. Albus Dumbledore himself left us a great many books."

"Mmmm," said Ron indifferently. "Does d'Eath do much reading?"

The guard frowned. "Not him. He -- sings to himself a lot of the time. You want to be careful," she added, giving them a warning look.

"I thought you said the prisoners were drained of magic?" said Molly.

"That doesn't mean he's not dangerous," the guard replied darkly. "He's not like the others, and his magic's not like normal Wizarding magic. You'll know about that? What he is?"

Molly nodded. "I've met him before. Years ago."

Guardswitch Murray looked her over. "Then you'll know what he's like. There's power in his voice. Just bear that in mind and you should be all right. Here we are."

Ron peered eagerly into the cell before them. It looked exactly like the rest they had passed, furnished with only the basic amenities. A man lay on the bunk, one arm casually draped across his eyes as if to block out the dim light.

"I'll be back in one hour," said the guard, turning to go.

"We want to go in," said Ron.

Guardswitch Murray paused, biting her lip. "I'm not sure that would be --"

"Have you never gone in?" Molly asked sharply, her gaze fixed on the witch's neck.

Ron noticed a small scar which the collar of her robes did not quite cover.

The guard blushed. "I don't --"

"And if anyone asks," Ron assured her, "neither did we. Your secret is safe with us."

She hesitated a moment, then sighed, tapping the cell's lock with her wand. "You wouldn't be the first. One hour. And don't say I didn't warn you."

Ron and Molly stepped inside the cell. The guard locked the door behind them, leaving them alone with Lorcan d'Eath.

Ron realised that d'Eath had been humming softly to himself the whole time; he just had not noticed until the guard had gone. Now d'Eath let his arm fall away from his eyes, and gazed up at the two Weasleys with a wicked smile.

"Molly," he said softly. "How good of you to visit me."

Molly turned pink. "I -- I didn't think you'd remember me."

D'Eath swung long legs over the side of the bunk, and rose, taking her hands in his, dark eyes fixed on hers.

"Of course I remember you, Sweet Molly," he murmured. "I remember everyone I've tasted."

Ron watched, wide-eyed, as d'Eath drew his mother close for a passionate kiss. When the vampire released her, he turned his gaze on Ron.

He was no longer as young and handsome as he had appeared on the covers of his albums so many years before. Age and harsh living conditions had hollowed his cheeks and left dark smudges under those piercing eyes. His hair had grown long, so that it hung nearly to his waist, but it was clean and untangled. There was still a compelling beauty in his eyes and in the shape of his smiling mouth.

"Dearest Molly," he said, "you've brought me something sweet and fresh. How thoughtful."

Ron's breath caught in his throat as d'Eath moved towards him.

"My son," Molly told him. "Ron."

"Ron," d'Eath murmured. "It is a pleasure to meet you. Would you like me to sing for you?"

Ron swallowed, throat dry, and nodded.

"Then I shall. But you must do something for me." D'Eath's voice was barely a whisper. He stood so close that Ron could see nothing but that haunting, beautiful face. "Undress, Ron."

Ron did not even hesitate. Something about d'Eath's presence made him forget that his mother was watching, that he was straight, that he had never let anyone but Hermione see his naked body before. D'Eath sang softly as he shrugged out of his robes, casting them aside. The words -- forgotten as soon as they were heard -- sent delicious shivers cascading over Ron's bare skin. He could not remember ever wanting anything as much as he wanted the man who stood before him.

"So fair. So pure," murmured d'Eath, his gaze caressing Ron's face and body. "Tell me, Ron, have you ever been bedded?"

Ron bit his lip. "There's a girl. We --" But the details had fled his memory. He knew Hermione's name, but he could not summon her face to his mind.

"A pity," said d'Eath. "Innocent blood is a rare delicacy. Still, I imagine you are sweet enough. How could you not be? You are Molly's son. Kiss me, Ron."

It was so easy. D'Eath could not have asked anything of Ron that he would have done more gladly. His face was mere inches away. All Ron had to do was lean closer. His lips seemed to burn hot against the vampire's cool mouth, and the hands that slid over his body made him shiver again.

"Come to my bed, Sweet Ron," d'Eath whispered in his ear, "and you will have everything you desire."

Ron's heart was pounding. "I-I want --"

"I know what you want. I can see it in your eyes. You hunger for me."

"Yes," Ron sighed.

Molly stood against the wall, watching, enthralled, as d'Eath drew his shirt over his head and cast aside the loose drawstring trousers that hung from his bony hips. His skin was pale as parchment, and he was thinner than the last time she had seen him, but the sight of his body still drew a sigh of longing from her lips.

