Chapter One.

“Lie down, Weasley,” she said.  She grabbed Ron’s left foot, the one the Anglia ran over, and flexed it a few times. “Good, good,” she said.  She checked the cut on his thigh and again seemed satisfied. When she got to Ron’s side, however, she spent a long time running her fingers over his ribs, her brow knit in concentration.  Finally she sighed and said, “I’m afraid these aren’t healing properly, dear.”

“What?”  Ron tried to sit up.  “They feel just fine.”

“Lie down, child,” the healer said sternly.  “Whether they feel fine or not—and I rather doubt that they do—they are not fine.”  She put her hands back on his side, her fingertips moving lightly over the rib bones.  “I can feel irregularities, dips and ridges, which means the mending bones have not properly aligned.  I’m afraid, dear boy, that I’m going to have to break them again.  Are you ready?”

She could have at least waited for an answer, Malfoy thought, watching silently as Pomfrey rapped Ron’s side sharply with her wand and barked out an incantation.  Malfoy could hear the snap from where he stood.  He winced.  Ron sucked in his breath.  Twice more the healer rapped and Malfoy heard more snaps.  Ron’s face had turned white.  His eyes were squeezed shut and his lips compressed.  He didn’t utter a sound.

“I’m sorry, Weasley,” Pomfrey said.  “I know this is uncomfortable. I’m just going to realign the bones now."  From where Malfoy was standing, he couldn’t see exactly what Pomfrey was doing.  He could, however, see Ron’s eyes pop open and grow wide.  Ron sucked in more air and closed his mouth again. 

“Ah,” said Pomfrey.  “That’s much better. No, no, I need to make an adjustment here.”  She went up on her toes and Malfoy had the impression she was bearing down hard on Ron’s side.  “I am sorry, Weasley,” she said again.  “But I’m afraid this is quite necessary—go ahead and breathe, dear—misaligned ribs pop out of place so easily. Why, if I had left them that way, I should have had to forbid you to sneeze—Weasley, you’re going to have to breathe.  I know how rough and tumble you boys get, why your brother, Char—breathe Weasley…Mr. Weasley…Mr. Weasley…RONALD!  Don’t be ridiculous, child!  I know you don’t want to move your ribcage, but you simply must breathe.  If you make yourself hyperventilate, then you will be in real pain.”

Breathe, you idiot, Malfoy thought, glaring fiercely at Ron through the cloak.  Breathe or so help me, I’ll…

Ron blew out the air he was holding and gaped like a fish as he sucked in air. 

“That’s better,” said Pomfrey.  She seized a small glass from her tray and filled it with a thick liquid.  “Now drink this.  It will heal the fractures.”  She thrust the glass at Ron, glaring at him until he managed to choke it down.  “Very good.”  The healer stepped briskly about as she tidied up the area around Ron’s bed.  “I can’t say you’ll have a pleasant night, Weasley, but—” she came dangerously close to stepping on Malfoy’s foot—“you’ll live.  Goodnight.”

When Pomfrey’s footsteps had died away, Malfoy shrugged off his invisibility cloak and came to stand by the bed.  “What a bitch,” he said angrily.  “She should have at least given you some good drugs before she did that.”

“No big deal,” Ron tried to wave it off, but his face was gray and he looked like he might vomit  “Want to be able to sneeze, ow…you know, get rough and tumble.”

“Want me up there?”  Malfoy looked doubtful.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, budge over, then.”  Malfoy frowned when Ron winced as he moved over.  “Is it that bad?" 

Ron let out another breath.  “Yeah,” he gasped.  “Harsher than the stuff she gave me when I broke my leg.”

“Really,” said Malfoy, narrowing his eyes in the direction of Pomfrey’s office.  “Maybe the old bat knows I’m here.  The stuff she's given me, you’d think she was in league with Filch. The hippogriff potions were worse than the hippogriff attack  Felt like my skin was boiling, and not just the arm, mind you, my whole body.  Itching, burning, flaking and I broke out in welts—”

“Draco,” said Ron in a tight voice.  “You were faking.”

“Was not,” Malfoy said airily.  “It did hurt.”

Ron glared at him. 

“Okay,” said Malfoy, rolling his eyes.  “I did fake some, but not entirely.  You try getting clawed by a hippogriff, see if—”  He broke off, frowning.  He studied Ron, who seemed to be holding his breath.  “Pomfrey’s right, love,” he said.  “You are going to have to breathe.”

“I am breathing,” said Ron, shortly.  A bead of sweat slipped from beneath his hair and ran down his cheek.

