Warnings: Descriptions of fantasy torture. Mpreg. EWE. Not interview compliant. Descriptions of mental illness. Explicit sexual descriptions.
The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to the wonderful mind of Ms JK Rowling, we make no profit from playing within it.
Author's notes: This story took off on its own and I couldn't stop it. Many thanks to my amazing beta, emansil and apologies to her as to everyone else for the unwieldy length of this thing. This was written for the 2013 ron_draco_fest on live journal, to a prompt supplied by feltonxmalfoy.

It was dark and low-clouded, but it was the sky and it had been too many years since Draco had seen it. He strained his eyelids to keep them open so that he could watch that sky moving backwards above him through the rear window of the Muggle motor car.

Every bump in the road jolted his bones. He lay curled round himself and shivering, clutching the blanket to his throat. He could smell the dust and old wool of it. He inhaled deeply. It was such an improvement on the stale stench of Azkaban.

He was determined to enjoy the freedom of this journey, in spite of the discomfort. It was a brief respite in the hell his life had been since the Dark Lord's fall. The future didn't look like it was going to be much of an improvement, now that he had been handed over into his enemy's care. If the pointless torture of this uncomfortable journey was anything to go by, then Weasley was taking this opportunity to be just as vengeful as Draco would have been had their positions been reversed.

One of the things which had kept Draco moderately sane against the drain of the Dementors had been his fantasy life. If the Death Eaters had been victorious then he would have been rich, powerful and satisfied. Some enclosed place in his mind held that parallel universe intact. There he had often been given charge of members of the Golden Trio to do with as he wished. His fantasy Gryffindors had not enjoyed the experience.

If only it had been Granger to whom he had been gifted. She was sensible and mundane, with that dull, Muggle sense of fair play. Potter would have been bad, but he wouldn't have wanted to ruin his pristine reputation by displaying a slave with too many bruises. Weasley was a different matter. He was as inbred and warped as any other Pureblood; Draco had seen him lose his temper enough times to know that to be true. Weasley had reasons for vengeance, too. Draco was too tired to remember exactly what had happened to which of the Weasleys, but he knew that there had been suffering and losses. Draco was going to be made to pay for those.

He did his best to relax and appreciate his respite from imprisonment. The Muggle contraption made a burring, chugging noise under his head. Night fell slowly, until there was no longer anything to see out of the back window. He allowed his tired eyes to close.

He woke with a terrified start and rough hands on his body. Instinctively – even after all these years – he reached into his sleeve for his wand. Of course it was not there. It had been confiscated on his arrest. The figure man-handling him made one last attempt, jabbing fingers at Draco's sore ribs. Draco could smell meat-stock on his breath and an earthy, fresh sweat. The man swore and pulled back. An orange light behind him illuminated him for a moment. Weasley. Then the whole car shuddered and Draco's ears rang as the door was slammed shut. There was a weird beeping and a brief coloured light at all the windows.

Draco was left alone with the noise of his own ragged breathing. He was tired still. His eyes were gritty with exhaustion. His heart beat too fast and loud for him to return to sleep, though.

The car had stopped in a nightmare street. The orange lights shone out in the darkness at regular intervals. The houses looked identical. They were built out of something flat and grey. There was no stone in nature to match that. It was a Muggle street, Draco realised with a lurch of nausea. It had those white dashes down the middle of the road. There were Muggle vehicles parked all along it, their metal glinting in adulterated colours under the orange. Blue light shone from the downstairs windows of three of the houses opposite. There were flickerings of other colours in shapes inside the blue.

Draco turned sharply to the mumble of voices. People were approaching the car. He backed away from them and tried to pull at the catches on the door behind him. It would not open. He flattened himself against it and faced the attackers. The beep sounded again, the colours flashed at the windows. He pressed himself back as far as he could against the door's solidity.

Coldness flooded in from the door which opened in front of him. He was distracted by the back of the car which lifted clean into the air, and then the solid mass at his back betrayed him, opening and making him fall back. A large, sweaty hand covered his mouth before he thought of screaming. He tried to kick, but his legs were held down, his arms were grabbed. He was pinned under heat and stench and weight of bodies. One of his arms was wrenched up, and his wrist pinned onto the top of the seat. A woman was there. She had hair like Granger's, but streaked with grey. She smelled of a sharp, unnatural astringent. Sharp pain. The inside crook of his elbow. He had been stabbed. Cold fell into his arm from that spot. He tried to lash out. He couldn't feel his body. His eyes closed themselves.

He woke to the smell of soap. It was one which didn't belong in his life anymore and his mind was heavy so it took him some time to name it. He knew it was a scent from childhood. It came from something soft and heavy which lay over him and from the soft under his head, too. His mouth was dry. He tried to swallow but couldn't. Sleep swamped him again.

There was a knock on a door. Draco was surprised to find it waking him. He felt sharply alert as he had not done for years. He blinked. His mouth was still dry. The soap-scented softness turned out to be some kind of cloudy blanket. It was green, with a pattern of leaves printed into the fabric. He sat up and looked round his little room. Another knock. There were two doors in a pale, bare wood. It must have come from one of them. He wondered whether to answer. His throat was still too rough for speech. There was a glass of clear liquid on a little table beside the bed. He wondered whether it was safe to drink that. A third knock. Draco sipped quickly and grunted out, "Come in!"

One of the doors opened. Weasley. Framed and huge in the doorway.

"You're awake," he said. He stepped into the room. Green carpet, wall to wall. White wood above that and round the door. Draco liked the speed with which he processed this. Sprigs of patterns on the walls. Curtains striped blues and greens. Weasley moved across the room and drew them open. He left the door open behind him. Draco wondered whether he had the strength to take advantage of that.

"If you want the bathroom," Weasley said, and opened the other door. White, metal, glass. An odour. More like pine than soap.

Draco sipped again. His legs felt heavy. Too heavy for escape. Yet. He wondered what he had been poisoned with, whether his captors would bother with the counter-spell.

Outside the window was blue sky scattered with white clouds. He stared at it. It had been so very, very long. This looked like a fantasy picture, like the background to a portrait. Draco stared. Weasley talked but Draco didn't listen. Weasley left again.

Seams rubbed at Draco's skin. The water cooled his throat but swallowing hurt. He stared at the sky. A noise at the door made Draco turn to it quickly. Weasley. He walked straight to the bed. He was carrying something which steamed. Heat. Burning. Draco's heart raced.

He forced his mind to fall into his happy fantasy place. The sky was in there. They were outside. Weasley lay on the grass: bloodied and filthy. Draco smelled as clean as soap. It was Draco holding the bowl of steaming stuff. Molten metal. Weasley snivelled and begged at his feet. Draco tipped the bowl. He dripped one splash onto Weasley's cheek. Weasley screamed in agony. Draco laughed. He leaned over his victim and ripped the buttons off his rag of a shirt, then straightened up before he emptied the bowl onto the bare, freckled chest.

He flinched as something touched his waist. His eyes opened. No. He didn't want to feel what came next. He needed to escape back into his mind, to the place where the Dark Lord had been victorious, where Draco had been rewarded. He was too weak to face punishment. The hand pulled back.

"Do you understand?" Weasley asked him. He sighed in exasperation and snapped, "Are you even listening?"

There was no point in begging his enemy not to hurt him. The only reason why Draco would have been pulled out of Azkaban was to face something worse. He closed his eyes and lay back. He was trying to block out the world, but he held himself tense as well. Waiting. He startled when Weasley swore loudly. Then the weight lifted off his bed and there was stamping and a door slamming. Draco had made him angry. The punishment, when it came, would be even worse now. There was a new, damp smell in the room, drowning out the smell of soap. Draco curled in on himself and daydreamed of hanging Granger and the Weaslette by their wrists from a curtain pole, then of lashing them with floggers and rubbing soap into their open wounds.

It was a shock to find his bedcover was being pulled back by the real Granger. Her face was creased but not agonised. There was a minty smell about her. The way she peered into his eyes made him fear Legilimency. She would know what he had fantasised. It would be done to him. He closed his eyes.

"Malfoy, it's important that you listen. You need to know why you are here." Her voice was dangerously soft. The Dark Lord had lowered his to a whisper before the most awful of punishments. His " Crucio " had been a light hiss. Draco flinched in anticipation.

"Do you know why you are here?" It was Potter's voice. It came from inside the room. Sweet Merlin, they were all here. They were going to exact revenge together, just like they did everything else. Draco tried to claw his way back to his happy place.

"Do you remember the Healer? In Azkaban?" Granger asked. There was more steel in her voice now.

Draco did not dare to ignore her. He nodded.

"The annual examination. He found something. It's actually quite easy to ascertain through palpation, if you know to look. I mean, he didn't know, but once he had come across it he recognised it, of course." She sounded excited now.

Draco waited for the pain. They were clever. And patient. Only the most sadistic of the Death Eaters could have waited this long before administering the first blow. He didn't know how long it had been since he was carried out of Azkaban. Days maybe. The fear built with every second. Draco was nearly numb with it.

He whimpered as she pulled away the fabric over his belly. He tried to pull back. Was this where she was going to burn him? She pushed a soft hand into some secret spot which made him feel as though he were vomiting.

She stopped quickly and moved back. They were talking. Voices filled the room. Draco didn't want to make sense of the words. He covered himself back up and coiled. He imagined her face gouged by rusty pins and it made him feel better.

"Listen now." Her voice was authoritative enough to break through his thoughts. "You know what the Nanchester Act is?"

It was a word from his childhood, from the lessons in his father's study. So long ago. Before Hogwarts. Automatically he found himself giving the correct answer from those days: "A softening of the Baenfric Law."

"That's right!" her voice was full of enthusiasm again, full of the energy of sadistic lust. "Do you remember what it relates to?"

"Freaks," Draco mumbled. He wondered how long he could hold off the torment by getting answers right. He could distract her with conversation. He needed his mind to be sharp. There might be a way to outwit these three. "Creature Wizards. Wombhags."

Somewhere in the room men laughed cruelly.

"There's no need for unreconstructed language like that!" Granger snapped.

"They don't exist," Draco mumbled into his pillow. He kept his eyes shut tight.

Silence strained at the space. Draco tensed, waiting for it to produce something horrific.

All that came in the end was Weasley saying, "Yeah, that's what I thought."

"Don't be ridiculous, why would anyone bother to legislate for a myth?" Granger snapped.

"But that's why it was never repealed." Potter. "Plenty of wizards didn't believe in it."

"Look, Malfoy." Weasley sounded impatient. "You're a wombha—"

"Ron!"

"Give it to him in language he can understand…"

But Draco didn't understand anything at that moment. His mind had shut down. He saw Seamus Finnigan chained to a wheel. Draco was holding a burning torch. Finnigan begged through tears. Draco sank gratefully into his happy place.

He woke to the smell of bacon cooking. His thoughts shuffled themselves. It had to be a trick, of course. They were trying to make him hate himself by telling him he was a half-man freak. They were even more clever and patient than he had given them credit for. A wombhag? Inventive. He tried to re-piece the Nanchester Act out of his memory. With the facts came the comforting remembered leather-and-polish smell of his father's study in the Manor of Draco's childhood.

It was all based on the tale that there were wizards who could become pregnant. Their placentas could be used in powerful Dark spells, and their offspring were said to have strong magic and often unusual gifts. Parseltongue was one which was said to have appeared originally in an ancestor of Salazar Slytherin who had been born of a wombhag. Some legends said that Circe herself had had two fathers.

Under Baenfric Law, these almost-Wizards had become the automatic property of the appropriate local Wizard Baron at puberty, to be kept as slaves for breeding purposes and disposed of at menopause. In the mid-seventeenth century, while the Muggles were under the Protectorate of Cromwell, the Wizangamot had been persuaded to amend this law by a Guillam Nanchester. It was unclear why. Many even then thought the myth of wombhags to be an irrelevant one. A lot of superstitions still persisted then, although the barons had disappeared, and society was getting more humane. Nanchester had passed an act which stated that any wizard found to be a wombhag was to be given to the first pure-blood wizard who could prove himself capable of financially supporting and physically protecting the wombhag and their children. It was thought to be kinder than leaving such Creature Wizards to fend for themselves.

If Draco had been a wombhag…? A Bearer. That was the more polite term. Wombhag was one of those Pureblood insults like Mudblood and Halfbreed which nobody was supposed to use anymore. It was an archaism, though, because very few witches and wizards still believed in Bearers. The Nanchester Act would have been repealed years ago if they had done.

He would have known. Surely. He hadn't been imprisoned until he was eighteen, well past puberty. Wombhags started being fertile later than girls, though, didn't they? About a year after they stopped growing. He'd been in Azkaban by then, he would have been too weak to… No! He refused to consider that this could even be a possibility!

