Fic: Constants NC-17 R/D

[singtoangels.livejournal.com]

Title: Constants
Authour: Sing
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Some things never change.
Authour's Notes: This was originally for challenge number 49 of some challenge there was here back in November or something. I signed up and wrote most of this then, but then I got writer's block with it and it sat on my HD collecting dust until I took it out and finished it up. I wasn't sure if it would be accepted here or not, but there is some bottom!Draco in it, so I suppose it would be all right. I've posted this everywhere else, but one more place won't break LJ. :p Let me know what you all think. Cheers, Sing.




" . . . so young . . ."

"It's a terrible pity, but. . . And what could we possibly . . . ?"

Ron pressed his ear a little closer to the door in hopes of hearing what the elder members of the Order were talking about.

" . . . if we kept them in our homes then they could be turned back . . ."

"Are you mad! How could we . . . and murder us in our beds . . . I'd never . . . Malfoy . . . sleep again."

"Perhaps a servitude of some sort would break their arrogant pride."

" . . . daren't let Miss Granger know or she'll . . . house-elves . . ."

Hermione squirmed beside Ron as they heard her name mentioned twice more, her hair tickling his face. Harry patted her hand to calm her, but Ron didn't pay attention to them after that as an inkling of what they were talking about in the room started to form in his mind. But surely not; they really were mad if they thought that those Slytherin twits would allow themselves to be servants of the Order.

" . . . all host a child. The older and more resistant ones will unfortunately have to be Kissed, but the younger . . . yes, yes, Fudge. No harm shall come to them whilst in our care. Do you have the list?"

"Some of them may not . . . and then where will we be? Innocent homes full of traitors . . . if The Daily Prophet . . ."

There were indistinguishable murmurings and the rustle of thick, official-sounding parchments. It was quiet for so long that Ron almost gave up, but Hermione bound him to herself and Harry with a timid touch on his wrist and a worried smile. He nodded his head and pressed his ear against the door again, despite the ache in his bad leg from standing cramped in the alcove for so long.

"Do you really think it wise, Arthur? Taking that boy into your home after the . . . your families?"

. . . murmurmurmurmurmur . . .

"That is one child. Does anyone else want to volunteer or shall Arthur Weasley be the only one?"

That was Snape. Ron would remember the man's voice in his dreams; it was distinctive as Harry's was to him. Snape had lost his arm saving Ginny and the Creeveys during the final battle and it couldn't be regrown. Ron still didn't like Snape, but he had a grudging respect for him now. He could still hear the raw scream of pain when he laid in his bed at night, reliving nightmares he'd heard tell of or seen with his own eyes.

Sometimes, your imagination could be your own worst enemy.

He moved away from the door and back toward the stairs. Hermione was still huddled up next to Harry, her ear pressed firmly to the wood.

They were back at Grimmauld Place again.

The house held only bitter memories for Ron. When they came here was when the war really started. Before that point, he lived in happy oblivion, spending summer and winter holidays at home. Now the Burrow was in ruins and so was his childhood. He couldn't cling to it anymore. Couldn't pretend that none of this had really happened because the reality was too strong.

His leg was stiff and unwieldy as he pressed his foot firmly on the stairs to climb up to his bedroom.

With all of these refugees and school-aged Death Eaters to deal with, Ron wondered when reality would shift back to some normal place where he could . . . well, start a family or whatever it was that was expected of young wizards his age. But not now. They didn't expect anything from them these days but to be quiet and stay out of the way so the older people could rebuild their shattered world. Wasn't it the youth who were supposed to do that?

Ron flopped on his bed and gazed at the wall. It was still intact. The plaster smooth and yellowed from age. It hadn't cracked or crumbled. It hadn't fallen.

He turned over and buried his face in his pillow, bringing his arms up to squeeze it against his chest. He wanted so much to forget.

Everything.


*~*~*~*~*


Ron watched as they brought him into the kitchen at Grimmauld Place early one morning. His mere presence smothered the light conversation around the breakfast table. It had been roughly a week since the Order had had their meeting with Minister Fudge about he youngest Death Eaters, so Ron had been expecting something to happen.

