A/N: Thanks to everybody who reviewed the last instalment. I really should feel a little guiltier than I do about subjecting poor Ron to these situations, but I just can't seem to resist.

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Some peculiar Muggle philosopher chap had, according to Hermione who was knowledgeable in such matters, once proclaimed that 'hell is other people'.

Ronald Weasley, being the sociable sort that he was, had upon hearing of this notion, dismissed it out of hands as the ramblings of an obvious 'loon with no mates'. However, within the space of the last fifteen minutes he had come to the conclusion that this statement did have a tiny grain of truth to it.

Hell, in his current and very definite opinion, was standing stark naked in a thoroughly stupid pose in front of other people. 'Other people' who seemed to have no compunction about a) trying to 'rearrange' him and b) making unseemly observations about the size and shape of some of the rather more personal bits of his anatomy.

He still wasn't sure quite why he had acquiesced to Draco's ridiculous demand so easily; though if he was entirely honest with himself – which he had found it was sometimes best not to be – he would admit that it probably had something to do with the monumental strop he knew that Draco would throw if he refused. After all, being banished to the couch by one's non-rent-paying houseguest in one's own flat was never good for a young man's pride. Besides, he reasoned that if Draco was going to insist on returning to the life model job, he really should try and prevent the dirty old (and not so old) wizards and witches of the Dionysus Hall Drawing Club from further molesting his not-boyfriend.

The ploy was working too. No inappropriate 'rearranging' had been directed in Draco's direction yet: the wandering hands having, for some unfathomable reason, homed in on Ron's physique instead. Alas, despite his apparent success at luring away the unwanted fingers, Ron had found himself quite unable to put a halt to the giggling or the poor artistic representations of Draco that some of the drawers seemed to be creating (indeed one would almost suspect that some of them hadn't put pencil to parchment until today). A fact that was doubtless responsible for the distinctly annoyed expression that Draco wore as he reclined on the chaise lounge to Ron's right.

Typical really, Ron thought as he tried to hold as still as he could. Just like Draco to get to lie down while he had to stand up in a 'heroic' position. But then, the club's leader, an over-enthusiastic witch of mature years, had told them that she'd had the thoroughly wonderful idea of posing them as a royal prince and his noble guard; and Draco was nothing if not possessed of delusions of regal grandeur.

"They really do complement each other so well," enthused a young witch whom he was sure he recognised as a former Ravenclaw who'd been a couple years below them at Hogwarts.

"Oh yes," agreed another witch, whose face was obscured by an easel, but sounded terribly, horrifyingly like Luna Lovegood. "Draco's an interesting subject, but Ron's so much more… more…."

"I know exactly what you mean," said the first witch, not waiting for her co-artist to finish what she was saying. "The blonde's good in his own delicate sort of way, but the red-head's got a fantastic sort of unkempt masculinity to him. It's wonderful."

"Not to mention the fact that he's got a bigger youknowwhat," interjected a loudly hushed male voice that had disturbing overtones of Dennis Creevy.

Risking a brief glance in Draco's direction, Ron inwardly winced as he noted that his co-life-drawing-subject had gone a very definite shade of beetroot.

"Do grow up, Dennis," chided the first witch, confirming Ron's fears.

"Well, it's an accurate observation, isn't it?"

"NO IT'S BLOODY WELL NOT," Draco yelled, finally snapping.

"For God's sake calm down," hissed Ron, embarrassment quadrupling.

"I don't see why I should," Draco snapped. "They're implying that you're better endowed than I am."

Ignoring the jovial round of 'it's what you do with it that counts' that came from various persons in the class, Ron looked his enraged paramour in the eye. "Well, it's hardly as if we can whip out a tape measure right here, is it?"

Draco's lips pursed. "We're going, Weasley. I've had quite enough this… this disrespect."

As much as he wished to flee from the scene as soon as possible, there was one very salient fact that Ron felt he should mention. "But we really need the money for the rent."

"What, you mean to say that you've budgeted my… my public humiliation into your weekly outgoings."

Ron was about to point out that he wouldn't have had to do this if Draco hadn't decided that they really needed that cursed safe from Borgin & Burkes, when the large oak door at the back of the hall opened and a young, ginger-haired woman in professional Quidditch robes walked through.

"Sorry I'm late," said Ginny Weasley, in apologetic tones. "The match went into extra time and we…." She froze. "Ron is that you?"

Ron gulped. "All right, now were going."

As the pair of disrobed men disapparated however, he had no delusions about the fact that he was going to be spending the night on his threadbare sofa.