It was some kind of excuse. The victors liked to think of themselves as morally superior to the Death Eaters. They couldn't just go around handing over prisoners to be the tortured slaves of the elite. So this was their blind. It was probably Granger who had dug out the old Act, it was the sort of thing she would do. They must have bribed the prison Healer to get him to label Draco as breeding stock. That way they could gift him to Weasley. Which they had done; it was Weasley who had collected him. What was Weasley going to do to him? Draco shuddered. Under this old law, Draco could be raped. In fact, he was supposed to be raped. Repeatedly. That was the point. He had been assigned to the role of wombhag. That meant rape victim. The trio were free to do as they liked to Draco. He was now Weasley's property.

It wasn't true, was it? Draco couldn't end up pregnant. He found his hand drifting to his lower abdomen where Granger had pressed him earlier. He snatched it away. No! He couldn't let them make him doubt himself. Merlin, they were clever. They were clever and evil and Draco was at their mercy.

He made himself picture Loony Luna Lovegood in the cellar at Malfoy Manor. He tried to distract himself with visions of fire and flogger and Crucio , but it was difficult. He was waiting: waiting for the horrors to begin. The trio were already working at his mind. He needed to stay strong. The werewolf Lupin had had a baby. Draco tried to picture himself boiling it. The steaming water kept disappearing, leaving him in his safe place holding a baby. His baby. No. He was a real wizard, a proper man. He was no wombhag. His hands ran over his belly, and he couldn't stop them.

He didn't know when he had fallen asleep, but he must have done because he was being shaken awake and he knew he had just had a nightmare. It had been a nightmare about giving birth. He could see it fading from the reality of the dimly-lit room. Weasley was sitting on Draco's bed; he had his big hand on Draco's shoulder. He gripped tight enough to bruise and he shook Draco awake. He was talking. He looked cross. Sweet Merlin! Weasley was in the bed! Draco remembered with a nauseating start. This was it. It was about to begin. Draco could be raped legally. Why else would this strong, healthy man be here? Draco was too weak to fight back. Prison had made him ill. He was easy prey. This was where it began. He screamed louder, he tried to back away. He was flailing, blind with terror.

The smell again, the astringency, the woman. The sharp pain in his arm, followed by cold entering him and sleep taking him down.

"How's it going?" Harry asked.

The three people at the kitchen table all sighed. None of them met his gaze.

"Do you need me to come over? This is just meant to be a quick Floo-call, but I can—"

Hermione and Ron shook their heads.

"You get along to Teddy's parents' evening," Hermione said.

"Malfoy's asleep now. I can handle it," Ron said. "I'll see you in the morning. You can get the full update then."

Harry nodded then his head disappeared from the Floo.

"Do you think Malfoy understood?" Hermione asked Ron.

"Not really. He was really upset, wasn't he, Genevieve?"

The other woman at the table nodded grimly.

"Thanks, Mum," Hermione said. "I don't know what we would have done without—"

"Has he never had an injection before?" Hermione's mum asked them.

"Probably not," Ron replied. "I'd never heard of them before this. It's not a wizard thing. Well, you've got to admit, it is a bit mad: sticking a needle into someone to make them better."

"Ron!"

"No, Hermione, he's right. And I'm sure there are much more efficient magical ways of making someone relax. But if he's too weak to be the subject of spells, then I'm afraid that's the best I can offer."

"No, no. I wasn't criticising. I mean, it works. He's not fighting, injuring himself. That's what matters. Thanks"

"It makes a nice change from sticking hypodermics in gums." Genevieve tried to laugh. "I do have patients who prefer to be knocked out. I do know what I'm doing. That's why I had the sedatives in stock."

Ron pointed his wand at the kettle on the stove behind him. "Another cup of tea?"

"Actually, I should be going soon," Hermione said apologetically. "I'll give you a lift on the way, Mum."

Genevieve was worrying at her fingernails. "I gave him a lower dose this time, Ron. I hadn't realised how frail he would be. I think it might have been too high last time. Poor boy. What sort of place must that prison of yours be?"

"It's partly the other prisoners, Mum. There's a lot of Dark magic locked up in there, and without the Dementors—"

"Oh, yes. I meant to ask. What are Dementors?"

Hermione looked awkward. She looked lost for words, which was unlike her. Ron realised that after all these years she was still trying to convince her parents that the magical world was all fairy dust and unicorns, so that they wouldn't worry, so that they'd let her stay.

"It was a bad spirit," Ron said. "But they've all gone now."

"Only it says in the prison Healer's notes that Draco's convinced that there was one in his cell, that they are invisible but still there," Genevieve said.

"No, no. They've all gone. I know because Percy was involved in the repatriation program."

"I believe you, Ron. I'm just saying that Draco won't."

"It's a way of explaining his own guilt feelings, I expect," Hermione said. "Something like that. Has he eaten anything yet?"

"No." Ron looked miserable. "He didn't touch that bowl of soup. I left it there for hours. Nor the bacon sandwich. I mean, who can resist the smell of bacon?"

"So all he's had is some water?" Hermione frowned. "He's so frightened, and it doesn't help that we're having to do everything the Muggle way, which clearly freaks him out."

"He keeps feeling up his sleeve for his wand," Ron said. The 'so he can hex me with it' was unsaid, but understood by both of them.

"When he's stronger. When he's well. But at the moment—"

"I know," Ron interrupted Hermione. "I heard the Healer, too. At the moment even the simplest spell could kill him. I'm being careful. Bloody hell, I even drove the car half-way down the country so he didn't have to Floo or side-along."

"I know. I know." Hermione patted his arm. "We're really grateful." Then she added, "For everything."

The kettle reached boiling point with a whistle.

Ron said, "Look, he's out for the count. You might as well get off. Go and see George."

Hermione looked embarrassed. She started to step back.

"It's fine. I'm ok with it. You know I am. He needs you. Whatever it takes to make my brother happy is a good thing in my book."

"Look, Ron, I'm really sorry about all—"

"I'm not having this conversation again now, Hermione. Just don't let him know about any of this." Ron walked over to the kettle and silenced it.

"You're sure? You really don't want any of your family to know?"

"Not until it's all settled. They'll only worry. Now, you'd better go and get that car turned round." Ron rinsed out the teapot.

Genevieve passed him the tea caddy. She checked that Hermione was out of earshot before saying, "You're a good man, Ron. You're doing a good thing."

"Didn't have much choice. There are bad wizards out there who'd use the power Malfoy carries in bad ways, and there are plenty of otherwise good ones who want vengeance on any Malfoy they can get hold of, too. There wasn't time to think, I just had to get in before someone worse did."

"It didn't have to be you. You volunteered."

"It had to be a complete pureblood. So Harry couldn't do it, nor could Dean, Seamus, Kingsley or Lee. It had to be a wizard, not a witch. So, to get someone trustworthy at short notice it was down to me or Neville. Neville's not up to this, he's got his parents at home now. It had to be me." Ron watched the boiled water as he poured it onto the tea leaves, the swirls of brown swimming through the clear water, taking it over.

"Or one of your brothers."

"Most of them are married. Anyway, I couldn't duck out and land this onto one of them."

"Does it have to be a wizard who's single then? Did the authorities check? This isn't going to make it difficult for you to find a new girlfriend, is it? Because you deserve to find someone. I'm so sorry that things didn't work out with Hermione, Ron. I do want you to be happy."

Ron grinned as best he could. "I am happy, Genevieve. I have some stuff to work out, so I'm best off without a relationship right now anyway. But I'm happy. Don't worry about me. Don't leave Hermione sitting in the car; she'll only get cranky. You've got a husband waiting for you and she's got a boyfriend. I've got a… um…" he waved a vague hand towards the stairs "… Malfoy to look after. I'll be fine. Goodnight Genevieve."

It was a Muggle neighbourhood, not unlike the one where she'd been brought up. Penelope noted that in her file before pressing the doorbell.

"Ron! How lovely to see you again."

He looked devastated. And exhausted.

"It can't be that time already."

"It's been a week. I was instructed to do the first home visit after a week."

"I thought we'd have longer to sort things. Sorry." Ron stepped back. "Come in. Cup of tea, Ms Clearwater?"

"You can call me Penelope."

"Is that alright? Even though it's like official and everything? Do you need to go upstairs?"

They were in the small, cosy sitting room. All that was missing was a television set and a PC. It could almost pass for genuine Muggle.

Penelope placed her file on the table. "A cup of tea would be lovely. Where is Mr Malfoy? I do need to see you both together, I'm afraid."

Ron's face collapsed into worry. Abruptly he left the room for the kitchen. She removed her jacket and gloves and laid them carefully over the back of the sofa. It was a cheap, modern one. She wondered what homely Molly Weasley thought of that. The kettle whistled. She extracted the relevant forms and took out her Quick Quotes Quill.

"That's ok down here, but you can't take it in the bedroom, I'm afraid."

Ron was in the doorway, negotiating three mugs of tea awkwardly between his two hands. He was avoiding levitating them, of course.

"Sorry." She tapped the Quill with her wand to neutralise it. "Is he still that sensitive, then?"

"He's very weak. The Specialist Healer came round yesterday. We had to do the inject-thing on Malfoy again for the examination. She's talking about putting him on something Muggles call a drip because he still hasn't eaten anything, but I can't see him keeping needles and tubes in his arm, he'll pull them out, then he'll bleed." Ron looked pale and exhausted. His voice was flat, but there was the threat of a crack in it. "Breeders are particularly susceptible to Magic Toxicity, apparently, and it's a common problem among released prisoners these days anyway." Ron pressed his lips together until they went white. "If he'd eat and rest properly then he'd build his strength up, and it wouldn't take too long before Magic would be safe." Ron inhaled deeply. "He doesn't trust me."

"I'm sorry but I have to complete this paperwork. I need to see both of you together to do it." Penelope made her voice soft. She was trying to be as gentle as possible. What she really wanted to do was to give Ron a reassuring hug, but she didn't know Percy's brother well enough to do that. "It's all completely confidential. If it doesn't get done, though, it'll trigger a visit from MLE. I would head that off if I could, but—"

It was automatic, out of human control. They both knew how the Ministry was set up these days. It was meant to prevent malign interference, but too often, like now, it stopped employees from using their judgement.

"We'd better go upstairs before this tea gets cold." Ron handed her one of the mugs. "Do you mind knocking on the door? I'm short of hands," he said on the stairs.

The room was clean and smelled fresh. She noted that down. Malfoy didn't take the mug of tea he was offered. Ron left it on a bedside table and stood well back. Malfoy looked unwell, physically and mentally. She wished she could leave. Instead she stood in the middle of the room and started on her official spiel.

"Good morning, my name is Penelope Clearwater and I am a Ministry of Magic employee. I have a few items of paperwork to complete with you today. It is the Ministry's responsibility to ensure the well-being of all Breeders placed in the –" she couldn't believe the next word was there. She wished she didn't have to stick to the script word-for-word "—possession of Pureblood-wizards in line with the 1642 Nanchester Act, and also to retain information on any children born to said Wizard and Breeder, and all bodily issues pertaining to such births."

Malfoy didn't move. He lay back in the bed and stared at her red-eyed. His pale, thin arm was bare in a short-sleeved pyjama top. She could see bruising inside his elbow.

"I'm sorry about this," she muttered. She held the form scroll over her face so she didn't have to see him. It was cowardly, but they had to get through this. "Mr Weasley and Mr Malfoy, I need an answer from each of you to the following questions. Sweet Merlin," she whispered when she saw the first question. She pressed ahead. The last thing these two needed was an MLE raid. "Is there any possibility that Mr Malfoy might be with child?" Silence. "Ron?"

"No."

"Mr Malfoy?" She lowered the scroll of parchment. She looked at him. He shook his head.

"Is the br— is Mr Malfoy in good health?"

"You can see for yourself—"

"I'm sorry, Ron. I have to have your opinion on that. We've got all the medical reports, but I need your—"

"No. He's not well. He's very weak."

"Mr Malfoy. Are you in good health?"

Malfoy shrugged. Then he shook his head again.

"In your opinion, would a pregnancy undertaken at this time result in a viable infant?"

"No." Ron's voice was tense with unexpressed anger.

She didn't blame him. She didn't look at him. "Mr Malfoy?"

Shockingly, Malfoy began to laugh. It was a low, guttural, weak sound.

"I need an answer I'm afraid, Mr Malfoy."

"Of course not. There's no such thing. This is preposterous." Despite the rasping and the wavering, the scorn in Malfoy's voice was obvious.

"Lastly, do you both agree to inform the Ministry immediately, should any pregnancy arise?" She wished that didn't say 'lastly'. It wasn't her last question. They would both be expecting, hoping that she would leave now and she couldn't.

