
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6287242.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Draco_Malfoy/Ron_Weasley
  Character:
      Ron_Weasley, Draco_Malfoy, Harry_Potter, Neville_Longbottom
  Additional Tags:
      Consensual_Underage_Sex, First_Time, First_Love, Harry_is_a_Little_Shit,
      Fluff_and_Humor
  Series:
      Part 1 of True_Love,_No_Really
  Collections:
      Ron/Draco_Fest_-_Better_Together
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-03-18 Words: 3635
****** Dance the Night Away (aka. It's True Love, you Bastards) ******
by Evandar
Summary
     It wasn’t Malfoy’s fault that Ron asked him to the Ball as a joke and
     then chickened out of admitting it. Everything else, however, is
     Malfoy’s fault. All of it. Except…Ron really can’t bring himself to
     care.
Notes
     Written for Ron/Draco Fest 2016
     My participation in this fest is entirely the fault of my RL best
     friend, who has been a massive cheerleader throughout the whole
     process because she ships these two like nothing else. Thanks also go
     to my wonderful, overworked beta – any remaining faults are my own.
     And thanks also to the mod for her unending patience and dedication
     to running these fests, and to Emmatheslayer for leaving such a
     fabulous prompt.
“Kill me,” he whimpers. “Please. Just let me die.”
He’s vaguely aware of Ginny’s hand on his arm. She’s a good sister. Wicked
temper too, and she might just be able to do it before…before… Well.
The common room is a blur. He hears Hermione’s voice. Harry’s. Oh hell, Ginny’s
answering them. He hears the name Malfoy and, like ice being trailed down his
spine, it brings the world back into horrible clarity.
“…You asked Malfoy to the Ball?!” Hermione asks. Shrieks, really. Harry, the
git, looks entirely too amused by this entire situation. Hermione…doesn’t. She
looks furious, actually. Then sickened. “You realise he’s never going to let
you live this down.”
“Yeah,” Ron croaks. “Yeah, I figured that for myself, thanks.”
Hermione sniffs. Harry, bastard that he is, hides a laugh with a suspicious
sounding cough.
“Well,” Hermione says. “We definitely need to find someone to go with you now.
We can’t have Malfoy think he was your only option, or that’ll be worse.”
Ron whimpers. Again. He lets Ginny do the talking for him. And, like Harry, he
realises that she’s finding far too much amusement in this for his liking.
“Oh no we don’t,” she says. “Malfoy accepted.”
…
The moment Ron said it - more like blurted it out a bit too loudly, really –
he’d wondered why on earth he’d actually done it. As a joke? To be funny? There
was nothing funny about the deathly hush that fell on the room afterwards, and
that was when the panic had started to set in. Why couldn’t he have asked
someone like Delacour? Equally attractive and just as completely out of his
league, but also due to leave the country in a few months and therefore not
liable to torment him for the rest of his school career.
But Malfoy had stopped. He’d stopped. Right there, in the entrance hall. And
he’d looked at Ron like he was actually seeing him for a moment. Him. Ron. Not
just another Weasley or Harry Potter’s Comic Relief Sidekick. Ron.
And Ron had frozen while Malfoy looked him up and down and tilted his head to
the side, considering.
And then the world had ended. The sky fell to the earth. Left became right and
grass became purple and Draco Malfoy smirked at him and nodded. Nodded! And
said, “Alright then, Weasley,” in that posh drawl of his before he’d turned
away and sauntered off, leaving Ron utterly gobsmacked in his wake.
He’d left several, equally gobsmacked Slytherins behind as well, though they’d
recovered from the shock significantly faster than Ron had.
Ron’s still not sure he’s over the shock now, actually. It’s several days on
from The Incident and Hermione’s not over it yet either – she’s not talking to
him. Harry, proving to be a much better friend than Ron himself (or, perhaps, a
bigger sadist) is still talking to him, but also keeps sniggering to himself
when he thinks Ron can’t hear him.
It helps nothing.
But at least there’s someone out there who thinks his ‘joke’ was hilarious,
even if it is for all the wrong reasons.
