Archive of Our Own

Mum always says my problem is that I care too much. I think that’s nonsense, honestly—one of those meaningless things mums say to make you feel better about overreacting to stupid shit. But I can’t deny that I care about my friends. I mean, really care about them. You know?

Obviously, there was the thing with Hermione. But that’s hardly my fault—Hermione’s brilliant, isn’t she? Everyone who knew her in school fancied her. Of course, not many people actually got to know her properly—most other kids avoided us, either because they thought Harry was a nutter, or because they thought Harry was intimidatingly famous, or because they thought Hermione was a massive pain in the arse. And that’s fair, because all three were true. But take Neville, for example: not bothered in the slightest by all the Boy Who Lived shit, but absolutely obsessed with Hermione. I mean, he was too scared to say more than three words to her, but still. I wasn’t the only one in the dorm mooning over her.

And I’m not the only one mooning over her now, by the looks of things. Not that I’m mooning, mind you—we broke up for a good reason, and she always deserved better than me anyway—but I’m not going to deny that I’m watching as her faded jeans stretch over her arse when she leans over the bar to point out the specific bottle of wine she wants.

God, she’s got a good arse. It’s so round, and those jeans show it off in a way she’d probably be embarrassed about, if she knew. She always thought I was being polite, when I told her how sexy she was. Funny, isn’t it, how clever people can be so stupid about themselves.

Anyway, back to mooning (or not, as the case may be): Parkinson has noticed how perfect Hermione’s arse is, too, if the appreciative look on her face is anything to go by. I narrow my eyes, hoping my glare will warn her off. What is she even doing here? She should have stopped coming to our DA reunion pub nights after she and Luna broke up. It’s DA members and partners only. That’s the rule.

“You know, I don’t think the Cruciatus is very effective non-verbally.”

I start and meet Harry’s amused gaze.

“Have you seen how Parkinson is looking at Hermione?” I demand. “She’s practically licking her lips. You’d think she’d be a bit more subtle about it.”

I wish I could pretend that Harry’s bark of laughter isn’t justified.

“This coming from the King of Subtlety himself?”

“I’m just saying. It’s objectification.” I take a slow drink of my pint, watching Parkinson over the rim of my glass. The nerve of her! As if Hermione would be interested, anyway. I don’t know if she swings that way (but if she doesn’t, I reckon she’d give it a go for academic purposes), but she’s got better sense than to do anything with a former Slytherin.

Unlike someone else I know.

“Speaking of devious little snakes,” I say, “where’s Malfoy? Is he coming?”

Harry doesn’t even roll his eyes at the insult. I didn’t really mean it, but still—a token reaction would be nice. Instead, one side of his mouth turns upwards into this dopey little grin. I’m torn between hating it and being over the bloody moon that he has someone who makes him look like that.

“He’s here already,” Harry says, nodding to the bar. “Making a fuss over the quality of the drinks, I expect.” He nods to the bar and I follow his gaze—past Hermione (who, I’m horrified to note, is now actually talking to Parkinson), over Dean, Seamus and Padma, towards the till where, oh, yep—Malfoy is jabbing his finger onto the menu, sneering at the bemused bartender. He’s so bloody pale he’s practically luminous. I don’t know how I missed him.

I sneak another look at Hermione’s arse. Maybe I do know how I missed him.

“I dunno how he’s not barred from every pub in London, honestly,” Harry says fondly.

I consider it. “Does he leave a big bag of Galleons as a tip?”

Harry snorts. “Hardly. He refuses to pay at all if the service doesn’t meet his exacting standards.”

“Wanker,” I say hotly, straightening. “It’s not like he needs the money. What’s it to him?”

“‘Principles,’” Harry says, making quote marks with his fingers.

I bristle and take a breath to complain about the attitudes of rich dickheads towards underpaid workers, but Harry cuts me off before I can begin.

“I know, I know,” he says. “I have a go at him every time, don’t worry. And I always pay once he’s stormed out.”

“That’s not the point! What about when you’re not there to cover his stingy arse?”

Harry shrugs, unconcerned. Rich dickheads are all the same, sometimes.

“I suppose he gets away with it because of his fancy clothes and his pretty face,” I grumble, glaring at Malfoy as I take another drink. He’s scowling and waving an imperious hand to the bottles stacked behind the bar. Where is the 1863 fairy wine? I imagine he’s saying. I only drink the finest cognac aged in oak that has been seared by the flame of a Peruvian Vipertooth. Do you have pure crystal tumblers? I’m allergic to peasant glassware.

I’m amused by my extremely correct interpretation of Malfoy’s drinking habits and I turn to share my hilarious observations with Harry, but he’s looking at me strangely. I raise an eyebrow and wipe my mouth in case I’ve got a moustache of beer foam.

“What?”

“You think he’s pretty?”

Whatever I expected, it was not that. “What?”

“You just said he gets away with being a twat because he’s got fancy clothes and a pretty face.”

I laugh nervously. I never expected Harry to be a jealous sort of bloke—but I suppose when you hang around Malfoy all the time, some of his entitlement is bound to rub off.

“I also said he’s a wanker and a sneaky little shit,” I remind him. “I’m not about to steal him away, I promise. He’s not my type.” Though Merlin knows what my type actually is. Apart from “my friends” and “good arses”, I have no idea.

But Harry waves me away. “That’s not it,” he says. “I just mean— I’m surprised to hear you say it. That he’s pretty.”

He’s watching me expectantly, as though he’s waiting for me to clarify my position on Malfoy’s prettiness. He’s been getting weirder and weirder ever since they started seeing each other, I swear.

I don’t really know how to navigate this one, so I say carefully, “Well, he’s not exactly bad-looking, is he?”

To my surprise, Harry slams his hand onto the table in triumph. “Thank you!”

“You’re…welcome?” I try. “Congratulations? I’m going to be honest with you, mate: I dunno where this is going.”

“Ginny said he looks like a rat that’s had a bucket of water dunked over it,” Harry says plaintively. “Dean said he looks like a starved Victorian orphan, and Neville said he looks like a ghost who can’t get the taste of the food they serve at Deathday Parties out of his mouth. It’s just nice hearing you say he’s not bad-looking. I know my eyesight isn’t great, but I was getting worried something was seriously wrong with me.”

I turn back to Malfoy and let my gaze linger. There is undeniably something of the hungry-undead-wet-rodent about him, but he’s not unattractive. Each angle of him is sharp, like he’s chiselled out of marble rather than made from flesh—but it adds an element of risk that I can definitely understand the appeal of. He’s cold and dangerous. He’d fall apart beautifully.

“He’s all right,” I allow, shaking my head to rid it of that last rogue thought. “If you like them pointy and inbred.”

Harry snorts and bats me on the arm.

I take a drink, relieved to be out of that uncomfortable patch of conversation. “So, it’s going okay then? With you and him?”

That stupid, brilliant, lopsided grin is back.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “It’s really good, actually. I didn’t expect it to go anywhere, to be honest with you—”

“Me fucking neither,” I interject with feeling.

“—and there are definitely times when it’s weird. His mum came round while I was at his flat the other day. Turns out, it’s awkward, trying to come up with something to say to the person who lied to Voldemort for me, but who is also still married to the bloke who tried to murder me on multiple occasions.”

“I can see how that would add a seasoning of tension to a romantic dinner, yeah.”

“Well, to tell you the truth…” Harry hesitates, then casts a Muffliato around our half of the table. “We weren’t exactly decent when she arrived, which made the situation extra mortifying.”

I choke on my own spit. “I see!”

“Narcissa certainly saw, last Thursday.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, that’s what I had Draco yelling just before she Floo’d in,” Harry says.

I start choking again, but he’s laughing.

“Fucking hell, Harry. Narcissa Malfoy!”

“I know.”

“I can’t think of anyone I’d want to walk in on me less.”

There’s a silence while we both think about it.

“Umbridge, maybe,” Harry says.

“Oof, good one. I was gonna say Filch.”

Harry does a full-body shudder. “Ugh, you’re right. He’d stand there and watch for an uncomfortably long time, wouldn’t he?”

“Stroking Mrs Norris a bit too suggestively,” I add, grimacing.

“God.” Harry pulls a face and takes a drink as if to wash away the image. I join him, but there’s not enough beer in the world to drown out the hideous thought of Filch leering at me while I’ve got my kit off.

In the quiet, horrified aftermath, we both turn our attention back to the bar. Hermione and Parkinson have left—and, excuse me, where have they gone? I can’t see them sitting down anywhere—and have been replaced by George and Angelina. Malfoy finally seems to have decided on a drink; he’s tapping his fingers impatiently on the bar while the bartender waves her wand over a cocktail shaker, setting it in motion.

“So that side of things is okay, then?” The rhythm of Malfoy’s fingers is oddly hypnotising. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. I swear I can hear it, even halfway across the room.

“Hmm?”

I glance at Harry. His gaze is fixed on Malfoy, his eyes soft. God, he looks so bloody affectionate. I dunno if I’ll ever get over how weird this is.

“The— You know…”

Harry looks at me then, his expression sliding from affection to amusement. “I know…? What?”

“You’re being satisfied?” I say, wiggling my eyebrows. “Interruptions by Narcissa Malfoy aside?”

Harry’s mouth forms a surprised oh of understanding, then he bursts out laughing. I’m a little offended—it’s a fair question! I’m just making sure my best mate is being looked after in his relationship!

