Chapter 5
— Gala time —
The grand hall of the Malfoy Manor glittered with opulence as the gala reached its peak. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings, casting a soft, golden light over the elegantly dressed guests below. The air was filled with the sound of clinking glasses, the hum of whispered conversations, and the occasional laughter from a group deep in discussion.
Ron stood near the center of the room, chatting with a group of business tycoons, his back straight, his voice confident—perhaps a little too confident. He had never been one for these kinds of events, but tonight, everything felt different. He was finally in a position to prove himself. He could feel the weight of the Malfoy family’s expectations pressing on him, but he was determined not to let it show.
He glanced over at Draco, who was standing by the edge of the room, clearly uncomfortable in his formal attire. The black suit with silver accents hugged his frame perfectly, but it was obvious from the tightness in his posture that he wasn’t enjoying himself. His eyes flitted nervously around the room, darting from one person to another, but he never met Ron’s gaze.
Ron didn’t notice the tension in Draco’s eyes, nor the discomfort in his every movement. Instead, he turned back to the businessman he was speaking with, offering a firm handshake and a bright smile. He felt a surge of pride. He had finally won their approval.
Lucius Malfoy, dressed in his usual impeccable attire, approached the group. His cold, calculating gaze scanned the room before it settled on Ron.
“Ah, Ron,” Lucius said, his voice smooth and authoritative. “I see you’ve made quite an impression on the business elite. I’ve heard nothing but good things about your progress.”
Ron smiled broadly, eager to impress. “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. I’ve been working hard to establish myself. It’s been an exciting year, and I’m looking forward to the future.”
Lucius nodded, his lips curling slightly into a thin smile. “Good. Very good. I must admit, when Draco first brought you into our lives, I wasn’t sure what to make of you. You were… inexperienced, but,” he paused, glancing at Draco for just a moment, “I see now that you’ve proven yourself worthy. You are exactly the kind of man I had hoped Draco would find.”
Ron froze for a moment, unsure whether he was more stunned by the praise or the sudden realization that Lucius was watching him so intently. This was it. He had done it. He had earned Lucius’ approval. It felt like a victory in and of itself.
“I’ve been wanting to ask you something, Ron,” Lucius continued, his voice taking on a more personal tone. “You’ve come a long way, but there’s still one more thing I need to know.”
Ron’s brow furrowed slightly, unsure of where this was going. “Of course, Mr. Malfoy. Anything.”
Lucius stepped closer, his voice lowering as he spoke as if the next words were a secret meant only for Ron. “I want you to know that, for all your efforts, you’ve finally done it. You’ve proven that you’re good enough for my son. I’m… satisfied with the man you’ve become. He could have done far worse. I’d be proud to call you a Malfoy.”
Ron’s chest swelled with pride at the words. He had worked so hard to reach this moment, to prove to Lucius that he was capable, that he was worthy of Draco. And now it felt as if everything had finally come together.
“I’ll do anything for him,” Ron said, his voice unwavering.
Lucius nodded slowly, a hint of approval in his gaze. “I know. And that’s what I wanted to hear.”
Ron smiled, but in the back of his mind, there was a nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right. His eyes flicked to Draco once again, but this time, his heart skipped a beat.
Draco wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he was pressed against the wall, his hands clenched tightly by his sides. His face was slightly pale, his jaw set in that familiar, unreadable way. Ron had seen it before, but now it felt heavier, more significant.
“Excuse me,” Ron said quickly, stepping away from Lucius. “I need to check on Draco.”
Lucius waved a dismissive hand, clearly satisfied with their conversation. “Of course. Go on, Ron.”
Ron walked briskly toward Draco, but his unease only grew the closer he got. Draco wasn’t his usual self tonight. He was standing so still, so rigid, like he was holding himself together with sheer force of will. There was a distance in his eyes, something that made Ron’s stomach twist.
“Draco?” Ron said softly, his voice quieter than usual, as if afraid to disturb the fragile moment.
Draco’s head snapped up, his gaze briefly meeting Ron’s before quickly darting away. “I’m fine, Ron. Just… not really in the mood for this,” he muttered, his voice tight, his posture stiff.
“Are you sure?” Ron asked, his concern growing. “You’ve barely said a word to anyone all evening.”
Draco let out a strained sigh. “I just don’t want to be here, Ron. These people…” He trailed off, shaking his head as though he couldn’t find the words.
Ron frowned, feeling his chest tighten. This wasn’t like Draco. But before he could ask more, Narcissa’s voice interrupted them.
“Draco, darling, come with me. We mustn’t let all these people steal your time. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Draco’s shoulders stiffened at the sound of his mother’s voice. Without another word, he turned away, following Narcissa without so much as another glance at Ron.
