Chapter Text
Ron was going to be sick.
Surely that was the feeling in his stomach as Draco Malfoy walked into the sitting room. It was nausea, wasn't it, not… not… memory.
Ron stared. He couldn't help himself. And as his eyes roamed a stoic expression, blank eyes, and tight lips, he couldn't help but recall how his eyes had burned with a fire behind them at the Ministry Christmas party six months ago. The ice in them had melted and boiled as Malfoy pinned Ron to a wall, those tight lips plump and soft against Ron's.
His stomach flipped, the same thrilling feeling of dread he used to feel when he played Quidditch at Hogwarts and someone would fly the Quaffle near his goalposts. Excited to see some action, but anxious at the thought of failure in front of all his peers.
This wasn't a Quidditch match, though, and no peers were present here. Only the matchmaker Ron had hired, Madam Maslow, who entered the room behind Malfoy with a smile on her face. She glanced between both men, clearly pleased with herself and her work, unknowing of the horror she had unleashed in the pit of Ron's stomach.
Malfoy stared back at him, his expression blank, and for the first time since the Christmas party, Ron wondered if Malfoy had been too drunk to remember the searing kiss, or the way he had rutted against Ron's hip to try to relieve the pressure in his trousers. They'd both remained fully clothed, but it had been the hottest moment of Ron's life. At least, that's how he remembered it through the haze of alcohol and time. It hadn't occurred to him until now that there was a possibility that Malfoy hadn't spent a single moment remembering that night.
Whether he remembered it or not, Malfoy could at least be surprised by this turn of events, couldn't he? Where was his outrage? Where was his confusion? Ron was certain all of his turmoil was plain in his own face, in the tension and stillness of his posture. Malfoy—as always—was composed. Casual and unruffled. At least on the outside. He was an Occlumens, after all, a master at compartmentalizing his thoughts and feelings.
"Mr. Weasley, may I introduce your match—with an astounding compatibility score of 92%—Mr. Draco Malfoy?"
"We know each other," Ron said around his pounding heart. He was glad he'd poured himself a glass of whiskey while waiting for his match to arrive. It gave him something to do with his hands. He took a bracing sip, wishing for the bliss of inebriation.
"Oh! Is that so?"
"Old schoolmates, aren't we," Malfoy said.
"We have mutual friends," Ron corrected, his stomach flipping at Malfoy's use of the word schoolmate. The implication that they were friendly was an irksome lie.
Still, "we have mutual friends" didn't begin to explain how Harry had taken Malfoy under his wing and forced friendship upon him, inviting him to events and outings, foisting him on all of Harry's other friends as well.
Including Ron. He didn't understand Harry's relationship with Malfoy. Maybe he was even a little threatened by it. He tried to stay out of Malfoy's way when Harry brought him around, but it was difficult when Hermione and even Ginny had embraced his presence.
Madam Maslow clapped her hands together with glee and a tray of tea promptly appeared on the coffee table in front of Ron. Her self-satisfaction radiated off her in waves. "What a fortuitous happenstance! Before I leave you alone to chat, allow me to give you some food for thought to accompany your tea."
She withdrew a scroll from the voluminous sleeve of her robes and unfurled it, laying it flat on the table next to the tea tray. A couple decorative paperweights prevented the scroll from rolling back up. At the top of the parchment were the words Madam Maslow's Hierarchy of Love written with a flourish and a large drawing of a symbolic heart divided into horizontal sections. Words filled the bottom half of the parchment. She poured tea for both men, handing them each a saucer and cup before stepping back and diving into a spiel she had clearly delivered hundreds, if not thousands, of times.
Ron had a difficult time listening to Madam Maslow's theory of the Hierarchy of Love. Safety, belonging, esteem—something something something. Perhaps she was trying to be helpful, but Ron couldn't think about love while he was still reeling from Malfoy's mere presence.
Malfoy continued to stand near the door, tea cradled in his hands. He sipped every once in a while and occasionally glanced at Ron, who always got caught staring. It didn't appear that he was listening to Madam Maslow at all. He barely even looked at the parchment—never mind whether he could see it standing six feet away.
