Title: Black and Deep Desires

By: Dr. Kim-chan

Harry and Ron: (still grumbling because I won't tell them what Voldemort's plan is)

Me: Ah, get over it. Besides, today's supposed to be somewhat of a lighter chapter. This time around, Ron's going to attempt cooking! The question is whether or not he picked up some of his mom's habits at the Burrow's kitchen. Will he be able to please Lucius or incite his wrath yet again?

Draco: Ew!

Me: What?

Draco: This is a Lucius/Ron fic, right? Then please try to refrain from asking questions like "Will he be able to please Lucius?". Innuendo is more than a fancy word, you know.

Me: Riiiight…roll Chapter Seven! (clicks remote)

(Begin Chap. 7)

…Ron's new wardrobe was a simple white overgrown man's blouse with stiff black pants that strangely fit him to perfection. Next were his socks from a couple of days ago, then a pair of clunky, loafer-like black shoes he could slip into. Ron had to fold the sleeves over his wrists, the shirt was so large. One button he left unfastened to expose a hint of his pale collarbone; Draco passed on the message that this minor dressing detail was to be required of him at all times. When Ron asked for a reason, the elusive blonde shrugged and mumbled something about "Father's damned fetishes" as he led their new servant to the kitchen.

As the pair meandered through the corridors of the manor's labyrinth, the redhead took quick note of the usage of dreary, royal colors for the walls and ceilings, the immense scale of everything. So much aged wood and metal, the delicate curtains of cobwebs and dust collecting everywhere, so many rooms going unused…

Why in hell do they need this much space, anyway? It's just Malfoy and his dad living here…and it used to be his mum. Three—well, two—people don't need twenty-seven rooms!, Ron chastised in his head.

However, he tried not to let his memory fail him and kept looking around, searching for any hints that would help him navigate around the manor. From now on he would have to adjust to wandering these multitudes of dark hallways, thinking that he was probably going to have to clean them all up eventually. What he could surmise for certain thus far was that everyone's rooms were on the second floor. What was on the third floor, Ron could only guess. The first floor contained the carpeted foyer, the grand stairs at the front, the parlor, the sitting room to the left, the kitchen in the very back, and the dining room up front connected to it. The last room was where Draco left Ron to deal with the boss himself.

"Just follow the back wall and you'll see a small door. Father's waiting there. Good luck, Weasley. After last night, you'll need it," Draco teased, running back upstairs.

Now he was standing alone, and Ron swallowed nervously. The memories rushed back with crippling speed. It had been only one unpleasant night, but he was wise enough to deduce that nothing good would ever come out of him and Mr. Malfoy spending any extended amount of time with each other alone. What if another incident was to occur? Scared out of his wits, yet not wanting to make Lucius wait another minute, Ron stepped through the door-less threshold that heralded one's entrance into the dining room.

It was one-thirds the scale of the Great Hall at Hogwarts at the very least. A long table of ornately carved and polished wood stood in the very middle, its finish starting to fade with the years. Four high-backed chairs were strategically placed around it. Unlike most of the house, varnished planks of dark-colored wood furnished the floor instead of fleecy carpet. On the other side of the table, two vaulted windows showed a picturesque view of the surrounding forest, with sunlight illuminating the dull finish. There was a candleholder set in the middle of the table with no candles in it, nor any silverware or place mats.

Ron slowly walked up to the door next to the stone hearth at the head of the table, vainly hoping that he wouldn't have to be in charge of setting the table.

The second he stepped into the kitchen, he was thankful to be wearing shoes. The floor was cut stone, absorbing the morning chill. Out of all the places in the manor, the kitchen had to be the most unappealing. Renovations had been made here and there, but for the most part, it had the allure of a medieval castle kitchen.

Just as Draco said, Lucius was there, standing near the big oven. Ron was taken aback for a moment, since this was the first time he saw him without his formal cloak, leatherette gloves, or cane. Icy eyes scanned him up and down, determining whether he was dressed according to his specifications. In no time at all, those eyes rested upon the one unfastened button with delight, signaling for the rest of Mr. Malfoy's body to come closer. In reflex Ron stepped back, but to no avail. A punishing grasp upon his shoulder not only prevented him from escaping, but also forced him to stand within an inch of the older man.