“Yeah,” he says, still chuckling. “Yeah, there’s not—” He breaks off to laugh again, and I grin despite myself. God, it’s so nice, hearing him laugh. There have been years where he’s barely cracked a smile. I’d put up with much worse than Malfoy for this, honestly.

“There’s no problem in that department,” Harry finishes, wiping his eyes.

“He must be good, if a simple question makes you react like that,” I say, still grinning. There’s a tug in my stomach that makes my smile feel oddly forced. It’s probably the beer. Maybe Malfoy has a point about the quality of booze in this place.

Harry laughs again. He leans closer. “The thing is,” he says, voice low, even though the Muffliato is still up, “to tell you the truth, mate—he’s exhausting.”

I blink. That’s not the adjective I was expecting.

“I always thought I was a bit on the adventurous side, you know?” Harry continues. “But he makes me feel like the most boring sod in the world.”

Bloody hell. I can’t stop my gaze from flicking back to Malfoy, re-evaluating him in light of this new information. Prissy, snotty little Draco, a freak in bed. Who would have guessed?

“Plus,” Harry says, a little sheepishly, “he’s literally always up for it. That’s why I laughed—if anything, he’s the one not being satisfied. I can barely keep up with him.”

“Oh,” I say.

Harry is unperturbed by what I’m sure is a very stupid expression on my idiot face. “Listen,” he demands suddenly. “Am I the odd one for not being in the mood sometimes? I mean—he’s literally always up for it. Am I weird for wanting a break every now and then?”

Merlin, Morgana and Mordred.

“No,” I croak. I clear my throat. “No, you’re definitely not weird. He doesn’t make you feel weird for not wanting to have sex, does he?”

“Oh, nah, nothing like that.” He grins at me conspiratorially. “But it’s awkward as hell telling someone you want to have sex with them, but you don’t want to have sex with them as often as they want you to.”

I try to nod sympathetically, but the truth is—I’ve been on the receiving end of that conversation, and that’s pretty awkward, too. It makes you second-guess yourself every time you try to initiate something. Makes you analyse every previous encounter—wondering whether you’ve accidentally pressured them into it, wondering whether you’ve been overbearing or annoying or made them feel bad for turning you down.

At least, it did me. I doubt Malfoy overthinks things to the same extent. I doubt he’s had a single self-critical thought in his life.

“He keeps saying we should bring in someone else to keep him busy when I’m not feeling it,” Harry continues casually.

“Does he!” It comes out borderline hysterical—I sound a bit like my mum, to be honest, and I don’t want him to think I’m judgemental, so I hastily follow up with a slightly more tempered, “Is he serious, do you think?”

“I reckon it’s one of those ‘he’s serious if I agree but he’s joking if I’m offended’ situations, you know?” Harry takes a swig of his beer and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. A streak of wet glistens just below his wrist.

“And?”

Harry looks at me. “And what?”

“And are you offended?”

“God, no. But I doubt it’ll happen, anyway. There’s not really anybody we’d trust to not go blabbing to Witch Weekly.”

“Right, yeah.” God, what did they do to this beer? My heart is beating way faster than normal. “Makes sense.”

“Besides,” Harry says. He’s got a weird expression on his face. Maybe the beer is getting to him too. “A threesome.”

I hum in agreement and regret it immediately. A hum. What was I thinking? A fucking hum. He’ll think I’m getting turned on thinking about him and Malfoy having sex. Also, more importantly, why the bloody hell am I getting turned on thinking about him and Malfoy having sex??

I look desperately for Hermione. Everyone else automatically left the two seats facing us empty—one for her, one for Malfoy—but she’d apparently rather clear off somewhere with Parkinson than rescue me from my big mouth and stupid questions.

“People will think we’ve been stood up,” I say, forcing a grin and nodding to the empty chairs. As attempts at humour go, it’s a weak one, but it’s the best I can do with a stomach full of dodgy beer and the world’s most inconvenient semi.

But instead of chuckling politely, Harry’s looking at me, his gaze oddly intense. “Ron,” he says slowly.

Nothing good has ever come from Harry looking like that. “What?”

“Do you remember Neville’s stag do?”

I was already warm, but at the words, heat flares over me. I drain the last of my pint, knowing it won’t do anything to hide the redness of my ears, but I need something to concentrate on, a second to compose myself.

When I can’t pretend my glass is anything but empty, I ask, with forced casualness, “What about Neville’s stag do?”

Harry just looks at me.

Fuck.

In my panic, I forget about the Muffliato and lean close to him, desperate not to be overheard. “I said I was sorry,” I hiss.

“And I said you don’t need to be,” Harry counters. He glances towards Malfoy again. “Listen,” he says in a low voice. “I couldn’t tell you at the time, but the only reason I stopped you was because I’d just started seeing him.” He jerks his head to the bar, where Malfoy is levitating drinks onto a tray, snapping when the bartender tries to help.

The room is loud with the chatter of our friends, but I can’t hear anything over the roaring in my ears.

It was a stag do, so we’d expected drunkenness and debauchery, but honestly, we should have known better.

We met the others in Leicester Square, then followed Seamus up Charing Cross Road and into the basement of a bookshop, where, rather than the aforementioned drunkenness and debauchery, we were presented with—

“A what workshop?” I repeated, baffled.

“Terrariums!” Neville said, clapping his hands and beaming. “Muggle ones, too! Ooh, this is going to be so interesting! How do they make it work without soaking the soil in Filtration Solution?”

“It’s his stag night, he’s had a little drink,” Dean lied nervously to the Muggle woman who was apparently going to teach us how to put a plant in a jar. I’d’ve thought the process was pretty simple, myself—step one: take plant; step two: put in jar—but I didn’t really care about finding out, one way or another. Instead, Harry and I spent the next hour snickering in the corner, taking turns to transfigure gardening implements into the most ridiculous things we could think of. It was only when the instructor went to pick up a pair of long-handled scissors and instead found herself confusedly reaching for a bowl of custard that Neville tightly suggested we wait for the rest of them outside.

“We’re awful friends,” Harry said once we’d made our sheepish journey back to street level.

“Nah,” I said. “They’re awful friends for springing a surprise Herbology lesson on us. This is like when Hermione tried to trick us into taking our NEWTs, do you remember?”

“The number of times she ‘accidentally’ owled us application forms.” Harry shook his head. “Weird that she wanted us to take exams, but clearly thought we were absolute idiots.”

We’d wandered off the main road and into a tiny park—the sort of place that’s only classed as a park in Central London; anywhere else it’d just be a shitty patch of grass with a bench nearby. It wasn’t that late, but it was a typical March evening: dark, with a definite chill in the air.

“I did learn something from those NEWT planners she gave us for Christmas that year, though,” I said, settling onto the bench and pulling a flask out of my jacket pocket. “Failing to prepare is preparing to fail!”

Harry’s face split into a grin. “You legend.” He accepted the flask and took a swig, then grimaced. “Blimey. What is this?”

“Romanian țuică,” I said proudly. “Charlie sent over a couple of bottles for my birthday. Brutal, innit?”

“Absolutely.” He took another swig. “Bloody hell.” His voice was hoarse from the strength of it. It played in my head, over and over. Bloody hell. Bloody hell. Bloody hell.

I took the flask, knocked back a drink.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Harry sat next to me. My cheeks were already warming from the alcohol, but the heat of his leg against mine was much more effective at fighting off the chill.

I smiled to myself absently; talking about Hermione was starting to sting less. The night we broke up, she had assured me—in that brisk, businesslike way she had—that things would go back to the way they’d been at school. We’d still be friends—all three of us, me, her and Harry. It would be better this way, she’d said, because we’d all be equal again, and nobody would feel left out.

The thought that I, the least impressive child of seven, could ever be equal to Harry or Hermione was laughable. But I’d nodded and smiled and pretended all my worst fears (nobody could ever want you) weren’t coming true. Pretended that I believed the newly ripped hole in my chest would ever go away.

The hole was still there, as me and Harry passed the flask back and forth in that shitty London park. But it was smaller. Patched up a little bit more with the night’s laughter and the warmth of Harry’s body next to mine.

The last time I’d been that close to someone, I’d been in a Muggle club, a week after the break-up, desperately snogging the first person who showed the slightest interest. It hadn’t gone any further—though they would have been up for it, I reckoned—but it had been so nice to feel warm and wanted.

The memory of the club—the warmth, the closeness—must have been why I turned to face Harry. Why I leaned into the heat of him.

Why I kissed him.

His mouth was soft and his breath sweet. His jaw was hard and stubble-rough under my fingers. He was my best friend. I loved him so much.

He pulled away.

“Ron,” he said gently. Apologetically.

I’d never been more mortified in my life.

“Even the Hog’s Head has a better selection than this place,” Malfoy sniffs. His tray of drinks floats neatly onto the table. “And I have a mind to put in a formal complaint about that useless lump behind the bar. Do you know, she didn’t even know what a Romanée Conti was?”

“Outrageous!” Harry eyes the drinks. “So you got a porn star martini instead?”

Malfoy frowns. “What did you say? You’re all buzzy. Do you have a Muffliato up?”

Harry mouths an apology and re-casts the spell to surround Malfoy’s chair too. I just sit there, frozen by the memory of Neville’s stag do. I thought we’d had an agreement, Harry and I, to pretend it never happened. I’ve certainly done everything I can to force it down, to act like I don’t remember the feeling of his jaw under my hand, his breath on my lips. I don’t understand why he even brought it up—usually I’m pretty good at that sort of thing, at making connections and puzzling out motivations, but my brain keeps getting stuck on the memory of the taste of țuică on Harry’s tongue.

