たとえ離れても 心はそばにいるよ (happiestwhen) wrote in balloonstrings,
たとえ離れても 心はそばにいるよ

The Games We Play [HP ; Ron/Draco/Neville]

Title: The Games We Play
Pairing: Ron/Draco/Neville (and permutations)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: heavy angst (no spoilers for HBP since this was written before the book's release)
Summary: The problem with Draco is that he wears his thoughts and feelings pinned to his chest like his Slytherin House crest.
Word Count: 2756
Notes: originally written (but never posted) as an extra gift in the reversathon for madsdog, who requested: Ron/Draco fic with bottom!Draco and Neville as a third wheel. Would love to see emotional-one-sided-ness with Ron as the detatched and Draco as the emotionally involved one. Heavy angst preferrable. Also, if it can be worked, I'd love to see the story happening backwards- from resolution through complication to initial situation- although that's not necessary.. Thank you to platoapproved for looking this over for me!


Tonight is the leaving feast. Everyone is chattering about what they will do over the summer, the things they will see and the people they will meet.

Draco looks calm, the picture of resolve, as he shrugs the sleeves of his robes down over his arms. He has made a decision. He will give himself to someone who will appreciate him. He will become a Death Eater.

He spends his last night at Hogwarts repeating this over and over in his mind, until he has convinced himself that this will make him happy. It won’t, of course, but Draco is used to lying to himself.

The next afternoon, at King’s Cross station, Ron doesn’t even favor Draco with a final glance. It’s as though they never had anything to begin with, that it was all just some hopeful delusion, a figment of Draco’s imagination. He watches as Ron’s parents smile and hug him, their smiles broad and matching the sparkle in his eyes. He looks happy, and he is not with him, Draco observes. He looks happy because he is not with him, Draco’s mind amends.

Maybe Draco will kill him in a battle in a month or two, using the spells he’s learned and those he will learn. Maybe he will watch Ron Weasley fall and drain slowly, paling, and gasping, and under the tip of Draco’s wand.

Draco won’t though.

His own heart has already shattered, and he doesn’t think he would have the strength to kill the person who holds the remaining pieces.


Ron stops looking at Draco when they pass in the hallways, and he is never waiting for him in the boys' toilets, or near the alcoves outside of the Great Hall. His lips are smooth now from lack of kissing. Draco watches him laughing with Harry and Hermione at breakfast, and when one of them looks up, it is always Harry, and Draco immediately looks back down at his plate.

Draco thinks that maybe he could send Ron an owl, track him down, corner him against a wall, figure out a way to get him alone, get him in a position where he’d have to listen to Draco. He does none of these things, though, because Draco understands that this was just a game to Ron, another way to make Malfoy’s life hell. It was never a game to Draco, not even the first time, the strange and frantic kiss in the hallway that meant so much more than a first kiss should. It was important. Draco hates ‘important’ almost as much as he hates ‘temporary’.

He still doesn’t really understand ‘over’.

He grows almost desperate enough to look for someone else, but when he kisses Pansy Parkinson in the Slytherin common room, it is a mistake and he immediately pulls away. Her lips are nothing like Ron’s. They are small and sweet and purse when he looks at her wide-eyed, and tells her that he’s an idiot, and that he’s sorry, and that it wouldn’t happen again. The mold of her mouth to his is all wrong, and the kiss leaves him feeling stale.


They’re fucking in Gryffindor this time, on Ron’s bed, and Ron is moaning loudly against the pulse point in Draco’s neck, his freckles flooding Draco’s vision. It’s like some strange, blotchy canvas, wrapping around Draco and suffocating himself with a feeling that isn’t lack of oxygen.

Draco’s arms are looped up around Ron’s neck, pulling him closer, and Ron’s knees are grazing Draco’s calves – Ron is still so much taller.

Neither one of them hears the footsteps on the stairs, or the creak of the dormitory door swinging open, until it is too late.


Draco wonders why he isn’t surprised as Ron slows above him and he can see that wild black hair and those green eyes that are flashing with dark anger. Harry was always the one to take away anything that mattered to Draco.

Harry says nothing, but his face is going red and he looks livid, angrier than Draco had ever thought him capable of being.

Ron pulls on his trousers quickly, not meeting Harry’s eyes, and when he looks back at Draco, his mouth is a thin line. Draco’s eyes are awash with ‘I love you’s, but Ron just tells him to leave, to get the fuck out. Draco sits up on the bed and grabs his robe just as he hears Ron apologizing, not to Draco, to Harry, and he is telling Harry that it is over, that it was a mistake, that it won’t happen again.

The words come too easily for Draco’s liking. But he isn’t surprised. Ron was always Harry’s friend first. He wouldn’t choose anyone over him, not even if Draco is a good fuck.