Ron watched them go, his mind racing. Lucius had said he was finally good enough for Draco, but something in the air had shifted. He had earned Lucius’ approval—he had achieved everything he thought he needed to—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Draco’s discomfort was palpable, and yet, Ron didn’t fully understand why. Was it because he hadn’t done enough to make Draco feel comfortable in this world? Had he made a mistake by focusing so much on impressing Lucius?
Before he could make sense of it, Lucius appeared beside him, looking pleased with himself.
“Is everything alright with Draco?” Lucius asked, his gaze sharp and observant.
Ron hesitated, his mind still tangled in confusion. “I… I’m not sure, Mr. Malfoy. He seems distant tonight.”
Lucius’ expression softened ever so slightly. “Don’t worry, Ron. Sometimes Draco just needs a bit of space. He’s always been sensitive.”
But Ron wasn’t sure he liked the way he said that. The pit in his stomach only deepened. He was good enough for Lucius, for Draco, finally, so why does something seem wrong?
— two days later —
Draco’s day had been long, dragging, and entirely more frustrating than he could have ever anticipated. The reports were endless, the meetings draining, and the constant pressure to live up to expectations made his skin crawl. His mind was swirling with tasks yet to be completed, deadlines approaching like a tidal wave, and all he wanted in that moment was to shut it all out. He needed something familiar, something comforting—anything to pull him back from the edge of his stress.
His hands were shaking slightly as he made his way through the quiet house, footsteps echoing on the marble floors. He had been pacing for the past hour, his thoughts spinning faster than he could keep up with, and his anxiety was starting to flare. He needed a distraction—something to calm the storm inside his chest.
The one thing he used to rely on when things got too overwhelming was one of Ron’s old hoodies. They were soft, worn, and always carried the comforting scent of him. Back when their life was simpler, Draco would steal one whenever he was feeling particularly anxious, and it always worked. It was like a tangible piece of Ron, something real and solid in a world that often felt too heavy.
He knew exactly where they were kept—folded up in the back of the wardrobe in their bedroom. He went to the door, his hand on the handle, a quiet relief washing over him as he imagined pulling one of them on, the warmth of it spreading over his body, soothing the tension in his muscles.
But when he opened the door and stepped inside, his heart sank. The wardrobe was empty, save for his nice clothes and Ron’s suits. His breath caught in his throat as he scanned the shelves, but there was no sign of the hoodies—no worn, faded fabric hanging anywhere. He felt a wave of panic begin to creep in.
"Ron?" Draco called, his voice low, almost pleading. "Where are your hoodies? The ones you used to keep in the wardrobe. I… I really need one."
There was a brief silence before Ron’s voice drifted from the hallway, casual as ever. "Oh, those? I threw them out."
Draco froze, his pulse quickening. "You… you threw them out?" His voice cracked slightly, and he quickly cleared his throat, trying to mask the sharp pang of hurt that shot through him. "Why?"
Ron appeared in the doorway, looking slightly puzzled. "They were old, Draco. They were just taking up space. And, honestly, You didn’t need to wear them anymore." He shrugged as if it were the most casual thing in the world. "I figured it was time to let go."
Draco stood there, frozen, his stomach churning as he processed the words. The hoodies, The shirts—those pieces of comfort that had gotten him through so many rough nights, so many bad days—were gone. Just like that.
He could feel his breath catching, his chest tightening as the weight of it settled on him. "You didn’t even ask me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, a thread of hurt slipping through. "I… I needed them, Ron."
Ron didn’t seem to fully understand the significance, as he shifted on his feet and gave a half-hearted smile. "Come on, Draco. It’s just a hoodie. We have plenty of other things. You’re being a bit dramatic, don’t you think?"
Draco’s eyes narrowed, his breath shaky. "It wasn’t just a hoodie," he murmured, the frustration building in him. "It was our life. Our simpler life. I just wanted the comfort of you."
Ron seemed to hesitate for a moment, his brows furrowing, but the tension in his shoulders only deepened. "I thought you’d moved past all that, Draco. We're different now, you know? We don't need to cling to the past."
But Draco could feel the bitter taste of something cold creeping into his chest. It wasn’t just the hoodies—it was the way Ron was acting like everything in their life had to be new, better, more. The way he didn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t about the money or the status, but the little moments that had made their life together special.
"I just wanted something familiar," Draco said quietly, his voice cracking as the words left his lips. "Something that reminded me of when things were simpler. Before all this… before the distance between us."
