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The Hand of An Angel


After a bad day, Ron Weasley's feeling down. Draco's more than willing to lend a hand. With an extra helping of humiliation, of course.

Romance / Erotica
Age Rating:

Chapter 1


"Uh… run this by me again?" I place my drink down on the table. My girlfriend stares into her cup, as if the tea was the one she's breaking up with.

"It's…oh Ron I'm so sorry," she stutters and I can tell she's trying hard not to cry. I reach out to touch her arm, to comfort, but she stiffens. It hurts, but I don't force it and let my hand fall limply to the side.

God she looks lovely in this light. It's moments like this when I realise I'll never love anyone like I love her. I shove my hand in my pocket.

"How long have you…known," my voice sounds alien, even to me. Cold, distant. Almost as if I've been taking speech therapy from Malfoy. It isn't even a question I'm asking; more like an accusation. My bright little girl picks up on this and winces.

"..f-for a while now. B-but it's not like I did anything while I was with you…I would never cheat on you!" silence, "…I never meant to hurt you, Ron!"

I scoff, using my free hand to chug a mouthful of Earl Grey, "I'll bet."

She jerks her head up at me. Tears slowly slide down her pale, soft cheeks. She's angry and sad, but it's because she knows I'm hurting that she says nothing. She knows I'm being a prick to make it hurt less – she knows everything about me.

There's an awkward silence around us, as she twirls the cup around and I pretend my drink's interesting. I don't know what to say and I want her to leave: leave the Muggle café, leave my life, and leave my mind. Finally, after half an hour of pure awkward, she stands up and hurriedly gathers her jacket and handbag. She's really crying now, whispering an "I'm sorry" before running out into the London cold. No one seems to really notice besides the madly-in-fucking-love couple at the next table. I scowl at them and they return to cooing sweet nothings to each other. I slam some money down and march out. Not after her, but to the nearest pub.

I'm not nearly drunk enough to handle this.

I'm stumbling around, smiling at anyone who I bump into. Everything's so warm and beautiful and the sounds of the streets are like music to my ears. I'm swimming through a living painting, slow lazy colours moving as if trying to make love with each other and I want to get caught up in the love. Someone's humming something in my ear, some old wizarding song about frogs or something. I want to tell them to shut up, but as I put my fingers to my mouth, I realise it's me who's singing. I laugh heartily.

The colours aren't so bright anymore. Think I'm in some darker part of London. Some or other sign swings above my head. I try to make out the words. K…no…tur….Alley…

Knotur Alley? Never heard of it.

There are strange shadows all around me and suddenly I feel very afraid. I heard stories from Dad about drunken Muggles who'd get stabbed and robbed for wandering the streets at night. I really don't want to die, but I don't know where I am or how to get home. A particular shadow seems unbearably close – I can feel its menacing smile.

I fumble for my wand, dropping whatever else was in my pocket, and whip it out. "Don't…I'll…"

The figure comes out of the shadows. It's a boy, a pretty boy. A really pretty boy. He's like an angel.

It isn't until he blinks and smiles that I realise that I said it aloud. I feel something happening in my stomach as I watch him. His face seems to go through tunnels and in and out of proportion, but I'm seeing his soft, thin lips; his lean frame that flushes against me and the thin, long fingers that snake their way down the front of my jeans…

He's rubbing me through the denim with those fingers and I feel dizzier than when I was moving. I feel the warmth of his breath tickling my earlobe and the slight impression of his nipples against his thin cotton sweater as my hands skim over my body. Isn't he cold? I press my body closer to him and wrap him in a bear hug, vaguely aware that his breath hitches as I do this.

"S'cold," I slur into his shoulder and I hear him snicker. Again I'm feeling something stir inside me and something cold hits me below my waist. His hand is in my jeans, in my underwear and firmly around my cock. Something about this makes me wildly excited if not rather confused and stupidly hard.

He seems not to care as his hand lazily slithers up and down up and down up and down. I throw my head back and in a second, I'm seeing stars. Bloody Hell, his motions and the slight buzzing in my head are so good. I don't know if I'm talking or thinking or moaning or humping into his cold hand but it's over too soon and he withdraws his hand, wiping it on my thigh. I'm trying to catch my breath and figure out why my underwear's so sticky and wet. The world takes another bloody surprise twist and I crash against him, forcing him against the wall.

I think I call him an angel again. I hear him snort as he lets me rest against him awkwardly for the longest time. I feel the side of my face tingle as he presses his cheek on mine and places his lips softly against my ear.

"That'll be thirty galleons, Weasley."

"Wha…EH?" I stumble back, trying to get a look at him. He's smirking and I don't know why, but I should know him. I should.