Neville knows what is going on. Of course he knows. He understands what they’re doing, the game they’re playing and how he is just a pawn, a territory they’re both fighting for. Still, he says nothing and when Draco comes to him again in an attempt to make Ron jealous, an attempt that will not work, Both of them know this before it’s even begun, but Draco is about presentation, about trying even when it’s foolish, and he will get Ron’s attention if it kills him because Draco Malfoy does not go ignored.

Neville complies, even if it means getting fucked on his bed just when he knows Ron will walk in and see them. Draco doesn’t fit against the curve of Neville’s body, he feels awkward and wrong with his cock in Neville’s arse, because it’s different and it’s Ron’s place to do this. It isn’t even good sex, and Draco wishes he had thought of someone better to fuck because, really, Longbottom?

When Ron walks in and sees them, he doesn’t look angry. Draco knew he wouldn’t be, but it still hurts. Ron is possessive of his friends, not of Draco. He doesn’t care who Draco fucks and who fucks Draco because he knows who Draco belongs to in the end. Ron has learned not to get angry over petty things.

That’s all Draco is, a petty thing.


Draco mentions, once, when they are lying together in the empty Slytherin dormitory, that he is thinking about not getting the Dark Mark. He tells Ron that he is contemplating joining forces with Dumbledore instead.

“That’s nice,” Ron replies. It’s obvious he’s not listening. He must be thinking of other things, of how long he will have to shower before dinner, or if he remembered to copy down his homework in Transfiguration. Ron has stopped listening to the things Draco has to say because he was never with Draco for his pretty words. He can go to his friends for conversation. He goes to Draco to forget about words and sentences and the war everyone is talking about these days.

“I don’t love you,” Draco whispers coarsely as Ron is pulling his robes on and heading for the door.

“Oh, I know,” Ron says, smirking at Draco’s predictably bad lie.


Draco doesn’t ever tell Ron outright what he wants from him, that he wants him to love him, because Ron wouldn’t listen anyway. He just takes what he can have, what Ron allows him to have, which is sex. Draco thinks vaguely of things he’d like to say, conversations he’d like to have, as he feels Ron pulsing inside of him, thrusting deeply in and out, crushing Draco’s chest underneath his and choking Draco with his tongue. Their sex is rushed now. There is no time for talk because Ron is always hurrying to get back to Hermione to study Charms, or to Harry to practice Quidditch. He is a good friend, Draco thinks, but he will never be Draco’s friend. He isn’t even Draco’s lover.

Draco will gulp down that thought and will himself to forget it. He only ever thinks these foolish things when Ron is gasping against him, and Draco lies still and breathing hard, because Ron does not touch him, and he has to pull himself off to have any sort of release.

He should just leave him. But he can’t. It’s become strangely comforting, their routine, even when it’s far from comfortable.


Draco hates that Ron is a Gryffindor. He hates everything that means. Ron has changed and grown into his red and gold and now he is fearless, bold to the point that he is ruthless. Perhaps he would have made a good Slytherin. Perhaps he is just trying to survive like everyone else. (Perhaps Draco is too.)

Draco hates that Ron can hurt him and hurt him, but never to the point where Draco wants to leave. He hates that it is Ron’s game, and that Ron is winning and that no matter how horrible it gets, Draco thinks, naively, that he will be able to triumph in the end. It’s the same reason Draco zips around the Quidditch Pitch at five in the morning every other day of the week. He still thinks that one day he will beat Potter, even if it is impossible.

Draco thinks that he will make Ron hurt too. He sucks Neville Longbottom off in an alcove near the Great Hall one morning before lunch. Neville’s cock is not like Draco’s, and Neville’s face has more worry lines and pouting lips and his eyes look strangely alert where Ron’s just look lazy these days.

Afterwards, Draco asks him who was better. At first Neville says nothing, but then he understands. He says a name, and Draco seems to agree. He runs his tongue over his lips and frowns. His mouth is small and his tongue is dry, and yes, both of them know that Ron was better, that Ron is better. It’s always Ron because Ron is that brilliant, brave Gryffindor, the Boy Who Lived’s best friend, and as much as Draco wants to brush him off, he cannot seem to think of a clever insult. He wouldn’t be with Ron if Ron wasn’t better. He’d be with Nott or Zabini or fucking Bulstrode, for Merlin’s sake. But he is with Ron, and Ron is better. Than him. And he can’t think of any excuse for himself because he’s the one being fucked into the bed sheets at night, and there is nothing he can say to talk himself around that.

That’s why Draco loves him, isn’t it?

After Neville leaves, doing up his trousers quickly and murmuring something about never mentioning this, Draco falls back against the wall, the familiar one next to the third window. Later, he will go back to the dormitory and vomit into the sink, hating the taste of Neville’s come in his throat.