Malfoy stared at him.  “This is ridiculous,” he said flatly.   “You need something for the pain.  You’re going to have to call her.”

“No way.”

“Well, at least relax, you’re as rigid as a plank.”

“I am relaxed!”

“You are not, idiot.  Your shoulders are up around your ears, your face is mottled and all scrunched up.  It’s not your best look.  Call her.”

“I’m said I’m not calling her,” snapped Ron.  “I’m fine.”  He pressed one hand against his side.

“My bloody arse, you’re fine.  Call her.”

“No.”

“Well then, just moan some.  That’ll give her the hint.”

“I am not going to moan like some kind of ponce,” said Ron, “Ow—fuck!”  He grimaced and the remaining color drained from his face.

“You are too,” Malfoy said, annoyed.  “You can’t expect me to sit here and watch you squirm like you have a sword in your side.”

“I thought you liked—shit—to see me squirm,” panted Ron, his forehead beaded with sweat. 

“Duh,” said Malfoy, looking at Ron like he was crazy.  “When I’m the one making you squirm.  Now moan!”

“No.”

“Moan!”

“NO!”

“Fine,” retorted Malfoy.  “I’ll do it myself.”  He twisted away from Ron and moaned loudly. 

Ron tugged his arm, hissing, “Stop it!” in his ear.  Malfoy shrugged him off and moaned louder. 

“Dammit, Draco, shut up,” Ron whispered hotly.  “I mean it—ow, shit, fuck…”

Malfoy moaned even louder.  He turned back to Ron.  The redhead looked both horrified and furious.  Malfoy gave him a fond smile and moaned again.  “I sound like a cow caught in a bear trap, don’t I?” he said, brightly.  “That’s what you sound like when we shag, you know.” 

Ron groaned with disgust.  He turned away from Malfoy and curled up in a ball on one side of the bed, both hands pressing his ribs. 

Malfoy leaned over, kissed the back of Ron head, then let out another moan, one that quavered up into a high keen.

“I do not sound like that,” Ron said petulantly. 

“You’re right,” Malfoy said cheerfully, pleased to have found another way to torture his lover.  “You’re twice as loud. Here’s how you sound when you come.”  He gave out a guttural moan that ran up an octave or two, ending in a near shriek.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” said Ron.  He pulled the covers over his head.

Malfoy grinned wickedly.  “Want to hear what you sounded like when I had you tied to my bed at the Manor?”

“No,” said Ron.  He pulled the covers tighter about his head. 

Malfoy ignored him.  He pictured the lovely scene in his head—his lover stretched out, flushed, twisting, biting his lip and oh, the noises he made.  Like this—Malfoy whimpered.  Or this—Malfoy groaned, throwing his head back and sending the noise up to the ceiling.  Or this—Malfoy moaned the way Ron had moaned when Malfoy, after much teasing, had finally whirled his tongue around the head, just the head, mind you, of Ron’s cock. 

“Idiot.”  Ron muttered from under the covers. 

“Guess what, Red,” Malfoy said happily, poking Ron’s back.  “Just thinking of that night…you have no idea how hot you were, love…just thinking of that night has given me a rather colossal hard-on.  Wanna see?  No?  It’s some impressive wood, if I say so myself.  I might have to switch to Beater.”  He poked Ron’s back again but Ron stubbornly refused to respond.

Malfoy returned to his game.  He tried for the low shuddery sounds Ron had made when Malfoy ran a finger up his arse.  At least Ron had made low shuddery sounds when he wasn’t begging Malfoy to have a little mercy, for shit’s sake and finish me off, you bastard!  Which, of course had only made Malfoy want to play longer.  It had been pure bliss to watch Ron twist and pull against his bindings.

“I hate you,” said Ron now, his voice muffled.

“You’re crazy for me,” said Malfoy, patting Ron on his blanket-covered head.  He drew out his next moan, admiring the way the infirmary’s acoustics filled out and amplified the sound.  He was wondering if he could duplicate the baritone of Ron’s I’m-gonna-shoot-my-wad-now groan when he heard a door bang. 

Pomfrey! 

Malfoy shut his mouth abruptly.  He’d been having so much fun, he’d quite forgotten his original goal of getting pain potion for Ron.  “Here comes Nursie,” he said, yanking the covers from Ron’s head and kissing his lover’s face, which was flushed with mortification.  “Take your medicine like a good boy,” he said.  “I’ll be right here watching to make sure you do.”  He waggled his finger at Ron and disappeared again under his invisibility cloak.  He had just gotten back in his corner when Pomfrey snatched the curtains to one side.

