Gryffindor Colors

or

Redheaded Stepfather

A Harry Potter crackfuck

By

EvilFuzzy9

Rating: M

Genre: Humor/Parody

Characters/Pairings: Narcissa M., Ron W., Dumbledore; [Roncissa crack]

Summary: The reasoning of pureblood fanatics is incomprehensible to anyone halfway normal, and even Harry Potter is close enough to ordinary to find himself at a loss for how on earth Narcissa Malfoy so suddenly became Mrs. Ronald Weasley. [crackship, crackfic, crack premise; Roncissa, lemon-scented]

WARNING: This fanfic depicts activities of an adult nature between fictional characters. The author of this fic strongly discourages minors from reading this, and also from participating in any and all such activities until they are at the age of majority/consent as defined in the laws or customs of their state or principality.

(lemon at the end of the chapter)

THUMP!

They hit the floor of Number Twelve's entry hall.

Draco stumbled and smacked into Ron, a fleeting look in his eye to suggest that this might have been intentional. Ron bristled and pushed Draco off, but he did so less hard than he might have otherwise, since both Dumbledore and Narcissa were also present.

The former was quite unruffled. He looked like he did this sort of thing every day, and maybe he did. Narcissa was less collected, though not by a significant margin. Phoenixes were smoother than most forms of magical transportation. Fawkes, for hi part, alighted on Dumbledore's shoulder and folded his wings.

"Is this the place?" said Draco sullenly and a little loudly. He furtively shot a dark look at Ron.

"It looks a little different from how I remember it," said Narcissa, gazing around. "But yes, this is Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. I came here often enough when I was younger. I recognize it."

She also spoke a little louder than was advisable in this part of the house. Ron shot an uneasy look at the pair and tried to mime for them to keep it down, remembering how unpleasant Sirius's mum could be when disturbed. Narcissa noticed this and gave him a questioning look. He gestured to the curtains not too far away, and she frowned.

"Curious. There wasn't a door or a window there last time I was here," she whispered. "Not that I can remember."

"There wasn't," said Dumbledore in a similarly soft voice, "and there isn't. Your aunt's portrait is rather vocal, and not at all cordial."

Narcissa inclined her head, appearing to think.

"Yes, I can see that," she said at length. "She liked me well enough, but I know she could be very unpleasant to... certain kinds of people."

"She's a cow, you mean," Ron muttered.

He said this less quietly than he meant to, and Draco and Narcissa heard him. The former looked ready to retort venomously out of principle, but the latter covered her mouth and tried not to giggle. Her cheeks went a little pink, and her eyes seemed to brighten.

"That's one way to put it, I suppose," Narcissa said after she had mastered herself, her tone a touch cheerier. "I recall Aunt Walpurga used to be very, ah, strongly opinionated. I think I liked her well enough, but yes, she WAS a bit of a cow."

She winked. Ron's cheeks went red.

Draco huffed and looked at the row of mounted elf heads lining the wall.

Dumbledore led them quietly inside to the kitchen. After going through the door and closing it with a flick of his wand, he proceeded to explain the tentative arrangments. Draco and Narcissa would be staying in a couple of old rooms that had been cleaned out but put to no particular use. The Order would continue to use Number Twelve as their headquarters, but neither Draco nor his mother would be required to aid them.

"Not unless you have any intelligence you wish to divulge," Dumbledore added. "If you know anything that could help us in the fight against Voldemort—" Ron, Draco, and Narcissa flinched. "—it would be greatly appreciated."

"I understand," said Narcissa. "I've already told you most of what I know, but if anything else comes to mind..."

Draco glowered, looking surlier still, but he said nothing.

After that, Dumbledore explained the arrangements for Draco's continued education. While he could not safely return to Hogwarts, materials would be provided for him to study, and Snape and McGonagall would provide their teaching services when they had the time to spare.

Narcissa was pleased with this, but Draco significantly less so.

Furthermore, if Ron so wished and his parents did not protest, similar arrangements could be made for him, Dumbledore said. He smiled at them as he said this. Draco was the only one not to reciprocate to some degree.

