Dedications: For the lovely Haba, who is the best at motivating me and leaves the best reviews. Enjoy the Draco/Ron, my darling. Love you.
QLFC Round 11: Seasons Greetings. CHASER 3: Write about an unrequited (doesn't necessarily have to be) love coming true on a winter night(s).
Prompts: (dialogue) "You can't start a new chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one," (emotion) bitterness, (sound) sobbing
Muggle studies: Write about someone who has an important task/mission/calling.
A/N: Due to the AU element of this, certain event do not occur, such as the diary or the attack at the World Cup.
Special thanks to Krissy, who is literally the only reason this fic exists, and Amber, who saved me at 4 am.
this is my kingdom come
Draco doesn't have a lot of memories.
It's a surprise considering his past, but he doesn't. He doesn't carry the baggage of remembering his mother's sobbing on the night she gave up her life for him, or the way his screams pierced the air when she left him in his aunt's exhausted arms.
He does remember is scattered, abstract pieces—the sticky sweltering heat of the summer sun, his aunt's paling face, the way the newspapers announced the death of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy with a front page piece.
He doesn't remember the sound of his mother's voice.
x
Growing up at the Tonks' home is like a kettle coming to a boil. His manor is gone, his parents are gone, and all that's left behind is a tarnished legacy.
For the first few months, he sulks like a child who has had his favourite toy stolen. He's had a lot more than a toy stolen from him, but the world is crueler and he has to be crueller and this is the only way he can show his pain.
(Malfoys don't show their pain, but can you call yourself a Malfoy if the rest of them are dead?)
Draco knows he is not an easy child. His parents' company was made of men and women with expensive garments and cut-throat remarks; he knows how to destroy a person far better than he knows how to befriend one.
Maybe it's an act of pity, maybe it's kindness, maybe it's some form of understanding, but Andromeda Tonks (he can't bring himself to think of her as his aunt when he didn't know she existed up until a week ago) knocks on his door after a week of him barricading himself inside and says, "You've got company."
He does have manners still (even if the world was ending, his mother taught him well) and he follows with a cautious grace.
On the porch, a red-headed woman stands with her son. They're both wearing clothes that are clearly homemade, and the only thing stopping him from sneering is the fact that he knows his aunt won't appreciate it.
"Hello there," the woman coos and Draco glares at the condescending sound of her voice. The boy clearly catches the motion because he looks torn between laughing and glaring back at Draco in his mother's defense.
"It's very cold out," Andromeda says, interrupting the silence with a steady voice. Draco nods at the woman despite his growing annoyance and the other boy's posture relaxes. "Why don't you come in?"
They all end up sitting around the table, and Draco looks around uneasily. He wants to get out of this situation with these strange people, but he clearly doesn't have that option anymore. He has nowhere to go.
"Ronald is your age," Andromeda states firmly and Draco frowns. "I know you've been lonely since you've come to live with us, and Molly tells me Ronald is the same way."
"Wait, Mum, you told her I was lonely?" Ron complains at the same time as Draco goes, "I did not ask to have my friends arranged."
It's a lie and he knows it, he remembers all the arranged gatherings he had with the familiar faces of his past (Pansy and her shrill shriek, Theo's haunted eyes, Blaise's faked grace and all the others) but this rings sharper then it did before for a reason he cannot place.
Still, there's a moment—a moment where he meets Ronald's eyes and they share a disgusted look at the adult's meddling—where he knows, deep in his bones, that everything has changed. This is the beginning of something, a fresh start in the winter following the worst summer of his existence, and maybe that's what gives Draco the motivation.
"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy," he says, ignoring the way Molly Weasley winces. Andromeda smiles, a ghost of a grin, and for a split second, it feels as if he has done something right.
Ronald looks at him for no less than a moment, but it is with sharp eyes and a contemplating look, and Draco does not have any regrets at his action when there is no flinch regarding his last name.
"Ron. Ron Weasley," he says and Draco breathes in the odd feeling of acceptance mixed with the cool winter air.
x
Friendship with Ronald Weasley is the feeling of flying, of knowing that there is a broom to stop you from crashing into the cold ground below.
Draco does not have a lot of experience with friendship, but he has previously thought that it was a lot like chess, a series of calculated moves for the desired outcome. He is wrong.
