Title: Forgiveness
Movie/quote: Grapes of Wrath—"Maybe there ain't no sin and there ain't no virtue, they's just what people does. Some things folks do is nice and some ain't so nice, and that's all any man's got a right to say."
Summary: Ron sometimes forgets that Draco was a 16-year-old Death Eater. (Established relationship)
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its characters do not belong to me.
A/N: Major spoilers up to Half-Blood Prince. Takes place post-series.
The first time Ron saw it was an accident, a moment of carelessness. The tiniest bit of scarred skin peeked out from underneath Draco's rolled-up sleeve, and Ron couldn't help the way his eyes were drawn to it, the way it chilled him and rendered him incapable of any kind of speech. Draco jerked his sleeves down when he noticed, grey eyes glinting with something Ron couldn't see long enough to identify, and he flew from Ron's bedroom without a word of goodbye or a second glace. Ron gaped after him for a moment, confused but ultimately grateful; he didn't think he'd have made for any sort of decent company after seeing that.
There were times, when they were together, that Ron forgot Draco had taken the Dark Mark. They just never talked about that time, if they could avoid it. And it was hard to really think about much of anything serious when being snogged by a Malfoy.
And when he did think about it, when he did remember, he felt returned to his sixth-year self, a surge of anger and betrayal swelling inside him (why betrayal, he didn't know—he and Draco were far from even being friends at the time). When he thought about it, he wasn't sure how he'd managed to even consider dating him.
The snogging probably helped.
The second time Ron saw it was purposeful, a calculated plan. He waited until Draco was effectively distracted, writhing underneath him and making little, sub-vocal noises that threatened to undo Ron's careful concentration. He moved his hand to Draco's wrist, exuding gentle pressure in an affectionate squeeze. And slowly, so slowly, his fingers slid the sleeve of Draco's shirt upward; Draco's body went tense beneath him and Ron, caught, eased himself up on one elbow, his hand still holding the other man's arm. He loosened his grip when Draco didn't make a move to run away, and the tips of his fingers traced the imperfection Voldemort's mark left on the pale skin, sucking in a sharp intake of breath.
And as he touched, he thought. He thought of a teenage boy with a father in Azkaban and a mother at the mercy of one the most powerful wizards of all time. He thought of a teenage boy, desperate and scared, who was now older, but still scared sometimes when the lights were out and he was half-asleep. He thought of a teenage boy's insults and threats and how empty, how hollow they seemed, compared to who he was now, a man who smiled more and was ticklish and whined when being ignored but forgave easily.
Ron met Draco's eyes which were trying to look bored and disinterested, but he knew better; he could see beyond the veil, see the fear there—fear of rejection, of disgust, of being pushed away and left alone. Ron leaned, pressed lips to lips as he pressed palm to scar, and forgave.