"I'll be fine if you choose to return to Hogwarts, dear," Narcissa whispered to Ron, as Dumbledore moved on. "Your friends are there, and no one needs to know you are married to me."

"I'd like to," Ron said, glancing at Draco as he said this. He fidgeted. "But... it'd be a long time before we saw each other again, wouldn't it? I mean, when school starts again. It's almost done for this term, obviously."

"I'm sure Professor Dumbledore can make arrangements for you to visit when you have free time," was Narcissa's reply. "It's sweet that you want to stay here with me, I really appreciate the gesture."

She smiled genuinely, and Ron's cheeks flamed up.

"—now, before anything else, we should make a few final checks," Dumbledore said, speaking a little more loudly and giving the pair a knowing glance. "Draco," he said to the still quite gloomy blond, "call for Kreacher."

Draco looked confused, but Narcissa's eyes lit up in understanding.

"Aunt Walburga's house elf," she told her son. "He helped me, er..."

She trailed off, faltering as she remembered why this house was now likely to be in her or her son's possession. Her cheeks colored, and for just a moment she looked genuinely shamefaced. Dumbledore did not react to this, but Draco seemed to understand, or else he guessed the meaning of some of what his mother said.

"Creature..." he said, a little uncertain still. His tone grew more commanding as he spoke, remembering the way his parents used to order around Dobby. "No, Kreacher. Come here."

There was a faint pop, and a wrinkled old house elf appeared in front of them. He stared at Draco for a moment, before an unlovely face lit up with glee. He bowed low.

"Kreacher is happy to serve," the ancient elf said.

Dumbledore inclined his head.

"Give him a command," he told Draco.

Draco's eyes lit up, and he glanced maliciously at Ron for just a moment. His mother caught his eye, however, and she laid a gently warning hand on his shoulder. Draco's excitement was dampened a little by this.

"Fetch me something to eat," he ordered the elf, sounding slightly mulish.

"Of course, of course," said Kreacher, bowing lower and more enthusiastically still.

Dumbledore frowned minutely.

"Ah, but first," he interjected, "Let me see. Ronald, how about you?"

"Er, what?" Ron said.

"Give him an order."

Ron was confused by this, but since Dumbledore was eyeing him expectantly, he shrugged and addressed Kreacher.

"Don't say mudblood," he told the house elf, remembering how he had constantly insulted him and his friends during the summer.

Kreacher's face twisted. His eyes gleamed in defiance.

"Kreacher will say what he wants," he told Ron. "Blood traitors can't tell Kreacher what to do. He won't be ordered around by nasty Weasleys, oh no."

A strange look came across Dumbledore's face at this. He stooped low and stared at Kreacher, as if inspecting him. Ron looked at the old headmaster in bewilderment, and Draco seemed to understand this little better. Narcissa, however, was frowning thoughtfully.

"That is my husband you are speaking to," she told the elf. "Show him the respect he deserves."

Kreacher stared at Narcissa in astonishment, and there was something like disgust in his eyes. "They've got to you," he said in a low, harsh croak. Under his voice, though still quite audibly, he added. "The blood traitors have polluted her head with their nonsense. She's not a Black anymore, oh no. If Mistress was still alive, the whore would be blasted clear off the tapestry, and it would serve her right..."

Ron felt a rush of hot anger flow through him at the elf's words, and not because of the aspersions on his family. He was proud to be considered a blood traitor. No, what made him angry was Kreacher daring to call his wife a whore. And it said something, perhaps, about how quick Ron was to enmity and love alike that already he thought of Narcissa as his wife, and so felt this outraged at Kreacher insulting her.

Somehow, Ron's wand found its way into his hand. He puffed up and took a step forward, ears turning red and mouth opening wide. He looked thunderous.

A hand on his arm stopped him.

"No, dear," said Narcissa, giving Ron a slightly sad look. "It's not worth the effort."

In preventing Ron from doing something rash, Narcissa did not see Draco's face color, or notice her son's hand curling around his own wand. But Draco did not try to hex Kreacher. Instead, he drew himself up to his full height (taller than Narcissa, but shorter than Ron and Dumbledore) and raised his voice.