“So,” Malfoy says. He flicks his wand in my direction and sends a fresh pint sailing over to me. I stare at it blankly. “Why the secrecy? Was Weasley embarrassing himself pining after Granger again?”

“Nah,” Harry says, accepting his own drink and raising it in thanks.

“Good,” Malfoy says, “because I just saw her leave with Parkinson. Pansy will have her begging for it within twenty minutes.”

The words catch my attention like a fishhook in muddy water; I’m grateful to be yanked out of the murkiness in my head, but it’s painful. “What?” I ask sharply. “Hermione and Parkinson left? Together?”

“Yep.” Malfoy pops the P with wicked relish. “Granger’s suggestion, too, from what I heard.”

“What? You were listening to them? What did she say?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes at Harry. “I thought you said he wasn’t being embarrassingly piney tonight.”

“Nah, I just said that’s not why we cast the Muffliato.” Harry grins. I make a noise of protest, but quickly swallow it when Harry continues, “Actually, the Muffliato was because we were talking about you.”

Now Malfoy is the one hooked—though he seems far more pleased about it than I was.

“Me?” he says, eyes alight. He locks his fingers together under his chin and leans forward. “Do tell.”

Harry shoots me a questioning glance, but I’m being so thick tonight that I don’t know what he’s asking. He bites his bottom lip—the lip that softened so sweetly under mine, fuck, what is wrong with me—then says to Malfoy, “Remember the thing we were talking about this morning?”

Malfoy quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t recall doing much talking this morning, darling.”

I close my eyes. My dick is still far too interested in my best friend’s sex life and I squirm as subtly as I can, trying to get it to sit more comfortably.

“After that,” Harry says. “About…” He trails off, sounding embarrassed. Good. It’s about time I’m not the only one stewing in my own shame.

“You mean about asking someone to…?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

There’s a long silence. I assume they’re doing that couple thing where they communicate entirely in facial expressions. I don’t know for certain, because I keep my eyes firmly shut.

“I’m not opposed,” Malfoy says slowly. “Are you sure? Him?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and his voice is rough. Not quite the hoarseness it had after his first swig of țuică, but close enough that bloody hell. bloody hell. bloody hell echoes through my mind. “If you’re sure?”

“Yes,” Malfoy says in that same slow, measured way. “Yes, that would be…”

Another pause. I can feel Malfoy’s gaze on me. The hair on the back of my neck stands up the way it does when I’ve figured something out—a chess move, the perfect item for a customer, the reason why someone is acting a bit weird—but my neck doesn’t pass the message of whatever I’ve figured out onto my head, because I’m still completely lost.

“Weasley,” Malfoy says abruptly. “Would you like to fuck me?”

My eyes fly open.

It wasn’t just Malfoy’s gaze I felt; they’re both watching me—Malfoy with an amused eyebrow raised and a sharp curl at the corner of his mouth, Harry with wide eyes, gnawing on his soft fucking bottom lip. God, I hate that I know how soft it is.

“I,” I croak. “I think I misheard you there, Malfoy. What did you say?”

Malfoy tilts his face up. “I asked if you wanted to fuck me,” he says, enunciating clearly even through his satisfied little smirk. “Or if you want to fuck Harry, I suppose. Or if you want one of us to fuck you? We’re flexible.”

The jumbled puzzle pieces in my head clunk into place, forming an impossible picture. My face burns.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just an idea. No pressure, obviously,” Harry says quickly. “I just thought—after that kiss. And you said you thought Draco was attractive.”

“Did he?” Malfoy purrs, looking at me through his lashes. I’m hit again with the unwelcome thought of how good he’d look, wrecked and begging.

“I said ‘not bad-looking’,” I correct hastily.

Malfoy continues to look smug. Then something occurs to him. He straightens. ”Wait—Harry. After what kiss?”

Harry flushes but doesn’t answer.

“I meant it,” he says urgently, his gaze locked on me. “What I said about that night. I did want to. I still—”

“Okay,” I say. It happens before I’ve had a chance to think it through, but what else was I going to say, with him looking at me like that and the memory of that freezing, shitty park so close to the surface?

“Okay?” Harry asks.

My heart is pounding at double speed. This is mad. It’s mad, but I know for a fact I’d regret it forever if I said no. I’d be thinking about it for the rest of my life. I’d probably corner them in a few months’ time and beg them to ask again, and that would be awkward for everyone. So I nod, and say, “Yeah. Okay. Why not? If you’re sure. I don’t want to make anything weird. For you two, I mean.”

“As if you could,” Malfoy says lazily, but there’s something hungry in the glint of his eyes, the tilt of his head. “It would be best if we go to mine, I think. You’re still in that awful broom cupboard, aren’t you, Weasley?”

“It’s a studio flat,” I correct.

“Isn’t that what I said?”

I narrow my eyes, but Harry’s hand on my thigh stops me from retorting.

“He’s flirting, believe it or not,” he says with a wry smile. “He’s inviting you over.”

“‘Flirting’,” Malfoy scoffs, but twin stripes of pink grow on his cheekbones.

The warmth of Harry’s hand seeps through the fabric of my jeans and I’m back in that park, on that cold March night. I have the wild urge to grab his wrist and press his palm against my half-hard cock. What would he do if I did? Is that sort of thing allowed, now?

I’ve always avoided thinking about him like that, even after the kiss. Always tried not to notice that the way I felt about Hermione never felt too different to the way I felt about Harry. But I can’t deny it now, with Harry’s hand on my thigh and his gaze on my mouth: I want him. I want to kiss him. I want to touch him.

I want to see what he looks like when he comes.

“Let’s go,” I say, standing.

My leg is cold without the weight of Harry’s hand on it, but my face is burning hot.

Harry blinks up at me. “What? Right now? Draco just got here.”

I falter, embarrassed by my eagerness, but I’m saved, improbably, by Malfoy.

“He’s right,” he says, getting to his feet. “One mouthful of this Grindylow piss is quite enough. You’ve got Floo powder with you, Weasley?”

I nod.

“Good. There’s a fireplace in my bedroom. We’ll see you there.”

I gape as Malfoy drags a spluttering Harry to the large fireplace at the back of the pub. I’d assumed this was the sort of thing we’d head into together, but I suppose I can’t blame Malfoy if he wants to talk to Harry privately first—Merlin knows this was sprung on him. It was certainly sprung on me.

I sit back down and reach for Malfoy’s abandoned drink. I’ll give them five minutes.

I’m surprised to find the regret I half-expected to appear as soon as they were gone doesn’t come. I’m a little nervous, sure—but it’s mainly Malfoy that’s making me falter. He’s so different from anyone I’ve been close to before—so cold and sharp and spiteful. Even though I’ve been seeing him more often recently, he still feels more like a story than a person. A dramatic tale of darkness and redemption, or whatever. I don’t really know him.

The jittering of my restless legs is making the table shudder. The empty glasses twitch across the surface; if I’m not careful, they’ll end up on the floor. According to my watch, it’s only been three minutes, but it feels like thirty. If I wait any longer I’ll talk myself out of it.

I stand so abruptly that one of the glasses does fall, shattering with a crash on the rough flagstones. A few people look over—George jeers at me, calls out something about fleeing the scene of the crime as I repair the glass and hurry to the fireplace. Maybe on a normal night I’d respond. But tonight isn’t a normal night.

I look over my shoulder once I get to the back of the room, but George lost interest as soon as I was out of earshot—and it’s not hard to get out of George’s earshot these days. Maybe he assumes I’m nipping to the loo and will be back for more banter in a few minutes. It’s a reasonable assumption; usually, I’m one of the last to leave the DA reunion pub nights, but there’s no part of me that wants to stay right now. There’s one part of me, specifically, that desperately wants to leave.

“Draco Malfoy’s bedroom,” I mutter, hoping my destination will be lost to the chatter of the pub.

A whirling minute later, I step out of the flames and stop dead. Fuck, I knew Malfoy was filthy rich, but this is something else.

There’s an honest-to-god chandelier taking up the majority of the ceiling. I doubt Malfoy would appreciate the comparison, but the glints of its crystal droplets remind me of the disco balls in the tacky Muggle clubs that Harry and I got fucked up in every other night, those first few years after the war.

Even aside from the chandelier, Malfoy’s money drips from every corner of the room. The walls are covered with a thick wallpaper—cream with a winding gold pattern—that is so very different from the scuffed paint and chipped plaster I’m used to. The soles of my trainers squeak against the polished wooden floor and—god—there’s a giant star-shaped fur rug at the end of the four-poster bed that I suspect used to be a Quintaped.

Harry is sitting on said four-poster, one leg against the navy sheets, bent at the knee. His jacket lies in a heap next to his discarded shoes. Malfoy stands next to him, still in his tailored grey robes and shiny black boots. Both of them look up as I emerge from the fire.

“Hello,” I say warily. It occurs to me that, while I don’t regret agreeing to this, the same might not be said for the two of them. They’re looking awfully serious.

“Hey,” Harry says.

“Weasley.” Malfoy nods politely.

This is painful. “Everything all right?”

Harry stands and approaches me. Malfoy stays where he is. I’m glad; I’m so on edge that I’m worried my old Auror training instincts will kick in and I’ll fling a hex at him. I can’t imagine that would make this any less awkward.