He’s still in shock, and he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop – he’s not
heard anything from his parents and the twins have been suspiciously quiet –
which is why he nearly has a heart attack when Malfoy appears behind him.
It’s impossible to Apparate inside of Hogwarts, or so Hermione’s told them,
which means that Malfoy must have snuck up on him. That at least explains the
slightly anticipatory look that’s been on Harry’s face for the last couple of
minutes. The prick.
Neville, the traitor, moves down the table so that Malfoy can sit. Which, of
course, he does, something that incidentally brings him far closer to Ron than
he’s ever been before.
He smells nice, Ron notices, and he’s got oddly long eyelashes for a bloke.
Impressive, really. This close, he can see the fine shadows they cast on
Malfoy’s cheeks.
Not that he’s looking, or anything.
“How on earth do you plan to get through the Ball if you can’t handle a hello
at breakfast?” is Malfoy’s opening statement. He doesn’t wait for a response.
Which is just as well, really, because Ron’s still too stunned to actually
think of one.
“We’re going to Hogsmeade, Weasley,” Malfoy continues. “So do hurry up.”
He waves a hand at the remains of Ron’s breakfast, which…really doesn’t seem
all that appetising anymore.
“Hogsmeade?” Ron asks.
“The village, yes. Where there are shops. Shops that I’m taking you to, because
it’s just occurred to me that the lacy monstrosity you had over your owl cage
on the train was actually your dress robes, and there is absolutely no way that
I will ever be seen in public with them. Are we clear?”
Ron gapes at him. Then he closes his mouth and kicks Harry hard under the
table, because – some best mate he is (Ron’s definitely leaning towards the
sadist theory) – he’s started laughing so hard he’s just snorted pumpkin juice
out of his nose.
“You remember that?” he asks, looking back at Malfoy.
It’s probably not the answer Malfoy was expecting. Definitely not, judging by
the flush that blooms in his cheeks. “Not the point,” Malfoy mutters. “Are you
coming?”
There’s a chance here. A chance to start laughing in Malfoy’s face and jeering
about how he took him seriously. A chance to escape.
But Ron is transfixed by Malfoy’s blush and his long eyelashes, and by the
sudden realisation that, actually, Malfoy’s sneering hides an awful lot of
insecurities. He clears his throat. “Sure,” he says. “That…yeah. That sounds
good.”
He’s halfway to his feet before he realises that Harry’s finally stopped
laughing.
…
He’s never actually been to the village on a day he’s not supposed to. He
almost feels like pointing that out, but he doesn’t think Malfoy would care.
Rules are made for lesser mortals than Malfoys, after all, and the previous
three years have showcased how little regard Ron has for authority pretty well.
They walk in silence, bundled up in their cloaks and scarves. They don’t hold
hands.
Ron’s not sure whether to be relieved by that or disappointed.
It’s a nice day for a walk, though, and he entertains himself by scuffing his
feet in the drifts of fallen leaves that litter the path. Bright sunlight
shines through the trees, catching on dew-covered spider webs and on the tiny
flecks of blue in Malfoy’s eyes. He’s trying not to stare, really he is, but
it’s so novel to spend time with Malfoy without spitting insults at him or
trying to hex him that he can’t quite help it.
There’s a tiny freckle on the shell of Malfoy’s right ear. Somehow, it’s
endearing.
When they arrive in Hogsmeade, Malfoy grabs him by the wrist and practically
drags him into Gladrags. The dragging isn’t necessary – it’s not like Ron’s
willing to be seen in public with the lace monstrosities either – but he allows
it. One of Malfoy’s fingers rests just above his glove, just over his pulse,
and he’s surprisingly strong.
He doesn’t let go once they’re inside either, which is considerably more
appropriate given that, when faced with seemingly racks of robes, Ron begins to
think that maroon lace might actually be tolerable. In fact, as if he knows
what Ron’s thinking, Malfoy’s grip tightens and he pulls Ron over to the
menswear section.
The formal menswear section.
He might as well have dragged Ron to the moon.
“My robes are black,” Malfoy says. It’s the first thing to come out of him
mouth since he’d invited himself over to Gryffindor table, and he sounds a lot
calmer now than he did then. “So you can wear anything.” He glances Ron over.