"Don't call my mother a whore," he said forcefully, proud and commanding in tone and mien.

Kreacher twitched. He turned and looked at Draco with squinting, watery eyes. He appeared somewhat sullen, and a tiny bit insolent.

"Master Draco is a good boy," Kreacher said. "He is a proper, self-respecting pureblood. His mother used to be the same, but now she's gone and married a dirty blood traitor. Kreacher wonders why she did it. Does she feel guilty about nasty, ungrateful Master Sirius? She shouldn't."

"She is my mother, elf," Draco said coolly, his eyes hardening. "It's not your place to judge her."

"Of course, of course," Kreacher murmured, wringing his hands as an odd gleam came into his eyes. "Kreacher knows his place. He is a proper house elf, and he would never dream to question the affairs of his betters. No, no, he is a good elf. Even if Mistress Narcissa spreads her legs for blood traitor scum, he is not allowed to speak up. But Kreacher does not complain, no, he simply does as he is told."

He licked his lips as he said this, setting a gimlet eye upon Ron and Narcissa. Draco looked at them also, and it was perhaps noteworthy that whatever he had said to silence Kreacher, he did not outright deny or contradict the elf's words.

Dumbledore watched all of this shrewdly, bright eyes flitting over the four before him. At length, after a substantial silence, he spoke up.

"Curious..." he said softly. "Most curious."

He did not elaborate further.

Dumbledore parted ways with them for a while, saying vaguely that he wanted to check up on a few more things. Kreacher, unceremoniously dismissed by Draco, disappeared with a low bow that did not wholly disguise the ugly look he gave Narcissa. Draco himself skulked off, muttering that he wanted to be alone.

This left Ron and Narcissa by themselves.

Narcissa looked a little pensive, but Ron did not ask why. She was glad for that, in a way. She did not want to talk. Not about this, and not right now. She did not want to think about that slightly unpleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach, or about the way Kreacher had so suddenly turned and scorned her.

You couldn't marry a blood traitor and not expect to be treated differently. Not when you came from a family like hers. She had known this kind of thing would come up, and she had expected to receive disdain from people on both ends of the blood purity debate, but knowing and expecting were not the same as experiencing. It was the kind of thing you only really understood once it had happened.

Do I regret doing this?

Narcissa could not help asking herself this as she sat in silence beside Ron. She looked askance at him, and she saw him absently rub his arms with a somewhat melancholy expression. He appeared to be lost in thoughts of his own.

Narcissa looked at his profile. He was not what some would call especially handsome. He looked very much like a young wizard, with his long nose and gangly build. His freckles were not just a light dusting, either, a cute speckling here and there. They were heavy, VERY heavy, and at some points so dense and splotchy that it was hard to discern the color of his skin beneath.

He was not terribly dashing, but neither was he unlovely. Indeed, there was a way in which he seemed most comely to her. His hair was vibrant, and his eyes were bright, and his face was apt to laughter. Even just looking at Ron, one could tell that he was coarse and vigorous in a way, not delicate or courteous, but as straightforward as he could be, and fairly passionate also.

Even from her brief acquaintance since their impromptu wedding, Narcissa knew that Ron was fond of jest. He liked to make light of things, and he often used flippant or sarcastic tones. She could also tell, less clearly but no less surely, that these mannerisms were like a sort of defense. He was not confident or very comfortable with himself. He used jest as a shield, deflecting more serious conversation with idle jokes.

He was interesting. The more she knew of Ron, the more she found to like about him. He was very different from Lucius. Much more impulsive, more vivacious, more vulgar. He spoke crudely and bluntly, unafraid to swear or speak his mind. Yet there was also an undercurrent of doubt and anxiety, a touch of something sad and bitter that could only barely be glimpsed.

She found him comely, and she enjoyed his body, but as she got to know him she found that she also liked Ron as a person. He could be abrasive, rude, and insensitive, but after around two decades of marriage to the outwardly courteous and well-spoken Lucius, Narcissa felt it to be refreshing.

