A/N: "Why Ron Weasley Hates His Best Mate (At Least Sometimes)" was inspired by "Why I Hate Harry Potter (At The Moment)" by susannah_wilde.
Why he'd let Potter talk him into this, Draco had no idea.
All right, all right, that was a lie, and a quite blatant one at that. Potter was withholding sex, and if Draco hadn't given in, he would have continued perishing slowly and painfully from sexual frustration. He could picture it all too clearly, because it was what had been happening for far too long already: him languishing on the couch or in bed, evening after evening, alone when he shouldn't be, miserable, touching himself when all he wanted was . . .
Damn, but he was pathetic. All that he prided himself on as a Malfoy, all his dignity – undone by his genitals' inability to endure any prolonged amount of time without Potter's touch. Three weeks so far, and every day had been torture. And now, a slave to his baser desires, he was standing in front of the Burrow – what kind of name was that, anyway? – and going to spend an evening in a house full of Weasleys, of all people. If you wanted to call it a house, that was.
"Aren't you frightened that . . . thing will collapse and kill us all?" he asked with a sceptical look at the precarious-looking structure. He remembered playing with toy blocks at a toddler – the outcome had looked quite similar to the Burrow. Draco didn't know about people like the Weasleys, but he couldn't imagine calling something his home that might as well have been designed by a two-year-old.
Potter glared. "Not a word, Draco. You promised you'd behave yourself."
"I didn't promise I'd voluntarily put myself in mortal danger."
"Not a word," Potter repeated, then the door opened and revealed – surprisingly – a red-headed figure.
For a few moments, it gaped at them mutely, before it let out a most undignified squeak that was reminiscent of a house-elf punishing himself. Draco concluded that Potter hadn't yet told his 'family' who, precisely, his freshly acquired boyfriend was. Come to think of it, the way Potter had steadfastly evaded his questions concerning the subject, he really should have realised it sooner. Apparently, the sexual frustration had a detrimental effect also on his mental faculties.
"There's – Harry – M-M-Malfoy – you – he . . ."
Maybe, Draco thought, watching in amusement how Potter's best friend looked back and forth between them in horror, the day wouldn't turn out as bad as he had envisioned.
"Indeed," he interrupted. "Him. Me. Your powers of observation astound me every time anew, Weasley. Your mother must be proud of you."
To his satisfaction, Weasley's face adopted the colour of his hair.
Moments later, Draco found himself faced with a herd of Weasleys – though luckily incomplete, as he counted the mother and father, Potter's sidekick, the remaining twin, and the daughter. Other than Granger, no significant others were present. Thank Merlin for small mercies. All of them were staring at him in various stages of shock, and he wished he'd brought a camera with him.
"Mr . . . Malfoy," the father finally managed.
"Mr Weasley." Draco inclined his head politely. "Mrs Weasley. How very kind of you to invite me."
Next to himself, Draco felt Potter relax just slightly, and he felt almost bad for him. But only almost. He'd coerced Draco into doing this, had even demanded of him to interact on a first name basis with these people – "And remember, they have first names, Draco. As do I, in case you hadn't noticed. It's Harry, and I'd like you to use it at least in front of them!" – now he'd see what it got him. Draco was washing his hands of all consequences.
"Ronald, Ginevra, George. Hermione. It's such a pleasure to meet you all again."
The expression on Granger's face reminded Draco of a flobberworm. Ronald spluttered something unintelligible.
"Harry, dear?" Apparently, Mrs Weasley had found her voice again. "I think we need to talk to you for a minute."
A few moments later, Draco found himself ushered into a living room that resembled what a cupboard at the Manor might look like if stuffed full of hideous armchairs and couches. Alone.
Voices – as well as a surprisingly delicious smell of food – were drifting over from the direction of what he assumed must be the kitchen. He didn't understand much, but the intelligible bits told him that the Weasleys were collectively questioning Potter's sanity. It wasn't entirely unreasonable, Draco conceded, considering that in the beginning, the two of them had been convinced for a while that they'd somehow lost their minds. Sometimes Draco still wasn't so certain that it wasn't what had happened. Why else would he subject himself to something like this?