“I’m tense,” I announce, when neither of them say anything. “And I’m getting the strong impression this is a ‘fuck off and forget this ever happened’ situation.”

Rescue comes again, unexpectedly, from Malfoy. “Don’t you dare.”

“You can leave, if you want,” Harry corrects, coming to a halt by my side. “But we’re still up for it, if you are. We just wanna make sure— I know it hasn’t been that long, since Hermione.”

It’s been six months, two weeks and four days since Hermione. Time has sewn up the hole in my chest—clumsily, with uneven stitches my mum would tut at, but it’s definitely no longer the gaping wound it used to be.

“I’m sure,” I say, raising my chin.

Harry’s gaze is so intense that if I didn’t know he was shit at Legilimency, I’d think he was trying to read my mind. I stay still, letting him see whatever he needs to.

“Okay,” he says finally.

“Okay,” I repeat.

“Okay,” Malfoy says from beside the bed. “Kiss him, Harry.”

My eyebrows fly up. Malfoy meets my gaze.

“Make it slow,” he says. A smirk creeps over his face. “Make him want you.”

It’s unclear which of us he’s talking to, but I feel myself flush anyway. Harry rolls his eyes, gratifyingly unimpressed with Malfoy’s theatrics.

“Ignore him,” he says in a low voice. “He likes to pretend he’s in charge.”

But I can’t help but notice Harry is moving closer—much closer than our usual friendly proximity—until there’s only an inch or so between us. I feel stupid, just standing here. I can’t for the life of me think what to do with my hands.

“He’s not in charge, then?”

Harry presses himself flush against me. The heat of him sinks through my shirt. His chest expands and contracts against mine.

“Nah,” he says. “He just likes being bossy. He’s happiest when someone takes control from him, really.”

He smells the same as ever—like crisp fresh air and the sizzle of a recently cast curse. But as familiar as the scent is, it’s never filled my senses like this before. It’s never clouded my mind and made me dizzy with want.

“What about you?” My voice comes out gravelly. His face is so close to mine. “Do you like taking control?”

Harry’s gaze falls to my mouth. “I like this,” he says, and pulls me into a kiss.

It’s not weird. It should be weird—I’m standing in Draco Malfoy’s posh bedroom, kissing my best friend—but somehow it feels normal, like something we’ve always done. The shape of Harry against me is so familiar, so beloved. I snake an arm around his back and pull him closer, open his mouth, deepen the kiss.

Harry’s tongue meets mine and I let out a quiet gasp: I know Harry was drinking beer at the pub, but he tastes like țuică—like an evening in a Central London park—and I’m hit with a wave of affection so aching that I nearly stumble from the strength of it.

The cool air on my skin as Harry undoes the buttons of my shirt does nothing to calm me—in fact, it’s the opposite; each unfastened button charges the air around us. It feels like one of Dad’s experiments with electricity—like the moment before something explodes, when your hair stands on end and you know that something big is about to happen and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

By the time Harry has opened a path to my stomach, my hand on his back has clenched into a fist. Our slow kiss has hardened; the movement of our mouths has become jerkier; small, strained noises pass back and forth between us.

I’m so caught up in Harry, it’s almost a surprise to hear Malfoy say, “I can’t believe how much this is turning me on.”

Harry pulls away—both of us panting harshly—and suddenly Malfoy is there, elbowing Harry aside with a haughty, “My turn.” He jabs his wand at me and my open shirt vanishes, leaving me naked from the waist-up. My yelp of protest is swallowed by Malfoy’s mouth.

Unlike Harry, there’s no softness or sweetness to Malfoy. He pushes me against the wall and shoves a knee between my legs. His teeth bite at my lip and his nails dig into my shoulders. But I find myself meeting the challenge of his sharpness: I yank him closer, scrape a hand through his stupid pretty hair and pull.

Malfoy, damn him, whimpers and melts against me. I remember Harry saying He’s happiest when someone takes control from him and fuck, I’m out of my depth, aren’t I?

Malfoy recovers quickly and somehow, he already knows how to push my buttons. He slides a hand up my side and pinches my nipple and smirks against my mouth when my hips buck into his thigh. His soft robes drag against the skin of my stomach as he shifts sideways. I follow his mouth unthinkingly, still that stupid fish caught on his hook.

There are fingers at my belt. But Malfoy’s hands are on my neck, my chest. I tear my mouth away.

“Harry,” I say hoarsely.

Harry is on his knees looking up at me. His hands are on my buckle. “Is this okay?”

Malfoy, impatient, licks his way over my jaw and scrapes his teeth over my earlobe. My grip on his hair might be the only thing keeping me upright.

“Ron? We can stop if it’s weird.”

It is a bit weird, finally. But the weird thing isn’t that it’s Harry, that he’s my best friend. The weird thing is that instead of panic and uncertainty, I feel relief. Instead of being stuck on “What the fuck is happening!”, my brain is going, “God. Yes. Finally.”

Malfoy’s mouth is a sinful distraction, trailing down my neck, along my collarbone, over my chest. His teeth drag over my nipple and my hips buck again, into Harry’s waiting hands. Towards his face. He catches the movement and his eyes darken. Shit. Shit.

“Please,” I croak, pressing my hips forwards again, both an invitation and a plea.

“Mmm, I like hearing you beg,” Malfoy purrs, his tongue licking hot ownership into my skin. “Do it again.”

“Fuck off.” To cover my embarrassment, I pull Malfoy into another kiss. He snickers but allows it, opening his mouth easily against mine. I can taste the salt of my skin on his tongue. Harry’s fingers work their way down the buttons of my flies. My jeans fall to the floor.

Malfoy raises his head again and I make a noise of complaint.

“Shh, I want to watch,” he says. “Go on, Harry.”

“You’re sure?” Harry asks.

He’s got his hands on the waistband of my boxers and his face less than a foot from my straining erection. At this point, it must be obvious that I’m absolutely fucking sure.

“Please,” I say again, and Malfoy growls and bites a kiss into my neck. I tighten my hand in his hair, but he pulls away quickly, looking down at Harry—at me—as Harry tugs down my underwear.

All three of us are holding our breath.

I bite my lip.

My cock springs free.

“Well, fuck,” Malfoy says into the silence.

Harry licks his lips. Both of them are staring.

“What?” I say, valiantly fighting the urge to cover myself again immediately. “Is it the ginger pubes? What did you expect?”

“No wonder Granger has been a snippy little devil recently,” Malfoy says in awed tones. “I’d be annoyed too if I was used to being dicked down by that thing and then had to go on living without it.”

“What?” My attention catches on “Granger”, but Harry has wrapped a loose fist around my dick and is stroking me torturously slowly, so I’m struggling to process what Malfoy just said. “God, Harry—”

“I’ve never seen you hard,” he says. His eyes still have that same dark look, the colour of his irises vibrant against his swollen pupils. Seeing my dick and his face next to each other does something extremely funny and not unpleasant to my insides.

“Well, no, I suppose—”

Harry licks a broad, hot stripe up the underside of my cock. I choke.

“I’m going to ride you so hard I’ll feel it for weeks,” Malfoy declares.

I look at him helplessly. He returns my gaze with utmost seriousness.

“I’m going to sink down on your thick cock and I’m going to fuck myself until I can’t take it any more,” he says in that same level tone. “I’m going to be so fucking tight around you and you’ll fill me up so much and I am going to love it.”

My mouth hangs open, which is unfortunate, because when Harry wraps his lips around the end of my cock and takes it into his mouth, a low moan is wrenched right out of me.

“Oh my god.” I clutch Malfoy as a hot shiver runs through my whole body. It’s been a while since I’ve had a mouth on me, but I’m sure I’m not imagining the fact that Harry’s is somehow hotter, wetter, better than any I’ve had before. “That feels…fuck, Harry, that feels so good.”

“Of course it does,” Malfoy says smugly. “He’s amazing at blowjobs.”

Harry's mouth is too full to respond, but he hums and looks up at us through his lashes. I groan and cling harder to Malfoy to stop my knees from buckling. He laughs, delighted, and presses closer.

“Stroke his hair,” he breathes into my ear. “Gently. He likes to feel loved.”

Ordinarily, I’d snap that I don’t need Malfoy to tell me what Harry likes, but his lips against my skin and Harry’s mouth around my cock make me forgiving. I brush a shaky thumb against Harry’s forehead and slide my fingers into his hair. He whimpers around me, sucks me deeper. My cock hits the back of his throat.

“Fuck.”

I hold myself still with incredible depths of willpower I didn’t know I possessed. Harry keeps me there, the head of my cock pressing against his clenching throat for a long, breathless moment. Then he pulls off completely.

“Fuck,” he gasps. His eyes are watering. My cock is wet and hard, right next to him. Jesus. “God, Ron, you’re fucking huge.”

I blink, unsure whether this is a “thank you” or a “sorry” moment. But my blood-starved brain is saved the impossible task of speaking when Malfoy drops to the floor beside Harry.

“It’s even bigger up close,” he says, pleased. Then without further preamble, he bats Harry’s hand away, replaces it with his own and swallows me whole.

“Ffffuck.” I bite hard on my knuckle to stop myself from shouting the place down. God knows what I’d even say—I’ve been knocked absolutely senseless by the feeling of Malfoy’s mouth sliding all the way down, down, down to the base of my dick, his tight throat swallowing effortlessly around me.