He hadn't expected that something would be Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy's feet were barely covered by the dragonhide shoes Ron remembered as being hard and shiny. Hard enough to kick him in his injured leg and stomp on his face whilst he was on the ground during the final battle at Hogwarts. But now they were soft and broken, the leather worn through in places so you could see his bare feet underneath. Ron let his eyes wander up Malfoy's legs, also sparsely covered, past his torso, past his neck. There. Malfoy's face was shielded from view by his lank, dirty hair, his head bowed.

Ron wished that someone could sew his eyes shut because this seemed terribly wrong all of a sudden. Hell-like fury churned his stomach so violently that he couldn't help but look away with clenched teeth. But he wasn't blind, he couldn't avoid seeing. The mirror behind the table showed Malfoy moving his head slightly from side to side, eyes glimmering from under his hair like twin diamonds: hard, cold, and isolated from his body.

Mr Weasley cleared his throat. "I'd like everyone to welcome Draco into our home. He's going to be our new--" He stumbled over his words, his hands working nervously at his sides. "Our new ser--"

"Say it, Arthur!" Mrs Weasley snapped, her eyes boring into her husband as he squirmed.

It all came tumbling out of Mr Weasley in a great gasp after that whilst Draco Malfoy looked on, a sort of blank amusement on his face. "He's to be our new servant here at Grimmauld Place."

Hermione stood and opened her mouth several times before leaving the table. Harry glanced at Ron, but he couldn't bring himself to look back. He was still staring at Malfoy in the mirror, listening to the wind beat small sticks and leaves against the windows. But he heard Ginny's gasp, saw Bill's reflection look away in shame much as their father's was doing.

"You'll all-- treat him well, won't you?" Mr Weasley almost begged in a strangled voice.

The silence was thick and deafening. Suddenly, Ginny scraped her chair against the floorboards and ran the same way Hermione had gone. Harry followed her.

The Mr Weasley in the mirror took off his glasses and cleaned them on his robes. "Molly, could you give him something to eat please?" he murmured. "I'm afraid they haven't fed him well in Azkaban."

Azkaban.

Ron turned away from the mirror and studied Malfoy more closely. He'd always been thin, but now he was frighteningly so. His cheeks were pinched and pale, his lips cracked, the thin finger bones only held together by sinews like some sort of grotesque anatomy skeleton. Ron stood up and gestured for Malfoy to sit next to him.

But he wasn't going to touch him.

Mr Weasley sighed in relief and tapped Malfoy on the shoulder, pointing at where he was to sit. A sneer flashed across his lips, but was gone before Ron could tell whether it had been there or not. Malfoy bumped against his leg when he sat down.

Ron didn't say anything.


*~*~*~*~*


Slick skin haunted Ron's dreams that night. Pale, gleaming, moon-lit skin. He tossed in bed, his legs thick and swollen in a tangle of patched white linen. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew the skin was Marked; as if someone had taken a ripe fruit and pressed it with their thumb so cruelly that it broke and bruised.

It left scars when you did that.

Ron woke up sweating and trembling, tugging at his night shirt to pull it away from his sticky flesh. A sweet scent clung to his nostrils. It was the soap he'd used for his bath earlier. The same soap he'd loaned to Malfoy. Ron sniffed at his wrist and wondered how much different Malfoy smelled now; how the musk of his body changed the clean soap smell. Or perhaps how the homemade Weasley soap chased away the rotten stench of Dementors. Ron wondered why he cared about Malfoy's scent.

He was losing his mind.


*~*~*~*~*


Ron had a sudden urge to hurt something. There was no sure reason for it, and anything would do, really. Draco Malfoy just happened to be nearby when the white hot rage sang through Ron's veins, over his skin, curled his fists . . . hardened his groin. Just for that last, Ron was doubly annoyed.

"I said that you didn't clean my room properly! Are you deaf and dumb?" Ron snarled, his face inches away from Malfoy's pallid profile. He smiled lazily. That same look-- ah yes, Ron remembered that. He could be angry about that look.

"You can't expect me to answer when you're poking me with that wand of yours, can you?"

Ron withdrew and hissed as if he'd been stung. "I don't know what you mean."

"You always were the dim one of your little trio; at least Granger has more than half a brain in her head." Malfoy brushed at his tattered robes as if they were the finest silk instead of hand-me-down Weasley broadcloth. "Honestly, just get it over with so I can go and do whatever it is that your jolly over-stuffed mother wants me to do next."