"Yes."

"Why not?" Malfoy sneered.

"I now have a question for the Wizard—"

"We're both bloody wizards!" Ron snapped.

"I know, I'm sorry. It means you." She still couldn't look at him. "Are you satisfied with the behaviour of your—I'm sorry, that's what it says here—your Breeder?"

"I wish he'd eat. Yes, I'm satisfied. Merlin knows what reign of fire gets visited on us if I say anything else."

"And one for the Breeder. Do you have any complaints against your—oh hell, I can't believe this insensitive wording. It hasn't been updated in hundreds of years—against your possessing wizard?" She looked at Malfoy. "It means Ron. Do you wish to make an official complaint against Ron?"

"What would be the point of that?" He closed his eyes. "Is there more?"

Penelope wanted desperately to help. All she'd done so far was to make things worse. "There's no more." She looked down at her hands and remembered the mug of tea. It reminded her of Malfoy's tea. She nearly dropped her scroll. How on earth did Muggles manage with just the two hands? She rolled up the paper and shoved it up her sleeve, before crossing to the bedside table. She put down her own mug and picked up the one which had been intended for Malfoy. "Please drink this. And you should eat something. Sit up. Drink."

"Is that an order?"

"I… Yes. Yes, it is. You're still a convicted felon and as a Ministry employee I have the right to issue you with orders. Now, sit up and drink this tea." She held the mug firmly over him.

He looked amazed and offended. He pushed himself up to a sit, though. She handed him the mug. They were all silent as she watched him drink it. Shame prickled at her skin. She wanted more than anything to leave this room. He handed back the empty mug. She turned and walked briskly out of the room, passing Ron, shocked by the tears flowing down his cheeks, saying nothing, leaving the house.

The tea didn't seem to have been poisoned, not unless it was a very slow acting potion. In fact it had been warm and sweet and milky and it lay comfortably in Draco's stomach. He was disappointed, but not surprised, to hear that the Ministry were going along with this ridiculous idea. Whatever Potter asked for he got, of course. If he asked for a pet for his side kick, then one would have to be provided and the Ministry would find a way to do that. Draco had been convicted of war crimes and so had both of his parents; nobody cared what happened to him.

He was surprised that the torture and rape still hadn't happened. Perhaps it would now, after the Ministry-bitch's inspection. Maybe that's what they had been waiting for. He mustn't be lured into a false sense of security. He had become relaxed enough to indulge in nightmare-free sleep for the last two nights. It wouldn't do.

There was a knock at the door. It would be one of the trio with food. Usually Weasley. It didn't matter whether he bade them come in or not, they would bring the muck in anyway and leave it somewhere in the room to go cold. Draco curled up under his blankets. There was another knock at the door, this one less tentative. He tensed. A change in the pattern. That could mean anything.

"Are you decent, Draco? If you're not dressed then get dressed quickly because I'm going in there anyway."

It was a woman's voice. He couldn't place it. There was something familiar.

He sat up in the bed and tried to run a straightening hand through his hair, but it snagged on something. "Come in," he said, as imperiously as he could manage. It just sounded pathetic.

Pansy Parkinson walked into the room. That could not be real. Pansy Parkinson in clean, smart robes and heels, a little plumper and with her hair up in a bun. Pansy.

"Parkinson?"

"Yes, darling. You look like shit."

"You don't."

"Unmitigated charmer!" She leaned over him and kissed the air near his ear. "Merlin! You whiff a bit. I know a cleaning charm's out of the question at the mo', but there's a bloody bathroom just here."

The bathroom was strangely unfriendly and full of bottles and tubs made of Muggle materials. It scared him. He used the loo when he had to. That was all. He kept that door closed.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

Was she a prisoner here, too? She didn't look like a prisoner. Was she a traitor, then?

"No, I'm sorry darling. You're not well, I hear. And I had to hear it from that ghastly Granger woman. Nobody tells me anything." She pouted, but not in a very serious way.

Draco had forgotten about this, about chatting and friendship. It was nice. Awkward still, but nice. It might be a trap, of course. She might be lowering his guard so they could strike. Pansy had always believed in placing oneself on the winning side after all.

"Do you mind if I pop myself here?" Pansy patted the bed.

Draco nodded. He tried not to flinch as she sat beside him, but it had become a habit.

"Did they tell you that I tried to visit in Azkaban? Several times. There was always some excuse why I wasn't allowed in."

Draco did remember that vaguely. It came back to him. Quite early on. He remembered guards saying something like that. He had been glad that she hadn't seen him brought so low. In fact, it might have been him who'd requested that she be kept out.

"But I can see you now that you've managed to blag your way out, you clever boy. How exactly did you get a cosy posting like this one?"

His pride bristled. He wasn't going to tell her about how he'd been classified. He was glad she didn't know. He was a real wizard. He was.

"Cosy? There's a Weasley downstairs." He didn't like her description of his enslavement.

"Yes. He looks very miserable about it all. Cosier than Azkaban, though, I'd say."

That idea made Draco uncomfortable. It unnerved him that Weasley looked unhappy, too. Something wasn't making sense. He wanted to retreat to his happy place and torture Gryffindors. He liked having Pansy here, though. He decided to stay with her, to stay alert to reality with her.

"Are you eating properly?" she asked.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. That sounded pathetic, though. He didn't want to look pathetic in front of Pansy. He remembered that he'd fancied her once. He couldn't summon any of those feelings anymore, but he did still have his pride.

"Let's have lunch!" she said breezily. She pulled her wand out of her waistband, then checked herself. "Oh, hell. I'll have to walk down and collect it like a Muggle, won't I?" She stood up and straightened the skirt of her tight robes.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why?"

"Why don't you just summon the food, or get a House Elf in here?"

She gave him a concerned and quizzical look, before saying softly. "Because of the magic. You're not strong enough. Didn't you know? They told me not to do any magic around you or it would make you worse."

"I didn't know." He didn't believe it either, but he let her walk noisily on her heels down the stairs and up again with a tray.

That must be their excuse for making him endure all this Muggle living. Clever. Fiendishly so.

Pansy handed him the tray and sat up against the headboard with her own plate. He shuffled to the side to give her room, then sat up next to her. This was real food. He remembered the scent. There was a sauce, garlic, three vegetables and tiny cubes of sauté potatoes. Just like childhood dinners. It was daylight and there was no wine. But it was almost dinner. He prodded through the sauce with his fork and found chicken. He had to decide whether to trust her now. He wanted to eat this. Was Pansy in league with the trio?

He lifted the fork to his mouth and licked the end. He decided to risk it. If this was the prelude to the pain then at least the waiting would be over.

He felt full very quickly. Pansy chattered about her job at Madame Malkin's, and about how she dodged invitations from Goyle and Flint, but couldn't lure any from Zabini. Sleepiness crept up on him. Perhaps she'd hidden a sleeping draught in the sauce. He wanted more taste, but couldn't manage any more food. Her voice slipped away. Something about Quidditch players, but he couldn't follow her anymore. He fell gently asleep.

Ron kicked the cupboard door. The quiet rage didn't abate any. He stared at the tray on the kitchen table and took a deep breath, but he couldn't steel himself to touch it. Behind him, the steam and soap rose as the washing-up bowl filled from the Muggle tap. He wasn't even allowed to do an Aguamenti ! He tried to redirect his rage at that fact, but it wouldn't go.

He knew better than to name what he was feeling, knew full well how pathetic and childish it was; he recognised jealousy well enough. He turned off the taps and began forcefully plunging his own mugs and cutlery under the water. He splashed warm bubbles on his sleeve and pretended that he cared enough about his sweater to be this angry about that. He turned quickly to pick up the lunch plates: trying to catch himself off guard and failing.

Pansy bloody Parkinson with her trippy-trap heels and her snug skirt over her perfect round bottom, swaying it as she mounted the stairs. Taunting him. Then going up to sit in Malfoy's bed with him. How the fuck did Malfoy get so lucky? Scrawny, half-creatured git!

Heat spread quickly up Ron's body, jolted into his hand. He let go of the crockery. The ungrateful bastard! Ron had hold of a stool before he knew it and he was smashing it against the floor.

Muggle, flat-pick stools they were. Ron and Arthur had spent a satisfying afternoon putting them together. They could have charmed the screwdrivers, but Arthur had wanted to do it properly. They hadn't been sure at that stage just how much residual magic Malfoy was going to be able to cope with. Not that Ron had told his dad that. He hadn't told his dad anything about the parchment of credentials then being carried to Azkaban, approved and returned. Fiddling about with allen keys had taken his mind off all that.

It wasn't just that he wanted to spare his family the worry about what he was doing with Malfoy, nor even that he wanted to protect them by making sure none of his brothers volunteered for the role; in some deep part of himself he was ashamed of colluding with old, Pureblood laws.

He realised that he was staring out of the window when he saw Hermione's car park outside. She manoeuvred a box of groceries out of the boot and carried it up the drive. He realised too late that he should have been out there offering to help, so he went to the door to open it for her.

Of course, she spotted the pieces of broken stool on the kitchen floor straight away. Then she looked at his face. He turned away with shame, waited for her to tell him off like he deserved.

"You're bound to get upset sometimes," she said instead. "What you're doing is amazing. You've been through a lot." She sighed. "I wish we could do more. Sit down; I'll make you a cup of tea."

"No! Oh, Merlin, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap I've just spent so long recently sitting around drinking tea." He turned round to find her pointing her wand at the stool remnants and flinched.

They stared at each other for a second.

"It'll probably be fine," he said eventually. What was wrong with him? He was scared of wands now?

"No, you're right," Hermione said as she straightened up and put the wand away, even though he hadn't voiced it. " Reparo probably would be too strong for him." There was a pause, then she started to empty the grocery box onto the counter with decisive movements. "I know. I'll put it all in here and then take it home to mend it, bring it back tomorrow."

She didn't say that her home was now the flat over Wheezes, but Ron had heard from his mother that she'd moved in with George. He wished Hermione would just mention it herself. He wished he could find it in himself to feel jealous about that. He had tried to imagine what it would have been like if it had been Hermione in his bedroom instead of Malfoy, but it had felt the same as imagining Ginny there. He was hopeless.

She made sure she was facing away from him when she asked, "So what brought this on?" She knew him so well. She knew that if she'd been looking at him then he would have had to turn away. He still couldn't answer her. Because it was pathetic. He should have been pleased.

She saw the tray on the table when she turned to pick up the pieces of the stool. "Oh, that's good!"

Ron looked at the two plates and the two empty glasses, at the two forks. One plate was scraped clean. Parkinson hadn't built that chest from picking at bits of salad like Hermione did. The other plate had its smear of puréed potato, a few strands of green bean and a lump of salmon in a yellowish sauce left on it. Huge swathes of crockery were visible, though. Ron bit his lip.

"So, that's the third day, and every day he's eaten a bit more, hasn't he?" Hermione was enthusing.

Ron grunted and concentrated on gathering up an armful of splintered wood to dump in the box. He could feel himself heating up again. His eyes were actually prickling. He was pathetic.

Hermione watched him as they cleared the floor. Then she stroked his arm and looked up into his eyes. No! She always got him this way. "Say it."

"It's so stupid. I'm so stupid. Yeah. It's brilliant that he's eating."

"But?"

Ron ground his teeth together.

"Ah." Damn! She'd worked it out. "That's completely understandable, Ron. After everything you've done for him."

"He wouldn't even eat a piece of toast I'd made him!"

"I know."

"He doesn't trust me."

"And you've had to give up everything to keep him safe."

Ron sniffed. "Not everything."

"Not forever. I don't mean that."

"They sit on the bed together, eating." Ron couldn't look at Hermione anymore. "He eats. It stinks of garlic and shit and he just eats it! I bet she uses magic on it and everything, and I've made all those things by hand the Muggle way, and he wouldn't—"

"But he's building his strength—"

"I know, I know. I'm being pathetic and precious."

"I didn't say that." She stroked his arm again and he wished that still meant something else to him and that made him angry too. "It's understandable. But, you know what? If he's eating at all then that's a start. We'll think of something."

He broke away from her and picked up the box of oats and the packet of pasta off the table.

She opened the box of tea and poured it into his caddy. "He drank that cup of tea you made when Penelope was here."

"Yeah. He's had the odd cup of tea."

"Oh!" she stood quite still suddenly with that look on her face which meant a good idea.

She looked like a schoolgirl again and Ron wished he could turn the fondness he felt into something more, even though George deserved her love more than he did.

Hermione's smile got almost smug. "Who makes the second best hot chocolate in the world?" she asked.

Ron managed a small smile of his own. "You know I do."