Friendship is ice cream melting all over them during summer, leaving them with sticky hands; friendship is the crunch of leaves during autumn as they walk aimlessly through the local town; friendship is the time Ron irritated him during spring and Draco didn't talk to him for a week.
But most importantly, friendship is quiet winter nights behind a chessboard, where words are not necessary. Draco knows every curve of Ron's hands, the way Ron bites his lips when he is lost in thought, Ron's shocked but proud face when he wins every single time.
Friendship, Draco thinks, is never wanting to let go.
x
"Draco."
He turns the moment he hears his name, only to meet his aunt's almost-black eyes watching him from across the room with a distant curiosity.
"Yes, Aunt Andromeda?"
His aunt nods to the place across from her on the couch and he sits dutifully, waiting for her to gather her thoughts and speak. This is what they share, a Pureblood breeding and the world's burdens placed on their shoulders.
"It's the anniversary," she acknowledges, tilting her head to watch his reaction.
Draco swallows before answering. He's tired down to the painfully mortal creak of his bones, the result of a sleepless night. The nightmares have followed him into the day, burned into his eyelids like a punishment.
"I'm proud of my mother," he says, so firm it sounds like a defense. He's not sure who he's reassuring—his aunt's face is carefully blank and he's always been good at lying to himself—but it feels heavier said out loud.
"She loved you." Aunt Andromeda's words are genuine, despite their detached feel. "When she saw how bad things were getting, she made herself the best kind of spy. I am only sorry she got caught."
Draco closes his eyes. In his mind, his mother is always clever and cunning, the best at singing him to sleep and making pointed comments about others. "My father wasn't a spy."
Aunt Andromeda shrugs at his words and the movement is loaded, tainted by years of etiquette lessons that she could not escape. "He loved you. Only you can choose if you can still love him regardless of what he did."
The sun's rays coming in through the window blind him and Draco shifts uncomfortably, trying to get away. He wonders sometimes, if his father was less power-hungry, if the Black family were kinder, would his mother have ended up the way she did? Would she have ended up dead on a summer's day? Would he have a different kind of family?
"No," Draco puzzles out slowly. His tongue feels like it has been tied but he chokes the words out anyways. "I'm not sure I can."
x
The Sorting Hat is heavy on his head as Draco stares out into the Great Hall. It has been a quiet day so far—the ride to Hogwarts was filled with mostly content silence after he and Ron had escaped the clutches of the twin terrors and Ginevra, who claimed to have shown Harry Potter where the entrance was.
Now, however, is where everything matters.
"You remind me of somebody I sorted years ago," the Sorting Hat remarks.
It makes him bitter, thinking about the way the Hat's words will shape his decisions in the way nothing ever has before. His life has been molded by his ancestors and their actions, and just for once, he wishes he could be original.
"You want to be special, I see," the Hat chuckles. "Not unlike most—what matters is the way you choose to be. Is it through your deeds or your abilities, Mr. Malfoy?"
Draco ponders over the question and perhaps, that is all the difference. In another world, he would have been sorted before the Hat had even touched his head, but in this one, he has time to think. He knows the power of knowledge.
"RAVENCLAW!" The Hat announces.
When Draco takes a seat at the Ravenclaw table, everyone whispers and gossips about it, the son of a Black who turned spy and a Malfoy who didn't, defying every expectation with a single sorting.
Then, when a freckled and red-headed Weasley slips into the spot beside him, grinning, the whispers only grow louder.
x
At the end of first year, Draco thinks he has finally understood why people say that life is cruel.
This is the greatest punishment he has ever experienced—his mother had died in an attempt to destroy Lord Voldemort and he hadn't even stayed dead, for Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom had faced him.
"Bloody hell," Ron exhales quietly beside him, slipping an arm around Draco's shoulder. "I'm sorry, mate."
Draco thinks about going home for summer break the next day, of having to go to his mother's grave and tell her. The sheer thought is so overwhelming he turns away, burying his face in Ron's shoulder as he breaks into tears.
x
It's burning hot on the day they hear the news. Draco is getting ready for third year when an owl drops the Daily Prophet on the kitchen table and his cousin's hair turns mourning-black in shock.
"Mum," she whispers, her voice cracking on the syllables, her Auror training book abandoned on the table. "Sirius… he escaped Azkaban."
Andromeda whips around so fast she almost stumbles and Ted Tonks catches her in his arms.