He ignored the stab at his mother for the time being, concentrating instead on precisely what Malfoy was saying. Ron still didn't understand, but he felt the skin above his nose crinkle in enlightening folds all the same. "Get what over with?"

Malfoy arched one eyebrow. It hung crookedly now with that jagged curse-scar separating the fine hairs. "The shagging. Or the fighting." He sighed and rested the back of his head against the wall, jutting out his hips as if in invitation. "Whatever strikes your fancy."

"I don't--" Ron swallowed hard and stepped back. "You're off your nut."

Malfoy's grey eyes roved his body boldly, stopping at Ron's tented robes. "Am I?"

Ron whirled around and walked swiftly out of the room, his back ramrod straight. Malfoy hadn't changed at all. And to think that he'd wanted to know what Malfoy-- smelled like. And felt like. And-- sod it.

He stalked back into the room and pressed Malfoy up against the wall, their bodies flush and in time. Malfoy's cold, bony hand twisted in the hair on the back of his head in anticipation. Ron kissed him then. Hard.


*~*~*~*~*


As he was bathing that night, Ron thought again of how Malfoy had smelled -- like oddly pleasant potion ingredients -- when Malfoy's lips had met his. Ron touched his mouth with two fingers and pressed firmly enough to feel his teeth under the shiny skin of his lips. He still wanted to hurt him, humiliate him, expose him to the world as an evil little bastard. But even more than that, Ron wanted to touch him again. To run his fingers though Malfoy's clean, pale hair and follow the arch of his zigzag eyebrow with his thumb.

He could still taste him on his tongue.

Ron licked the corners of his mouth, where that Malfoy-flavour lingered. He wondered if Bertie Botts ever thought to make a Malfoy-flavoured bean; the man would make a fortune. Sort of bitter. Sort of sweet. Then, sort of salty, too. Ron had kissed a girl once before, but it hadn't been anything like this.


*~*~*~*~*


What would Harry and Hermione say if they could see him now? Ron squeezed Malfoy's throat just a little tighter and licked up the side of his neck, biting his earlobe so hard it made his teeth ache but didn't - wouldn't? - draw blood. Would they notice at all? Malfoy whimpered and squirmed as he was pressed into the wall, one leg trapped between Ron's thighs and creating a wonderful friction. Or care? He grunted when Malfoy shifted suddenly and Ron's bad leg gave out, sending them to the floor in a knotted heap. They were both too absorbed in what they had lost . . . Malfoy glared at him, his pale hair fluttering over sharp cheeks. and each other . . . Ron slowly pushed himself to a sitting position and stared back. to notice him. He blinked against the moonlight drifting into the room and flopped back against the wall, giving up for the moment.

Malfoy rubbed at the skin of his throat, his voice hoarse. "Happy?"

Ron shot his hand out and quickly pulled Malfoy to him over the rough carpet. He leant forward on his hands, one knee supporting his weight, and pinned the bird-boned body of Malfoy beneath him. "I am now."

Malfoy closed his eyes and let his head drift to the side as Ron carefully unbuttoned his robes, the well-worn cloth ripping in places even though Ron was being gentle. Malfoy's chest was bare and almost free of hair under the old clothes. Ron wanted the robes to be gone already. It wasn't right the way the coarse material rasped against Malfoy's luminous, rich-boy skin like sandpaper on rose petals. There was something phenomenally unjust about this entire situation, a striking chord of Not Right At All. Malfoy should be fighting or mouthing off, not laying there like some patiently suffering little Hufflepuff.

"Give me a struggle, Malfoy," Ron whispered, tugging at a translucent strand of hair on Malfoy's chest.

"Why?"

Ron sat back, his knees gripping Malfoy on either side of his narrow hips. There was no turgid press of flesh under Malfoy's trousers, no gloss of sweat on his marble skin . . . But Merlin, he didn't smell of expensive cologne anymore, he smelled like Weasley homemade soap - the sort his mother brewed in a huge tripod cauldron out in the courtyard. Ron scooted back and lowered his mouth to the smooth, pale nipples below him, his teeth grating against Malfoy's ribs when he opened his lips to draw one up with his tongue.