“Except black – we’ll look like it’s a funeral – or whatever travesty of a
colour the…I hesitate to call them robes. The ones you already have are. No
orange, either.”
That’s his favourite colour out, then. And while funeral wear might be
appropriate for a Weasley attending a formal event with a Malfoy, Ron refrains
from pointing that out. And since he hates maroon, he finds himself going along
with it.
“No green,” he says. “Harry’s are green, and I don’t want to match with him.”
Not now that he’s proven himself to be a cruel sadist with an awful sense of
humour.
Malfoy hums. “Fine,” he says. “Pity. Green would suit you. But –“
He seems to have realised what he just said, because Ron gets to see him blush
again. Brighter this time. Malfoy coughs and clears his throat. “Blue?” he
suggests.
Ron grins. “Sure.”
…
It turns out that there’s too many shades of blue and too many styles of robes
to ever count in a lifetime, and the sun is setting by the time they make their
way back along the path to Hogwarts. Ron is holding a bag stuffed with robes in
dark blue velvet with silver embroidery round the cuffs that’s the exact same
shade as Draco’s eyes. They’re tasteful. Modern. Easily the most expensive item
of clothing Ron has ever had – certainly the only one that’s not been handed
down from an older brother.
In his other hand, he holds Draco’s . Their fingers are laced loosely together,
and they’re talking this time. Admittedly, it’s all Quidditch strategy from the
Tutshill v. Kenmare game that played just before school started, but it’s a
conversation. They’re talking, not fighting, and Malfoy is actually smiling at
him every so often.
Tiny, wry little smiles that Ron only barely catches half the time. But they’re
there.
…
Malfoy’s surprise invasion of his Saturday is not, as it turns out, a one-off
event. He starts swinging by Gryffindor table more often, usually just to say
hello, though he does like to do it with maximum amounts of drama. It becomes
routine to see Harry glance over his shoulder only for Malfoy to drop into the
seat next to him seconds later.
Neville, bless his treacherous ways, has started leaving that seat deliberately
empty. Ron has no idea how to handle the fact that he actually appreciates
Neville doing it, so he just locks that information away to poke at later.
Much later.
“Have a quill,” Malfoy says, dropping down next to him. It’s a Friday, and the
quill is made from spun sugar. It’s from the care package that he still
receives from his mother on a weekly basis. Ron takes it gingerly, not entirely
sure that he wants to eat anything that one of the older Malfoys has come into
contact with.
Malfoy senses his trepidation and actually rolls his eyes. “I realise Mother’s
family is infamous for killing off its more wayward members, but it’s not
actually poisoned, you know. Honestly,” he says, and he grasps Ron’s wrist
gently so that he can guide the quill to his mouth. He bites off the tip of it
in a flash of even white teeth, and crunches audibly. “See?”
“Um, thanks,” Ron says.
“You’re welcome,” Malfoy replies. “But in future: things from Mother are
usually safe, Great Aunt Cassiopeia should be avoided at all costs, and…well.
You’re a Weasley, so you know exactly what to expect from my Father.”
He accompanies that statement with a gentle rub of his thumb over the inside of
Ron’s wrist, and segues onto the real purpose of his visit before Ron can even
begin to formulate an appropriate response.
“It’s just occurred to me to ask: you do actually know how to dance, don’t
you?”
Ron is beginning to realise that Malfoy takes inappropriate amounts of pleasure
in making people lose their footing. Verbally, mentally, and – he suspects –
physically as well.
He’d paid attention in McGonagall’s dancing lesson. He honestly had. But the
Yule Ball hadn’t been quite as important back then and so he hadn’t paid quite
as much attention as he should have done. Especially since that was around the
time that he’d thought of his ‘hilarious’ idea of asking Malfoy instead of
literally anyone else.
Malfoy reads his answer in his face and sighs. “Of course,” he says. “That’s
our plans for the weekend sorted, then.”
He leaves a second sugar quill next to Ron’s plate as an apology – possibly –
as he leaves.