"So far, I'm pleased. I see Draco gave you my strictest instructions to leave one button undone. You didn't expect me to so graciously clothe you and not ask for something in return?" Lucius asked cunningly, tracing a bare fingertip across the exposed skin. Ron shuddered, feeling it travel downwards towards his chest. Thankfully, the uncomfortable moment only lasted like a moment should. Satisfied with a brief touch, Lucius turned him loose and gave him a nudge towards the antique cooking equipment.

"Your first duties of the day are to always rise at eight and prepare breakfast until otherwise warned in advance. One thing you can stop worrying your pretty little head about is that you need not serve us in bed unless one of us is sick. After our infernal house-elf broke two serving trays and half of Narcissa's chinaware, we felt it safer to come downstairs ever since…you do have experience with cooking, don't you?"

Ron blanched. Until now he hadn't given a thought to it. These people don't even cook their own meals!, he panicked.

"Uh…um…well, a bit. I saw Mum do it hundreds of times," the redhead assured, although a quaking feeling still resided in his stomach. It was the truth that Ron had watched many a time when Mrs. Weasley dominated the Burrow's kitchen. The dilemma was if he could actually remember what she did to keep the family so content at mealtimes. The only culinary talents he could claim as his own were making tea, coffee, and toast.

"Then I'll leave you to your work…and one last notice. Failure to satisfy me will result in a later punishment."

With that disconcerting reminder, Lucius left.

The once-confident young servant was now literally shaking with fear. He had anticipated all the other predicaments of being in servitude except cooking. If he failed miserably (which, admittedly, he usually did), there was punishment to be had. What was worse, Lucius hadn't prescribed any specific punishment. It could've been anything, even…

"Not that! I won't go through that again!" Ron yelled aloud to no one. Listening to the answering silence and feeling foolish, he marched over to the pantry and opened cabinet door after cabinet door. After picking out random ingredients, he went to the cold storage and peeked in there. A few more choices, some utensils, a heated stovetop and oven, and Ron Weasley was ready to throw caution to the wind.

"I guess I'll just have to be creative. If I know wealthy snobs, I know they'll want something rich, but light. Let's just hope I come up with something edible."

…A shrill tune of a bell echoed throughout the manor. Lucius and Draco threw open their doors and shuffled downstairs to discover the source of the persistent melody. At the threshold of the dining room stood Ron, standing proud despite his overwhelming anticipation. A patch of flour dust whitened his fiery hair; miniscule burn marks reddened his fingers.

"Breakfast is ready, sirs," announced Ron brightly, wearing nothing short of a forced smile. He had to be polite, even if they were the Malfoys. He stepped aside to reveal his handiwork.

The table and the candleholder were polished, the curtains raised to let in a bit of sun and air. The table was even set in two places, to the best of Ron's ability—he had tried to remember how the tables were always set at Hogwarts. But the main objects to be judged were the choices of food. Miraculously, Ron had found a stash of fruit somewhere; he took two oranges, rinsed them, sliced them in a pretty pattern on tiny dishes, and dusted them with sugar. There was tea with milk, lightly toasted wheat bread with butter, eggs, fried ham delicately sliced, and a concoction involving melted cheese, bread, more butter, salt, and an inventive arrangement of meat.

"If anyone needs me, I'll be doing the dishes," Ron piped up quickly, taking advantage of the father and son's total amazement. He nearly ran back into the kitchen to hide, partly because he really did have to do the dishes. For making a light breakfast, he could sure make a mess. The other reason was if this did turn out to be a flop, he would have a slim but better chance of running for it.

…Silence overtook the dining room. Ron had been done with washing utensils an hour ago, keeping the water warm and soapy for the impending breakfast dishes. His curiosity annoying him to the breaking point, he barged into the dining room only to find no one.