Eventually, the voices died down except for two.
"But it's Malfoy!" the first one exclaimed, louder than before. "How can you all just decide to be okay with that?"
Potter muttered something in reply.
"What part of Malfoy didn't you understand? It's Malfoy, his father was a Death Eater, Malfoy himself was a Death Eater, and if you hadn't spoken for him at the trial –"
More muttering, some of which sounded like 'stop saying Malfoy'.
Several more exclamations of Malfoy! and collective groans from everyone later, Draco began getting bored.
"I'm telling you, it's a big mistake! One day you'll wake up and realise you've been f – that you've been with Malfoy all this time and then you'll –"
"Ron Weasley! Will you SHUT UP!"
That was about the first sensible thing Draco had ever heard Granger say, and to his surprise, Ronald had the good sense to actually obey her.
A minute or two later, the living room began filling with people. They looked more composed now, except for Ronald, who was obviously sulking and being dragged along by an exasperated-looking Granger.
Draco smirked in his direction – the smug expression he knew from experience would rile him up most. If he had to be here, he'd have all the fun he could get. "So, Ronald, it seems your wife is not exactly happy that you've developed a fetish for my last name. Personally, I think you've got rather good taste, surprising as I find it to hear these words leave my mouth in connection with you."
For the second time this evening, Ronald's face went an alarming shade of red. Granger put a soothing – or warning? – hand on his shoulder, but if looks could kill, Draco was certain he'd drop dead immediately by her doing.
Before he had any chance to find out if Ronald's head would explode if he was aggravated further, however, Potter's elbow collided painfully with Draco's ribs. Draco had to cough and gasp for breath, but he didn't miss the wink the other Weasley son present – George – gave him. At least there was one other than himself here who had a sense of humour.
"Behave, Draco!" Potter snapped, rather like a master would do with his disobedient dog. Draco wasn't amused at all.
It was at that moment that the fireplace roared into life, spitting green flames and ashes before releasing yet another Weasley – who, with a flick of his wand, immediately looked immaculate again. Immaculately boring, that was.
"Percy! You're late."
"Sorry, Mum, I had to come into work this morning because of an emergency. You know what it's like. Somebody thought it was funny to hex all Floo connections at the Ministry – people were being diverted all over the globe. Mr Cattermole landed with a hermit in Guiana instead of his home. He doesn't speak French, and all the incoming Floo transmissions were blocked by the hex, so you can imagine what a hassle it was to get everyone back home. They're still rather busy. Myself, I suspect Madison; he got fired only yesterday, and he's always been incredibly childish."
It seemed that he wanted to go on talking – he never shut up about work, Draco had learnt that the hard way at the annoying but unavoidable after-work parties their Department Head liked to throw – when he noticed Draco. Percy blinked, then looked around, taking in the situation – everyone's uncomfortable faces, Ronald being held back by Granger, Draco still rubbing his aching side – and shook his head.
"Honestly, Harry," he said, "you should have warned them. For everyone's sake. Be glad that nobody is on their way to St Mungo's right now."
Harry looked appropriately guilty, but stubbornly refused to say anything on the matter.
"And miss out on all the fun?" Draco asked innocently. "We were having such a good time, weren't we? It wasn't awkward in the slightest."
"Yeah," George added, "definitely not. In fact, I think maybe I should work on a sweet that makes you hallucinate something exactly like this. I'll name it Potter-Malfoy In-Law Surprise Toffee. It's going to be huge."
Weirdly enough, that seemed to break the spell, and after some nervous laughter from everyone, it was Ginevra who decided that staring at Draco silently for the rest of the day wouldn't work.
"So, Harry, this is who you're replacing me with?" she asked, looking Draco up and down in a fashion that made him feel a little like meat being inspected for further processing. "Why, I'm almost jealous I didn't get the idea first."
