“You.”
Draco Malfoy froze. As one descended into the depths of Hogwarts, the passageways grew longer and narrower. He stood in the long, final stretch of corridor that led to the Slytherin common room.
There was no classroom nor lavatory between Draco and the common room door. He could keep going and try to ignore the danger behind him.
But he turned.
Draco had never seen Ronald Weasley this angry.
And this was Draco Malfoy. Of anyone in this galaxy, Draco knew what it meant to be the focus of Weasley’s ire.
Weasley was moving towards him. Fast.
Draco stood his ground and waited, lips curling into a sneer, as he dropped his bag aside. Because Ronald Weasley was getting on his last fucking nerve.
“What the hell are you doing down here?” he hissed as Weasley rushed towards him.
But Weasley did not answer—not with words, anyway. Strong fingers curled into Draco’s shirt front. With a yank, they were nearly nose to nose.
Weasley dug his knuckles into Draco’s chest and spun them around, slamming the Slytherin’s back against the wall.
“You’re a bloody psychopath, you know that?” Weasley hissed in Draco’s face. “Did you think I would just let you talk to 'Mione like that?”
“Let me?” Draco scoffed even as their proximity, the heat radiating off Weasley’s furious frame, made something in his gut twist. “Fuck off, Weasel. She got exactly what she deserved.”
“What she deserved?” Weasley’s fists started to hurt where they dug into Draco’s flesh. “You called her a mudblood! ”
The same anger Draco felt, standing in the Great Hall, began to boil within him again: seeing Weasley laughing with his friends, leaning against Potter’s side, gazing at Granger with such fondness that it made Draco’s teeth ache.
Meanwhile, he and Weasley were relegated to darkened corridors and empty classrooms. The tenderness Draco felt when he held the other boy in his arms belonged in the shadows, while Weasley could freely laugh and touch any of the irritating, self-aggrandizing rabble he pleased as long as their neckties were red and gold.
Or, more accurately, as long as they were not silver and green.
“I don’t know why you’re so angry,” Draco drawled, feeling heat course up his neck. “It’s what she is.”
The left hook was, perhaps, inevitable.
Weasley’s fist connected with Draco’s jaw in a resonant crack of muscle and bone. Stars immediately flashed behind Draco’s eyelids, his body momentarily collapsing into the rough, cold castle stones.
A wellspring of rage poured through the fissure Weasley’s punch left behind and Draco screamed, a sound unlike any he had ever made before bursting from him as he pushed against the wall and shoved, with all his might, at Weasley's chest.
They tumbled to the floor in a tangle of elbows and bruised knees. Draco tried to find purchase somewhere on Weasley’s body for a fist, a foot, or his damn fingernails, but the fever of his anger made his grip slippery.
“Why?” Weasley growled, gripping Draco’s hair and whirling him around to lie flush against his front. Draco whimpered, pain razing his scalp. Frantically, Draco reached up to claw the offending hand but Weasley’s fist held tight around the clump of strands. “Why now? Why? After everything?”
“Get the fuck off me,” Draco’s voice broke, a pleading cry. “You think I care? I don’t. Go back to your fucking mud—”
Weasley released Draco’s hair to slip an arm around his neck and tugged the other boy even closer. Draco felt the heartbeat thundering in Weasley’s chest. He gasped against the sudden pressure against his throat, trapped in the cradle of Weasley's elbow.
“You do care,” Weasley grunted in Draco’s ear. “Because you want me, you fucking nutter.” He squeezed and Draco scrabbled at his arm. “Admit it.”
“Fuck you.” Draco hissed and a moment later, Weasley released his hold around Draco’s throat. Draco flipped over, clambering against Weasley's grasp, hands flailing, only succeeding in scratching two deep, red wells against Weasley's left cheek.
Weasley clutched the hand that scratched him then took hold of Draco’s chin. One moment, furious blue eyes penetrated him down to his soul and the next, soft, chapped lips rammed against his own.
Flames of feeling burst from somewhere deep within him. Draco fought against Weasley’s grip only to clutch at the Gryffindor’s lapels and yank him closer.
“You’re a fucking cunt,” Weasley whispered against Draco’s lips.
“Shut up,” Draco purred back, and they drowned in each other. The kiss was neither soft nor tender. It seared into Draco’s flesh, carving Weasley’s fingerprints into his bones.
They groped toward the wall again and Draco shoved Weasley against it, hard. The only indication the Gryffindor felt any pain was a small gasp, but it was swiftly smothered with a groan as Draco’s lips descended on his throat. Draco dragged his perfect, white teeth against Weasley’s flesh, constantly searching and marking down the long expanse.
“I’m sick of hiding,” Draco hissed, taking Weasley’s earlobe between his teeth. Weasley cried out, a large freckled hand cupping the back of Draco’s head to urge him closer. “I’m sick of watching you with your sycophantic friends out in the open—touching them, laughing with them, flirting with them—and I can’t do anything about it.”
“Yeah?” Weasley shakily replied. “Makes you angry, does it?” He tugged Draco’s hair again, eliciting a moan as he devoured the Slytherin’s lips in another kiss. “Do you think I like it when the only way I can touch you during the day is by shoving you aside? Do you think I can bear it, watching you mock me and my friends like a complete prick, knowing that I could shut you up like this instead?”
Draco felt Weasley's thigh press between his own and grunted as warmth pooled lower and lower in his body.
“Then why?” Draco gasped, the question coming unbidden from his lips. The tension between them snapped. The two boys stiffened, staring at each other. “Why do we have to hide?”
His voice shook.
Weasley cursed. “You wanted to,” he muttered, chest heaving. He glanced between them, then down towards the end of the hallway where the Slytherin common room waited for Draco to enter. Slowly, Weasley put a hand on Draco’s shoulder and pushed.
Draco recoiled, settling back on his heels.
“Do you still want to?”
Weasley looked debauched. Blood pooled in shallow lines on Weasley's cheek, and little moons of purple and red littered the freckled flesh. His tie askew, his white shirt unbuttoned down to the middle of his torso, Ron watched Draco with a mixture of pain and longing.
Delicately, Draco slid a hand underneath the shirt, staring in fascination as his hand—pale and unmarred—floated above the speckled expanse. In the darkness, it was hard to see, but he could feel the skin pebbling in the wake of his fingertips.
“I don’t know,” Draco whispered, his voice unsteady. “I just know that I want you.” Pale grey eyes met blue. “I’m sorry.”
Weasley, to Draco’s surprise, snorted in amusement, a chuckle bubbling forth. “Apologizing because you want me,” Weasley murmured. “You certainly know how to make a man feel good.”
The sound of students descending the stairs at the far end of the hallway echoed on the castle stones. Draco pushed to standing and, after a pause, held out his hand to Weasley.
Weasley took his hand, and they stood. Their heights were almost identical. Draco squeezed.
“I want this,” he conceded, letting his head fall to Weasley’s shoulders. “I want you, Ron. I want everything.”
He felt Weasley—Ron’s—hand against his back, urging him closer. Small, comforting circles against his back elicited a heavy sigh.
“Then you’ll have it,” Ron assured, a blossom of warmth blooming in Draco’s chest. “After.”
“After?”
The circles stopped, and a lone, sharp fingernail dug a thin, red line along Draco’s neck. “After you apologize to Hermione.”
Draco groaned.