"Because you were taught by the woman who makes the best hot chocolate in the world: your mum. And it was your job."

"We each had a job. Percy set the table. Bill washed, Charlie dried. The twins drew the curtains and turned lights on. Why Mum thought giving them permission to light candles was a good idea, I'll never know. Ginny cleared. I made hot chocolate."

"And on special occasions, you got to add whipped cream and marshmallows and sprinkles. I've had your special hot chocolate. In fact, I'd argue that when you go for the grated chocolate version, you make the first best—"

"Blasphemy!"

"Nobody could resist that. And it's only a drink. He already trusts you to make him drinks."

"Only if I drink, too and he gets to choose which is his."

"You can do that. But it's substantial. It's full of calories, which is what he needs. It could be the first step."

Ron felt all hopeful, like he had a plan and a purpose all over again. How did she manage to do that to him? He took the plates off the tray and scraped Malfoy's into the bin before getting on with the washing up.

The next day, he gave Parkinson her plates back. She took a deep breath. "Mmm. Something smells irresistible. Is there some of that for me?"

"If you like." He shrugged casually. "It's only hot chocolate. I'll bring you one up when it's done if you like." He went back to whisking.

"Such talent! And that body, too." She looked back over her shoulder as she left and he made himself watch her climb the stairs again. Today her skirt was loose but short. It swished up as she moved and gave him a glimpse of the curve of her buttock under her tights. It did nothing to him.

He inhaled the chocolate. He wasn't going to worry about that now. He wasn't going to tell himself that he was as much of a freak as Malfoy was, or work on ways to become a normal wizard again. He was going to make the second best hot chocolate drink in the world.

He burnt his knuckle holding the three mug handles in one hand so he could knock on the bedroom door. There was a pause, then Parkinson who called out, "Come in!"

They were sitting up in the bed together! He had known they would be, but it was a shock. He was being daft; he knew he didn't fancy Parkinson anyway, so what did he care? He stood awkwardly, said nothing.

Luckily she took over. "Oh, yes! The cocoa. Do bring it over!"

Malfoy eyed him warily as he approached. Just as he always did.

Parkinson took a mug and made a deep moaning sound which was almost sexual. "The perfect end to a lovely meal."

It looked like more messed-about French muck to Ron, but he said nothing. He noticed that the plate on Malfoy's lap was still half full. Had he come upstairs too early? Malfoy's eyes were darting about from Parkinson, to the mug, to his plate, to Ron. Ron looked at the wall to take the pressure off and offered up the choice of the two mugs. He felt one being eased from his grip.

The two men watched Parkinson drink deeply and then lick the cream from her upper lip. Malfoy looked sharply at Ron. Ron took a drink. He couldn't taste anything. Malfoy watched Ron and Parkinson drink for a while, before finally taking a tentative sip himself.

It was ridiculous for Ron to feel this happy about it.

Draco woke slowly in the middle of the night feeling strange. He was achy and a bit sicky. He thought of Nanny and her warm honey drinks, then of Weasley's surprisingly acceptable chocolate drinks. Something was off. He had lowered his guard too much. Weasley had poisoned him. He tried to soothe himself back to sleep with thoughts of redheads on racks, but those reassuring images no longer had the effect they once had. Something felt wrong and it stopped him from relaxing. Was this when the torture was finally going to begin. He couldn't quite believe in all that anymore. But then maybe that was why the trio had waited this long before they started hurting him. He tried to roll over, but his hand got sticky.

Warm and sticky. Like his crotch. His thighs. His pyjama bottoms were stuck to him. That smell was like raw meat. He had to move through the thick liquid to get to his bedside light. His? That was the sort of complacency which would undo him. Nothing was his! He was a slave. The smell was blood, he recognised, as he reached the light.

His own blood! On the blanket which he threw off, and over his lower abdomen, his upper legs and – from what he could feel – his bottom. Panic rose. It couldn't be his blood, though: he could feel no wound. Animal blood? Human blood? Why wasn't it cooling? Where had it come from? He was screaming before he could stop himself.

The door flung open. A sleepy-looking Weasley in a vest and pyjama trousers stared stupidly into the room. Then his features sharpened into comprehension. He moved over to the bed. "Ok. It's ok."

He sat down next to Draco and Draco tried to move back, but there was nowhere to go.

"It's a good sign, actually. Remember what the Healer said?"

What was the Blood Traitor blethering about? How the hell could this be a good thing?

"It shows that you're getting stronger."

Draco's throat was raw, he realised that he'd stopped screaming. "What the hell is it?" he demanded.

"Well, it's your…" Weasley looked embarrassed suddenly. "You know." He shrugged.

"Where's it coming from?"

"From your – you know… Somewhere down…. Well, I don't know exactly. The old books are a bit vague. Remember? Oh for Merlin's sake, Malfoy! Do you never listen to anything the Healer tells you?"

No. Not their pet Healer. He didn't listen to her. She told lies. Lies about Wombhags and— oh sweet Abanazar! No!

"It's not a period!" Draco shouted. "No! I'm a normal wizard. A real wizard! It's all a lie!"

"Of course you're a real wizard, mate," Weasley muttered. "Nobody said you weren't a real wizard."

"But only witches menstruate!"

"I'm sorry, mate. Turns out that's not quite true. It shows how much healthier you are, though, than when I collected you from Azkaban. This is a good sign."

No. No. This was a sign that… No. This would mean... Draco's mind tried to close down. He thought about fingernail extraction. It made him feel even more queasy. Menstrual blood passed through a womb. He didn't have one. He didn't, he didn't, he didn't…

It hit him like the Knight Bus running into him. He sobbed. Then he was crying and crying. It was true! It was all true. This meant everything they'd said could be true. If he was a Wombhag, then he probably was allergic to magic, and he did need Weasley's protection, and the invisible Dementors hadn't been at his cell door and… and… and maybe Weasley wasn't trying to kill him. Each racking sob forced more blood gushing out of him, but he wasn't yet sure where it was gushing from.

Then there were warm arms round him, strong, kind arms. He wept onto the shoulder that came under his head, and he even half-listened as Weasley murmured, "It's alright. You'll be ok. I'm here. Don't worry."

After a while the tears stopped. The hug lasted a little longer, but then Draco said, "I'd better change the sheets. I've probably stained your mattress." He felt utterly humiliated, sitting here in his own blood.

"Don't worry about that," Weasley said gently. "I've got some things. They're in the bathroom. Hermione left them. You could do with a bath, actually."

Draco flinched.

"Don't you want a bath?"

"It smells funny in there."

"Yeah, it does. Plastic and bleach. Muggle stuff." Ron had his lip curled in disgust. "Look, if you're well enough for this to happen, then I could probably risk casting something simple in there before you go in. Something to cover the smell. Rose? What about that?"

"And soap?" Draco asked hopefully.

Weasley nodded. He pulled back, and Draco was shamed to see that there were streaks on blood on his nightclothes. Draco's blood. Weasley didn't look fussed, though. He went into the bathroom and closed the door.

A nerve-scraping shudder passed through Draco. Then the door opened and Weasley looked out questioningly.

"I felt the spell," Draco admitted. "It wasn't too bad." But it proved that they'd been protecting him all along. Draco felt stupid.

"Smells better in here now, anyway. Kind of shaving soap."

Draco looked at the carpet. He didn't want to bleed on it.

Weasley brought over something small and square in a paper packet. "Dunno how this works, but it's meant to…"

He handed it to Draco, who unpeeled the seal. It was folded into three. Flattened, it had a sticky back.

Weasley pulled clean underpants out of a drawer and stuck the thing onto the crotch of the pants. "I think that's it. You get out of your mucky things and put them on while I run the bath." He turned his back.

Draco still couldn't see where the blood was coming from, but he didn't want to look too hard. The texture of the Muggle pad felt odd, but it seemed to do the job. His thighs were covered in dried blood, but he didn't leak onto the carpet as he crossed the room. He looked back at the bed. It was a mess.

"You decent?" Weasley asked from the other side of the bathroom door. Draco could hear water running in there.

Weasley owned Draco. He had every right to look his fill on Draco's body. Draco didn't understand why he was being given this courtesy, this respect. It looked like the Weasel really wasn't going to rape him.

"Yeah," Draco answered. He opened the bathroom door. It did smell of shaving soap. There was rose-scented steam. "The sheets…"

"Don't worry about that. I'll sort that out while you're in the bath. Genevieve showed me how to work the Laundry machine in the kitchen. I don't think we should lock the door. In case you get dizzy." They passed each other in the doorway. "I'll be just in here, just the other side of the door."

"Thanks," Draco forced out.

The door closed. He took off the pants.

He got into the warm water and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he watched the red blooming out into the water from his body. He could hear Weasley moving round in the next room. Fresh pyjamas, pants and pads were piled on the loo cistern. There was a towel on the rail beside the bath. Dawn broke at the little, frosted glass window. Draco's muscles uncoiled themselves in the water.

"Weasley?" he asked, wondering whether he could be heard.

"Yes?"

"Why did you do it? Why did you claim me?" Draco had thought that he knew the answer to that one. Weasley had claimed him in order to torment him, own him, humiliate and hurt him. But Draco had known nothing.

There was a sigh and a pause from the other room. Then Weasley said slowly, "You're a valuable commodity. The wrong hands would have been a bit keen. Just a preventative thing."

Draco enjoyed the water and thought about that for a long time. Eventually, the water was cooling and the thud of heavy fabric had stopped. Some machine rumbled somewhere beneath the bath. Weasley's feet had sounded going down, then, after a while, back up the stairs. Draco said, "Potter's not the only one addicted to saving people, then?"

Weasley actually laughed.

Ron was wrenched – yet again – from the depths of exhausted sleep by Draco's screams. It took a few seconds for his brain to orient him, then he was sliding from the warmth of his blankets and crossing the landing. Again.

Another nightmare. Draco was still asleep. He might not wake up. Sometimes Ron managed to soothe him without waking him, and send him over into more peaceful sleep. At least now, if Draco did wake, Ron didn't get punched, scratched and kicked.

He stroked Draco's sweaty brow and whispered the sort of nonsense his mother would have used. Draco stopped screaming. His eyelids fluttered open.

"Just a dream," Ron said, "you're alright."

Draco was gasping for breath. He stared at Ron.

"Do you want the light on?" Ron asked. "Water?"

"Uh huh. Uh huh." Draco nodded.

By the time Ron had returned from the light switch and was passing Draco the glass of water from the bedside table, Draco's eyes had lost that demented fixed glitter.

Ron stood beside the bed – longing for his own – watching Draco drink and waiting until he was calm.

"Ron," Draco croaked. "Ron, thank you."

Now that was something young Mr Malfoy wasn't ever going to say in daylight! That was worth breaking sleep for. Ron should have gloried silently in that and left it be. But he couldn't. "What for?" he asked.

"Could have been a lot worse," Draco muttered.

Ah! Perhaps that was what the nightmare had been about: what might have happened if some old Death Eater bastard had claimed Draco from Azkaban instead.

"You're welcome," Ron said brightly. "You alright now? Going back to sleep?"

"Don't leave me!"

"I'll be in the next room. You just have to shout –"

"Not… not yet."

"Look I'm knackered –"

"Sit down then." Draco shuffled sideways on the bed. He put his water on the table and looked quietly at Ron.

Well this was new. This was quite a step from scratching Ron's face every time he came near. Ron hesitated. Draco didn't know what he was risking. He now thought he was safe with Ron. Which he probably was. Except that there was something which nobody knew and Ron wasn't going to say.

"Just sit next to me for a while? It was a bad one. I don't want to be on my own."

Ron shrugged. He moved to perch awkwardly on the side of the bed and gave Draco a pat on the shoulder. Draco eased the bottom pillow out from under the top one, and got the two pillows lying next to each other. He looked up at Ron, who smiled back. He wasn't going to risk lying down though. Draco snuggled down, then clutched Ron's wrist and held him in place.

Ron sat stiff and quiet, his back ache spreading an ache up and through him, slowly out to his shoulders. His bare feet chilled in the draft from the open door. Draco's breathing evened out. His grip in Ron's wrist slackened. When he was sure Draco was asleep, Ron slipped back to his own bed.

When he woke, later than usual, he found Draco hovering at the open door to his own room. He startled as Ron padded heavily onto the landing.

"Um. You. Um. Left my door open."

"Sorry," Ron mumbled sleepily.

"No, I mean. Am I allowed out here then?"

Ron was too tired to work out Draco's warped mind. "Yeah. Of course."

"Really? Since when?" Draco's voice was shaky.

Ron stared at the slim lad in his cotton pyjamas which were still too big for him really. Not as skinny as he had been, though. Ron tried to will his mind to function properly. Eventually he said, "It's never been locked."