“Draco’s good at blowjobs, too,” Harry says unnecessarily, grinning up at me. His mouth is puffy and my hand is still in his hair. I feel like I’m dreaming. If I am, I never want to wake up.

Malfoy bobs his head and I swear around my fist. He shoots me a glare. His lips are stretched taut around me. Bloody hell.

“He wants to hear you,” Harry interprets, idly fondling my balls. I close my eyes against the renewed waves of pleasure.

With great effort, I drop my hand. I try to calm my ragged breathing, but Malfoy seems to take destroying my self-control as a personal challenge and redoubles his efforts. He swallows my cock all the way down, over and over. A long, low groan tears itself from my throat, and my thighs ache from the strain of holding still. My head falls back against the fancy wallpaper with a muffled thunk, but having my eyes closed almost makes it worse—I no longer know whose hands are where, whose hair is brushing my stomach, whose breath is playing over my skin. And then Harry trails kisses from my hipbone down to the top of my thigh, and Malfoy pulls off, and then there are two hot mouths running up and down my cock.

I’m so turned on I think I might die. I chance a look downwards, which is an awful, wonderful idea: it turns out that the sight of two people absolutely fucking worshipping your dick is one of the best things you could ever see. I’m honest-to-god worried I’m going to fall over, come, or completely pass out—or all three at once.

“This is—” I say helplessly. “You’re— Fuck.” I run shaking hands over the backs of their heads, taking care to keep my fingers gentle as they run through Harry’s chaotic hair. He makes a soft noise of appreciation, and the sound seems to affect Malfoy as much as it does me; he grabs Harry’s chin and kisses him roughly, the head of my cock still between them.

I was wrong before: the sight of two people snogging around your dick is the best thing you could ever see. My hips jerk forwards helplessly. My cock catches on the inside of Harry’s cheek.

“Please,” I whimper, but I forgot how much Malfoy likes that; he breaks the kiss to take me in his mouth again, and I moan, unable to stop pushing my hips forwards. He takes it so well, squeezing my arse encouragingly and closing his eyes in apparent enjoyment as I fuck his throat—tentatively at first, but when neither of them complain, quicker. Harder. More uncontrolled. Oh, fuck. Fuck.

The world is narrowing around me. I can no longer see the fairylike glints from the ridiculous chandelier, the gleam of the dark, polished wood of the bed, the stupid giant gilt-edged mirror that looks like it belongs in a palace. I can’t hear the crackle of the fire or the clunky ticks of the grandfather clock by the door. All I know is the roaring in my ears and the quake of my thighs and Malfoy’s gorgeous mouth and clever tongue and tight throat taking me apart while Harry watches with dark eyes and wet, swollen, parted lips.

A hot tingling grows at the base of my spine. My hips jerk, chasing it. Malfoy moans—a deep, gorgeous sound, punctuated by every thrust of my cock. And Harry is right there, unzipping his jeans and shoving his hand inside, watching me, watching me fuck my cock into his boyfriend’s mouth, watching me come undone. He bites his lip. I throw my head back. I let myself fall.

“Stop,” Harry says.

The heat around my cock vanishes, snatching me back from the edge a split second before it’s too late. I cry out in protest.

“Fuck, please—”

Malfoy’s eyes flash, but Harry holds him back.

“Not yet,” he says simply. He’s still kneeling, his glasses smudged and his trousers hanging open, but there’s such quiet authority in his tone that I find myself nodding again, not needing to think it through to know I agree with what he’s saying.

“Harry’s right.” Fuck, Malfoy’s voice is raspy. Wrecked by my cock. Fuck. “I got carried away.”

“Understandable,” Harry says with a grin, and I need to close my eyes again at the look they give each other, heavy with affection. Once I’ve taken three deep, calming breaths, they’re both on their feet. Harry is pulling off his T-shirt; Malfoy is watching him appreciatively. I follow his gaze and evaluate Harry anew—I’ve seen him shirtless hundreds of times before, but I’ve never allowed myself to take the time to appreciate the play of muscles on his shoulders, the biteable peaks of his nipples, the inviting line of dark hair that trails beneath his waistband.

He catches me staring and grins ruefully. I can practically hear him say This is mad, isn’t it?

It’s the maddest thing that’s ever happened to me—and before the age of fifteen, I’d been knocked out by a giant chess piece, had my pet rat transform into the person who murdered my best mate’s dad, and had been consensually kidnapped by mermaids.

“On the bed,” Malfoy says imperiously. “Weasley, on your back, shoulders propped against the headboard; Harry, above him, knees either side of his chest.”

“Do me a favour, yeah?” I say, stepping out of my jeans and trainers so I can follow Harry to the bed without bouncing over like the bloody Hopping Pot. “Call me Ron. There are too many bloody Weasleys, and I don’t want to be thinking about any of them right now.”

“Ugh, me neither,” Malfoy says with an exaggerated shudder. Then he pauses and tilts his head. “Although—the one who works with dragons…”

“Stop,” I groan, but Malfoy is snickering, picking an invisible bit of lint off the front of his robes.

“Fine,” he says. “Ron.”

His accent buffers the edges of it, polishes the vowel into something smarter, sharper. I almost don’t recognise the sound of my own name.

“Call me Draco, then,” he says casually, but Harry’s raised eyebrows make me suspect I shouldn’t take this peace offering for granted. I bite back the joke I was about to make.

“Sure,” I say, like it’s no big deal, like any member of the past ten generations of Malfoys and Weasleys wouldn’t writhe in horror if they knew what was happening. “Draco. Are you going to boss us around all evening while you just watch, all buttoned up?”

Draco raises an eyebrow at me. Without breaking eye contact, he points his wand at himself and vanishes his robes, leaving him naked from the top of his head to the tips of his perfectly pedicured toes.

His cock is hard and pinker than the rest of him. A silver piercing glints in one of his nipples. I swallow and avert my eyes.

“I’m categorically not just watching,” he says. “Remind me who just had you begging to come? Because I don’t recall it being Harry ‘can’t deepthroat anything bigger than a finger’ Potter.”

“Hey!” Harry shoots Draco a wounded look. “I’m working on it!”

“Well, if you need someone to practise on…” I offer.

It’s a risky remark, but it pays off when Harry smirks and glances appreciatively at my dick. I resist the urge to preen.

“Speaking of fellatio,” Malfoy says pointedly. “Ron, bed. Harry, on top. Our guest is going to return the service we so generously provided.”

“Why me on top?” Harry asks Draco. “This is all about what you want.”

I know it’s true—this is for Draco, not me or Harry—so I’m surprised by the sting of it.

“Yes,” Draco says slowly, like it’s obvious. “And what I want is to watch Ron Weasley suck your dick. Do you have a problem with that?”

“What do you think?” Harry asks me.

I shrug. “I’m not opposed,” I say, and then before I can stop myself, “It’s what he wants, right?”

Thankfully, Harry doesn’t clock the note of bitterness in my voice. He grins.

“Yeah? Okay then, let’s—” He jerks his head towards the bed.

Draco is looking at me in the exact way Hermione used to when she was having An Emotional Realisation, About Which We Really Do Need To Have A Discussion, Ron; I determinedly ignore it and climb onto the bed. All three of us are fully naked now, but so far I’ve avoided ogling Harry’s dick. It seemed like it would be impolite, really—like Draco said, I’m a guest. It’d be like going to someone’s house and not taking your eyes off a pile of Galleons on the mantelpiece, wouldn’t it?

But it’s hard to avoid staring when he climbs over me, one knee either side of my chest, just like Draco wanted. He’s almost fully hard, which he seems a little embarrassed about, going by his wry grin.

“Watching you nearly come was really hot,” he says apologetically.

“God.” I’m still staring at his cock. The dark ridges of his veins fan out over it like forks of lightning. I lick my lips.

“Have you done this before?”

Even if I had sucked a hundred dicks, I wouldn’t have done anything even remotely like this before. I shake my head.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Harry reminds me quietly. “I told you, Draco’s not really in charge, here.”

“I know,” I say. “I want to.” Merlin help me, I really want to.

“If you’re sure that you’re sure.”

“For fuck’s sake, Potter, put your dick in his mouth,” Draco snaps from behind Harry. He sounds a bit breathless. I wonder what he’s doing. I don’t wonder enough to look away.

I meet Harry’s gaze and open my mouth. It feels stupid—I haven’t, in fact, sucked even a single dick before, so I have very little idea what I’m doing—but Harry lets out a soft Fuck and pushes his hips forwards until the head of his cock rests against my bottom lip.

It’s warm. I lick my lips and my tongue meets skin. His breathing speeds up. I watch carefully for his reaction and lick it again, deliberately, taking my time. I allow myself to learn the subtle bitter taste of him, the softness of his foreskin, the feeling of his slit against my tongue.

“Shit,” he breathes.

I wrap my lips around him. Take him into my mouth.

“Ron,” he says, strained. Just that, just my name. But knowing he knows it’s me, that it’s my name in his mouth, spurs me on. I take him deeper.

I dunno what I was expecting, but sucking cock isn’t actually that difficult. Maybe at the advanced level there’s more to it, but I bob my head, trying to keep my teeth out of the way, and Harry’s mouth falls open. He stares at me with an intensity I’ve only seen from him once before—about five minutes ago, when I was about to come down Draco’s throat.