I trip into something and fall back on my head. The last thing I see is the angel frowning.



Finally, the oaf awakens. I've been sitting at the little wooden table, debating ways on waking him up, because I am quite fatigued and am not very impressed with the twelve-foot pole of redhead taking up my bed.

I'm not quite certain why I felt the need to bring him here. I was better off leaving the git to rot where he'd drunkenly tripped. What was a goody-two shoe Gryffindor doing wandering around Knockturn Alley in any case? It would have done him some good to get knocked about a bit. Perhaps I brought Weasley to my room so that I could bask in his humiliation: of all the ways to reunite with your old nemesis, soliciting them in a dark alleyway must be the most degrading.

The twat is shifting about, still groaning. Instead of getting up, however, he seems content to continue commandeering my bed. Sighing, I wonder over to the bathroom and fill the bin with some cold water. When I return, he's awake, but I still launch the water at him.

Don't begrudge me my small pleasures in life.

"GAH! THE FUCK!?" Weasley makes a rather amusing song and dance about it, leaping off the bed as if he was on fire. If only.

I allow myself to snicker as I return to the table, leaning against it. He glowers at me for a bit, almost as if he's trying to remember me. Then he realises he isn't in his little hovel of a home.

"Where am I?"

"Leaky Cauldron," I say indifferently, inspecting my nails.

Weasley takes a long look around before landing his gaze on me. I truly wasn't watching him do this. Truly.

He stiffens, still a little drunk, "You know me."

I roll my eyes, "Unfortunately. Your poor breeding precedes you."


"Seven years of hearty enmity and you've already forgotten me? Really, Weasley, I was almost insulted that time."

He's gaping like a fish, and I must say, it does him some justice. Leaning slowly on my knees I take in what he's become. He's still tall, freakishly so, but not so lanky – almost as if he's grown into his height. Almost. Still blaringly freckled and ginger, I'm afraid. And he's sporting some sort of fungus on his face – I refuse to call something that heinous a beard. He looks lived in, comfortable. That stage in a relationship where one no longer feels the need to put effort in appearance. God smite me should I let myself go like that.

He's glaring at me and I see the young schoolboy shine through, "It isn't as if I'd want to remember a smarmy, ferret-faced little shit like you!"

I sneer, "Big words for someone who was riding the skin off my angelic hand, don't you think?"

"Fuck you, Malfoy." But the bite is gone and his face blanches significantly. He's sobering up rather fast.

"You'd like to, wouldn't you? Unfortunately I don't think you can afford those services," I counter smoothly, smirking. Weasley's face reddens again with anger and I can see his hands clench into shaking fists. Dear God how I do miss riling this fool up. His breathing is laboured and he can't meet my eye, but flickers his gaze onto my lips. A quick action, but I still notice it.

Weasley looks like he's going to lose it in my general direction, but instead his face melds into a sneer. A rather weak one, but I suppose it's the thought that counts.

"How the mighty have fallen. The great Draco Malfoy, selling his body for money?" he looks pleased with himself, "What, you're a dirty whore now? You suck cock to get by, Malfoy?"

"And?" I rest my hands onto the table behind me. I feel no shame in what I'm doing, "I still earn more in a night than you do in a year, Weasel, and I get to have fun while I do it. Excuse me, while I do him."

He stumbles back, confused. He didn't expect that and I delight in throwing him a curveball. Again. I slide off the table and take one step. And another. And another. I step until my nose touches Weasley's. His eyes are wide and he's squirming at how close I am. Again, he eyes my lips. I make a deal of sticking my tongue out and painstakingly drag it across my bottom lip. The moisture of my saliva leaves them glistening and sensitive to the bristles of Weasley's facial hair in a strangely erotic way.

He's crumbling under my gaze, under my mouth. I slide my body against his for the second time in the evening, curving my neck, never taking my eyes off his downcast ones. He shivers, raising his arms tentatively to rest them on my chest, but he stops before he can push me away. My hand slides into his jean pocket and I hear his breathing come to a complete stop. He leans forward slightly, lips hovering inches away from mine.

Think I've done enough work. I step back and pull out the handful of coins, "Thank you for your patronage, sir. Now, if you don't mind sodding off, I'd very much like to strip down to my boxers and sprawl all over my bed."

Weasel blinks once, twice and turns red as a beet with anger. He rushes forward, fist raised. I'm slightly surprised at his reaction and smirk as he stops inches away from me. He stares into my eyes, blue into grey, before shrinking away and stomping out of my room, possessions in tow.

I sigh contentedly. The night had started bleakly, but now I had enough fun to lull into a peaceful sleep.

Content that I'd never see Weasley again.

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