Ron’s expression softened for a moment, but the look quickly faded. He let out a heavy sigh. "I didn’t think it would matter that much. I’m sorry, Draco."
But the apology felt hollow, and the emptiness in Draco's chest only seemed to grow. He nodded absently, turning away to hide the sting in his eyes.
“It’s fine,” Draco muttered, but the words felt like a lie.
Because without Ron's old hoodies and shirts, it seemed like he had nothing left to cling to.
—one month later—
Days passed, then weeks, and the house remained as pristine as the day they moved in—untouched, unwelcoming. Draco tried, he really did. He threw himself into cooking meals in the massive kitchen, hoping the rhythm of chopping vegetables and stirring pots would somehow make it feel more like home. He sank into the high-backed velvet chair by the window, a book open in his hands, but his mind never really seemed to settle. And at night, he would slip into the luxurious bed, the soft sheets cocooning him, but it still didn’t feel right. It wasn’t them. It wasn’t their place.
The house was beautiful, sure. Immaculately furnished, every corner and surface gleaming with wealth and perfection. But it was cold, almost sterile. It felt like something out of a showpiece, a gallery of life, rather than a lived-in home. No matter how many times Draco tried to make himself feel comfortable, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place. He longed for the warmth of their cramped, cozy apartment—the cluttered counters, the flickering candles, the chaos of their lives tangled together in that tiny space. Here, there was nothing to anchor him. The air felt thick with silence, and the house echoed with the absence of life.
But the hardest part—the part Draco couldn’t ignore—was that Ron was barely home.
He had always been busy with work, but lately, it seemed to stretch endlessly. Ron stayed late, coming home hours after Draco had gone to bed, often stumbling through the front door in the middle of the night, exhausted or worse, drunk. After coming home from the gala’s His smile was thin, his words few. When he did speak, it was little more than a grunt or a brief comment before he would collapse into their bed, leaving Draco alone with the growing emptiness in the house.
Ron used to tell him everything, share his thoughts on his day, laugh with him, tease him. But now, the moments of connection were fleeting, like trying to hold onto a shadow. There was a growing distance between them that Draco couldn’t quite understand, a distance that made his chest ache every time he caught a glimpse of Ron’s tired eyes or heard the sound of him stumbling to bed, barely acknowledging him.
Draco stopped going with him to the galas and parties after the third one, when Ron left him standing in the corner with a drink, talking business with people who had no idea who Draco was or why he was even there. It was always the same—Ron was swept away by the excitement of high society, and Draco was left to fend for himself. He stopped trying to fit in, stopped pretending to enjoy the company of strangers who only wanted to talk about stocks and investments, politics and the latest trends. He didn’t belong there.
Most nights, Draco ate the dinner he had made alone, sitting at the long, empty dining table. The cold, polished wood beneath his hands felt more like a monument to their distance than a place to share a meal. He would eat, savoring the flavors for a moment, but even the food couldn’t fill the hollow space between him and the person he wanted to share it with. Afterward, he would wander the halls of the house, his footsteps echoing on the marble floors, only to find himself in rooms that didn’t feel like they were meant for him. The furniture, though beautiful, felt stiff and unwelcoming, like it was all a display—a show for the people who admired wealth and grandeur, not a place where two people could exist together.
And then, at night, when the silence settled in, Draco would curl up on one of the pristine couches in the sitting room, wrapping himself in a throw that smelled nothing like Ron. It was soft, the material plush against his skin, but it lacked the comfort, the warmth, that he craved. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing for the simplicity of their old life—when the apartment was small and cluttered when the world outside didn’t feel so overwhelming. He longed for the quiet laughter, the shared moments between them, the easy way they used to be together.
He missed Ron. He missed them.
But now, it felt like Ron was chasing something that Draco never asked for. The endless parties, the expensive bottles of wine, the lavish lifestyle. Ron was always talking about success, about “making it,” about proving something to someone, though Draco wasn’t sure who that was anymore. It wasn’t about them anymore. It was about Ron, the image he was trying to build, the life he thought they should have. And Draco was left behind, standing in a house he never wanted, with nothing but the echo of what they once had.
The coldness of the house seeped into his bones, and it made the distance between them feel even wider. It wasn’t just the space of the house—it was the space between their lives, their desires, their dreams. It felt like they were on different paths now, and the more Draco tried to reach out, the further Ron seemed to slip away.
Draco pulled the throw tighter around himself, trying to find some warmth in its softness, but there was no escape from the cold. No escape from the truth that hung in the air, pressing down on him with every breath. He didn’t know how to fix this. He didn’t know how to reach Ron, how to make him understand that this wasn’t what they needed, that they didn’t need the grand house, the parties, the glittering life.