"As you begin the discussion of your future together, I hope you will consider the Hierarchy of Love and how it can guide you toward the pinnacle of actualization—True Love. My greatest matchmaking successes all claim the Hierarchy was essential to forming connections and strengthening their relationships. May it steer you in the right direction when you are lost in the jungle of uncertainty.
"Now! I shall give you some time to talk."
Madam Maslow didn't give either of them a chance to respond to her speech before she departed, closing the door behind her with a sour finality that Ron could taste in the back of his throat. There was only one place for Malfoy to sit—on the couch next to Ron. The lack of seating, he realized, was a strategy to force proximity.
Ron scooted over, making room, but Malfoy continued to stand. He glanced around the small but comfortable room. The sofa faced a cozy fireplace and the low table with the diagram of the Hierarchy of Love and tea tray. Behind the sofa, against the wall, was a cart of various liquors, of which Ron had already availed himself. He would have availed himself more if he had known this was how this meeting would pan out.
When he'd finished taking in the furnishings, Malfoy turned his gaze back on Ron, and maybe there was something in his expression now, a slight consternation or something. The crease in his brow disappeared before Ron could identify it.
"What are you doing here?" Ron asked quietly. "Is this… is this some sort of joke?"
"Feels like one," Malfoy answered.
"I mean it. How did you know I'd be here?" Ron hissed.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I didn't. Like you, I signed up for a matchmaking service. Didn't you hear Maslow? Apparently we're 92% compatible."
"Bullshit."
Malfoy shrugged. "Felt like we were at least 92% compatible at the Ministry Christmas party."
Heat rushed into Ron's face, making his ears burn. At the same time, a hot ball settled low in his gut. A shiver wracked his body.
"We were drunk. And you initiated that, not me."
"You reciprocated."
Yeah, Ron had. And he'd thought about that kiss many, many times in the last half-year. He wanted to say he'd been too vulnerable to resist. He and Hermione had just finalized their divorce after ten years together, four of them married. He'd just started seeing a therapist. He'd been struggling with feelings of self-loathing and unprocessed trauma from the war. He'd long been considering quitting his job as an Auror because it clearly had not been good for his mental health.
Then at the Christmas party, he'd seen Hermione dancing with Cormac McLaggen of all people, smiling brightly at each other and laughing together. Ron had come to the realization that Hermione had been his only chance at happiness. His last shot at the kind of love that Harry and Ginny had, that his parents had, that all his siblings had. He'd had more to drink than was wise and had gone wandering down the corridors, away from the party, removing himself so he could wallow and not ruin everyone's good time.
Malfoy had found him somehow. Taunted him into a reaction. They'd bickered and then suddenly Malfoy had shoved Ron against a wall, his mouth devouring Ron's, his groin pressing into Ron's hip, his hands pinning Ron's hands to the wall next to his head so Ron couldn't touch him back.
The sounds they'd made together still haunted him when he closed his eyes at night. Their panting breaths, the throaty moans and grunts.
The sound of nearby laughter had urged them apart, both of them still hard, but Ron noticeably more disheveled than Malfoy. Malfoy had put a hand to his mouth and wiped his lips before straightening his dress robes and departing.
Ron still fantasized about what might have happened if they hadn't been interrupted. In bed or in the shower, he'd wrap a cold hand around his hot cock and pump away while imagining Malfoy doing the same to him. What troubled him the most about his fantasies was when he pictured himself touching Malfoy back, burying his hands under his clothes to touch bare skin. Fisting his hard length until he spilled all over Ron's hand. Those imaginings weren't about Ron receiving pleasure. They were about giving it—to Draco Malfoy. A man he loathed but was often forced to spend time with thanks to Harry.
And here they were. Ron's body was warming up remembering Christmas and thinking of that supposed 92% compatibility rate.
"Are you actually considering this?" Ron choked out.
"Are you?"
The question wasn't fair. Every thought and emotion crossed Ron's face. It was obvious that he was considering it.
The fear that Hermione had been his only hope of love and companionship had motivated Ron to take drastic measures. He'd found an advert for Madam Maslow's Incomparable Matchmaking Service and had saved up a months' salary to pay for it. After he'd earned the money he'd needed, he had quit his job as an Auror and gone to work for George at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Over the months, he felt like he'd been getting better. The nightmares were fewer and farther between. His anxiety was no longer debilitating. The self-loathing had simmered down into a low-level insecurity.