"Obviously, Potter is smarter than you," Draco couldn't help saying, but she only rolled her eyes.
"Don't overdo it or Mum will force you to eat your weight in food, and then Harry will definitely rethink his decision."
"Speaking of which," Mrs Weasley cut in, "how about we sit down and eat? You must be starving."
A few quick spells later, dishes, cutlery, and mountains of food were floating towards the dining table, and everyone made to sit – except for Ronald, who, despite it being barely noon, slunk towards the kitchen, muttering something about needing wine.
It was all a mistake. A nightmare. Or maybe somebody had drugged him – George for example. Yes, that had to be it. He'd already invented that in-law prank, and he was trying it out on Ron. Because this couldn't possibly be happening.
Ron looked over to where Harry was sitting out of the corner of his eye. Damn! Malfoy was still there – more wine was definitely in order, he decided, filling his glass for the second time. Not that he was positive that the alcohol would counteract whatever drugs or spell made him hallucinate that Harry had brought Malfoy to their home and introduced him as his new boyfriend – he shuddered and downed half of the glass – but maybe if he was drunk on top of it, his brain would shut up. Stop bombarding him with ideas about what, precisely, the word 'boyfriend' implied.
What if he wasn't drugged, though? Again, he sneaked a glance at Harry. Malfoy grinned at him and raised his glass in a toasting gesture. Ron hastily looked down on his plate again.
If it was true . . . He could see it all too clearly: Malfoy would be everywhere, he'd insert himself into his life like a fungus growing in all corners, immune to any extermination attempt. If Ron were to visit Harry, Malfoy might open the door or 'welcome' him after he'd stepped out of the fireplace. If he and Harry wanted to go to a Quidditch match, Malfoy would want to come along, making disparaging remarks concerning Ron's favourite teams and players as well as his abilities back at school. Maybe Harry would even expect Ron and Hermione to come over and eat with them or – even worse! – bring Malfoy to their place like he'd brought him here. Then Ron could watch as Malfoy insulted Hermione, who apparently had decided for reasons beyond Ron's comprehension that Harry wasn't the least bit crazy based on his choice of partner.
And even when Malfoy wasn't present, Harry would talk about him constantly, maybe even share information about what was going on in . . . No, no, his mind wouldn't go there. He emptied his glass and reached for the bottle again.
This couldn't be true. It simply couldn't.
"Now, is it as bad as you thought it would be? I think it's working out rather nicely."
Draco and Potter had retreated to the kitchen for some minutes while everyone else was busy trying not to slip into a food coma. Later, they were supposed to have a cup of tea in the garden, though Draco suspected Ronald might stick with his wine.
"The house has the size of my bedroom at the Manor, I've got to listen to Percy's incessant talk about work even while I'm not atwork, George slipped me a pastry that turned my hair into a meadow complete with daisies and butterflies, and every time your ex-girlfriend looks at me, I feel like she's imagining me as a callboy. Moreover . . ."
"They're not that bad, you know," Potter muttered. "They're my family."
His face reminded Draco of a hopeful puppy's, much in contrast to the expression of cold determination that he'd worn whenever Draco had complained about being tortured at his hands – or rather, the lack thereof on certain body-parts – and Draco decided that maybe, he could let up a little. The making-up sex would be all the better for it.
"All right," he conceded with a dramatic sigh. "The food was rather good, almost as good as Minty's. And I do appreciate that nobody mentioned the Da— Voldemort. Happy now?"
Potter was still pouting.
"I'll try. I can't promise you more than that. You can't possibly expect us to like each other all of a sudden."
"Oh, fine," Potter agreed, much to Draco's relief. He pushed himself away from the counter he'd be leaning against and reached out for Draco, trailing his temple and cheek before he leant in and brushed a kiss on his mouth. His lips were warm and soft and tasted of custard cream.
After almost a month of complete celibacy, it was enough to make Draco rock-hard in a second.