It’s funny—I know Harry’s face better than my own, I reckon. I’ve seen him basically every day for the last seventeen years. He’s on every front page, poster and commemorative bloody plate. A witch came into Wheezes last week who had a tattoo of him on her left tit. She asked me to sign it. It wasn’t even the first time that has happened.

So, if you’d asked me before today, I’d’ve said I’m familiar with him from every angle. But it turns out that looking up at him from cock-level is a new one. A very, very good one.

His stomach clenches on every dip of my head. His nails dig into my shoulder. He keeps saying my name in that tight, strained way. It’s all an incredible fucking turn-on and I’m glad nobody’s touching my cock right now; I’ve nearly ended this too soon already.

But then someone is touching my cock—a warm, slick hand strokes me confidently from root to tip. I choke on my mouthful and jerk my head backwards. It collides painfully with the headboard.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Draco says, amused.

Harry twists to look at him. I miss the weight of his attention immediately, but I’m also currently getting a pretty spectacular handjob, which definitely lessens the blow.

“Fuck. Are you gonna…?” Harry asks him.

“Of course I bloody well am,” Draco says scornfully.

Through the daze of Draco’s clever hand on my cock, I make myself lean around Harry so I can see what’s happening. The flush on Draco’s sharp cheekbones is back, but apart from that he seems collected enough. Whatever he was doing to make himself sound breathless before and whatever he’s about to do now are both still a mystery to me. That is, until he swings one leg over my thighs, shuffles forwards so he’s practically spooning Harry, and sinks down onto my cock.

A low, loud groan fills the room—it takes me a second to realise that it’s me. He’s so tight—so fucking hot and tight. I haven’t done loads of anal before, but I’ve done enough to recognise the slide of lube, to know that his hole has been stretched—and knowing that the cause of his earlier breathlessness was probably him fingering himself open for my dick does not help me keep it together. My fingers scramble for purchase on Harry’s thighs.

“Does he feel good?” Harry asks me roughly. His eyes are dark, his renewed attention delicious. “Does Draco’s arse feel good around you?”

I dig my fingers into his flesh. “Yeah,” I bite out. “Yeah, fuck—”

Harry wraps a hand around the base of his dick and aims it at my mouth, much more forcefully than before. “Suck it,” he demands. “Suck my cock, Ron.”

Again, the sound of my name works on me like a spell. I open my mouth and swallow him down, optimistically attempting some fancy things with my tongue—quickly faltering when Draco finds his rhythm.

And with his rhythm, Draco also finds his voice.

“Mmm, you feel amazing.” He sounds languid, blissful—like he’s just slipped into a hot bath. “God, your big cock is stretching me so wide.” He punctuates his point with a sharp downward thrust. “Filling me up so much, fuck.”

If my mouth weren’t full, I’d be gaping. My cock may literally be up his arse, but his words feel bizarrely explicit—like something out of one of Dean’s smutty videos, or something you’d say as a joke. But he doesn’t seem to be joking; he grinds himself downwards and lets out a breathy moan. I can’t stop myself from thrusting up into his tight heat.

“Yes,” he hisses. “Fuck me— Mmm, wanna feel you so deep inside me.”

I’m stuck between incredulity and being turned on beyond belief. I need to distract myself from Draco’s filthy mouth and the sinful grip of his arse or I’m going to lose it.

I refocus on Harry and try to force him deeper. I’m not successful—fuck, how did Draco do that?—but the thick, wet sound his cock makes when it hits the back of my throat has him inhaling sharply. My windpipe clenches with the urge to cough, but I stifle it with great effort. I want to be good for him.

“Fuck, Harry, I can hear your cock against his throat. I can hear him choking on you. How does it feel?”

Draco’s breathless narration is still almost unnerving in its obscenity, but I can’t deny that it’s hot as fuck. Especially when Harry growls in response, “Feels fucking amazing. He’s so good at this. Ron, you’re so fucking good at this.”

I whimper, delirious from the tight grip around my dick, from the rough lust in Harry’s voice.

“His cock feels amazing too,” Draco gasps, steadily impaling himself, over and over. “So big. Fuck, Ron, you feel so good, stretching me so wide. I wanna do this forever. Fuck.”

I thrust upwards again helplessly. His arse slaps against my hips. It’s a filthy sound and I immediately want to hear it again, so I shift my feet and fuck him as best I can—though my range of movement is limited by the two full-grown wizards I have on top of me. What a problem to have.

“Fuck, yes— Fuck me with your big cock, stuff me full, fuck, yes—”

Draco’s voice catches on every upward jerk of my hips. My jaw aches and my eyes are watering but I’m drowning in pleasure. At this point, I’m groaning around Harry’s cock more than I’m actually sucking it, but he doesn’t seem to mind; his breaths come in short, harsh pants as he watches me.

“Fuck— I want more— Want you to spread me open— Want both of you to fill me up— Harry— Please—”

Harry clenches the base of his dick and pulls away. My mouth hangs open, hollow without him.

“Draco,” Harry says, shock audibly cutting through his arousal. “No.”

“Nngh, yes. I can take it, I can, I want to, you said we could—”

“I didn’t realise he’d be hung like a fucking horntail!”

I’m not following the conversation at all, but Malfoy’s arse is my current favourite thing in the whole world, so I’m feeling generous. “Let him have whatever he wants, Harry,” I grit out. “Give him— Oh, fuck.”

“Yes,” Draco hisses, grinding downwards. “Let me have you— Harry—”

“Shit.” Harry looks back at me. I open my mouth again, but he doesn’t fill it. He just swears, quietly, then says, “Okay. Okay, all right.”

I still don’t know what Draco is asking, but triumph flares through me on his behalf—that is, until Harry gets off the bed, leaving my chest cold and my mouth empty.

But a second later, Draco fills the space Harry left behind, leaning over me and grabbing my chin, pulling me into a wet, hungry kiss.

“You’re so hot,” he murmurs into my mouth. “So fucking big and hot. I want you to fuck me in a hundred different ways. I want you to—mmm—to pound into me so hard I can’t sit down for a week.”

I’m not quite so far gone that I can say anything even close to that sort of thing, but I show my appreciation by grabbing his hips, planting my feet and finally fucking him properly.

“Oh, fuck yeah.” He grabs the headboard and thrusts his arse back onto my cock, matching my rhythm. “Fuck me, fuck me, oh god.”

His nipple piercing glints teasingly above me, just out of reach of my mouth. Fuck, he feels amazing. I wanna take him apart. I am taking him apart. He’s still talking, filth and appreciation pouring from him in between cries of pleasure. I dimly register the fact that the bed isn’t squeaking—isn’t even rocking—despite the rough pounding of my hips. Probably made from some fancy foreign wood, soaked in Strengthening Solution and laced with Silencing Charms. Posh wanker.

Harry’s awed voice drifts over from somewhere near my feet. “This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Draco, your arse is— Ron, your cock—”

“Yeah,” Draco gasps. “Yeah, love his fat cock in me, fuck, harder, fuck, right there—!”

I grunt. My thighs burn from the effort of pounding into him, but his reactions are more than worth it. Fuck, I’ve missed sex. I’ve missed the feel of it, the noises of it, the smell of it, everything. I’ve missed being able to make another person feel this fucking good.

“Harry—” Draco gasps, and I try very hard not to be miffed that it’s not my name he’s crying. “Harry, please, I want—”

“I can’t do anything while you’re going at it like that,” Harry says with wry amusement.

“Nnrgh— Okay, I— Fuck, feels so good— Ron—”

“Yeah,” I growl, tightening my grip. He’s going to have bruises tomorrow. I wonder if I’ll get to see them. I wonder if he’ll like it, being able to see the smudge of my thumb on his hipbone.

The unexpectedly exciting thought is cut off when he flattens his hand against my chest. “Wait—” he says. “Slow— Fuck, feels so good— But no, stop, stop, god—”

He’s still rocking his hips, meeting my every thrust with an appreciative moan, so it takes a second for the words to register. Once they do, I drop my hands and straighten my legs, trying pull out—but he leans backwards, keeping me inside him.

I open my mouth—to apologise, to ask if he’s okay—but he silences me with a hand over the bottom half of my face.

“Shh,” he says, still moving slowly, torturously. “That was so good. You feel amazing, I didn’t want to stop. But I want to try…”

There are hands on my ankles.

Harry.

He strokes his way up my calves, over my knees—I flinch, ticklish. He spreads my legs and drags his hands higher, over the juncture of my thighs. My balls. The base of my cock.

“What—?”

“Shh,” Draco repeats. He replaces his hand with his mouth, snogging me to shut me up. As methods go, it’s very effective; it’s not long before I start to lose myself again. His kisses are messy and heated, and I’m very, very aware that I’m still inside him.

One of Harry’s fingers traces the rim of Draco’s hole where it is wrapped, hot and tight, around me.

“If you want to stop, say ‘Quaffle’,” Harry says sternly. “That goes for both of you.”

A safeword? I pull away from Draco’s mouth to ask what’s going on—but Harry answers me without words. His gentle finger hardens into a point and presses against Draco’s rim. There’s resistance, then I feel it give way, and Harry’s finger slips inside Draco. Slips alongside my cock.

Draco moans in satisfaction. I’m starting to think Harry underplayed the truth when he said Draco was adventurous in bed. I lean my head as far back as the headboard allows and stare incredulously up at him.

“Wait. When you said you want both of us…?”

“Yes,” Draco hisses, rocking backwards onto my dick, onto Harry’s finger—tentatively at first, then with more confidence. “I want both of you inside me. I want to be stuffed full of cock. Harry—more.”

