Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

A/N: This isn't properly British.

Ron gets the Ministry-issue owl in the morning alongside the regular post. He jumps out of his seat approximately five minutes after reading his letter and, more importantly, observing the three tickets that tumble out of the envelope. Season Quidditch tickets. Ginny gets her own package. The letter is a hastily-scrawled explanation, full of obvious excitement. Their father won another raffle. Ron spends the next several classes in an ecstatic blur, and he immediately hands Harry and Hermione a ticket each.

Hermione is spending the summer with her parents—recently resolved after seventh's years horrors with the help of many mediwizards—and absolutely cannot get away though, despite Ron's frown and instance she come. She doesn't share the love of Quidditch he and Harry do, because she insists that the plans she has to visit some boring limited-time museum exhibit is more important. Ron looks at her incredulously, then at the ticket she returns around lunch.

Then he holds it high in the air, realizing he now holds an immense power unlike anything else he's ever had. Dean and Seamus are ridiculously all over him for the rest of the day. Potions is last. When Slughorn leaves the room to fetch their ingredients, Ron proclaims rather loudly that the ticket will go to whoever gives him the biggest offer, to which Dean and Seamus start hastily bidding, until Slughorn exits the closet with an armful of herbs.

The next day is almost as blissful, as several girls that came back for Eighth Year ask what he's doing on the weekend. He knows they're all after one thing that he can't capitalize on, but he still enjoys the attention. He's a temporary Gryffindor hero, and the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws aren't that far behind in sudden friendship attempts. No Slytherins yet, though.

So naturally, he's quite surprised when a certain ferrety blond drags him into an abandoned classroom after the feast, snatching him right out from under Harry and Hermione. Malfoy just says, "I need to talk to you," very quickly and suddenly.

Harry doesn't turn around and notice until Ron's already been dragged halfway across the corridor, and Ron calls after them, "Don't worry, it's fine! I'll catch up with you guys later." ...Because he can guess exactly what Malfoy's after. And that thought makes him grin rather broadly as Malfoy tentatively closes the classroom door.

He turns to Ron with a somewhat sullen look across his pointed features. He looks very determined though, and he sneers, "I want that ticket." Apparently, the Malfoy fortune hasn't rekindled itself to what it once was.

Ron knows an opportunity when he sees one and instantly breaks out into a mildly vindictive smirk. "What's the matter? Daddy couldn't get you any tickets from Azkaban?" He snickers while Malfoy flushes pink.

Surprisingly, Malfoy doesn't retaliate. He's been a bit of a downer for the last few years, although it clearly pains him greatly to growl between clenched teeth, "I want that ticket, and I'll pay you handsomely for it." Ron raises an eyebrow; Malfoy fidgets nervously.

An opportunity like this isn't something that comes every day. Ron is absolutely determined not to waste it, and he eyes Malfoy's lithe form as he considers his words. Malfoy's also something to look at—always has been, even if last year wasn't kind to him. It seems like he's been slowly wasting away under the weight of his father's fallen position, and whatever else people on the dark side have to deal with. There're dark circles under his otherwise pretty grey eyes, and his form is thinner than usual, his skin too-pale. He crosses his arms over his chest as Ron eyes him, drinking in every detail.

Ron stops himself just in time from nervously licking his lips. This isn't going to be an easy thing to try and do. But really, there's only one thing he wants from Malfoy. And it isn't money. "These are exclusive," he says, slowly, while Malfoy's eyes narrow. "You know that. Front row—if you could've bought them, you would've. ...And it's not money I'm looking for..."

"You're always looking for money," Malfoy counters quickly, "Or is that hovel of a 'home' easier to live in now that half your brothers have left you?"

Ron's expression reverts to a hard glare instantly, and he takes a step forward in warning. Malfoy must know he's done something wrong, because he shrinks back into the door, even if his expression remains tough. Ron knows it's a lie though. He's seen Malfoy writhe on the ground from a Hippogriff scratch, seen Malfoy run away after getting punched in the face by a girl, and seen Malfoy cower at the mere thought of entering the forest. He knows that when it comes down to it, Malfoy's a coward, and he uses that to build his own confidence as he takes another step, growling dangerously, "If you're gonna have that attitude, you'll be leaving this room ticket-less, and if you make fun of my family again, you'll do it in pieces."