"I know it can work," Potter went on, hot breath puffing against Draco's skin. "There have been no deaths, and everyone still has the correct amount of limbs. I expected much worse. And given time, you'll grow fond of each other. Kind of like an acquired taste." He grinned wickedly. "Kind of like how we came to grow fond of each other."
"There is that," Draco admitted. He wanted to protest, tell Potter that personally, he thought all his impeccable taste had left him when he'd fallen for him, but there was Potter's hand in his – again grassless – hair, fingers mussing and petting, and there were Potter's lips, less than an inch away from his own. And there was his cock, pulsing and aching for the smallest touch. How he could have willingly abstained from feeling all of this, Draco had no idea anymore.
Again, Potter smiled, then his other arm wrapped around Draco's waist, and his lips descended on Draco's once more.
"Now," Draco gasped a while later between kisses, "tell me that I've been good. Tell me I've been very good and deserve my reward."
"You've been very good," Potter murmured after another deep, sensual kiss. "I'm proud of you."
Draco decided that this wasn't going nearly fast enough, and he further decided that he was done waiting.
"I know." There were more kisses, and in between, Draco's hands sneaked under Potter's shirt, making him squirm as Draco brushed his fingertips over his nipples ever so gently. "And you knew, didn't you, that in the end I was going to cave. You were secretly looking forward to this precise moment, and because you're a terrible sadist who delights in tormenting your innocent boyfriend, you enjoyed every second. Admit it." He jerked his hips just so, his erection grinding against Potter's groin.
"Unf," Potter said. To Draco's satisfaction, he was every bit as hard as Draco himself.
Draco grinned into the kiss. "Indeed."
He should've had less wine. That was the thought at the forefront of Ron's mind as he made for the kitchen to find a Sober-Up Potion. When he opened the door, though, he decided that maybe instead he'd need more.
At first, his brain refused to process what he was seeing. He'd spent the better part of the last two hours trying to suppress precisely this kind of mental image while also trying to ignore that Ginny was quite obviously relishing similar fantasies. But in the end, there was no denying it – Harry and Malfoy were making out frantically against the kitchen counter.
Though, truth be told, 'making out' was too mild a term for what was taking place right in front of him: Harry's shirt was hanging off him and his trousers were open, while Malfoy's robes had ridden up all the way to his hips. Hips which were rocking back and forth rhythmically, just as Harry's, and their hands were–
Ron bit down hard on the heel of his hand to suppress any sound and turned around, closing the door behind him. There was a lurching sensation in the area of his stomach, and he leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. He had to be tripping, he just had to, and it was a bad trip. The worst. When he was sober again, he'd definitely, definitely kill George.
"Ron? Are you all right?" It was Percy, coming into his direction. "Mum asked me to get you, and Harry and Draco as well. We're going outside."
He pointed at the kitchen door. "Are they in there?"
"No!" Ron blurted out. "I mean yes, but don't look! They're–"
"Ah." Percy nodded before he opened the door slightly, peered inside, and closed it again. "Good. Harry finally ended Draco's enforced celibacy. At least now I won't have to listen to Draco whine about it at work any longer. I have no idea why he chose me of all people to complain to."
It was decidedly not the reaction Ron had been expecting. "Are you – he's talking to –" Wait. Wait! This meant that . . . "You knew?"
Percy rolled his eyes. "For months. It was rather hard to miss once I'd accidentally found out which closet at the Ministry they prefer."
For the second time today, Ron squeaked. Percy threw him a long-suffering glance, and as he turned away to leave, Ron heard him mutter something about 'never bringing Severus to this madhouse'. For about two seconds, he was tempted to go after him and enquire, but then he decided he didn't even want to know. This one remark had told him far too much already.
For once, Ron decided, he found Percy much more reasonable than Harry for staying quiet about the matter. The idea of Malfoy in bed with his best mate was bad enough – the idea of Snape having sex with anyone, let alone his brother . . .
That was the moment when Ron's stomach decided he'd had too much wine after all.