Draco stared at his own long, bare toes. The nails needed cutting. There must be a Muggle way of doing that, Ron thought. Draco was stronger, but he wasn't going to be able to cope with Magic directly on his skin yet.

"You want to have breakfast in the kitchen?" Ron asked.

Draco looked down the stairs.

"It's a bit weird." Ron shrugged. "It kind of came with all this Muggle stuff in it. The fridge hums. It makes a noise, I mean. It smells ok. Hermione cleans it out sometimes. Not 'cos she's the girl. Just. She does do that." He was babbling. He realised, though, that the longer he talked, the less scared Draco looked. Draco hadn't been out of that room in weeks. Before that he'd been in the one cell for years. This was actually going to be a big step. Ron kept talking. "Muggles seem to like all their kitchen stuff to be kind of shiny. And it's not proper furniture, most of it, just these cupboards all along the walls. The sink's made of shiny metal." Ron really did wish that he had a homely, comfortable kitchen to offer Draco: one with wooden dressers and a warm range. But this was all there was. "It kind of smells of that cleaning stuff when there's nothing cooking in it, too. Soon as I get the coffee machine on that'll go, though. D'you fancy bacon?"

Draco nodded. He took a step towards the stairs. Ron moved in front of him, like he could protect him from the strangeness. They made it into the kitchen and Draco sat on one of the stools, with big eyes taking it all in as Ron moved around him fixing breakfast.

Later, when they were both dressed, Ron gave him the not-so-grand tour of the tiny house. When Pansy arrived with lunch, she found them both sitting in armchairs and reading. She stretched herself out on the empty sofa, but couldn't get either of them to flirt with her. Ron left them to their strong-smelling French food.

When she'd gone, Draco watched him washing up. Draco looked exhausted. It must have been quite a day for him. Ron offered to make hot chocolate, suggested a nap, and Draco wasn't even snarky with him when he said that he'd like the drink in a couple of hours once he'd slept a bit.

"Did you have a nice time with Pansy?" Ron asked when he brought the hot chocolate up.

Draco's hair was all mussed from sleep. It was getting long. Ron should find out the Muggle way of trimming that, too. He patted the bed beside him. Ron hesitated.

"She usually sits there when we have lunch."

"Does she now?" Ron asked.

"Jealous?"

Ron's heart stuttered. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

"Don't be. I think she fancies you more than she fancies me anyway."

Ron's heart started beating normally again.

Draco looked down at his slight form. "Can't blame her."

"She's always had a thing for you," Ron said, placating. "And she never found anyone else. Not while you were… away. Look at the devoted way she brings you lunch every day."

"She's just a friend. You should make a move. She'd like that." Draco patted the bed again. "Come on, sit down. I don't bite. Well, I know I did a few times, but that was… you know. Before I understood what was going on." He paused. They looked at each other. "Go on."

Ron sat on the edge of the bed again, with his feet on the floor. He twisted round so that he didn't completely have his back to Draco. They sipped their hot chocolate.

"I'm serious. You should ask Pansy out on a date. She might at least get something she wants out of this shit." Draco muttered the last sentence.

"I'm supposed to stay here with you."

"You go out sometimes. Granger or Potter babysit me."

It was true. Ron looked into his mug, like he might find a polite way of avoiding a date with the scarily sexy Parkinson in it. "I dunno. There's a lot going on," he muttered.

That night when Draco had a nightmare, Ron sat on the bed as he soothed him back to sleep and stayed until Draco was asleep again without being asked. The next day, he ate lunch with Draco and Pansy and it wasn't as bad as he had expected. The morning after that, he woke in Draco's bed and realised two things: that he must have fallen asleep there after Draco's nightmare, and that in his sleep his body had reacted to the near presence of another.

Shamed, he tried to ease himself out without waking Draco. Draco had hold of his upper arm, though. He gripped it tighter as Ron moved. Draco wasn't awake, but he wasn't asleep either. He murmured and snuggled closer to Ron. Ron lay as still as he could, trying to think his hard-on away, terrified of Draco finding out about it. Draco would think that Ron wanted to rape him, that Ron was going to claim his rights over his Wombhag after all. Draco would realise what was wrong with Ron.

Ron had been jealous when he'd seen Pansy and Draco in the bed together. It hadn't been because he wanted Pansy in his bed, though. He might have told Genevieve that he had things to work through, but he hadn't been thinking about it really. He had been ignoring all the signs, running from them. He was as big a freak as Draco was. Draco wasn't dangerous though. Ron was. Draco was at risk of awful things. Ron didn't even want to think what he might do to Draco here in this bed. He was terrified of himself. Draco would be terrified, too.

Ron eased each of Draco's fingers off his arm. Draco didn't wake. Grateful, Ron slipped from the bed and crept across the room. He was nearly at the door when Draco said, "Don't go!"

Ron had spun round in reaction before thinking. Draco's gaze dropped to Ron's groin, to the obvious tenting in Ron's pyjama trousers. Ron fled.

Ron was dressed carefully in baggy joggers and a long jumper when Draco joined him in the kitchen for a full cooked breakfast later that morning. Draco was still in pyjamas. Ron didn't look at him. Harry was due round later; Ron was going to ask him to stay for a couple of hours. Ron just needed to get out. He never saw anyone except Malfoy these days. No wonder it was getting a bit weird.

He gave Draco an over-laden plate. There was no way that was all going to be eaten. He was meant to be giving small portions. The Healer had said. Baby steps. Instead, Ron was turning into his mother. He cut into his own fried bread, intent on his cutlery as though it were something difficult to manage.

"Look, about this morning," Draco said.

Ron closed his eyes. Couldn't they just pretend it hadn't happened?

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about. It happens. It doesn't mean anything."

It was very nice of Draco to say that. Ron would prefer it if he just said nothing, though. Draco didn't know what it did mean. Not really.

"I had one, too," Draco said.

Ron couldn't stop himself from looking up at that. "That's a good sign," he said with his voice full of hope. "That's really healthy. You must be getting stronger."

Draco liked having someone to sleep with. He wished Ron wouldn't wait until he had a nightmare to come in. Azkaban had been so lonely. It was just nice to know he wasn't alone. And it didn't mean anything, the two of them waking up with erections every morning. That was just boy-bodies, wasn't it? Draco didn't really keep track of time. He'd given up on that long ago. It might have been going on for a few weeks, though. It was nice.

It was nice to have a whole house to move around. They were talking about going out for a walk one day, maybe. It would have been nicer to go somewhere Wizarding to do that, but apparently Draco was still too sensitive. The Healer had said that soon he'd be able to have his appointments at St Mungo's, though, instead of her visiting the funny, square little house. He was getting better, she said.

Draco had visitors. None of them knew about the Bearer business, nor why he was living with Weasley, but they accepted it as some kind of cushy parole business. Greg Goyle was even fatter than he'd once been, Nott's hair was thinning, Bulstrode had had a couple of kids. It all put his age into perspective. All those wasted years in Azkaban.

It had been nice to see them. Nice. Pansy had organised it and he'd thanked her. When he'd been left with just Ron, though, he'd had a cry. Ron had been very nice about it. He'd held him lightly. The next time he'd held him a bit tighter. When Draco had finished, they'd stayed sitting together for a bit. It hadn't meant anything that Draco had got aroused by that. His body was in recovery. It was just like those random erections teenage boys got. Not that Draco had mentioned it to the Healer. That's what she would have said, though, if he had.

Draco woke again with the smell of Weasley against his nose. It was much nicer than waking alone. He hardly ever slipped into his happy fantasy world any more. When he did, he found that he could only torture the enemies he hadn't seen since he'd got out of prison. Even then, he couldn't think up very interesting things to do to them, and it was all rather unsatisfying.

He became aware of sunlight coming through the curtains, and then he noticed his own body. Morning glory again. Didn't matter. Oh, but it was pressed against something. There was something solid between his legs. Oops. He appeared to have wrapped himself around Ron's thigh. Never mind. As long as Ron wasn't awake it would be fine. Ron was snoring loudly. It was alright. Draco shifted slightly, preparing to pull away from Ron's body. Merlin! That felt good, though. His hips jerked involuntarily. Mmmm. This was no good, though. He couldn't be humping Ron's thigh. Even if it was so hard and strong. Even if it felt so pleasant. No good at all. Just one more. It felt too good: rubbing his hard cock against Ron's hard leg. He glanced up to check that Ron was still fast asleep.

Huge blue eyes stared down at him in shock.

"Erm," Draco said. "Sorry?"

"Erm," Ron replied.

"I was just… It's all fine. It doesn't mean…" Ron's stare was so heated that Draco's pelvis jerked against him before it could be stopped by reason. Draco was mortified. He pulled back. "So sorry! That must feel horrible. I didn't mean…"

"It's ok." Ron's voice was still thick with sleep. They stared at each other for a while. Draco realised that he wasn't the only one breathing deeply. "Did it feel…?"

"Nice. Yeah. I was asleep. Sorry."

"I don't mind," Ron said too quickly.

Draco realised that Ron was putting some effort into looking at Draco's face and that his eyes slipped every so often as though he would rather look lower down Draco's body.

Oh. A warm shiver ran through Draco. Maybe that was why Ron hadn't asked Pansy out yet. Draco found it difficult to think of his new, wasted body as desirable. Maybe, though. Just maybe. He liked the idea. He pushed back the soft blanket and looked down at their two bodies. When he looked up, he saw Ron looking down still. The desire was blatant. Draco fitted himself back onto Ron's thigh. Ron whimpered. Draco was surprised by how much he was liking this. He had thought that his sex drive was gone. Pansy had been in bed with him all those times and he hadn't been able to think about sex.

"No, Draco. Don't," Ron mumbled, but he didn't sound like he meant it.

Ron was as hard as Draco was. Draco had a wicked urge to grab the bulge in Ron's pyjamas. Why not, though? It would be fun. It would be nice. Draco couldn't get pregnant by wanking Ron through his pyjamas.

It was all heat: the flesh under his palm, the thigh against his cock, the breath on his face, and the look on Ron's face. Why not? Draco couldn't think of a good reason not to do this. He stroked. Ron groaned. Draco humped. He humped and stroked at the same time.

He was panting, but his mouth felt empty. He didn't exactly mean to kiss Ron's neck, but it happened. He gripped Ron's shoulder for purchase. The fabric chafed. He pulled it down; he wanted to feel Ron's flesh and before he knew it his hand was inside the cotton not on top of it. Ron put an arm round him and they hugged as they jerked and moved together. It was all heat. The smell was Ron. Draco was approaching orgasm, and then he'd tipped over. Hot wet splashed his hand. He pulled in air and rode the sensations.

Then they were both still and Ron was staring at him. Draco didn't want him to go. He couldn't think of anything to say which wouldn't be the wrong thing. So he shifted slightly and kissed Ron's mouth instead. He felt like it did mean something.

Hermione's alarm woke her early. She was glad to see that George was still sleeping. He'd had another night without a nightmare. His heavy arm lay over her back and, really, what she wanted was to stay here close to him. She couldn't though, because Ron and Draco needed supplies. She still bought everything from the Muggle supermarket – just in case – but it was nice to be able to Apparate it there now, instead of getting out the car and chugging through the traffic. Hopefully soon Ron would decide that things were settled enough for him to tell his family what he was doing; she hated lying to George.

He stirred as she was dressing and looked questioningly at her.

She shrugged. "Busy day at work; I'm going early." It was all true. There was going to be a big delivery of text books to Flourish and Blotts today and that was why she wasn't going to be able to nip out at lunchtime to shop for Ron; she would have to do that before she went in. Thank goodness for twenty-four hour supermarkets!

"If you worked downstairs…" George didn't need to complete his old refrain.

"You know full well that neither of us is able to take orders –"

"When you realise that jokes are more fun than books –"

"Never! Really, George Weasley, who do you think -?"

"Enjoy your long commute!"

She laughed. It was all of two minutes' walk. Her laugh wouldn't have been strained at all if that had actually been where she was heading.

George rolled onto his other side, exposing the hole where his ear had been and her gut swooped with fond protectiveness all over again. The sheet had slipped to expose his broad, strong bare back, too. She couldn't afford to hang around reacting to that!

She Apparated in a back alley where he wouldn't hear her. This new relationship needed trust to thrive and Ron was making that impossible; she couldn't help but wonder whether that was deliberate. Nobody wished more than she did that things could have worked well between her and one of her best friends, but it just hadn't been right. With George it was. Ron probably wasn't even aware of wanting to create difficulties in her new relationship. He was seldom very aware about emotions.