He still feared a future journeyed alone, especially while things were still awkward between him and Hermione, which strained their mutual friendships.
It didn't make sense that he and Malfoy would be so compatible. Maybe Madam Maslow had miscalculated. Or maybe she was a genius who knew people better than they knew themselves. Their match didn't make sense. Pursuing it didn't make sense. Marriage didn't make sense.
And yet….
Ron looked up at Malfoy, who was—still—standing by the door. He stood up and realized he was slightly taller, and that made his chest warm.
"Yes, I'm considering it," Ron said.
Malfoy looked at him, his eyes roaming Ron's face, searching for something. Maybe a lie. Maybe a crack.
"Good. I am, too."
"Why? What do you get out of this?"
Malfoy scowled. "I could ask you the same thing. I'm sure our answers would be similar."
"Could you at least sit down? I feel like you're trying to win, and it's making me dislike you even more."
Inexplicably, Malfoy smiled at that. And he did sit down, right next to Ron. Their knees brushed briefly before Ron turned his away, trying to keep some space between them. But the sofa was so small. A loveseat, really.
Ah. Well. That made sense, didn't it?
Ron clenched his hands into fists on his thighs, his knuckles white with tension. "I went into this hoping for marriage. Is that what you want?"
Maybe it was his imagination or wishful thinking, but the glacier in Malfoy's eyes seemed to thaw just the tiniest bit. "Yes," he answered. "I want to marry on my own terms."
"A matchmaking service is your own terms?"
"It is as long as my mother is not the matchmaker."
Ron thought about that for a moment. "I'm guessing she wants you to marry a woman?"
"Doesn't yours?"
"We've never talked about it…."
"Neither have we. I think she knows how I spend my time and who I spend it with. But her hope is that I will get it out of my system and settle down with someone who will give me an heir."
"I've actually never—before the Christmas party I'd never—" Ron stammered. Better to get this over with now than reveal it later and potentially ruin everything. "I-I've never been with a man before. You're the first one I've ever kissed."
"You don't say," Malfoy said with an infuriatingly smug smirk, which dropped after a moment. His brow creased. "You've never thought about being with a man before, but you're willing to potentially marry the first one to ask?"
Ron's ears were burning. "I didn't say I've never thought about it."
A light tap on the door prevented Malfoy from commenting on that. Madam Maslow had returned with another roll of parchment in hand.
"Well, my lovelies, have you discussed how you would like to proceed?"
Ron looked at Malfoy, who looked right back at him, one eyebrow cocked in a question. Or maybe a challenge. So? that eyebrow seemed to say.
Ron swallowed thickly and put a hand on his flip flopping stomach to try to calm it down.
"Let's get married," he said.
Malfoy indicated his agreement with a single nod.
They discussed the marriage contract with Madam Maslow. They opted for a six-week betrothal to determine for themselves whether they were compatible enough for matrimony. They would cohabitate during their engagement in a house Malfoy owned by the sea, away from their families and society. At the end of the six weeks, they would decide if this outrageous experiment had succeeded and whether or not to move forward with marriage.
It was fast and ridiculous and it didn't make any sense. Except when Ron thought about it, maybe that's what he needed in his life. He and Hermione had made sense in a way that had felt inevitable. There had never been a question in his mind that they would fall in love and marry. It seemed the only way to keep the three of them together. Him, Harry, and Hermione, one big happy family.
Maybe that was where they had gone wrong, assuming their lives were meant to be intertwined. It meant they never had to try, never had to work for their relationship. They'd neglected their relationship for so long, by the time they'd realized it needed maintenance, they hadn't even even known how to fix it.
Whatever he and Malfoy were about to embark on was not only going to be work—it was going to be a challenge. Hopefully not a battle. Ron had had enough of those to last him a lifetime.
When all was said and done and the ink of their signatures was drying on the bottom of the parchment Madam Maslow had brought with her, Malfoy held his hand out to Ron.
"I guess you will have to call me Draco from now on."
Ron shook his hand, a shiver racing up his arm and down his spine at the warm contact of palm against palm.
He swallowed, uncertain but somewhat thrilled by the uncertainty.