“Don’t rush,” Harry chides, but another finger joins the first at the base of my dick.

Draco makes a small, pained noise as the second finger slides inside. Harry stills, but Draco says, “No, I’m good, it’s good. Don’t stop until I say so.”

Harry starts moving again, but it’s slow, wary. I wish I could see his face, but I satisfy myself with Draco’s. He seems to be caught on the very edge of pleasure and pain, his eyebrows quivering upwards in the middle, his mouth open, his eyes closed.

“See, it’s fine,” he says, and yep, there it is—his expression tips into enjoyment. A deep red has started to overtake the pretty pink flush of his face. “Look, I— Oh, fuck, that’s— Ohhh.” He rocks backwards, his arsehole clenching around me.

My own pleasure at this new development has been tangled with confusion, concern and disbelief, but as Draco’s thrusts gain speed, I can’t help but groan and grab his hips again in a desperate attempt to ground myself. It doesn’t work—in the past, when I’ve been lucky enough to have someone ride me, I’ve had wide hips and soft flesh to dig my fingers into. Draco’s thin waist and prominent hipbones are a marked difference—not at all a useful distraction. I press my hands inwards, marvelling at how delicate he feels.

Draco opens his eyes and locks his gaze on mine. “More,” he orders breathily, not looking away. “Give me more, Harry. Another finger, fill me up, stretch me wide—”

“Shit,” Harry says, almost soundless. He shifts his hand. Adds another finger.

“Fuck.” Draco’s jaw clenches. “That’s— Jesus.”

“Too much?” Harry asks, stilling.

“No. Just— Give me a second.”

He’s grimacing, his teeth bared. It seems, at the grand total of one cock and three fingers, we’ve finally reached the limit of how much can fit.

“Ron, distract him.”

My mind flounders at Harry’s command. I do the first thing I can think of, which is grab Draco’s cock clumsily and stroke it. It’s rock hard—hot and velvety against my palm. Pleasure shoots through me, as though I’m wanking myself, not him.

“You’re doing really well,” I tell him, a little awkwardly.

He smiles, strained, at my pitiful attempts at encouragement. “Yeah?” he asks breathily. “Does it feel good?”

I nod frantically, earnestly. “You feel amazing. So good, Draco.”

He hums. One of his hands is still clenched on the headboard, but he drops the other to my bicep, squeezing where the muscles are flexing and releasing as I stroke him.

“I like these,” he says, tracing a shaking finger over the faded swirls that the fifth-year visit to the Department of Mysteries left me with.

My hand falters. “They’re just scars.” I suppose talking about them counts as a distraction, but I’m uncomfortably aware that Draco’s dad is part of the reason I have them. There’s distractions, and then there’s mood-killers.

“Pretty scars.” Draco is still sweaty and breathless, but his pained grimace has faded. In fact, as I watch, a wild-eyed smirk takes its place. I’m not really sure it’s an improvement. “Prettier than mine.”

I blink at him. He answers by presenting his left forearm.

He’s right; mine are prettier. Where I assume his Dark Mark used to be is now a gnarled, lumpy stretch of skin. I’m familiar with the texture of it from visits to Charlie’s—it’s a burn scar. A bloody serious one.

“I’ve seen worse,” I say with a shrug, not letting myself stare at it, not letting the wrenching feeling in my chest show on my face. I meet his gaze unflinchingly.

He lets out a breath of laughter and starts to rock his hips. I squeeze his cock but bite my lip to stop myself reacting further—the moment feels too fragile to ruin with a groan of pleasure.

“You better not be talking about Harry’s.” He drops both hands to my chest and uses them as leverage to fuck himself backwards with deeper and deeper thrusts. “Can you believe it, both of us with these dramatic disfigurements and his piddly little scar is the famous one?”

“It’s because he’s such an attention-seeker,” I say tightly. “Won’t stop talking about it.”

Draco’s bark of laughter melts into a moan. “Fuck, I’m so full,” he says, like he’s shocked about it. “God, I’m so—” He rocks back sharply and lets out a cry. “I think— It feels good. It feels— Harry.”

“I’m here.”

I’m grateful for his steady voice, because my own control is tenuous at best. Draco’s scarred arm has shaken me. It’s not that I feel sympathy, or even pity. It’s that it makes him more human. The dramatic tale of darkness and redemption—it’s not a story. It’s him. It’s Draco.

“Harry, please— Need you inside me.” He’s fucking himself properly now—slow, deep thrusts that are doing their best to drag moans from me, but I keep it together as best I can. I’m still adjusting to the tentative new feeling in my chest—next to the pulsing love I have for Harry, next to the hole that Hermione left behind. “I need both of you inside me—please—”

I swallow. Harry withdraws his fingers and Draco’s arse closes around me. Then Harry appears behind Draco’s shoulder, peppering kisses over Draco’s neck.

“If it’s too much,” he says. “If it’s not—”

“I know.” Draco twists his head, the lines of his neck straining, then they’re snogging messily, open mouths and tongues and teeth. I’m so strangely overwhelmed by the sight of them—they have each other, fuck, I’m so glad—that I flinch at the unexpected feeling of Harry’s dick against mine.

Harry lifts his head. “You all right?”

I nod, embarrassed at having broken their kiss. “Yeah, no, I’m— I’m good.”

“‘Quaffle’ if you want to stop,” he reminds me. I’ve barely nodded again before the head of his dick is pressing against me—pressing against Draco’s rim—forcing its way inside.

The groan I’ve been suppressing bursts out of me, long and loud. Harry’s cock is so slick and hot, sliding against mine, sharing the tight grip of Draco’s hole. Fuck. Fuck. I find myself gripping Draco’s waist again, but I can’t remember moving my hands—can’t concentrate on anything other than the slow, hot slide of cock-against-cock.

Harry pauses when he’s all the way inside. Our bollocks are touching, our cocks clamped together inside Draco’s tight, clenching heat. I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to take three slow, deep breaths. Harry murmurs comfortingly in Draco’s ear.

Once I’ve steadied myself, I open my eyes to Harry watching me. I meet his gaze. He starts to move.

It’s achingly slow at first. My eyes want to close against the ecstasy that drags at me, but I force them open, drinking in the sight of Draco biting his lip, pain and pleasure warring on his red face. And Harry—

Harry is beautiful, his mouth open, his lips full, frowning in concentration as he fucks Draco and me both with long, slow thrusts.

I can’t move. I’m completely fucking stunned by it all—by the way it feels, by the fact that Draco is letting us, that I’m doing this with Harry. But as Draco relaxes and Harry gains speed, I can’t stop my hips from bucking upwards.

There’s no way I can match Harry’s pace—I’m so close to the edge as it is, fuck, this feels so good—but I meet his every second thrust, driving myself deep with a series of low, strangled groans.

Draco, by contrast, is finally quiet. His eyes are glassy and his hair is sticking to his forehead in sweaty strands. He’s gasping, shivering, jerking with each thrust, his fist moving rapidly up and down his cock.

I was right, earlier: he does look amazing when he falls apart.

But despite the glorious sight of Draco, my attention is caught on Harry. On the way his mouth opens wider on a silent gasp each time he pushes himself deep inside Draco, deep alongside me. On the way his eyebrows draw together, like he feels so good it’s painful—the way I feel, too. On the way his gaze locks on mine even as he wraps an arm around Draco’s chest, works the silver piercing in Draco’s tight, pink nipple between his fingers.

Neither of us looks away. I can’t, and he doesn’t, and Draco is none the wiser because his eyes have fallen closed and his head is lolling backwards onto Harry’s shoulder, his face twisted in pleasure—but this look between me and Harry feels too intimate when Harry’s boyfriend is right there, when Harry is inside him, alongside me, when Draco tenses and whimpers, “Don’t stop— Please don’t stop, I’m gonna come—”

Harry swears and drops his head to Draco’s shoulder, biting it, still watching me. Draco wrenches out one last high, desperate “Fuck!” and clenches around us, his stomach tightening and his thighs seizing and his arse pulsing as he comes. His spunk splashes onto me and my hips stutter—fuck, that’s so hot—but Harry fucks us both through it, his cock dragging against mine inside Draco’s tight, clenching heat.

I’m clinging to the edge with everything I have, but then Harry growls, “Let me see you come, Ron,” and that’s it. Orgasm crashes over me, curling my toes, clenching my fists and trying to squeeze my eyes shut—but there’s no way on earth I’m missing the sight of Harry watching me, of him swearing and thrusting and tensing as he follows me over the edge. His dick pulses against mine and I feel his hot spunk on the head of my cock. I fuck up into it, and shit, if that doesn’t send more waves of pleasure thrumming through me, the thought of Harry’s come coating my dick.

It’s a long time before the roaring fades. I’m still pretty much out of it when Draco laughs breathily, a hand over his face, and Harry murmurs praise into his neck as he withdraws. Draco rises onto shaky knees and my cock slips out—I go to help him settle on the bed, but I’m distracted by the sight of it, of my cock covered in come. My come and Harry’s, mixed together. Draco’s, on my stomach. I’m a mess. An impossible, incredible mess.

The prickle of a cleaning charm sweeps over me and I make an unthinking noise of dismay.

“Shit, sorry, did that hurt?” Harry looks stricken, frozen with his wand still raised.