…
The day of the Ball, when it finally arrives, is bright and wintry. Snow fell
overnight, and the grounds of Hogwarts are buried in a thick blanket of white.
Ron, awake early after a restless night, sits by the window and watches the sun
come up over the horizon.
He’s still not heard anything from his parents. The twins have been…quizzical.
They’d sat him down for a vague and menacing conversation a couple of weeks
ago, only to walk away as baffled with this whole situation as Ron himself is.
Ginny and Harry have, he suspects, started some sort of betting pool between
the two of them and Neville. Hermione’s still ignoring him.
It’s all Malfoy’s fault.
He grimaces and leans his head against the cool glass of the window. It’s not
all Malfoy’s fault. It was Ron’s stupid idea to ask him. Everything else is
Malfoy’s fault. He’s gorgeous and witty and horribly funny when he’s not aiming
his sarcasm in Ron’s direction. He’s clever and expressive and has the worst
habit of changing the subject of conversation at complete random. He’s got
annoyingly perfect teeth and he hums instead of laughing properly and…and…
And Ron can’t get him out of his head. At all.
Hating Malfoy was safe. Getting to know him has been like being strapped to a
rogue Firebolt heading for the Whomping Willow: exhilarating, but bound to end
in complete disaster.
He hears his dorm mates start to wake up, and he goes back to bed. He crawls
under the covers and buries his face in his pillow and resolves not to surface
again until the absolute last minute possible.
Which, as it turns out, is approximately five minutes later, when Harry
(complete sadist – honestly, Ron has no idea why he bothered making up with
him) flings open his curtains and levitates his bed covers off.
…
It’s strange, but when he meets Malfoy in the entrance hall that night, he
thinks Malfoy actually looks relieved to see him. It’s a brief look, and it
vanishes swiftly as Malfoy begins to look him over approvingly, but Ron could
swear that he did see it. It makes him smile. It’s what encourages him to reach
out and run his thumb over the high collar of Malfoy’s robes and actually tell
Malfoy that he looks amazing.
It’s worth it. He gets to see Malfoy turn pink again.
“Don’t you think you should be calling me Draco by this point?” Malfoy asks.
It’s a fair question. One that Ron has avoided asking as much as he’d avoided
questioning his feelings until the early hours of that very morning.
“Draco, then,” he says, liking the way it sounds. “You look amazing, Draco.”
Draco blushes harder. “Thank you. Ron.”
Yeah, Ron thinks, the first names thing is so much better.
As it turns out, he enjoys the Ball far more than he initially thought he
would. The food is great, the dancing is…well, he doesn’t embarrass himself or
Draco, and he certainly enjoys holding him well enough. He definitely enjoys
the running commentary that is Draco Malfoy’s constant criticism of the world
around him (and takes a bit too much pleasure in Draco pointing out that Harry
dances like he’s got a broom shoved up his arse – call it revenge for that
morning), and the way that Draco’s breath feels against his cheek.
They barely let go of each other, even to get drinks. Draco is a warm presence
in his arms or pressed against his side and it is maddening. Especially now,
with the band in full swing, and the dance floor packed and swelteringly hot.
He gets his first kiss on that dance floor. Draco is pressed so close to him
it’s like he’s trying to crawl inside that kissing him just feels like a thing
that should happen. And it’s perfect. Draco’s mouth tastes faintly of
stroganoff, and their teeth clash when some idiot careens into them, but it’s
wonderful.
And afterwards, when Draco leans up and asks if he wants to go somewhere else,
Ron agrees.
…
‘Somewhere else’ is the Slytherin dorms. At first, Ron wonders how he’s
supposed to react, given that he’s not actually supposed to have been inside of
them before, but then he decides to stop pretending that focussing on anything
other than Draco is even possible and the whole world becomes that much easier
to deal with.
Draco’s bed is as gloriously comfortable as the ones in Gryffindor. Draco just
makes it a hundred times better, especially when he drags Ron down on top of
him in order to kiss him properly.
Kissing is so much simpler when it’s not being done in the middle of a crowd of
dancing teenagers.