“Honestly, Weasley,” the healer said crossly, pouring dung-colored liquid into a spoon.  “Your friend Potter made less noise growing back a whole hand.”

“Sorry, Ma’am,” Ron squeaked, his face going from red to purple.  “It’s just that…”

“Pffft, never mind,” Pomfrey interrupted him.  She shoved the spoon into his mouth, watching as he gagged, then managed to swallow.  “Ribs can be tricky, I’ll give you that,” she went on in a softer tone.  “Spindly little things and they float, goodness knows they can be hard to work with.  Not every healer can fix them, you know.  I can, of course.”  She glared at Ron as though he had suggested she could not.  “The only thing worse than broken ribs is a broken back.  I can fix those too, though I would certainly prefer not to.  Here, take some water, child.  Broken backs are a healer’s nightmare.  So much can go wrong: paralysis, nerve damage.  Nerve damage is difficult to correct even with very strong magic, not that I couldn’t do it.” She glared again at Ron.  “I could, but, as I say, I’d prefer not to. So don’t go breaking your back, child, and tell your accident-prone friend, Potter, to keep his intact as well.” 

“Yes, Ma’am.” Ron nodded meekly.  From where Malfoy stood, he could the potion taking effect.  Ron’s eyes were already beginning to glaze over. 

Pomfrey stepped back to the curtain.  “Good night again, Weasley. I should think this time you’ll sleep quite well.”

“Night,” mumbled Ron as the healer strode off down the hall.  Malfoy yanked the invisibility cloak from his head, pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down.  “How’s it, now, love?” he asked.

Ron sank back into his bed and rolled his head heavily to the side.  He gave Malfoy a goofy smile.  “Good,” he said thickly.  “Works fast.”  He hiccupped.  “It’s weird though, Draco.  Like the pain is still there, but in the weirdest of ways.  Not here any more," he said, waving vaguely at his ribs. "But up there.” He pointed to a space in the air above his bed.  “I can see it, erm, yeah…floating.”  He hiccupped again, then giggled.  “I didn’t know pain floated, Dray, did you?”

“Actually, no,” said Malfoy, amused.

Ron stared hard at the air above his head.  “Has colors too. Cool…”

“What color is it?”

“Uh.” Ron frowned.  “I’d guess that’s, urm…what, heliotrope?” 

Malfoy snickered.  “A color redheads should avoid,” he said.  “Though it would look lovely on me.”

Ron smiled.  He gave Malfoy a look that was positively dewy—until his left eye rolled like Mad-Eye Moody’s. 

Lovely, thought Malfoy, he’s drunker than Trelawney.  “Reckon you could handle me crawling up there with you?” he asked Ron.

“Uh huh,” said Ron, nodding his head.  “But you’re going to have to put yourself back together first.”

“Back together?”  Malfoy frowned.  “What do you mean?”

“You’ve splinched yourself,” said Ron, one blue eye rolling east, and the other north.  “I didn’t know you could Apparate.”

“Of course I can Apparate,” said Malfoy.  “And I never splinch myself.  What are you on about?”

“You’re splinched,” Ron insisted.  His voice was beginning to slur.  “Bottom half of you is gone and I miss it.”  He looked sadly at Malfoy.

“What the fuck?”  Malfoy glanced down at his lower half, trying to figure out what his lover was on about.  “Oh hell’s bells,” he said.  “It’s just the invisibility cloak.”  He whipped it off his legs.  “Can you see me now, Ron?”

Ron nodded and held out his arms. 

Malfoy climbed carefully onto the bed.  “No,” he said, as Ron tried to hold him.  “Can’t put my head on your shoulder like that, baby…don’t want to hurt you.  Turn on your good side…that’s your bad side, idiot.  Good, now I’ll just curl up behind you.”  He slipped one arm under the pillow and laid the other carefully on Ron’s hip.  He wriggled around until the redhead’s arse was in his lap and their legs were comfortably tangled.

“Whyja’ make me take the pain potion, Dray?” Ron asked, sleepily.  “Now Pomfrey thinks I’m the world’s biggest nancy.”

“Cause I wanted to spend the night with you, slow coach,” said Malfoy.  He was stroking Ron’s lovely long thigh and pushing his groin a bit into Ron’s rear.  “Wanted to share the same bed with you all night. We’ve never been able to do that, have we? Now it’s perfect, you see; no one expects you up in the tower and no one will rat me out if I don’t show up in the dungeon.” 

“An’ I only hadda get half-killed t’make it happen,” Ron said, slurring. 

Yup, Malfoy decided, dead drunk. 