She Apparated, with the bags of groceries, from the disabled toilet at the supermarket to the empty interior of Ron's garage, then carted them round to the front, where she knocked on the door. It was too early, of course. She cast Alohomora , thankful again that Malfoy was now strong enough to cope with a little magic in the vicinity, and let herself into the kitchen.

When she'd put away the shopping, Ron still hadn't appeared. She wanted an update. She wouldn't be back for a couple of days, not with the shop stocking up for N.E.W.T retakes. It was almost half past eight. That wasn't too early to wake anyone, surely? Even if he had had another broken night.

She walked softly past the room where Malfoy stayed, then knocked lightly on Ron's bedroom door. There was an answering grunt from inside, so she opened the door.

She froze. Nausea swept her. She stopped thinking. Her eyes prickled hot and wet. This wasn't right. Luckily, a rising tide of anger saved her from being swamped by sadness.

Ron wasn't alone in his bed. Malfoy was there too. Neither of them was dressed in anything: the duvet was caught round their legs. Malfoy's arm lay over Ron's naked chest, it snaked over and up so that his fingers curled over Ron's freckled shoulder. They woke with a collective start and stared at her, then moved together to sit up and pull the bedding up. It wasn't like she'd never seen Ron's arse before for Merlin's sake!

"What the hell are you up to?" She was sure she was furious with Ron because he'd taken advantage of the situation, behaved just like those Dark Wizards he was meant to be protecting Malfoy from. And because he was being irresponsible! "He'll get pregnant!"

"No I won't," Malfoy snapped back.

"Hermione," Ron said stupidly. He'd always been slow to get going in the mornings.

"How could you, Ron?"

"Look. Hermione. It's –"

He wasn't going to try to say it wasn't what it looked like, was he?

"It's fine. It's good." That was almost as bad.

"It's not fine!" she replied, aware of how shrill she was getting. "It's not fine at all. This isn't why you collected him! You're supposed to be… you're not supposed to be…"

"I thought you two had split up," Malfoy said coolly.

"That's not the point!"

"I don't see how this is any of your business, Granger. What do you think you're doing, walking into your ex's bedroom? You can't expect—"

"It's ok, Draco," Ron said in an unbearably gentle voice. "It's ok. That was a long time ago. She's living with George now. She's just a friend."

That shouldn't have hurt. Hermione retaliated by shouting, "It's not bloody ok, actually, Ron. Are you two ready to raise a child? You do remember why he's here?"

Malfoy actually laughed – a nasty, cutting laugh she remembered from school. He'd certainly got his strength back, then!

Ron was blushing furiously. "Just take my word, 'Mione. That's not an issue," he muttered.

"How can it not be an issue? We don't have enough information about his condition to be able to ascertain which might be effective contraceptive methods –"

"We haven't done anything which would – you know –" Ron was getting more embarrassed.

She couldn't stop, though. She was right and this was too important. "You might be happy with non-penetrative contact for now—" Ron made a choking sound and Malfoy laughed "—but that's not to say that you won't get carried away. I'll get you some Muggle condoms, but—"

"You stupid witch, do I have to draw you a diagram?" Malfoy was wearing that old smug sneer.

She wanted to punch it off his face again.

"Draco!" Ron admonished lightly. "Hermione, look – oh, Merlin!" He leant over the bed to where his joggers had been thrown, inside out.

Hermione really didn't want to think about what might have been going on when that had happened. She realised that he was trying to dress himself. She remembered to turn her back to give him the privacy to do that quickly. She took a deep breath. Why on earth did she feel like crying?

Then Ron was standing in front of her, still blushing furiously, talking very quietly. "Look, Hermione. I'm sorry. It must have been a shock, walking in on us here. It's been a gradual thing. I was going to tell you. Honest." He swallowed. "But seriously, you don't have to worry about pregnancy, because... Um. Well. Because I can't get pregnant."

She stared into his face stupidly for a moment, and then all in a rush she understood. She had a horrible vision of her sweet Ron bent over the bed, and of Malfoy violating him…

"Well, alright then. I suppose." She was blushing as hard as Ron now. She was talking too fast, too. "I'll get some condoms anyway. And be careful. He's still not well. I've got work to get to."

And then she ran full tilt down the stairs as fast as her legs would carry her.

The window frames weren't made of wood. They were made of some hard, white plastic, with metal catches and handles. There was a tall one in the sitting room, which was supposed to be like a French window, but unlike the ones in the Manor, it slid sideways to open. Ron had opened it and now Draco was standing by it, smelling the grass, and thinking about walking through it.

Ron had caught him gazing out at the garden again, and he'd suggested that Draco go out into it. Draco wasn't sure. He hadn't been out in a long time. It was a small garden surrounded by a wooden fence, and it was clear that Ron hadn't cut the grass or weeded the beds since they got there. He probably didn't know the non-magic way to do it any more than Draco did. Of course he wanted grass and flowers and fresh air again. At least his mind did, but the unfamiliarity had frozen his movements.

Ron held his hand. Draco squeezed back. Ron took a step out over the lines of the sliding mechanism at the bottom of the window-door. Then he looked back into Draco's face with concern and took a deep breath. Draco shuffled forwards over the mat. Beyond the threshold was dark mud, with blades of green shooting up from it. To the side, the grey drainpipe hung over the meshed, concrete hole in the ground. Then Draco looked up and straight back into Ron's face.

It was a fresh day, but dry and not exactly windy. Draco was dressed in someone else's clothes and shoes, Ron had produced everything from somewhere. They fitted Draco and were too small to be Ron's. They might have been bought for him. They were Muggle shapes and fabrics: loose, soft dark green trousers, and a grey jumper made of the same stuff. The breeze caught at Draco's neck and his wrists, chilled inside his nostrils.

Ron pulled gently on Draco's hand and he nodded reassuringly. Draco lifted a foot. He watched its progress out into the world. Then he was more out than in. Suddenly he was outside. A little "Oooh" noise escaped his mouth.

They promenaded around the small lawn, past the overgrown beds which edged the fences. Draco looked up into the greyish sky, and followed wisps of cloud with his eyes. He was startled when a butterfly darted up at him. Then he was embarrassed about his squawk. Ron laughed gently, though, as he gave him a hug.

Draco laid his head onto Ron's shoulder and watched a couple of house martins beyond it, as they swooped towards a neighbour's eaves and back. Their chests rose against each other's as they breathed. Draco tried to match Ron's rhythm. He stroked his hands up and down Ron's broad back. Ron's hair tickled Draco's face as he turned his head. Then he kissed the lobe of Draco's ear.

Draco caught a movement in a window. The garden was overlooked on all sides by Muggles; an old female one was staring down at them. He couldn't read her expression and he didn't know what Muggles thought about men loving each other. He took one last deep breath and then pulled back. Keeping hold of Ron's hand, he walked back into the sitting room.

"How do you close the curtains?" he asked.

"Don't you want to see out anymore?"

"After. But first I don't want any of the neighbours looking in. I don't want them to see the things I plan to do now."

Ron looked interested. "You want to go back to bed?" he asked hopefully.

"Close the curtains," Draco said slowly. Sometimes Ron could still be as dim as he'd been in Potions lessons.

Ron took hold of the flimsy fabric and walked it over the windows and the imitation French windows. Draco took his hands as soon as he'd finished, and pulled him to the sofa. He undid Ron's trousers and enjoyed the hitch in Ron's breath. Then he tugged the fabric to Ron's thighs, releasing his hardening cock. He pushed gently at Ron's chest and Ron sat.

Draco knelt between Ron's thighs as Ron watched him with huge, sparkling eyes. Daylight shone through the cheap Muggle curtains and Draco used it to get a good look at Ron's cock for the first time. They had fumbled through all sorts of heated manoeuvres in the dark. Day made it different. Draco's hand traced the familiar shape of Ron's broad cock, and watched it thicken and rise from its ginger curls. The pale skin at the inner thigh was without freckles; it matched the white of Draco's own fingers, which moved over the reddening skin of Ron's cock.

Ron hummed with pleasure. Draco took his time. He rubbed his cheek against Ron's cock. He smelled it. His mouth watered. He didn't know whether he wanted to lick and suck though; didn't trust himself to get it right. He was only used to his own cock and he'd never sucked that. He lowered his head and ran his tongue tip over the head. It didn't taste of much. Ron's groan convinced him to flatten his tongue and try again. His own erection rose against the soft inside of his Muggle trousers. He licked all over Ron's cock while his fingers moved down to play with his balls.

Ron made delicious noises and his hands stroked through Draco's hair and over his face. All of a sudden, Draco couldn't stay leisurely any more. He grabbed at Ron's trousers and yanked them right off. Ron lay down on the sofa as Draco pulled the elasticated waistband of his own trousers down to his knees.

Their mouths clashed and their eyes closed. They writhed against each other. Ron's knees rose. They panted. Draco's hands found Ron's buttocks, then the cleft between them, as Ron's own hands gripped Draco's cock. Draco pushed a dry finger into Ron, then another as Ron gasped encouragement. He wriggled and pushed his fingers into Ron's heat, but he knew he needed lubricant. Damn it! It was in the bedside drawer.

Ron leant off the sofa and he reached into the pocket of his discarded trousers; Draco had to steady him with his knees. Draco had an instant's panic when he saw the wand, but when Ron shouted out Accio Lube! there was no more than a light shudder, which had no power in comparison to the intense heat of his arousal. Draco thought no more about it as he unscrewed the cap. Ron had come back with the lube the last time Harry had sat in the kitchen while Draco hid in his bedroom. He smeared the lube on his fingers, Ron's arse and his own cock. Then he thrust in and out with the two, then three, then four fingers, until Ron was begging him in whimpers and grunts, and then Draco slid his fingers out and his cock in.

Ron tilted up to meet each of Draco's frenzied thrusts. Draco pushed up Ron's tee-shirt for more skin. They kissed and missed. They moved together and Draco managed to hold off as Ron wanked himself to completion, before allowing his own orgasm to overtake him as he came hard into Ron.

They listened to the birdsong outside as they lay together on the sofa. Draco stayed as still as he could to keep his softening cock inside Ron for as long as possible. He kissed Ron's sweaty neck by just turning his head.

"A witch couldn't do that," Draco said eventually. "I am a real wizard."

"Of course you are. I wouldn't be here like this with you if you weren't," was Ron's drowsy reply.

"But you and Granger—"

Ron's chuckle was shaky under Draco's chest. Draco's cock started to slip out.

"I didn't like it. Wouldn't do that again."

"Am I Wizard enough for you?" Draco asked, scared of the answer.

"Totally."

"Even though I'm a freak," Draco clarified.

The long pause made Draco's mouth go dry and his heart beat too fast.

Eventually Ron replied in a tiny voice. "I'm the freak. You want what a normal wizard wants. You want to be – there – like that –"

Draco tried to make sense of a conversation which hadn't been the one he had thought he had been having. "What?"

Ron's voice was pathetically small. "I never said anything to anyone, but I've known for so long. That this is what I want. That I want… I want to be the one with—With it inside me. I'm the one who's not a real wizard. Not a real witch either. You've got no choice now, but when you're well… I'll understand. You'll want witches—"

Draco sat up to stare at Ron, barely noticing the slip of his flesh leaving Ron's heat. "Ron, no! It's you I want to do this with. I'm never going to want anyone else! Of course you're a real wizard. Merlin! You're a hero—"

Ron's eyes shone with unshed tears. "Exactly! Heroes aren't supposed to be—to be—like me!"

"You saved the world! You get to have sex any way you want it! Nobody's going to give a shit. The thing they won't understand is why you want to have it with Death Eating freakshow scum like me." There, Draco had said it out loud. Ron had laid out his fears and in return, Draco had offered up his own reasons for why this was always going to be a dirty little secret, when what he really wanted was…

Ron flung his long arms around Draco and pulled him close again. They hugged tight, both weeping softly, for a long time.

Finally, when they were both quiet and still, Ron asked, "You hungry?"

Draco felt too damp and snotty for food. He made an indeterminate noise.

"I'm starving. I'm gonna shove in some of those oven chips, I mean they're not like the real thing, but I can't be bothered to peel anything now," he eased Draco sideways and slipped towards the kitchen, "and fried eggs are pretty quick, aren't they? What were those tinned beans with the orange sauce? Not up to that French muck Pansy conjures, but it should be perfectly edible. Oh and Draco," he turned to look back from the doorway, wearing only his T-shirt. "Anyone who objects to my being in love with you is just going to have to lump it."

Harry knocked on the door. He didn't like it here. It wasn't as posh, but this housing estate was too much like Privet Drive for comfort. Too Muggle. He half-expected the neighbours to phone the police because that delinquent St Brutus' boy from the Dursley house was hanging around. He knocked on the door again. Ron couldn't still be asleep! It was early afternoon. Even if he'd been dealing with Malfoy's nightmares again, surely they'd be up by now.