"Well, isn't that some kind of ungrateful. I don't care if I am only their servant; they could do with some courtesy," he muttered, picking up the dirty dishes and stalking back and forth from the table to the kitchen. "Then again, maybe they hated it and are waiting for the right moment to let me have it…no. When Mr. Malfoy's angry, he lets me know—"

"And when Mr. Malfoy's pleasantly surprised, he lets you know, too."

En route back to the kitchen, Ron jumped in surprise and stopped himself from breaking a plate in the nick of time. Setting it down, he looked up to see the aforementioned man. To Ron's immense relief, a calming half-smile was on his face.

"Your mother certainly taught you a thing or two," he complimented.

"To be honest, it wasn't really my mum. It was just dumb luck. The last thing I know how to do is cook…but hey, at least you liked it."

"Let us hope your luck holds at dinner tonight. As you may know, we're expecting the Zabinis to stay with us for a while, and the first impression is the most important. You're his collateral, so it wouldn't hurt you to prove your worth to him. Can I be assured that you can attend to two more people?"

Still a bit shy from the rare acclamation, Ron kept his head down and nodded, then heard footsteps. The next time he looked up, Lucius was standing near him again. A strong hand cradled his chin, tilting his face upwards.

"And about us 'having courtesy'—"

Ron cringed. He knew it was too good to be true. He wasn't aware of Lucius hearing the complete episode.

"—I cannot speak for my son, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt me to express my gratitude."

Slightly bending down, the older man interlocked his lips with Ron's. Shocked, he tried yet again to run, but one of Lucius's arms retained a firm grip on his back, holding him in place.

Suddenly, the unspeakable happened.

Ron didn't make an attempt to resist.

They were odd thoughts to have, but it was so strangely comfortable, Ron even began to question himself. Exactly what motives drove him to run away from Lucius Malfoy every time? He certainly couldn't forgive him for the appalling incident the other night; he wasn't sure he would ever be able to forgive Mr. Malfoy for that. There were also the impersonal confrontations between him and Harry, but Ron was developing enough of a mind of his own to not carry his grudges for Harry's sake. But it wasn't that one thing which happened between them last night. There was another underlying reason why he was so unyielding to the man's allure. The first thing that popped into his mind was the age difference. Mr. Malfoy was pushing forty-three; Ron was just now sixteen. A 27-year gap left much to be debated. Then again…was the age gap really such a big issue? Not to mention, the kiss felt real good about now…

No.

This man was Voldemort's most trusted follower next to Peter Pettigrew; Ron was his nemesis' best friend. Even if age was nothing but a number, the lines dividing wizardkind in this upcoming war was all too real.

Almost without Ron's conscious knowledge, the kiss ended a few seconds later. Lucius softly departed from the young boy's lips to witness a bewildered and saddened expression. Inner conflict overtook him, and he was lost in thought for a while. A bit concerned, Luicus touched his chin a second time. Ron finally snapped to attention and stared into his eyes. The ice had melted away, leaving only the warmth of a mortal man's eyes, and yet…and yet this seemingly mortal man was forbidden to him. Always would be.

Excusing himself from the awkward scene, Ron sprinted back to his bedroom, leaving Mr. Malfoy to wonder what exactly got into his beloved servant.

(End Chap. 7)

Draco (holding tissues): As the son of Lucius Malfoy and the enemy of Weasley, I probably shouldn't even be sympathizing with this fic's coupling, but I have to admit, that was sweet and sad at the same time! Does this mean no happy ending?

Me: I didn't say that.

Harry: So there will be a happy ending.

Me: I didn't say that.

Draco: So it'll be a sad ending!

Me: I didn't say that, either.

Ron: Will this infernal fic even end at all?

Me: It's not for me to say. But I will say this: next up, the Zabinis are coming for dinner and their extended stay at the Malfoy Manor, and you won't believe what happens! (Draco: I GET SOME!) Also: will Ron make an equally scrumptious dinner! Until Chapter 8!