“Worth it. But Dray, ’m sleepy.”  Ron yawned.   “Don’t think I’m up to anythin’…”

“Forget it,” said Malfoy.  He took Ron’s hand and wrapped both their arms around the redhead’s middle.  “This hurt?”

“No,” said Ron.  “’Snice.”

Malfoy snuggled in closer to Ron and kissed the redhead’s ear, and nibbled at his neck.

Ron moaned, and ground his arse back into Malfoy’s lap.

“Oh, now you’re moaning,” said Malfoy, rolling his eyes.  “And stop grinding…we’ll catch up later.  We’ve always been able to find places to shag. This is the first chance we’ve had to spend a whole night together, so let’s enjoy it.”

“’Kay,” Ron agreed with a deep sigh.   Malfoy raised his head to watch as Ron’s eyes closed and his lips parted gently.  The blond leaned in to kiss his cheek.

“Love you, Dray.”  The voice was so soft, Malfoy hardly heard it.

“What?”  Malfoy’s stomach dipped like he’d flown over an air pocket on his Firebolt.  “What did you say?”

Ron was already asleep.

************************************************************************

Ron was so still, only the continued rising and falling of his chest persuaded Malfoy he was alive.  The redhead had turned on to his back and was taking up most of the room with his wide shoulders and long limbs.  Malfoy didn’t mind; he only needed a narrow slice of the bed anyway, as he didn’t intended to lose any of this night to sleep.  He lay on his side, head propped on his hand while he studied his sleeping lover.   

Love you.  Ron had said it and now Malfoy had to ponder it.  Love.  You.  Granted the redhead had been stoned beyond coherence on pain potion, but he had said it, and more importantly he had used Malfoy’s name.  Or rather he used that ridiculous pet name, Dray.  Oddly, Malfoy remembered having a perfect snit when Pansy had called him Dray but coming from Ron the silly little name tugged almost painfully at his heart.  Love you, Dray.  Ron had said his name, which meant stoned or not, the redhead knew who was with him.  Draco Malfoy, not Potter, not Granger, not his Mummy, for fuck’s sake.

Love you.  Malfoy examined himself to see what he was feeling.  Feelings were odd squishy things, they had no backbones, they flipped and flopped, squirted like wet soap out of your hands.  Father, the twisted fuck, had been Malfoy’s tutor in the science of feelings.  Malfoy had a particularly keen memory of one lesson among many, one that had taken place in the Manor dungeon over Christmas holidays three years ago. 

A Malfoy, Father had explained that night, could not be distracted by feelings.  “Do not be led by anger or happiness or sorrow, Draco,” he’d said, relaxing in a wingback he’d transported to the Manor’s dungeon.  “Feelings are a soft science, son, you must always turn to reason.”  Father had had, as always, some fine wine in a crystal goblet; he liked to swirl the wine as he spoke.  “Feeling have their uses, I admit,” he’d said.  “Get someone angry enough with you, someone who does not have proper control of their feelings, and you can make him do anything you want.”  His feet had been propped on a footstool he’d transported along with the chair.

“Sentiment,” Father had said to Malfoy that night, “is an excellent distraction for the lower classes, while the nobler classes follow higher paths to reason, truth and honor. I am quite fond of pleasure, of course,” he’d continued, swirling the wine gently.  “But you must realize that pleasure is not a feeling, it is a state of being.” 

Malfoy had been keenly aware of the pleasure Father experienced while lecturing his son.  He’d glazed up at his father, seeing the familiar smile play around Father’s mouth.  Malfoy had had to look up because he was on the floor, as usual, wiping tears and snot from his face between Cruciatus curses.  Father seemed to think Malfoy had a lamentable weakness for feelings, among other things.  Naturally, it was his paternal duty to exorcise such weaknesses. 

In the infirmary, Malfoy stroked Ron’s hair, which had grown long.  He fanned the bright strands around the redhead’s face until it looked like his lover was floating in still water.  Touching Ron, Malfoy knew, gave him a feeling that was pleasant, but certainly much more than pleasure.  And it was interesting that Ron had said pain floated, he reflected.  Father had said something quite similar that night. 

“Pain,” Father had said, “can make one float, Draco.  It is really quite exquisite.  You’d be surprised at how responsive a lover can be to pain.  When you use the Cruciatus on a lover’s body, son, you can isolate this or that body part, sensitize it and make it that much more open to pleasure.  Allow me to show you a selective Cruciatus.”  Father had gestured with his wand and instantly the skin on Malfoy’s right hand had felt like it had been immersed in boiling oil.  He had screamed, clawing at the skin with his left hand. 

“Now, now,” Father had said, lifting the curse.  “You’ll give yourself ugly scars. Let me fix that.” 