She liked him. It wasn't love, perhaps, not so soon, but it was the seed of something that could become love. And she lusted after him, more importantly. Or not more importantly, exactly, but more pressingly, more immediately.

Love, such love as was considered ideal and expected between two spouses, took time to cultivate. But desire could spring forth at the first glance, and it required nothing more than simple, base attraction. This much she had, and that was enough. This was a marriage of convenience, and also perhaps an excuse to live out old fantasies.

Of course, Narcissa thought at length, looking up and down Ron's form. She leaned in close, looking at his face, remembering what she had seen of his naked body and feeling a quiet thrill. Of course I have regrets, more than I can count. But this isn't one of them.

She placed a hand high on Ron's lap. It rubbed his inner thigh through his robes, and he stiffened immediately at her touch. She saw him turn and meet her eye, his cheeks going pink beneath mottled, freckly skin. She kneaded his leg, squeezing pert flesh through worn black fabric, working her way in slow, exploratory circles up his lap and in between his legs.

With her free hand, Narcissa pointed her wand at the kitchen door.

"Colloportus," she whispered.

A lock clicked in the silence.

Then she flicked her wand at Ron's robes. They parted down the front, undoing themselves and falling off of his form like a sheet of rain, like the petals of a flower bud unfurling to expose itself to the world. Ron's robes draped over his seat, and he sat quite naked atop them, beet red and stiff as a board as Narcissa worked her way further up and in.

She set her wand aside and brought both hands to bear. She reached her destination, and the accomplishment was marked by a lusty gasp from Ron, then a slow, drawn out groan. Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she began to squeeze and stroke.

Narcissa felt him swell and harden in her hands, bulging and throbbing as she encouraged him to rise. And when he had reached his full height, a respectably impressive one, she hiked up her own robes and straddled his hips.

"We're alone," she said simply, in response to the unasked question floating in his eyes.

Ron could not find it in himself to protest. All he could say was a raspy, "Let's hurry."

She understood what he meant. If Draco or Dumbledore walked in on them...

She felt Ron harden further beneath her and throb more fiercely between her thighs. His face burned hotter still, and his eyes were a touch unfocused. He was considering this very same possibility, and it seemed to be exciting him as much as it frightened him.

It excited her, too, and she felt herself burning up. She felt the pleasant tingle of arousal, the slowly waxing drip of her juices as she bore her waist down, lining herself up with Ron's hardness. Her bosom heaved within her robes, and the skirt of her garment fell over Ron's lower body, hiding their approaching intercourse from view.

She felt excited. He was also excited.

They were eager for this. They both wanted it. They couldn't wait any longer.

For the first time since their secret trothplighting and marriage in the dead of night, Ron and Narcissa brought their bodies together. She grabbed hold of his arse, squeezing it tightly. Her fingers dug into his buttocks, kneading them appreciatively. He had quite a nice bum.

He reached up to her bosom, and somewhat hesitantly he grabbed one of her breasts through the front of her robes. Her breath hitched when he seized the globe, and she felt a most enjoyable shudder race down her back. He fondled her breast, massaging it in rapt wonder.

She moaned and shivered, and it was not feigned or played up.

Ron was clumsy and inexperienced, but he did not hold back very much. He was rash and heedless of most courtesies, and only a lack of confidence held him back from being a truly bold lover. But he grew more eager as he fondled her breast, as their hips melded together in a hot, wet, throbbing unison that turned their worlds into a starburst of carnal sensation, and as she smiled at him so slyly and leaned in close to plant a fierce, heavy kiss on his lips.

Ron was taller than her, taller by a fair deal, and Narcissa was not exactly short. He was not broad or terribly muscular, but still his arms had a certain wiry strength in them as they wrapped around her, and his body felt pleasantly firm beneath her. She felt comfortable in his arms, and she leaned back only to let him part the front of her robes, undoing subtle ties to bare a pale, voluptuous form.

He stared for a long moment at her breasts, which she allowed to dangle and slightly sway, the charm supporting them undone. Narcissa's bosom was fairly ample, and her hips weighed pleasantly down on Ron's lap. She enveloped him and pressed against him, and he filled her up and bucked his hips.