D'Eath's eyes found her, and he smiled. "You shall have your reward, Sweet Molly," he promised, "but the boy needs me now."

Eyes wide, lips parted with desire, her youngest son gazed at d'Eath. His cock stood up, thick and rigid in its nest of ginger curls. As the vampire led him to the bed and laid him down, Molly could not help admiring the graceful lines of his body. He looked very much like his father had at eighteen. His back arched and he gasped with pleasure at d'Eath's touch, and Molly saw that her son was more beautiful than she had ever imagined.

D'Eath lay facing him. Ron could feel the vampire's skin against his own all down the length of his body, but it was the voice murmuring soft words of encouragement in his ear that excited him most.

"Yes, that's it. Relax. Enjoy it. There is so much pleasure to be had."

He rotated his hips, sliding his erection alongside Ron's, making him gasp and moan.

"Do you like this?" he breathed against Ron's neck.

"Oh -- oh yes --"

D'Eath ran long, bony fingers down Ron's side, and over his hip, to cup between his legs, caressing him. Ron parted his thighs at d'Eath's touch with a whimper.

"Please," he moaned.

"Sweet Ron," d'Eath murmured. "How tragic that we should have so little time in which to enjoy ourselves. You deserve to be loved well and thoroughly. Had I the time, I would show you hours and days of unparalleled bliss."

The vampire bent his head, and Ron felt the tip of a cool tongue on the skin of his chest, the sharp point of a tooth graze his nipple. D'Eath slid smoothly down his body, until his breath ghosted over the straining head of Ron's cock. His pointed tongue flicked out, tasting, teasing, as Ron moaned and squirmed beneath him.

Carefully, d'Eath drew Ron into his mouth. His fangs never touched the delicate skin, but the knowledge of their proximity heightened Ron's awareness and intensified the sensation. His breath came in gasps and his heart thundered as the vampire pleasured him with his mouth. He was almost there -- almost --

D'Eath pulled back, rubbing his lips over the head. "The blood is sweetest at the moment of ecstasy. Come for me, Ron. Let me taste you."

Ron stared into fathomless dark eyes, barely able to comprehend the words. "Please," he begged again.

D'Eath smiled, pointed teeth gleaming. His eyes held Ron's as his lips closed around the head once more. Holding the tip delicately in his mouth, tongue pressed to the slit, he began to hum a sweet and tender melody, full of yearning.

The vibration, coupled with the tantalising sound, sent a jolt of pure pleasure through Ron's groin. His eyes rolled back as his body convulsed. Spunk spattered his belly and chest as d'Eath pulled away, quick as a snake. Ron gave an animal cry of equal parts passion and pain as the vampire sank his fangs into the crease of his groin, drinking deeply of the blood and endorphins that pounded through his body.

When Ron became aware of his surroundings once more, weak, dizzy, and panting, d'Eath was bent over him, lips red, eyes burning into his, looking younger and healthier than he had before.

"You taste so sweet, Ron," d'Eath told him. "It has been a long time since I have had anything so fine."

Red lips found Ron's, and d'Eath kissed him deeply, tasting of coppery blood and the musk of sex. Ron sighed with contentment.

"Rest now," said d'Eath, pulling away regretfully and rising from the bunk. "I must see to your mother."

Molly watched with wonder as her son cried out and spilled his seed. Seeing the two beautiful men together kindled the warm ache of arousal between her own thighs. Unconsciously, she raised a hand to caress the curve of her breast. The other clutched at the fabric of her robes.

When d'Eath rose from the bed, graceful and naked, and turned towards her, Molly's mouth went dry.

"Molly. Sweet Molly." d'Eath smiled, returning her gaze. "Look at her, Ron. You should see her as I do. She is Fertility incarnate, with the wellspring of Life burning between her thighs. Such power and energy and love and passion. Have you never wanted to taste it?"

Molly stared hungrily at d'Eath. The pain of grief and the strain of everyday life had faded away the moment she stepped into his presence. She felt young again, and more fully alive than she had in years. If this man would only touch her, she would surely live forever.

She closed her eyes as his hands moved beneath her robes, running over the rounded curves of her body. Her lips parted eagerly under his as he flicked open the fastening and pushed the robes off her shoulders. She wore only a light summer dress underneath. Deft fingers made short work of a few buttons, and then cool palms slid inside to cup the soft fullness of her breasts.

"I think you have grown more beautiful than ever, Sweet Molly," he told her, lips brushing over the curve of her collarbone, before moving lower to caress a pink nipple with his tongue.