He wandered around to look into the kitchen window. There was a draining board loaded with crockery, and a sweatshirt slung over a stool, but no signs of anyone. He thought about Apparating in, or using Alohomora , but he'd only skimmed that last Healer's report and he wasn't sure how much magic Malfoy could cope with now. Also, after what Hermione had walked in…

So he waited. It started to drizzle. Ron and Malfoy in bed together? He didn't get it. I mean, what did they do? He didn't want to know. Malfoy was such a mad, skinny, sick thing last time Harry had seen him. Even if he hadn't been a bloke, Harry wouldn't have got it. Maybe they'd just spent too much time together and it had just kind of happened because they never saw anyone else. Harry should have done more babysitting. He'd hung around the kitchen for the odd hour at a time, but never any more than that. The area gave him the creeps. Thank Merlin the house didn't have an under-stairs cupboard.

He looked up the street one way and saw parked cars and front lawns, bins not taken in yet, crisp packets. The old fears of childhood itched at him. He looked the other and saw a thickset man walking a dog and two young men in anoraks chatting as they walked. Hang on! One of them was a pale, sharp-featured blond, and the other was a tall, long-nosed freckly ginger. Harry stared at Ron and Malfoy. They just looked so… well… normal .

So, Malfoy was out of bed. He was out of the house. He was taking a stroll through a Muggle neighbourhood. That was good news. Of course it was. It took longer for them to notice him, because they were so caught up in each other. When they did, Harry got a broad grin from Ron, and a shy smile from Malfoy. He was ushered into the kitchen, and Ron started flinging spells around to dry them all, heat water, summon tea leaves.

Once they were sitting round the table, and Harry was actually seeing Malfoy nibble a biscuit, Harry started to say what he'd come round to say: "So, Hermione asked me to give you these." He pulled the carton out of his jacket pocket. "There are instructions." He handed over the leaflet, which Ron glanced at, and Draco read over, looking horrified, and yet fascinated. Ron opened the box and ran his finger over the shiny condom wrappers. "She's a bit upset."

"No!" Ron insisted. "Just the shock."

Harry was the one she'd sobbed all over, he knew that wasn't shock. "Come on, mate. She's very – you know – fond of you."

Draco looked to Ron.

"That was ages ago!" Ron insisted. "She's with George now."

"And you're with…?"

"Me. Yes. Hard to credit, isn't it?" Draco sneered defensively.

Still the same old Malfoy charm! Harry couldn't see what Ron saw in him at all.

"Doesn't he look well?" Ron asked Harry. "So much healthier."

"Thanks to you," Malfoy said in a softer tone, and Harry could see how Ron might like that look of adoration.

"I see the old Magic Toxicity problem's gone," Harry said.

"I still get a twinge sometimes. But I'm even going to St Mungo's for appointments now. The Healer casts diagnostic spells on me and everything!" Draco's smile broadened.

"You got a wand yet?"

Draco looked at him in awe. "Am I allowed?"

Harry shrugged. "Don't see why not. I'll sort you out with a spare one of mine until you can get to Ollivander's." Harry had another thought. "So there's no need for you to be living here, is there?"

Ron pulled a face. "Nah. But all my gold's tied up in this place. I'm not sure Draco's up to having a load of Muggle house hunters traipsing through."

"I'll lend you – no, hear me out!" Harry said to the familiar look on Ron's face. "We asked you to do this, and you had to give up work to look after –" not Malfoy, not now he was his best mate's boyfriend "– Draco. There's a cottage for sale opposite Madame Puddifoot's in Hogsmeade. Let me lend you the money for it, and then I'll see to selling this place. I haven't been pulling my weight on this project at all."

"So, I'm a project?" Draco asked, with less venom than Harry might have expected.

"Then, when this house sells, you can pay me back. In fact, Dean's sister is an estate agent, so we could just let her sell it."

Ron and Draco gave him identical blank looks.

"It's a Muggle job. They advertise houses and help people to buy and sell them."

"Muggles!" Draco said, with an almost affectionate roll of his eyes.

Harry looked at Ron intensely. "Please. Let me."

Ron looked at Draco. Then he looked back at Harry. He shrugged. "Draco would be happier in a Wizarding village, I s'pose."

Madam Rusticore had been a fan of floral. Her furniture still filled the cottage in which she'd died peacefully of old age, and Ron and Draco had decided to buy the place furnished. Ron had brought the kitchen stools because they reminded him of putting them together with his father, but aside from that they'd decided to go for a fresh start. After all, it might have been the place where they fell in love, but that Muggle house had also been the place where Draco had been dragged, sedated and enslaved.

Neither of them thought much of the flowery prints everywhere. Ron hadn't really known what he wanted to change it to. But Draco had. Ron had left him happily charming everything to ivory silk and red velvet, while he moved in the rest of their personal stuff and cooked supper. Draco had an eye.

Draco had been recognised in the village, of course, and it hadn't always been pleasant, but most folks seemed to be content to take Ron's presence as a vouchsafe that they weren't going to be Crucio-ed by Death Eater scum. They hadn't met anyone they knew very well yet, though Ron was very aware of the school looming over the place.

They slept in the same bed. They hadn't wanted the old lady's. She'd been happy when she died in it, but it was still a bit creepy. Draco had transfigured it into a memorial bench and sat it beside the bird bath in the front garden. Then he'd done some more fancy wandwork – clearly very happy to be casting spells again – and created a wrought iron four-poster from the old lady's collection of tarnished silver fish forks.

They lay down in it together, about a week and half after moving in, and Ron gazed at Draco. He looked so healthy now, so beautiful. His skin seemed to glow. Draco smiled a slow, relaxed smile.

"I love you, Draco," Ron said.

"I know," Draco replied. "Just as well, given how much I love you."

They smiled at each other and then kissed, gently and slowly. All the time in the world. Soft pecking kisses to each other's stubbly chins, light earlobe nibbling, soft stroking. They pushed down the blankets to enjoy looking at each other's naked bodies. They stroked. Draco's chest hair was pale and soft, his nipples pink and hard and all of it was perfect as far as Ron was concerned. Ron licked at the tip of Draco's lovely, hard, long cock.

It tasted different. Ron couldn't pinpoint how exactly, but he liked it. He couldn't get enough of that taste. His blood was heating and slow wasn't enough anymore. Draco pulled him up for a deep kiss. Draco tasted new there, too. Tasted of something heady. Ron felt a bit drunk. He was hot, and he was dizzy and his cock ached with need. He couldn't keep his eyes open. The smell intoxicated him. It was everything. Their bodies rubbed together. Ron's hands roamed over Draco's silky skin. Draco always turned him on, but this was more and strange. He could barely breathe.

He stroked Draco's cock. No. Tried his balls. No. His hand slipped behind. He barely knew what he was doing. It should have been a surprise, but somehow the slick, wet slit between Draco's legs just felt like coming home. Ron's finger went into it easily and Draco moaned loud enough to cut through Ron's lust fog. Draco jerked his hips hard and fast onto Ron's finger. Ron opened his eyes briefly and caught Draco's red, panting face contorted into ecstasy.

Ron had no choice. His cock led the way, into the new place which had opened up between Draco's balls and his arse. There was a scent in the air and it was like Draco's new taste. Ron's world closed into a dizzy, dark, hot pleasure.

Draco came on Ron's belly just as Ron took his first, deep, post-coital breath. His mind began to clear and he pulled out quickly. What the fuck had just happened? He knelt between Draco's thighs and pushed his boyfriend's knees up. Something glistening and red glinted at him briefly, and then disappeared. Ron ran his finger over smooth perineum skin.

Draco gave a long, unhappy groan so Ron dropped his knees quickly in case he was hurting him.

"Fuck. I'm pregnant," Draco said.

Ron was exhausted. He just wanted sleep. He lay down beside Draco and mumbled, "Not necessarily. Be ok."

"It won't be ok!" Draco replied sharply. "What the fuck else could that have been about?"

"It's gone now," Ron reassured him sleepily.

"Yeah, it's sealed your come into me. We're having a baby, Weasley." Draco stared at the ceiling. "Fuck."

Ron kissed Draco's bare shoulder. He'd lost that new taste and smell. Just as well. "So," Ron said softly. "That's how it works. That's what the old books were so coy about."

"You think?" Draco sneered. They lay side by side, breathing deeply, both staring into the candle-lit room. "That must be where the blood comes from," Draco said eventually. "It's smaller than that though when I bleed. And not so… hungry."

"Oh fuck!" Ron said, as realisation roused him like cold water. "You're pregnant."

"We should probably get a test. I might not be."

"St Mungo's first thing. It was like it was there on a mission, though. Not much chance it failed. Shit. I'm too young to be a dad."

"What do you think the birth will be like? Oh, Circe!"

"Maybe we should have kept those condom things."

"Now we know. We can stop it from happening again."

Ron stretched out his arm and placed his palm over Draco's belly. He pulled the blankets up over them. "St Mungo's in the morning for a test. No point worrying now. The Healer will know what to do. Get some sleep."

But they were both open-eyed for the rest of the night.

Penelope hadn't minded the Muggle neighbourhood, but she was certainly more comfortable doing this home visit in Hogsmeade.

Ron looked a lot better this time as he invited her into the cottage and offered her a cup of tea again. She couldn't bring herself to accept the tea, though, not after the last time.

Malfoy was in the cosy sitting room. She was relieved to see that he looked healthier, if still pale. As she sat down, though, Penelope noted that they both looked a little sheepish. She took the forms and Quick Quotes Quill out of her briefcase. "That ok now?" she checked.

They both nodded. In unison. They sat side by side on the sofa.

"I'm afraid it's the same archaic questions as last time, and that again, they are the only way to prevent a visit from MLE."

The two men in front of her looked resigned. She activated the Quill and got started.

"Good morning, my name is Penelope Clearwater and I am a Ministry of Magic employee. I have a few items of paperwork to complete with you today. I'm sorry, you know what the wording gets like here."

Ron nodded, but Malfoy looked to him as though he didn't recall anything of her last visit.

She swallowed and powered on with it. "It is the Ministry's responsibility to ensure the well-being of all Breeders placed in the possession of Pureblood wizards in line with the 1642 Nanchester Act, and also to retain information on any children born to said Wizard and Breeder, and all bodily issues pertaining to such births." She risked a glance up and found that Malfoy was still looking at Ron, but that Ron was now looking back at him. Their expressions were unreadable. "Mr Weasley and Mr Malfoy, I need an answer from each of you to the following questions. Is there any possibility that Mr Malfoy might be with child?" She looked up quickly, expecting a swift denial, but instead she caught blushes and nervous smiles.

"Well, yes," Malfoy said while looking at his feet. "In fact…"

"He is. We only got the test result yesterday, and we knew you were coming today, so we, erm, thought it would be ok to—"

Penelope realised that she was gawping and hurriedly donned her professional face. "Yes, that's fine." She looked back down at her list of questions. "Is Mr Malfoy in good health?"

"Very good!" Ron said proudly.

"Apart from the morning sickness and needing to piss every five minutes," Malfoy sneered.

"Er, right. In your opinion, would a pregnancy undertaken at this time result in a viable infant?"

"Hope so," they said in weird unison. Then they both laughed.

"The Healer expects no problems," said Malfoy.

"Good. Lastly, do you both agree to inform the Ministry immediately, should any pregnancy arise? Oh. Well, yes, I suppose this is immediate enough. Now Ron, I have to ask you that horrible one about whether you're satisfied with the behaviour of your Breeder."

Ron's grin made her fear for a moment that he was going to commit something highly inappropriate to official records. All he said, though was, "Yes, I am."

"And this one for Mr Malfoy. Do you have any complaints against your possessing wizard?"

Malfoy actually laughed. "Now let me see…" he held up his fingers as though to count off points on them. Then he laughed again. "No. No complaints. And if you can call him Ron, then you can call me Draco."

"I'm sorry, Draco. Well, then, Ron and Draco, that's all I need at the moment. I'm not sure what happens next, but I dare say your—" she was proud of how little she hesitated "—good news will precipitate another wave of red tape. Um. So. On behalf of the Ministry and myself, I'd like to offer congratulations."

Hermione took an embarrassed step away from George when Ron entered the Burrow. But then Draco followed him in, and she looked stricken at their clasped hands, before snuggling even closer to George. George looked down fondly at the top of her head, before returning to his conversation with Percy.

"Well, well," Ron's mum said fondly as she bustled over. "This is lovely! We haven't had you here for Sunday lunch in a long time!"

"Sorry, Mum," Ron muttered.

"Well, I'm sure you had a very good reason. And who's this?"