Ron was inexperienced, but as their joining lengthened he grew bolder and more eager, until he was thrusting and kissing and groping with a fervor that did much to compensate for his awkward, clumsy motions. She guided him with gentle strokes and quiet moans, smiling and silently instructing him in how to please her.

In this, if in nothing else, Ron proved to be a model student. He learned quickly, following her wordless instructions and adapting impressively to the unfamiliar but enjoyable experience of intercourse. He was good with his hands, and he possessed a certain exceptional vigor or virility that was by reputation peculiar to Weasley men. He reciprocated her deep, open-mouthed kisses with enthusiasm, and his hands roamed eagerly over her body.

Their joining seemed very loud in the silence of the kitchen, the wet squelching and meaty slapping of their sexes as they ground together in a steadily building rhythmic furor. To call it love-making would be too generously romantic; it was not such a tender, graceful, idealized thing as that. Husband and wife they may have been, but still there was something altogether illicit about their genital bondage, something delightfully furtive and shameful.

Draco would have been aghast to see them. He would have reacted loudly and explosively to the sight of his mother and Weasley fucking each other. Dumbledore would be less outspoken, and indeed he might have simply stepped back out the door and politely pretended not to have seen anything.

The only thing keeping anyone from walking in on them was a simple colloportus. Any witch or wizard worth even a fraction of their salt would be able to muster an alohomora sufficient to undo it and unlock the door.

And if they were found, what then?

Narcissa moaned, exhilarated, and she drove herself longingly and passionately down upon Ron. Their tongues were sliding this way and that, exploring each other's mouths, rubbing and twisting together. She could taste him, she could smell him, she could feel him.

Their hearts were racing. Their bodies were burning up. In and out and back and forth they went, their hips moving in a frenzied repetition.

Smack-smack-smack, their genders collided.

"Ron..." moaned Narcissa.

"'Cissa..." moaned Ron.

Their bodies seized up. They reached the pinnacle. As one, they hissed and swore euphorically, feeling their sexes convulse and blossom in an explosion of fiery warmth and electric sensation, like a stroke of lightning between their legs, and they were deafened to all else as if battered by roaring thunder.

They came together, a spurting and spraying and clenching and twitching. All sense left them, and they were rendered unthinking in those brief yet everlasting seconds of perfect bliss, the aftershocks and erratic bursts of pleasure like a chain of eruptions between them.

It slowed even as they lingered in that final instant of joining, loth to part, unwilling to draw back from each other, basking in the warmth of their bodies and the glow of their mutual orgasm.

Ron slumped, panting and sweaty and as red as his hair. His expression was vacantly happy: utter contentment. He barely had the strength to even lift his head.

Narcissa sighed and embraced him a little longer, lazily fondling a tight, freckled bum. She felt him shrink and soften and recede, and she tenderly kissed his cheek.

"That was good, dear," she told him. "You were splendid."

This was hardly an exaggeration, in her opinion, but perhaps it was just the afterglow talking.

Ron looked pleased either way, and despite his exhaustion he managed to puff up a little. Languidly, he stroked her breast and stared into her eyes.

"You look fantastic," he told her sincerely, looking her up and down from eyes to navel and back again. "You were great, too."

Neither of them said 'I love you.' Both felt a desire to say it, and both wondered whether they should. Ron was held back by awkwardness, being uncomfortable with deep, emotional matters. If he said it now, he couldn't pass it off as a casual remark with no special meaning.

Narcissa hesitated because she felt like saying it now would be saying it out of obligation, and forcing an exchange for which neither of them was ready just yet. If she said it, she wanted to know they would both mean it.

She wanted him to say it first, if only because then it wouldn't feel like she was pressuring him if she said it.

So for now, they simply sat there and basked in each other's company.

A/N: The second part of this chapter seems to me to illustrate how, even with crackfics and crack premises, I can't resist the occasional serious contemplation and exploration. In this case, my treatment of Ron and Narcissa's relationship. XD

Posting this just before I have to get ready for work, haha.

Updated: 4-19-16

TTFN and R&R!

– — ❤