Ron finds himself running his fingers through Draco’s soft hair. He presses
kisses all over his face and down the pale column of his neck until Draco gasps
and arches beneath him, pressing up against him. Ron pulls back. Draco’s
beautiful like this, spread out beneath him, flushed and panting.
Their eyes meet. Something passes between them, silent and powerful, and then
they’re tugging at the fastenings of each other’s robes, desperate to reach
skin. Once he’s got Draco’s robes unfastened, he dives back down and resumes
kissing his way down Draco’s neck. He nips at his collar bones and sucks one of
Draco’s nipples into his mouth. He bites gently at the sensitive flesh. Draco
moans. It sounds shockingly loud, and Ron freezes for a second, waiting for a
curse from one of Draco’s sinister roommates. It doesn’t come. Instead, Draco
hitches his leg up around Ron’s waist and uses it to press their hips together.
He’s hard. Really hard. And he’s so fucking hot that Ron can’t help but thrust
against him, pressing their erections together and groaning at the friction.
They end up getting up to strip off the rest of their robes and toss them onto
the top of Draco’s trunk so that they don’t get damaged. They shed socks and
trousers too, so that they’re just in their underwear. There’s a damp patch on
the front of Draco’s boxers; the thin cotton clings to the head of his cock and
Ron wants. He wants everything. He’s…not entirely sure of the exact specifics
of ‘everything’, but he’s pretty sure that it won’t be too weird if he reaches
out and…
Draco feels good in his hand. He’s hard, yeah, but his skin is silky soft. Ron
pulls away so that he can pull Draco’s boxers down over his hips and actually
see what he’s doing. It’s not that much different from wanking himself, really,
except that Draco is slightly smaller and makes much better noises – most of
which he tries to muffle in Ron’s shoulder. His fingernails leave gentle
scratches down Ron’s chest and belly, and by the time Draco’s hand slips into
his own underwear, Ron feels like he’s on fire.
It doesn’t take long, after that. Draco is stunning when he comes and Ron
decides – once his brain kicks back into gear and he’s curled up in Draco’s
arms – that he wants to see it as often as possible.
“Next time,” Draco says, running an idle finger through the cooling cum on
Ron’s stomach. “Next time, I want to suck you. Alright?”
Ron swallows. “Yeah,” he breathes. His cock gives a little twitch at the
thought, and he knows by Malfoy’s smirk that he felt it too. “Yeah,
definitely.”
….
Ron follows Draco into the hall the next morning. It’s…fairly obvious to the
whole room that he never made it back to Gryffindor tower last night, given
that he’s wearing his dress robes again, but Draco has his hand clasped firmly
around his wrist and his head held high and he so visibly doesn’t care what
people think that it’s actually a little inspiring.
Or Ron’s in love. Whatever.
He sits down, with Draco, at Slytherin table for the first time. Centuries of
Gryffindor ancestry weighs disapprovingly down on him as he helps himself to
toast and tea, but then Draco passes him the strawberry jam without him having
to ask for it, and it’s all worth it. Because during all of Draco’s little
visits in the mornings, he’s been paying attention to the things Ron likes. The
little things.
He hooks his foot around Draco’s under the table. Draco blushes. Next to him,
Parkinson wrinkles her nose.
“It’s official, then?” she asks.
“Weep for the sanctity of Slytherin dorms, Parkinson,” someone says from
further down the table. “We have a Weasley.”
“Shut up Nott,” Draco says smoothly, and he turns to Parkinson with the air of
someone who had no idea his friends were this stupid. Ron makes a mental note
to try that expression out on Harry at some point.
“Of course it’s ‘official’, Parkinson,” he continues. “Where on earth have you
been?”
From the corner of his eye, Ron catches a flash of gold. Galleons are being
exchanged all the way along Slytherin table. A quick glance over at Gryffindor
shows that the same is happening there. He shakes his head and catches Draco’s
eye, and indicates the nearest set of gamblers.
“Bastards, all of them,” he says.
He wonders if Harry’s made any profit from this, and if he should ask for a
cut. He has a Valentine’s present to buy next, and it has to be something
special. Draco’s a Malfoy, after all – he only ever wants the best.
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