"How?" she demands and Draco feels every fragile thing he has built for himself crumble at the defeated tone of her words.
x
Later, much later, Harry Potter tells him, "Sirius—he was innocent. I know he's related to you… I thought you might want to know. I'm going to try and get him a trial."
Draco stares at Harry Potter and wonders how it must feel to live in a world so black and white that you can delude yourself into thinking the last son of house Black would get a trial after the war.
This has nothing to do with innocence or guilt.
"Thanks for telling me," Draco says and walks away, leaving Harry staring at him in confusion.
x
The beginning of fourth year is the best time of his life. There's a tournament and sure, Potter is entered against his will, but it's entertaining.
He watches with the Weasleys. Ginevra whoops when Harry flies, and Draco makes fun of his broom technique while Ron laughs so hard he shakes against Draco's shoulder and it's all fun.
The second task ends with Neville Longbottom under the lake and Fleur Delacour praying for her sister's life, but everyone lives and breathes and walks away and Draco thinks, just for a second, that the year will be okay.
Two weeks later, Cedric Diggory's dead body hits the Hogwarts ground while Harry is branded a liar for telling the world about Voldemort's resurrection, and Draco chides himself for never learning from his mistakes.
It's Ron who catches him when Draco stumbles, his footing lost to the mess of thoughts in his head and then he's being cradled in Ron's arms and carried to their dorm.
"You're going to be okay," Ron says and he's in his own bed and Ron's eyes are the warmest shade of blue imaginable and that's the moment Draco realizes what the tingling in his stomach is and the world's shot to hell and—
He collapses and doesn't wake up till morning.
x
It's the worst summer of his life.
"Hogwarts has an inquisitor," Aunt Andromeda warns him. "Be careful."
This has been the worst summer of his life, but this year is going to be worse.
x
The year is nothing but messy, like puzzle pieces that have had their edges so sliced that they don't fit together they way they used to.
"I'm going to kill her," Ron plots during breakfast that morning, buttering toast and holding the knife too tightly to be normal. "If she says another word, I swear."
Draco nods. "I'll help."
"Speaking of helping," a voice behind him says, and they turn to see Hermione Granger standing behind them, her bushy hair waving with her every movement like a war banner. "How would you like to destroy Umbridge?"
Draco doesn't need to think about it and, if the way Ron clutches his hand means anything, nor does he. "I'm in."
In his dreams that night, his mother smiles her approval and sings a song about a world of peace.
x
Ron is coiled like a spring after their first meeting, tension evident in the way he holds himself with an angry passion.
"Ron." Draco raises an eyebrow and waits.
It doesn't take long. Ron likes to wait and differ about some things, but this is clearly personal.
"I'm scared," Ron explodes. "Did you hear those bloody prats? They can't even begin to imagine Voldemort coming back and they're just wasting our damn time and then just wait, they're going to claim credit when we kick his ass and—"
The rest of the rant continues as they trek down to the castle. Draco doesn't listen as much as he watches; he's heard this rant a million times before.
Instead, he pays attention to other things: the way Ron reacts without thinking, the way he uses his hands to gesture, the way his eyes are animated, and he knows, deep down, that he can't change his feelings no matter how hard he tries. Ron may never like him back, but he needs to try.
"Ron," he whispers and, when the other boy leans closer to hear, Draco leans in, kissing him with every bit of passion he feels. The cold air stings his cheeks but he threads his fingers through Ron's blazing-red hair, feeling tingles racing all up his body from the feel of Ron's lips against his.
He's hated summer his whole life but this feels like fate, his best friend and closest confidante and him kissing like this.
Pulling away hurts and he braces himself for the evident rejection. What he doesn't expect is Ron to pull him back, kissing him again and whispering against his lips, "I love you, you bloody prat, even if you kiss me to shut me up."
In the mid of winter, Draco Malfoy falls head over heels in love.
x
His mother's grave is well-maintained even after all these years, still shining in the summer sun. Draco closes his eyes, sinking to his knees as he puts his head against the cold marble.
"Hello, Mother," he whispers, his voice breaking. "Things have gotten worse in the war, but I'm fighting still. I have so much to tell you about the DA this year but first—"
Draco shifts around until he's comfortable. "I kissed Ron this winter. I love him, Mother. I know you would have approved, even if Father never would have. You can't start a new chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one, and I promise, I'm trying. I'm going to win this war for you, and for Ron. I swear, Mother. I'm going to make you proud."