"Oh, Merlin." She sighed with pleasure, fingers tangling in his long hair to urge him on.

A hand moved lower to slide slowly up her inner thigh, pushing her skirt high, out of the way. She gasped, eyes wide, as one long finger delicately touched the swollen lips of her vulva, tracing the line of her slit.

"So wet," he murmured. "Did it excite you, seeing me give pleasure to your son?"

She nodded, speechless, eyes shining.

"I would take you to my bed, but it is occupied for the moment," d'Eath told her. "I do seem to recall, though, that you don't mind having a wall at your back."

He kissed her lingeringly on the mouth once more, then sank to his knees, palms urging her thighs apart. Molly's head tipped back against the rough stone, eyes fluttering closed again, hands still tangled in the hair of the man who knelt before her. His tongue flicked out, teasing between her lips to lap daintily at the exquisitely sensitive nub of her clit. Molly moaned loudly.

As if her cry were a summons, Ron sat up. His eyes met his mother's for an instant, before sliding down her body to the nest of dark red curls and d'Eath's talented mouth. Molly watched as her son rose shakily to his feet and approached them. D'Eath seemed to sense his presence. He left off his ministrations to glance over his shoulder.

"She is so close," he told Ron. "It will not take much more. Perhaps only the feel of me entering her."

Wordless, Ron held out a hand to raise d'Eath to his feet. He stepped close to the other man, kissing him. Molly held her breath, knowing that her son tasted her own warm, musky flavour on d'Eath's lips.

With a dreamy sigh, Ron turned to gaze at her.

"I want to kiss you," he said.

He looked so like his father, the first time Molly had opened herself to him. The memory of that night burned between her thighs. She nodded.

Ron stepped closer, heart hammering. His mother looked up at him, lips parted, eyes wide. The usual lines of strain and worry had faded from her face. Her clothing was in disarray, her breasts and the damp curls between her legs on full display. She was beautiful. How had he never noticed before? Yes, she was his mother, but she was also a woman, and he desired her. Stooping, he pressed his lips to hers.

Her mouth was as warm and eager as Hermione's. His hands moved over her body, touching heavy breasts and rounded hips, as d'Eath crooned encouragement in his ear.

"There is no harm in it, Sweet Ron. Your mother is a woman, and should be honoured as one."

Ron's fingers brushed the soft, thick flesh of her thigh. She shivered against him as his hand moved upwards. He felt the heat of her before he touched it -- humid warmth radiating between her thighs. The hair tickled his palm as he cupped her, wondering at the slickness his fingers touched. Hermione had been just as wet when he touched her there. Not the first awkward time, nor the second, but the third, after they had figured out a few things. His fingers probed deeper, parting her lips to touch the hot slickness within. She gasped against his neck as he slipped two long fingers inside her, moving them in and out.

"That's it, Sweet Ron," d'Eath murmured. "Why should it be wrong for you to touch her there? You came from there. That is the gateway through which you found Life."

His mother's quim was not quite so tight as Hermione's, but the grip of her internal muscles around his fingers was still strong. Ron was painfully hard again. The thought of how easily his cock would slide into that snug, forbidden space made him groan with longing. He pressed his hips closer, the tip of his erection brushing the sodden curls, feeling the heat of her. She moved instinctively, opening her legs wider to receive him.

"Yesss," she sighed, rubbing her slickness against the sensitive head.

The tip of his cock found her entrance, and he pushed forwards, seeking to sheathe himself in her welcoming embrace.

A hand wrapped around his shaft, restraining him, and he looked up, drunk with lust, into the eyes of Lorcan d'Eath.

"No, Sweet Ron," he said with a gentle smile, guiding Ron back from his mother and stepping between them. "This time, the honour is mine. If it is penetration you crave, take me."

Ron's eyes flew wide. "Take you?"

Unbidden, his eyes travelled down the vampire's body, admiring the shapes and shadows of his slender back, the cascade of dark hair, the tight rounds of d'Eath's buttocks.

"Do you think I would deny you, Sweet Ron?" d'Eath asked softly. "That I could drink of your blood without wanting to take you into me in every way possible?"

Ron's cock twitched in d'Eath's hand, and he swallowed heavily. It was not an act he had ever considered trying before -- not least with another man.

D'Eath's arms twined around Molly, and he glanced back over his shoulder, bare feet sliding farther apart on the stone floor, giving Ron an enticing look.

"I can pleasure you both at once," he promised. "Come here to me."

He held out a hand, and Ron took it, allowing the vampire to draw him close.

"Go on," d'Eath urged. "I would have you inside me."