Molly's curious glare burnt into Ron's hand where it was clasping Draco's.

"Long story," Ron muttered, and then he felt Draco's glare on him as well. "Yeah, about that. Hope you don't mind me bringing, um…"

"There's always enough for an extra mouth, you know that!" Molly said brightly, but she didn't move out of Ron's way. He was seriously contemplating just slinking back out of the front door and Apparating away. Bloody good thing Draco could cope with Apparition now.

The noise level didn't change, but Ron could feel his family and their partners' efforts to hide their curiosity.

"Are you Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy's son?" Arthur asked, appearing behind Molly's shoulder.

"Yes, he is," Ron replied quickly, before Draco could have a chance to say anything incriminating. He didn't know what he thought Draco might say, but he was too nervous to leave anything to chance.

"Harry told us you were out," Arthur said to Draco. "Very remorseful, he said."

"Yes, sir. Very remorseful, sir," Draco said in somebody else's voice.

Ron looked round at him and saw how very pale and scared he looked.

"Draco," Ron said softly as his heart expanded. Then he repeated to his parents, "Draco. Draco Malfoy. He's my, um… We're sort of…"

Molly looked to their clasped hands again. "I can see that," she said flatly. Then, her voice full of warmth again, she added, "Well, that's lovely. It's all lovely, and you're very welcome, Draco. I hope Ron's being looking after you properly."

"It's a long story, Mum. Dad. But not now," Ron mumbled.

"Well, never mind that," Arthur said briskly, as though he didn't mind, "I'll be carving in about ten minutes. You come in and make yourselves—"

"There's something else!" Draco blurted out.

Ron spun round to stare at him. His blood froze. What something else? That Ron had behaved like an old Wizard Baron? That Ron was a cock slut?

"Can it wait, love?" Molly asked, so placatingly that Ron realised he must have looked as stricken as he felt.

Draco took a deep, determined breath, though, and said, "No, I won't have the courage to say it later. You're going to be grandparents and it's Ron's baby and it's inside me." He paused, and then as though he hadn't been clear enough, he added, "I'm pregnant."

Nobody in the room bothered to hide their shock at that announcement, and Harry must have decided that things had gone far enough because he chose that moment to bustle over.

"Yes, I'm really sorry, I might have forgotten to mention that Draco is a, um…" Harry started, then hissed at Ron, "How did that happen? I thought you were going to be careful!"

Arthur glared at Harry – which wasn't something which happened often – and said, "Why on earth do you think it was up to you to tell us anything?"

Harry didn't have an answer.

"I'm going off to carve that pork," Arthur muttered.

From that moment on, a small part of Ron's brain was absorbed in memories of his mother's apple sauce. The rest of it, as he and Draco drifted further into the room, was involved in berating himself. What sort of stupid idea had it been to show up without announcement or explanation for a full family Sunday dinner? Some misguided romantic gesture to prove his love to Draco? They'd been alone together for two long; Ron had forgotten how to interact with the rest of humanity. He'd forgotten what was actually normal. And what about poor Draco? Solitude in Azkaban, followed by being stuck in that house with just the two of them, with occasional visits from one person at a time. And now Ron had dragged him right into the middle of the cast of thousands which was his family.

Percy kept repeating, "But it's a myth. He can't be."

Ron checked on Draco and was pleased to find that Fleur was chatting in a gentle, friendly way with him, although almost everyone else was gawping or glaring. Of course, Fleur had that Veela blood in the family; she'd be more understanding than most about weird Creature stuff.

"We'd been wondering where you were hiding out and what you were doing," Charlie said. "Turns out it's been who you were doing!"

Charlie! The bloody hypocrite! Nobody saw him for months on end, and who knew what he got up to on that bloody dragon reserve all by—

"So, Malfoy, you're a Wombha – ow!" George stopped shouting across when Hermione slapped his arm.

"There's no need for unreconstructed language like that!" she snapped. "Breeder will be fine. Not that he has to be defined by his special gift—"

"Yeah, yeah. Alright." George rubbed at the space where his ear had been.

Still clutching Draco's hand, Ron walked closer to George. There was something he needed to tell him.

"Look, George, mate—"

George looked a bit awkward; Hermione looked nervous.

"Long time no see, little bro'."

"Look, George, I need to apologise to you."

"I thought I might be the one doing the apologising."

"Huh?"

"For nicking your girlfriend."

"Oh, that." Ron had forgotten all about that. "No, that's alright. That's good."

"It's just that she thought you'd be—"

Hermione was blushing. "I didn't think anything."

"We were being subtle. She said it was more sensitive."

Ron waved away the irrelevant conversation. "No, look, mate, I made her keep a secret from you. And now that I'm…" in love, too "I understand that that's a really bad thing in, you know…" a partnership, a relationship, a love, a trusting, sharing, caring, protected and protective world of two people.

George looked at Hermione questioningly.

"I just didn't want anyone to worry about me being… Nah. I'll let her explain it all. But it was my fault she never told you."

"About you being a fairy?" George asked him. "A bumboy faggot fudge-packing shirt-lifting—?"

"Pansy, bender," Charlie joined in.

"Friend of Oscar Wilde," Percy offered.

"Honestly! You're all Neanderthals! What sort of language-?" Hermione asked.

"She didn't know about that," Ron said. "I never told anyone."

"Why the hell not?" Ginny asked. "Did you think anyone was going to give a shit?"

"Language, Ginevra!" came the scold of their unseen mother.

Ron looked at his brothers' faces. They didn't hate him; they were teasing him; they still loved him. He didn't really know what he'd expected.

"What did I tell you?" Draco said. "If you save the world, you can do what you like with whoever you want to."

"Arse bandit!" Harry added belatedly.

"Sparkling insight from The Boy Who Quipped," Draco remarked.

George and Bill actually laughed.

"Draco tells me you're living in Hogsmeade now?" Fleur asked Ron.

"Yes," Ron replied.

"We're opening a new branch in Hogsmeade," George said. "I expect you'll be looking for a job now you've got a family to support."

Molly called them in to set the table then. As they passed her on their way into the kitchen, she squeezed Draco's hand and told him to take good care of himself and her grandchild. Then she gave Ron a stern look and said, "I'm looking forward to hearing that long story."

Draco shifted close to Ron's sleepy warmth.

"I want to screw you," he mumbled.

Ron grunted something about the last of the great romantics , but he kissed Draco's stubbly jaw.

"Don't you want me to stick it in your arse and slam it in and out?"

"When you put it like that, how could I not be tempted sweetheart? It'll have to wait though."

"How long?" Draco whined. He knew he'd get away with whining at the moment.

"A few weeks probably."

"Not fair."

"Not my fault. Simple geometry. D'you want hot chocolate for breakfast?" Ron sat up.

"No. I want sex!" Draco lifted his nightshirt to show Ron his morning hard-on.

Ron laughed. "When did you last see your own cock?" he asked. "I can barely see it past that big baby belly myself!" He put his face to the stretched, white skin. "Hello baby! Daddy says you can come out as soon as you like. Your father's being a pain again."

"I'm just horny, Ron. I'm so fucking horny. And don't laugh at me because it's your fault-!"

"Yeah. Yeah. Look, why don't you lie on your back and I'll suck you off. Will that do?"

"Can't lie on my back, can I? Heartburn and dizziness. Look, you lie down, and I'll…" Draco manoeuvred his unwieldy abdomen off the four poster bed, and let the rest of him travel with it. He placed his feet apart on the floor and his hands on the mattress. "You come in here, now," he demanded.

With a show of exasperation undermined by his big grin, Ron shuffled round until his head was between Draco's arms. Draco tugged Ron's head back until it was lolling off the edge of the mattress. He pulled up his nightshirt and used the top of his belly to hold it out of the way. With the wand he grabbed off the bedside table, he lowered the bed until Ron's open mouth was level with Draco's hard, red, dripping cock. Or at least with where Draco judged it to be – Ron was right, he hadn't see his feet, let alone his cock, for a couple of months.

Ron took hold of his shaft and stroked. Oh, Merlin! Yes! That's what he needed. Ron's other hand went to Draco's balls to massage there.

"That better, babe?" Ron soothed, but spoilt it by adding, "But I don't know how superhuman you think my neck muscles are, 'cos I'm not going to be able to move enough from here to give you a proper blow job."

"Just stick it in your big, loud cake hole."

Ron's mouth was hot and wet and it was… mmmm… yes. That was nearly it. Draco shifted his weight carefully to take hold of the sides of Ron's face. Then he thrust. There was a slight gagging sound, but he knew Ron could take this. He pulled out and thrust in again. Again. He wished he could watch himself fucking Ron's mouth. He closed his eyes to picture it better. He was so turned on, so close to orgasm so quickly. Just a few more fast, hard jerks of his aching hips had him coming, hard down Ron's throat. Waves of pleasure loosened every tense muscle in his body.

The door handle moved. Ron sat upright at the speed of light, wiping his mouth and yanking up his pyjama trousers over his own erection.

The door opened, just as Draco remembered to lower his nightshirt. They should really close the bed drapes sometimes.

"Daddy!" said the toddler in the doorway. His face was bleary with sleep. "Fabia wake me up."

Ron groaned. "What's Fabia doing now, Nar?"

Instead of answering, Nar started waving his chubby fists in front his face; sparkling soap bubbles took shape at the ends of his fingers and he blew them away. From the other side of the bed, Draco could see that his full nappy was sliding from his hips, but he waited for Ron to notice that.

Draco's belly hardened and his back twinged. Just a Braxton-Hicks contraction, nothing to worry about. Orgasms often set them off at this stage. He should get back into bed. As soon as he had the strength to shift himself.

He opened his eyes when Ron yelled, "Fabia!" out of the door. Draco was pleased to note that Ron was changing Nar's nappy at the same time. Nar was concentrating on the goldfish-shaped bubbles he was now creating.

"Fabia! Did you wake your brother up? Have you any idea what time it is?"

Their daughter replied something from somewhere else in the house and there was a flame somewhere, but Draco stopped concentrating and gripped the bed post, as another tightening built round his lower back and his big belly. It finished and left him feeling nauseous. He tried to edge his backside onto the bed, but he was caught by another pain.

Dimly, he heard Ron scolding Fabia and telling her to extinguish the fireballs. When he opened his eyes as the pain passed, Draco was stunned by the clarity of the room. He smelled the familiar smell of Fabia's uncontrolled fires being reduced to steam. Ron, Fabia and Nar were now arguing about whether it was too early for Fabia to watch what she called the telluvishu , which they should really correct, but didn't because it was too cute. Her pale blond hair shone off and on in the start of sunrise beyond the window curtains which were swishing themselves open and closed.

Another voice shouted, "Daddy!"

"Not now, Siriette. Will you stop playing with the curtains?" Ron snapped back. He sighed. "Look, we'll let Papa get some more rest at least. What do you guys say to pancakes and hot chocolate for breakfast?"

Fabia cheered and Nar shouted, "Bananananas pancake!", which made yellow, oblong bubbles appear round his head, but Siriette was pointing at Draco as another wave of tense pain built around his core.

"Daddy, Daddy! Look at Papa!"

Ron swore in front of the kids, so Draco realised that he must look truly awful. Then Ron said, all in a panic, "Siriette, you'd better wake up Lucy and Dorus. Tell them they're on. Lucy knows what to do; she's got to Floo call Aunty Hermione to come over. Is Freda still asleep? Sorry, babies, Dorus is going to be getting you breakfast, so it won't be pancakes, but he might manage a hot chocolate."

There was flurry, noise and heat, sparkles and foam, as Draco's hands slipped and he felt his knees buckling. The pain was coming again. No need to panic. He probably had hours to go yet, but the St Mungo's Midwitches did like to have him in early, on account of his passageways not being quite the same as the ones they dealt with every day. It would be fine, though. It always was.

Ron caught him, and so did another man. He looked up. It wasn't a man. Not quite. It was their eldest child. When did he get so big? Strong enough to help Draco get to the Floo?

"Good luck," Dorus said. "You should just put a zip in it—"

"Don't be cheeky!" Ron snapped. Then in a business-like voice he added, "I've just changed Narcissus's nappy, so you shouldn't have to. His magic's being soapy, so you might need to rinse things. Tell Freda she'll have to miss her swimming lesson today. Hermione should be here soon. Has Lucy called her yet? I've told Fabia that if anything's burnt down while we're gone-"

"Stop panicking," Dorus replied. "See you this afternoon! Oh, and try not to name this one after a dead member of the opposite sex!"

"Don't cheek your father, Nymphadorus," Draco managed before taking as deep a breath as his reduced lung space would allow, and stepping into the Floo as Ron called out, "St Mungo's!"

~*~THE END~*~