They needed each other.
But Ron wasn’t home.
And Draco was alone.
— The next day —
Draco stood at the entrance to the Burrow. He pulled His (Ron’s) Hoodie over his fingers over and over again. It was one of the ones he had never put in the closet and kept under his pillow. His jeans felt too tight, and his hair was pulled into a claw clip, small pieces falling to the front and framing his face. He hesitated before knocking. The house was as mismatched and warm as ever, with its crooked walls, cluttered porch, and the faint sound of enchanted knitting needles clicking away inside. It was everything the manor wasn’t—alive, cozy, real.
Before he could summon the nerve to knock, the door swung open, revealing Molly Weasley in her ever-present apron, flour-dusting her hands. Her sharp eyes softened immediately.
“Draco, dear, come in,” she said, pulling him inside without hesitation. “You look pale—have you eaten? Sit, sit, I’ll get you some tea.”
Draco let himself be ushered into the kitchen, the scent of fresh bread and herbs wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. He exhaled slowly, some of the tension in his chest loosening just from being here.
Molly bustled around, pouring tea, and setting a plate of biscuits in front of him. When she finally sat, she gave him a knowing look, one that made Draco lower his gaze to the steaming cup in his hands.
“Alright, love, tell me what’s wrong.”
Draco swallowed.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Ron—he’s changed.”
Molly sighed, sitting back in her chair. “I thought as much.”
Draco looked up, startled. “You knew?”
“I see it in the way he talks about the house, about work. He’s trying so hard to prove something—to who, I don’t know, but I have a feeling you do.”
Draco clenched his jaw. “Lucius.”
Molly’s lips pressed together, her disapproval evident. “Of course.”
Draco set the tea down, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “I don’t want this life, Molly. I’ve had more money, more luxury, more cold, empty rooms than I could ever want. I left all of that behind. I just wanted—” He swallowed hard, voice shaking. “I just wanted a home with him. I wanted our apartment, our mismatched furniture, the lumpy couch where we spent hours talking about nothing. I wanted him.” He paused, forcing himself to breathe. “But he’s never home. And when he is, he’s exhausted. It’s like… like I’m losing him.”
Molly reached across the table, squeezing his hand. “Oh, Draco.”
Draco let out a broken laugh, shaking his head. “I feel like a spoiled brat, complaining about a house too big, furniture too nice. But it’s not about that. It’s about him chasing something I never asked for, something I don’t need.”
Molly’s voice was gentle but firm. “And if he doesn’t stop chasing it?”
Draco closed his eyes. “Then I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”
There it was. The thing he had been afraid to say, afraid to even think. The thought of leaving Ron—of walking away from the man he loved more than anything—made his chest ache. But he couldn’t live like this. He wouldn’t.
Molly sighed, rubbing his hand between hers. “Draco, I love my son. I love him dearly. But if he doesn’t pull his head out of his arse and realize what he’s doing to you, then you have every right to walk away.”
Draco’s breath hitched, and he stared at her in disbelief. “You’d support me? Even if we—”
“Break up?” Molly finished for him. “Yes. Because I love you too. You are family, Draco. And you will always have a place here, no matter what happens.”
Tears pricked at Draco’s eyes, but he blinked them away. He nodded, gripping her hand tightly. “Thank you.”
Molly gave him a sad smile. “Now, the real question is—are you ready to tell him how you feel? Because if you don’t, he’ll keep pushing forward, blind to the fact that he’s leaving you behind.”
Draco inhaled deeply, steadying himself. “I have to, don’t I?”
Molly squeezed his hand. “Yes, dear. Before it’s too late.”
Molly squeezed his hand. "You deserve to be happy, Draco. And I know my son—he’s got the biggest heart, but sometimes he gets caught up in things that don’t truly matter. If he doesn’t pull his head out of his arse soon and realize what he’s risking, then yes, you may have to make a difficult choice. But no matter what happens, you will always have a place here. I mean that."
Draco let out a shaky breath. "Thank you."
Before Molly could say more, the door swung open, and Fred and George sauntered into the kitchen. They were mid-conversation about some ridiculous new prank product when they spotted Draco’s drawn expression and their mother’s serious look.
Fred’s grin faded. "Alright, what’s going on?"
George raised an eyebrow. "You look like you just walked out of one of those pureblood balls. You know, the kind where no one actually enjoys themselves."
Draco let out a breath of amusement despite himself. "Not far off."
Molly sighed. "It’s Ron. He’s been so focused on giving Draco a ‘proper’ life that he’s forgetting what really matters."