Heart thundering in his ears, Ron moved behind the vampire. His fingers caressed d'Eath's buttocks before moving to touch the cleft between them. Fucking another man might not be as forbidden as fucking his own mother, but the thought of it excited him all the same, especially when that man was the alluring and enthralling half-vampire singing sensation, Lorcan d'Eath.

His fingers brushed against d'Eath's anus, and Ron bit his lip. He might never have considered doing this before, but now that he was here, he wanted it so badly that he had to force himself to go slowly and think. He pushed the tip of a finger inside. D'Eath was tighter even than Hermione. Ron looked from his finger, moving inside the other man, to his own cock, long and thick, and wondered how this was going to work.

D'Eath was singing again, a soft, wailing melody filled with quiet passion and desperate need. His hips moved forwards, and Ron heard his mother gasp. He swallowed heavily again, imagining the feel of the vampire's cock sliding into her wet heat.

The thought gave Ron sudden inspiration. His free hand moved around d'Eath's hip, seeking the place where their bodies joined. He could feel them. His mother's cunt clung tight around d'Eath's cock, and when the vampire pulled back an inch or two, giving Ron's fingers room to explore, his shaft was slippery with Molly's juices.

Ron stroked them both, two fingers inside d'Eath's tight passage, his other hand seeking out the tiny nub of flesh where Hermione had so liked to be touched.

"Oh -- oh --!" Molly gasped, as her son rubbed her clit and d'Eath pushed deep inside her once more.

She was dripping wet, hungry and eager for release. When Ron's hand was coated with wetness to the wrist, he took hold of his own hard cock, moaning as he stroked the slickness over himself.

His slippery fingers entered d'Eath much more easily. He could feel the man's body loosening to his touch. His cock gave a throb of eagerness as Ron withdrew his fingers, taking himself in hand. He guided the tip to the puckered entrance and pressed his hips forwards, moaning as the tight ring of muscle opened to him, sliding over the head and up his shaft.

"Good," crooned d'Eath, pushing back to take him more deeply. "So good, Sweet Ron. Now --"

They moved together, all three of them, finding a rhythm, pressing and sliding close and apart again. D'Eath, tight around Ron's cock, felt very different from Hermione, but as Ron moved inside him, thrusting his hips against the vampire's arse, he could almost imagine that, through d'Eath, he penetrated his mother, too. He nuzzled d'Eath's ear and looked down to where the other man's cock pounded into his mother, sliding in and out, shaft glistening with wetness. Imagining that it was his own cock fucking her -- making her gasp and moan and sigh -- brought Ron to the brink of climax.

When d'Eath came, breath hissing between his teeth, Ron felt it, but it was not until Molly crowed her own release, and d'Eath buried his fangs in the soft flesh of her bosom, that Ron's hips shuddered and jerked, and he spilled himself deep inside the vampire's arse.

Ron barely noticed the ride home. He felt weak and lightheaded, his mind still in the cell with Lorcan d'Eath.

"Say you will visit me again, Sweet Ron," the vampire had urged. "I will be waiting for you."

Could he go back again? How many times would being Harry Potter's friend get him through Azkaban's gates without questions being asked?

Ron knew that he could not hide these strange new feelings from Harry and Hermione forever. How would he explain the how and the why of what he felt to his two best friends? He had to make them understand, especially Hermione.

Then there was his mother. How could he ever look at her the same way again, or she him, after what they had experienced? People were bound to notice something was off.

Ron's mind was still reeling as they touched down at the Burrow. No one was home. Molly went to put away the motorbike, while Ron stumbled up to his room, dazed.

Not knowing what else to do, he cranked the gramophone and put on one of d'Eath's albums. The effect of the music did not seem as intense as it had before; it was nothing compared to the man's touch -- his physical presence.

When Molly came up to lean against the door frame, Ron looked at her, lost.

"It wasn't enough," he said plaintively. "I want to go back."

"It's never enough." Her voice was filled with sympathy and sadness. "That's why I put him away in the attic."

Ron looked at his mother, remembering all the ways and places that d'Eath had touched her. If he went to her now, would he still be able to feel the echo of the other man's touch on her skin? He stepped towards her.

"No, Ron." She shook her head, looking sadder still. "When it's with him, it's different. We can't do that here. We can't do it ever again."

He bowed his head, knowing she was right. "I'll put them away," he promised. "Tomorrow."

He would. But as he lay on his bed an hour later, d'Eath's low, sweet voice singing in his ears, Ron thought that perhaps he would take them out again when Hermione came home. Perhaps he could convince her. Perhaps she would be interested in meeting Lorcan d'Eath, too.