Malfoy sniffs but remains begrudgingly quiet. They're less than a meter apart, now, and Ron can see just how far Malfoy's anxious blush reaches down his neck. It disappears beneath the collar of his white uniform shirt, too form-fitting to be anywhere near decent. Malfoy's trousers are just as tight, and the way his green-and-grey tie falls down his chest seems to call out to Ron. He wonders vaguely if he should use that tie to his advantage—bind Malfoy's wrists, or perhaps blindfold him? Or gag him—that's probably the best option—Malfoy's always mouthy.

Mind made up—Ron is definitely going to do this—he can totally get away with this—he just needs to stay strong and Malfoy'll back down... Ron says quietly, "So, you want my ticket. ...How badly?" ...He needs to prod a little more before he just jumps in...

Malfoy looks off to the side, fingers tapping against his forearm. He seems to struggle with himself, and then he drawls quietly, without looking back at Ron, "...Badly."

Ron smirks. They share more than just blood purity, then. He didn't think he had anything in common with Malfoy, but evidently getting on the school Quidditch team isn't as much just a ploy to rival Harry as they thought. He must actually really like it. Ron wonders vaguely if Malfoy realizes the seats are side-by-side, and Malfoy will be Ron's date if he does get his claws on a ticket. He looks at Ron out of the corner of his eye, chewing his bottom lip fretfully.

And erotically. But he probably doesn't mean for it to be. One thing that can be said for Malfoy: he has great lips. Smooth, pink, full, pouty... Ron's wondered more than once what they feel like, but he always dismissed that as just another thing he can't have.

Now everything's a possibility, and Ron clarifies, voice low, "Would you do... anything?" He takes one more step—leaving only one between them. Ron waits for Malfoy to answer, and when he doesn't, Ron's arms automatically lift, going to either side of Malfoy's head, palms flat against the door. Malfoy turns to look at him properly, eyes wary and burning.

He doesn't move. Judging from his track record, Ron half expects the Slytherin to run away crying. Instead, he waits a few more seconds, before nodding very slowly. Ron's smirk turns absolutely predatory. It would be so easy right now to smash their lips together and force Malfoy to return a kiss—so easy, even, to turn Malfoy around against the door, and grind hard into his round, pert rear... Malfoy's ass if even better than his lips, and Ron would be lying if he said he hadn't noticed it before... Malfoy walks with too-swaying hips, and the way he bends over his cauldron in Potions has kept Ron up on more than one night... but he doesn't want to waste this gift...

And he knows if he bends Malfoy over a desk and plunders that sweet ass he'll have to put up with a litany of curses and insults. In the interest of saving himself the trouble, Ron decides to go with Malfoy's mouth. For the first round, at least. Bypassing it completely, Ron leans forward to hiss in Malfoy's ear, "Then get down on your knees."

Malfoy shivers. His lips part, breath ghosting across Ron's cheek. He hesitates before drawling quietly, "...Then you'll give me the ticket?"

Ron doesn't answer immediately. He darts out his tongue to test the boundaries, tracing the shell of Malfoy's ear. Malfoy shudders and turns his head away—Ron follows to nip at it. Malfoy's pretty eyes slide shut, but he doesn't protest at all. When Ron presses closer, Malfoy's hands unfold, shifting to rest gently against Ron's chest, surprisingly not pushing. It's physical effort not to rub his crotch into Malfoy. They're so tight that it would be too easy. Ron decides lazily, "If you're good."

Malfoy's eyes open enough for him to scowl. "Weasley, I'm always good."

Grinning at the new ammunition, Ron hisses, "I'm sure you are—sure you've had plenty of practice. I meant well behaved." After a moment of thought, he adds, "Although I doubt you're good enough to warrant season tickets with one act... I think the whole night would be a fairer bargain."

Malfoy's sneer shows that he'd like to tell Ron exactly how much he's worth. For a second, Ron thinks he might've gone too far—he'll be shoved away and it'll be over.

But to Ron's surprise, Malfoy nods, eyes flickering from calculated to heated, lips back to a smirk as though he's won. He purrs, "Just one night," and sinks slowly to his knees.