Warning: Mpreg. Please do NOT read if this is not your cup of tea along with your slice of bread in the morning.

Chapter Two

The Red Lion

The day Draco Malfoy turned up on his parents' doorstep, uninvited and unannounced, Ronald Weasley understood, for the first time, what it meant to see red.

"Malfoy," he greeted, belligerently, as he came down the stairs. "What're you doing, here?"

"Ronald," Mrs. Weasley chastised from the top of the stairs.

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, looking coolly at Ron. "I've come to have a private word with Potter," he replied.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Malfoy," Harry said, quietly.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, meeting Potter's eyes over Ron's shoulder. "I rather think it is," he said coolly.

"Malfoy …" Harry persisted. "Please leave. I've got nothing to say to you."

"You heard him. Leave before I hex your balls into a knot."

Malfoy tsked. "Ever the valiant sidekick, eh Weasley?" He shook his head, sorrowfully. "But still just as crass as ever."

It was Malfoy's supercilious tone that did it. The single thread by which Ron had been holding onto his temper, snapped, and he charged forward, cocked his fist up and back and drove it into Malfoy's face.

Malfoy staggered back and a trickle of blood ran down from his aristocratic nose, giving Ron a grim feeling of satisfaction.

"Ron!" He heard voices rising in alarm, shouting his name, but his entire being was focused on Malfoy and Ron took no notice of them.

"E che cazzo!" Malfoy exclaimed, angrily, gingerly touching his nose. "It's broken," he said, quiet disbelief coloring his voice. "You broke my effing nose."

"A vast improvement, I'd say," Ron replied, smugly.

Malfoy slowly dropped his hand to his side, staring unblinkingly at Ron. "A sight better than your fuck ugly face, I'd wager," he said, venomously.

Ron moved to hit Malfoy, again, but Harry's hand on his arm stopped him. "Damn it, Harry," he cried. "Let me go."

"No," Harry said, stepping closer, using his body as a shield between Ron and Malfoy. "This is stupid."

"Oh, is that how it is, now?" Ron looked at Harry as if he'd just remembered the row they'd had upstairs. He snatched his arm from Harry's grasp and roughly shoved Harry away. "Well … go on," he said, mockingly. "What're you looking at me for? It's him you want, isn't it?"

"Ron!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, aghast.

Ron ignored them. How dare Harry look so betrayed? He took another step forward and jabbed Harry's shoulders. "Go on then," he said, pushing Harry farther back.

"Stop," Malfoy ordered, quietly.

"Ron," said Harry, pleadingly, struggling to evade Ron's prodding hands. "Don't do this. It has nothing to do with you."

"The fuck it doesn't."

"Ron!" Mrs. Weasley, cried, marching red-faced towards her son. "That is enough! You will stop this mad behavior of yours at once."

Ron took no notice of his mother. He shoved Harry, again, hard. Harry recoiled from the force of the blow and staggered, stumbling on the edge of the braided, sitting room rug. He nearly fell, but Malfoy caught him, unexpectedly.

"What the fuck are you doing, Weasley?" Malfoy spat out, a note of contempt edging his voice. "I told you to stop! You'll hurt the baby."

Ron stopped dead in his tracks. "Baby," he said, stupidly. "What baby?"

Draco Malfoy was having a bad day.

It had not started out that way. He'd awoken, this morning, to blessed silence; a hard fought for luxury. After treating himself to a lie-in, he'd finally got out of bed and had just sat down to a steaming, cup of tea, relishing his decided lack of foreseeable commitments, when an owl had flown through the open kitchen window.

Now, standing in the Weasley homestead, he heartily wished that he'd shot the owl and burnt the missive that had been attached to its leg not the least because of his throbbing face.

Alas, unarmed with the gift of foresight, he had not. Rather, he'd answered the urgent summons with a visit to his family's solicitor in London where an astonishing bit of news, involving Harry Potter, had been made known to him.

He'd sought out Potter's current lodgings and after some brisk detective work made the long journey from London to Ottery St. Catchpole, which apparently rested as far from civilization and a decent cup of take-away coffee as humanly possible. The farther south he'd driven the more foul and vulgar his mood had grown; an increasing stream of English and Italian expletives falling form his lips.

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at the boy in his arms. How, he wondered, had a simple bit of fun with Golden Boy Potter turned into this horrendous nightmare?

Draco recalled the night he'd strolled into the Red Lion, a pub he frequented, a few months ago. After a long and grueling season of Quidditch, Draco had been determined to let loose and have fun, but glancing around the environs from his slouched position against the bar, he'd noticed that the pickings had been mightily slim.

"Look," one of his mates had said, suddenly. "Isn't that Harry Potter?"

Draco had straightened, squinting his eyes to see through dim lights and grey smoke. "What?" he'd demanded. "Where?"

"Over there. Dancing … with Wood."

Peering into a darkened corner at the far side of the pub, he'd spotted Potter, gyrating against the Puddlemere United Keeper. From the looks of it, Potter was pissed out of his gourd.

"Well, well," he'd thought to himself. "Isn't this a turn up for the books?" Draco had smiled predatorily. The evening had just taken on a renewed glow of possibilities and it looked like he'd be having some fun after all.

Steadying Potter on his feet, he now answered. "The baby's he carrying, of course."

"Dear Merlin!" cried Mrs. Weasley, looking flummoxed. "Harry …. Is that true?"

Potter looked at Draco. "I …" he said, furrowing his brow, deeply. "But … I didn't tell anyone … How'd you know?" Mrs. Weasley inhaled sharply the sound loud in the sudden silence of the room while Weasley's expression remained frozen and grim.

Draco was the only one who appeared unmoved. He lifted an inquiring brow. "Do you really want to carry on this conversation in front of an audience?"

"I … I guess not," Potter replied, looking at him, dazedly. He gestured feebly at the front door. "We can talk outside, I suppose."

"Alright," said Draco, agreeably. "Lead the way."

And Harry did.

Italian Translation: E che cazzo! – What the fuck!

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