The lecture that night had gone on for sometime, Malfoy remembered.  He didn’t remember what he had done to provoke Father.  He might have touched something he should not have, he might have laughed at the wrong moment.  Or maybe he did nothing and Father was just in a lecturing mood.  Any at rate, Father had gone on at length about the Cruciatus.  He’d explained that it was an artist’s curse. It was quite unlike the killing curse, which, in Father’s opinion, a monkey with a wand and some practice could master.  Father believed the Imperio, likewise, to be child’s play, merely granting the subject a sense of well-being while he did as he was commanded.  Where was the art in that?   “But the Cruciatus, ah…"

“If you can control someone through the artful application of pain, Draco, or even the threat of pain, then you are truly his master.  Those idiot Lestranges,” he’d gone on, twirling the wine and re-crossing his feet on the footstool, “ruined the Longbottoms, with their ham-handed Cruciatus.  If I had been the man behind the wand, Draco, I have no doubt that the Longbottoms would now be devoted servants of the Dark Lord.”

That night three years ago, the moment Father had finished his sentence about the Longbottoms, he’d hit Malfoy with a Cruciatus .  With no warning, which was the norm.  When Malfoy was in the dungeon with Father, it was lecture, lecture, lecture, then zap!—Crucio.  Lecture, lecture, zap!—Crucio.  Zap!—Crucio, lecture, lecture.  Nothing in Father’s rhetoric, patterns of pauses or speech warned Malfoy when the Cruciatus was coming so he could never let down his guard, breathe and gather himself between curses. 

“Here’s what you must know, Draco,” Father had said, sitting up and making eye contact so Malfoy would know he must pay particular attention.  “The Cruciatus teaches you many things—consequence, pain tolerance, as well as where your strengths lie and who your true masters are.  The day, my dear Draco, when you can throw off my Cruciatus is the day you become your own master.”

Before Father had allowed Malfoy to practice the Cruciatus, he had first made the boy master the other Unforgivables.  By the time he was six, Malfoy had used the killing curse on his pet dog, his mother’s songbird and several elderly house-elves Father had determined were nearing retirement age.  And Father had called the twelve-year-old Malfoy home from school to cast the killing curse on his own paternal grandfather as the old man lay dying in his bed. “Do not use the killing curse, Draco,” Father instructed, “unless you have explicit instructions to do so from me or the Dark Lord.  You may use the Imperio however, at will.” 

The Imperius Curse, Malfoy had been encouraged to practice on his childhood playmates.  “They’re too young to be any the wiser, Draco,” Father had said.  As he grew older and more experienced, Malfoy found that he could cast an Imperius with ever-increasing subtlety.  He could put Pansy under the Imperius without her even noticing.  Milicent, on the other hand, had slapped him so hard when he’d removed it she’d knocked him to the floor.  He knew better than to even try the Imperius on Blaise.  But Crabbe and Goyle—Malfoy had put them under the Imperius so many times he wasn’t sure they had any free will left. 

When he had mastered the killing curse and the Imperio, Father had allowed him to practice the Cruciatus.  Again, he had started with animals, stray dogs, the less impressive specimens from the family owlery before he’d moved on to house-elves.  After that, Father had brought Muggles to the Manor dungeon and Malfoy had learned memory modifications as well.  “You are fortunate, Draco,” Father had told him, “to be learning from a master.  The day you need your Unforgivables, I promise they will be there for you.” 

Father was indeed a master of the Unforgivables.  And Malfoy knew the bastard would be itching to cast them when he got out of Azkaban.  Which, thought Malfoy, looking at his sleeping lover, was one reason Father must never find out about Ron. Malfoy shuddered to think what Lucius Malfoy would do to Ron if he ever found out the redhead was his son’s lover.  He must never know, thought Malfoy.  Never.

At his side, Ron stirred and sighed in his sleep.  Malfoy realized he traveled a long way from Ron’s sweet love you into corridors of memory he prefer not to visit now that he had broken from Father.  But it was only natural he supposed, for all he knew of affection before Ron had come from Father.  And he had loved Father, of course, with the kind of hunger a child feels when he knows he can never please the one he loves.  The intensity of that love was now matched by his hatred for his father.  With the upbringing I’ve had, thought Malfoy, my feelings about love should really be quite complicated.  But as he laid his hand over Ron’s heart, felt it beat steadily into his palm, he realized there was nothing complicated at all about the way he felt.

Damn me, thought Malfoy.  Damn me and fuck me to tears.  I’m a great bloody arse.  I’ve gone and fallen in love.

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