Malfoy moaned deep in the back of his throat, his Adam's apple quivering and sliding up and down the ringed length of his vocal cords. Ron couldn't help but follow the action with his calloused fingers.

"I want to dress you in silk and velvet robes," Ron admitted quietly. "Green ones. Then everything'll be just like it was before." His fingers brushed over Malfoy's protruding collarbone and jerked back before continuing further down.

Malfoy laughed, the sound just a grate of flesh inside his throat. "You're so thick, Weasley."

Ron smiled. "Yeah, like that."

"No, you sorry sod." Malfoy was shaking his head in amusement, his eyelashes sparkling with diamond-wet drops. "Don't you understand anything?" He shoved Ron up, rolling over in the prison of his thighs. It seemed to Ron that the room was suddenly much colder. "Nothing will ever be as it was." Malfoy hunched into himself, his robes stubbornly clinging to one shoulder.

Ron was still almost sitting on Malfoy's hips, so he tilted to one side until he could face Malfoy. "Of course it can. You'll be a smarmy little bastard and I'll be cross about it. It's quite simple, really."

Malfoy worried his lip between the perfect ivory rows of his teeth and shook his head infinitesimally from side to side. "It never will, Ron. Don't fool yourself."

Ron beetled his brows. "Don't call me that. I'm Weasley. I've always been Weasley."

Malfoy cracked open an eyelid. "Does it matter anymore? I'm the last Malfoy, so I get to make my own rules. If I want to call you ?Ron', then I'll call you that."

Ron's hands curled in a pleading gesture. "But it's just not the same, Malfoy."

"And I'm Draco," Malfoy said as if he hadn't heard what Ron requested. "Just call me Draco."

"It's not the same," Ron said again.

Malfoy sat up partially, a gleam in his eyes now. "No. It's better."


*~*~*~*~*


Ron spent the next day sifting through the attic at Grimmauld Place. Everyone ignored him for the most part since the end of the war, except to worry if he didn't eat. If he was quiet for a long time, they worried then, too.

He opened another wardrobe and smiled at the treasure he'd discovered. Long, draping robes of the finest velvet. Some green, some black, some with silver cufflinks or buttons. All of it was very Slytherin. Just what he wanted.

Even after he cleaned them, though, Draco seemed hesitant to put them on.

"I don't know, Ron," he said slowly. "I'm not sure if I want to wear that. It'll feel too much like--"

"It'll be perfect. Just wear it here and we can pretend for a little while that things are back to the way they're supposed to be."

Draco's gaze was soft, almost pitying. "Ron, this isn't going to fix it, you know."

Ron threw the remaining robes over a chair and raked his hands through his hair. "I know that! But it just-- it feels good, all right? I want you to humiliate me and push me around because then maybe I'll . . . I don't know, have something to fight for again, I s'pose."

Draco fingered the robes on his arm, his ivory hands a startling contrast to the dark green velvet. His mouth pressed into a thin line and he slipped it over his head, patting down the wrinkles. Draco's eyes were cold, as if someone had flipped a switch, and suddenly Malfoy was there again, sneering and haughty.

"Get over here, Weasley," he demanded.

All thoughts of fighting fled and Ron just obeyed. Maybe that's really what it was he missed. Ron got down on his knees in front of Draco and stared up at him blankly. He nibbled on his dry bottom lip and tongued the crack in the middle before he lifted the robes up enough to find the buttons of Draco's trousers. The old dress robes smelt of dust and Doxy droppings, but Ron ignored that.

"I'm sure you've done this before, Weasley," Draco sneered, his eyes not hard enough or cruel enough, but Ron felt it would be adequate if he just didn't look up. "Practice on your dog, did you?"

"Eat dirt, Malfoy," Ron whispered, not meaning a word as he shoved Draco's trousers and pants down around his ankles.

"As long as you eat me."

Ron chuckled as he lowered his mouth over Draco's erect cock, the hum of laughter making his lips throb. Draco hissed and buried his bony fingers in Ron's hair, gathering bunches of it together and squeezing. His hips bucked forward and Ron almost choked, but he kept going.

He knew the theory. It was only a matter of practical application, as Hermione would say. Ron wondered if he could learn a thing or two from Hermione about this, wondered how far she and Harry had gone. But he knew he'd never ask.