The problem with Draco is that he wears his thoughts and feelings pinned to his chest like his Slytherin House crest. They’re there for everyone to see and Ron can’t help but take advantage of that. Ron can toy with Draco, twist him around in ways he couldn’t before, because Draco trusts Ron, likes Ron, maybe even loves him. Draco doesn’t let himself admit any of these things, but they’re written all over his face when Ron enters a room.

Ron doesn’t care about Draco, because he never has. He loves Hermione. He loves Harry. He loved his sister and he loves his parents and his brothers. But he is indifferent to Malfoy. If he can’t win by hexing him, he will hurt Draco in other ways. Because he can. Because Draco hurt Harry. Because Ron will never forgive him for that.

And so, it isn’t entirely unexpected that Ron fucks Neville in the toilets one afternoon. He doesn’t do it because he wants Neville. He does it because he’s never had that kind of control before – over Draco, not Neville, and because he can. Neville lets him, because he can do that too.

It is hot and strange and Neville feels nothing like Draco. He is all chubby skin where Draco was sharp angles, but inside, he still feels the same. Wet, sticky, and unsatisfying at the end.

Later, Ron will tell Draco what he’s done as he is gagging Draco’s mouth with his cock. He can’t wait to see the expression on Malfoy’s face. He thinks that maybe if it had been Harry he’d fucked, he might have even been able to make Draco cry.


“What?” Ron’s voice is sharp like the edge of a knife.

“Well,” Draco starts, “I mean, only if you’re interested.”

Ron sneers. Draco hadn’t realized that Weasleys were able to sneer like that. But then he nods, and a deal is made. They don’t shake hands, of course, and the terms are not discussed, but there is an agreement.

Ron leans in and kisses Draco firmly on the lips and Draco wonders how it is that it suddenly seems like the whole thing had been Ron’s suggestion. Draco was the one who mentioned continuing this, whatever this is. Ron isn’t supposed to care. It’s all just a means to an end. Ron doesn’t care. And Draco tells himself that he doesn’t either. It’s just something temporary to sate a perfectly normal need.

But it’s more than that to Draco, because while Ron keeps his feelings reserved for his friends, Draco has no one else to give his own to, so he automatically finds himself putting whatever he’s got into this, this relationship with no name or category. Ron has Hermione and Harry for emotions. Draco is just a fuck toy.

But Draco doesn’t understand the concept of ‘temporary’. If Ron is with him, then he is with him, on Draco’s terms, for as long as Draco wants. At least, Draco will tell himself that this is how things are, even though it’s his back against the wall, his knees scraping on the dirty floor.


The fight begins like all the others. Harsh words and low-blow insults give way to wands and fists and flashes of hexes that ricochet off the walls and send beams of fragmented, flashing light slicing back across their arms and legs, turning them to raw, burned skin.

Ron has gotten better with his words and spells over the summer; Weeks of practice with Fred and George have paid off, and he doesn’t stumble or trip when hissing out an unsavory hex. But Draco fights with fury and fervor that Ron somehow lacks now. Perhaps this is because, since his sister’s death, Ron hasn’t been able to will himself to become passionate about anything, even if the anything is Draco Malfoy. He fights as though he needs to, as if the sweaty struggle that leads to them both scraping shoulders dangerously against the rough stone wall is somehow sustaining Ronald Weasley’s existence.

Draco’s fingers are clutching at Ron’s neck and Ron is pressing back, with palms and elbows and hipbones. Draco feels his spine sliding painfully along the stone bricks behind him and he opens his mouth to gasp but the sound turns to a moan halfway through, because Ron has edged his knee between Draco’s legs, pinning him back against the wall and rubbing his thigh against Draco’s cock that is, despite all logic, half hard already.

“Weasley,” he hisses out, his voice strangled. Pushing back against Ron only serves to increase the friction between them and Draco’s eyes go wide when Ron’s lips press against his. It isn’t a sweet sort of kiss. It feels like anger and vengeance and something just short of possessiveness.

Draco’s hands flail against Ron’s shoulders, but he is pinned tight and firm against the wall, and he can feel Ron’s cock pressing into his stomach, the heat dark and vulgar but somehow it’s enough to make Draco want to kiss back. He does, his lips smooth and wet against Ron’s, and he can feel Ron’s slippery tongue, that is all Weasley and Gryffindor and things Draco hates, probing against his.

He feels Ron thrusting against him, and then there is a sticky sort of warmth clinging to the space between them. Fuck, Draco thinks, realizing that Ron’s come, and he has too.

“Well, Malfoy,” Ron says, breathing hard as he pulls back, “at least it seems you’re good for something.”

Draco can’t do anything but look at him, searching Ron’s eyes for an explanation. He doesn’t find one, but later while he’s trying to concentrate on his Potions essay, he will find himself thinking back to those lips, and the name that goes with them.
Tags: characters: draco, characters: neville, characters: ron, characters: ron weasley, fandom: harry potter, pairing: ron/draco/neville
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