Fred and George exchanged a glance before sliding into the seats across from Draco, uncharacteristically serious. "Alright, Malfoy," George said, "tell us everything."
Draco hesitated, but with Molly’s reassuring nod, he did. He told them about the house, the emptiness, and the way Ron barely seemed present anymore. He expected teasing or jokes, but for once, the twins seemed to take things seriously.
When he finished, Fred let out a low whistle. "Damn."
George nodded. "Okay, so here’s the thing—our dear brother has a history of needing to prove himself. He spent his whole childhood trying to stand out in a sea of redheads. And now, he’s trying to prove he can be good enough for you, good enough for your family, good enough for the world. But he’s missing the point."
Draco frowned. "Which is?"
Fred leaned forward. "That you already love him. He doesn’t have to prove a damn thing."
George nodded. "If we know Ron—and trust us, we do—he’s got it in his head that this is how he shows love. By providing. By making sure you never feel like you settled for less by choosing him. But if he keeps this up, he’s going to end up with a fancy house and no one to share it with."
Draco looked down at his tea, something heavy settling in his chest. "So what do I do?"
Fred smirked. "Sit him down and tell him straight. You’re not a bloody porcelain doll who needs to be placed in a pristine glass case. You’re Draco Malfoy. You don’t need a grand life—you just need him. And if he’s too thick to see that, you might need to shake some sense into him."
George grinned. "Or hex him. We’d support that too."
Draco let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "You two are insufferable."
"But we’re right," Fred pointed out.
Draco sighed. "Annoyingly, yes."
Molly smiled warmly. "You’ll figure it out, dear. I have faith in you."
Draco stood, exhaling slowly. He felt lighter but still scared. "Thank you. All of you."
Fred clapped him on the back. "Anytime, Malfoy. And remember, if Ron’s being a prat, just let us know." Fred and George leaned down slightly before saying "We’ll handle it."
Draco rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling. "I’ll keep that in mind."
With that, he stepped outside, the cool air filling his lungs as he prepared to return to the manor. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but for the first time in a while, he felt like he wasn’t completely alone in it.
Even if the thought of losing Ron still terrified him.
— three days later —
The manor was silent, save for the soft hum of Draco’s voice as he walked through the grand, empty halls. His fingers trailed absentmindedly along the polished banisters, the smooth marble floors cold beneath his bare feet.
Ron was gone again, off at another event in another city, surrounded by people who spoke in fortunes and shook hands like their lives depended on it. People who belonged in that world far more than Draco ever would.
His voice trembled as he sang quietly to himself, the melody carrying through the vast space, swallowed by the high ceilings and empty rooms.
"Some people long for a life that is simple and planned…"
He paused by the grand dining table, running his fingers over the polished wood. It had been set for two earlier that evening. He had made dinner, just in case Ron came home early. But the food had gone cold, untouched, and he had eaten alone again. Just like the night before. And the one before that.
"…Tied with a ribbon. Some people won’t sail the sea ‘cause they’re safer on land…"
He walked into the sitting room, where a fire crackled softly in the hearth. The light flickered against the ornate walls, but it did nothing to warm the hollowness inside him. The expensive furniture, the elaborate decor—none of it felt like home. He closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around himself as if that would be enough to keep the loneliness at bay.
"But I’d follow you to the great unknown…"
His mind wandered back to the tiny apartment they used to have. The one with the drafty windows and creaky floors. Where they would curl up on their old, worn-out couch with a bottle of wine and talk about everything and nothing. Where Ron would pull him into his arms, warm and safe, whispering promises of forever.
"Off to a world, we call our own…"
Draco swallowed against the lump in his throat, stepping out onto the balcony. The cool night air bit at his skin, but he didn’t care. He leaned against the railing, looking out at the sprawling estate below. It was beautiful, and extravagant. Everything Ron had worked for. Everything Draco had never wanted.
"Hand in my hand and you promised to never let go…"
His grip tightened on the railing. He had followed Ron into this life without hesitation, without question. He had stepped onto the tightrope willingly, believing Ron would always be there to catch him. But now, standing here alone, he wondered if he had been walking it by himself all along.
"Will you catch me if I should fall?"
His voice broke on the last note, and he let out a shaky breath. He didn’t know the answer anymore. And that terrified him more than anything. A tear slipped down his face.
Draco turned, retreating inside, the firelight casting long shadows behind him. He curled up on the couch, wrapping himself in the throw blanket that still held a faint trace of Ron’s scent. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing to sleep to take him, to silence the doubts and fears creeping into his heart.
But deep down, he knew—he was slipping, the tightrope fraying beneath him. And if Ron didn’t reach for him soon, Draco wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep holding on.