"God, Weasley, I'll bet your brothers love this, don't they?"

Ron narrowed his eyes and let his teeth scrape ever so lightly on the silky skin in his mouth. Draco sputtered and started to jerk away, but Ron reached up and clutched his bottom with both hands to keep him.

Draco's cock was smooth and smallish. It had a strange butter-velvet texture that Ron would never be able to describe or think of again except to dub it ?Draco-skin'. He worked his tongue under the foreskin and into the slit on top, ran it along the ridge on the bottom. It was raining little salty drops in his mouth, not unpleasant, really.

He squeezed Draco's arse and kneaded the soft flesh before he dipped one finger into the crack to explore. Ron held on as Draco started struggling a bit, his thighs tense against Ron's shoulders. The finger was dry, so Ron worked carefully. He teased the rumpled heart of Draco's bottom; circling it, pressing it.

Ron absorbed the moans Draco made and used it to fuel his exploration, sucking harder, digging deeper. He finally withdrew his finger and slid it down the soft, lined skin to right behind Draco's balls. Ron added weight with his index finger and massaged the area in small circles.

The grip on his hair tightened and Ron shuddered as Draco shuddered, preparing himself to catch it all. Suddenly it seemed as if the ocean was spurting out of Draco, and Ron was drowning. He coughed and panted, but managed to swallow it down.

When Ron looked up, Draco was almost smiling. It was sad and quiet, as most things are, but it illuminated the dark room.

"It does get easier, you know," he said, stroking Ron's cheek with his thumb.


*~*~*~*~*


Draco left two days later.

Blaise Zabini, who was staying with Professor McGonagall, managed to grab a wand and stun her. Ron was surprised that Zabini didn't cast the killing curse, but was grateful that he hadn't.

The Ministry sent two Aurors to collect Draco from them. Draco seemed resigned to the fact that he would die in Azkaban instead of a house full of Weasleys, but Ron caught a glimpse of Draco's shattered eyes and knew the truth. He pressed Draco's hand carefully on the pretence of walking by, and he sensed that Draco appreciated it.

When Hermione flung The Daily Prophet in front of Ron the next morning, he didn't look. He steadfastly didn't look at the picture of Draco's blank face on the cover. No, he didn't see the cheering crowds or the Dementors leading him away, either.

Nothing newsworthy had happened at all.

Ron walked upstairs to the attic and blinked slowly in the dusty air. There was an old robe form in the corner that caught his attention. He dragged it out into the centre of the room and regarded it thoughtfully. Ron pulled his wand out of his pocket and directed the crumpled, green dress robes Draco had left on the floor to drape over the model. Transfiguration was never his best subject by far, but Ron supposed that the mannequin sensed his desperation and helped in its silent way.

The hair wasn't right. It didn't have the same sheen or transparency as Draco's. And the skin would never look like his, delicate and soft and pure. The mannequin didn't move on it's own. The lips were frozen in an arrogant, wood-grained sneer.

Ron paced in front of it, shoving his hair back out of his eyes. He really needed to cut it one of these days.

"Get bent, Malfoy," Ron muttered, shoving the robe form with one finger as he walked by it again. "At least my hair isn't so slicked back with grease that I look like a lamp exploded on my head."

Silence.

Ron laughed and it rebounded in the hollow room. "Yeah right. You couldn't best Harry on a broom if you tried."

He pressed up against the hard model of Malfoy, his skin warming it. Nose to wooden nose. "What did you say? I'll make you eat those words, see if I don't!"

Ron span away and knocked the mannequin over on its side. The thump of it hitting the floor startled him and he turned back. Malfoy was looking at him, eyes glassy and vacant. Ron crossed his arms and hunched into himself.

"I don't care what you say," he mumbled. "It's just like old times, Malfoy."

Comments

[operaboy05.livejournal.com]

I'm usually not a fan of Ron/Draco, but hey! There is a first time for anything. That was great. to bad you didn't finih in time for the fqf.

[workingclsshero.livejournal.com]

whoa, that last part is pretty twisted!

[iteag.livejournal.com]

I think I saw this on S.S Prince and Pauper but forgot to review ^^'

This is breathtaking, I was completely caught from the first few lines and the last few made me shiver.

Fantastic job, really well done

*hops of to push it on f'list*