I shake my head. I’m helpless and stupid. Now the buzz is fading, now I’m clean, now we’ve done what I came here to do—I’m worried they’re about to kick me out. I’m worried they’re not, but I’ll be overstaying my welcome if I don’t leave of my own accord.

nobody could ever want you

Harry is still looking at me. He seems concerned, but maybe he’s just wondering why I’m still here.

It’s going to hurt, isn’t it, when he tells me he doesn’t want me again.

“God, what are you doing?” Draco slurs, grabbing at Harry with a clumsy hand. “Lie down. I’m fucking wrecked.”

Harry’s face softens. He smiles at Draco, takes his glasses off and settles behind him.

It’s a big bed—but I can’t help but feel there’s not enough room for all three of us.

My chest is tight. I brace myself.

“Should I go?” I ask quietly.

Draco flops an arm over my stomach without opening his eyes. “Don’t you dare,” he mumbles.

“You can, if you want,” Harry corrects softly.

I study the deep blue of the four-poster’s canopy rather than meet his gaze. “What do you want?”

“I want you to stay.” He says it so easily, like it’s the purest, simplest truth. “Please. If you want.”

I still can’t look at him, but now it’s because the relief in me feels so huge that it might, if I let it, prickle against the backs of my eyes in an attempt to escape. Instead of thinking about how it’ll probably hurt even more in the harsh light of morning, I exhale shakily and ease myself down until my head hits the pillow. Draco makes a low noise of satisfaction and shuffles closer, pressing his front against my side. Harry tucks himself behind and reaches over, twining his fingers with Draco’s on my stomach.

“Mmm,” Draco hums. “S’nice.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, kissing Draco’s shoulder and catching my eye. “It really is.”

It’s not long before the two of them drift off, their slow breathing loud in the quiet of the room. But I can’t sleep.

What the fuck have I done? That kiss after Neville’s stag do was hard enough to repress, but this? How am I supposed to carry on like nothing happened now I have the memory of Harry’s raw voice ordering me to suck his cock? Now I know what he sounds like when someone slides a soft hand into his hair? What he looks like when he comes?

And then there’s Draco. His left arm lies across me, the edge of his burn scar just visible. I don’t know why it affects me so much—evidence that he is actually made from flesh, not marble, maybe. Evidence that he has emotions, guilt, a whole history I don’t know about. I want to find out what else I assumed about him is wrong.

But we’re not friends, me and him. The only time I see him is when he tags along with Harry to group pub nights. He’s not mine to know. Neither of them are.

I lie there for what feels like hours, staring at Harry and Draco’s joined hands, resting, twined, just above my belly button. The clunking tick of the grandfather clock and the soft ebb and flow of their breathing lulls me into a sort of trance, I suppose, because I don’t notice when Draco wakes up.

“You haven’t told him, have you?” he asks softly.

I start. Draco is watching me, his pale eyes sharp. I swear he was snoring into my shoulder less than a minute ago.

“Told him what?”

He tuts indulgently, as if I’m being intentionally silly but he didn’t expect anything better. “That you’re in love with him, obviously.”

The bed drops out from underneath me.

“What the— I’m not!” I hiss, my ears burning.

“Please, I don’t mind.” He lifts his unscarred arm from where it was squashed beneath him and settles it under his head. His soft cock shifts against my leg. “I just think it’s a conversation you should probably have. He won’t notice otherwise.”

“He— Draco, I swear, I would never—”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Stop panicking. I said it’s fine.”

“I’m not panicking,” I lie. “You’re just wrong.”

He shrugs, unconcerned, and stretches his legs, pointing his toes like a cat.

I wish he would stop moving. He’s going to wake Harry up. And, more importantly, the feeling of his cock rubbing against me is making my insides squirm.

Unwillingly, I remember how that cock felt in my hand, hot and hard, as Harry and I fucked him. I remember the glint of his nipple piercing as he rode me. The regret of not being able to suck it into my mouth.

Draco shuffles again with a huff of impatience.

“Would you stop wriggling?”

“I’m uncomfortable,” he complains. “I love a post-fuck cuddle as much as the next person, but I also need to spread.”

Unwillingly, I remember how he sounded moaning, Want you to spread me open— Want both of you to fill me up— I remember how it felt to pound into him. The look on Harry’s face as he watched.

I make a small, tortured noise.

“What?” Draco snaps.

“Nothing.” Hopefully he won’t notice. Hopefully he’ll fidget for a bit then go back to sleep.

“Oh,” he says in a pleased voice.

Shit.

Slowly, carefully, he untangles his fingers from Harry’s and moves his hand downwards.

“Draco.”

He ignores me and wraps his hand around my half-hard dick.

“Oh, you are wonderful.”

Unwillingly, I remember him murmuring into my mouth, You’re so hot. I want you to fuck me in a hundred different ways. I remember his desperate whimper, Please don’t stop, I’m gonna come. The warm splash of him on my chest.

In the present, his cock twitches against my thigh.

“Stop it,” I hiss. “What about Harry?”

“What about him?” Draco runs a thumb over the head of my dick. It jerks eagerly in his fist. “He won’t be up for it yet.”

“That’s no reason to go behind his back—”

“What? We’re not going behind his back, he’s right here.”

“He’s asleep.”

“He won’t be for long, if you keep making a racket.”

“Draco!”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Oh, fine. If it would make you feel better.”

He lets go of me, twists around and finds Harry’s mouth, kissing him awake. My chest throbs with a bittersweet longing.

“Mmm, hello,” Harry mumbles, a sleepy smile in his voice. His hand, looking for Draco’s fingers, flattens against my stomach.

“Hello, gorgeous.” Draco kisses him again. Harry’s hand slides over my skin, stopping an inch from my cock.

“Whassamatter? Ron’s not leaving, is he?”

“No, but I want him to fuck me again and he won’t until he knows you’re okay with it,” Draco says petulantly. “Can we?”

“Oh,” Harry says. There’s a painful silence. Then, “Well, yeah. Of course.”

That is not what I expected to hear. I prop myself up on my elbows to stare at him. “What?”

“I mean, if you want to, obviously,” he adds. “I told you, don’t let him boss you around.”

Draco makes an indignant noise. I ignore it.

“No, but.” Why am I arguing? An of course is much better than a what the fuck, how dare you, leave immediately and don’t come back. And it’s not like I don’t want to. “What do you mean, though, ‘of course’? He’s your boyfriend.”

“Yeah,” Harry says slowly, frowning. “And you’re our… I thought we talked about this. At the pub.”

The pub feels like days ago. My memories of it are a beer-and-țuică blur.

“At the pub, Draco asked if I wanted to fuck him,” I say. It’s the only thing I feel reasonably sure about.

“Mmm, and that worked out incredibly well for me, I don’t mind telling you.” Like a snake, Draco slithers out from between us and crawls over me.

I don’t understand. I was so tense anticipating the upcoming goodbye (rejection) that I have no idea how to handle this easy acceptance. Unfortunately, being this on edge is not a good time for someone to be climbing over you; Draco’s cock has barely dragged against mine before those old Auror training instincts finally kick in. I hook a leg between his and flip him over, pinning him beneath me by the wrists.

The fucker goes completely still, his eyes hot, his breath quick.

“Before that,” Harry says. He’s watching me carefully, all traces of sleep wiped away. His hand shot under the pillow when I moved—if I lift the elf-woven cotton and premium goose-feather, I know I’ll find his knuckles white around his wand. “I thought you got it. We didn’t mean— We didn’t mean just once. Remember? I said we wanted someone to keep Draco busy when I wasn’t in the mood.”

Now he’s said it, I do remember. I flex my fingers around Draco’s wrists. Draco licks his lips.

“Don’t you know, Ron?” he says, and my name still sounds exhilaratingly alien in his mouth. “I’m a demanding little shit.”

The ache in my chest warps. I clear my throat against the lump that’s threatening to form. I say, “Not just once?” instead of what I really mean, which is, I don’t have to say goodbye? I can have this? I can have you?

Draco is still pinned under me, but Harry seems to decide I’m not a threat. He exhales. Pulls his hand from under the pillow. Touches my arm.

“Not just once,” he confirms with a tentative smile. “As many times as we all like.”

“I do like many times, personally,” Draco puts in.

I look down at him. At his pointy, pale, ratty face. He holds my gaze under half-lowered eyelids. Deliberately licks his lips.

My voice is rougher than I intend it to be when I ask, “So you’re saying…I can kiss him?”

But Draco lunges upwards, and Harry’s answer is lost to the heat of his mouth. The wave of relief I felt before is back tenfold, surging through me. I pour it into Draco’s mouth so it doesn’t escape as something more embarrassing, like a whimper—or a sob.

And Draco—the gorgeous, arrogant, rodenty dickhead—takes it, melts into it, coaxes me down so my body presses him into the bed. The sharp angles of him are still so unfamiliar against me, but I can learn them. I can know him. I can know both of them.

And Draco is still hard.

So am I.

I release his wrists, drop my head to his nipple and finally take it into my mouth. The silver ball of his piercing is sharply metallic, warm from the heat of his skin. He groans and pushes his chest upwards, digs his hands into my hair.

“Harry,” I gasp, wrenching myself away and turning to find him, needing to see him. “Do you wanna join in?”

Harry’s gaze drags from Draco’s kiss-swollen lips to his nipple, inches from my mouth and wet with my spit, to me.

“Nah,” he says eventually, and grins. “But if it’s all right with you…I’d love to watch.”