Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The morning of the tenth anniversary of his brother's death is an unforgivably sunny day in spring. The type of day meant for lazy Sunday lunches in the Burrow, naps outside in the wet grass by the pond at the edge of his family's property or Quidditch games that lasted well into the afternoon. Not this. Not grief. Not the type of all consuming aching pain that racks his very bones like a wound that would not heal; the type of ache that had driven him from his bed to the forgotten plot of land where Fred had been buried.

He hadn't come in years, at least not by himself. Ginny had dragged him out here once, a year or so back, the grass had been shorter then and he had been much much drunker. Now the grass had grown wild and thick with age, almost covering the small, forgotten headstone and Ron for all his efforts was unfortunately sober. For a second, a small shameful side of Ron's mind begs him to just wave his wand and magic a few flowers on to the grave and leave like the coward he is but he doesn't, he can't. Something inside him pushes him to stay. He kneels in the damp grass, his hands instinctively pushing away the grass covering Fred's name but it doesn't do much. He sits for a while in silence, not sure what to say. Even an apology sounds stupid now and I miss you sounds even worse. So he just sits and listens to the world moving around him; the wind whistling through the grass like a breath, and somewhere far off, a bird singing—a sharp, joyful sound that doesn’t belong here.

Ron huffs a breath, half laughter, half a sigh of annoyance at the stupid little world that had taken Fred, funny, ambitious, easy going Fred and left him, a grown man who couldn't even think of the right words to say. What a fucking horrible joke it all was.

“Well,” Ron says softly after a while, “you’d hate this, wouldn’t you? All the bloody crying and deafening silence. No fireworks. No laughter. Just…me.” He swallows; his throat suddenly feeling much too tight for his liking. “I didn’t bring anything,” he admits. “Forgot, actually. Just woke up and came here on a whim. I just thought–,” he pauses the words dying in his throat. I don't know what I really thought, I just came. Don't even think I brushed my hair.”

He pauses again letting his hand run through his hair. “You always said I couldn’t let things go. Always holding a grudge for far too long.” His voice breaks on the last word and his eyes burn as he turns his face from the headstone so it can’t see the tears welling up in his eyes.

He wipes his tears quickly. If Fred was somewhere up in the sky he probably would laugh at him for this. “I didn’t think it’d be this hard,” he says quietly. Ron sighs deep and heavy. “Things at home have gotten worse. Mum looks all sickly now, the healers say it's all a part of old age but nobody knows for sure.”

He shrugs. “Still the world keeps turning and the fucking press coverage has been endless. Can't even take a piss without the front page of the Daily Prophet being plastered with my face” He laughs bitterly. “It's bloody ironic, I know but half the time I think they’ve forgotten I’m a person and not some statue to be paraded around. The other half I’m not even sure I am anymore.”

Ron looks down at the grave, at the name carved into stone as if it would give him some solution, some comfort from the world that marches on without any real care for him. It doesn't. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Freddie,” he says after a few moments. “I’m just so bloody tired.”

Still there is no answer. The world around him is silent for a small miniscule instant and then he hears it. Footsteps. Ron straightens instinctively, swiping a dirt stained sleeve across his face and blinking hard to keep the tears away. He turns, expecting maybe Ginny or perhaps a guilt ridden Percy. It would be just his luck.

What he doesn’t expect is Draco Malfoy to be standing a few feet away, dressed in a tailored black suit and robe, holding flowers like he belongs here. Like he could somehow understand what it was like to lose a brother.

Ron blinks hard once and then twice more. He has to be dreaming, he hasn't seen the man in years and there is no way that Malfoy of all people would be here. Still the more that he stares the more he isn't sure. Malfoy doesn't speak right away. His posture is careful, composed, but there’s something brittle in his expression, something uncertain. “Sorry” he mumbles, breaking the silence.

Anger surges through him, like a roaring fire and for the first time in a while he feels something other than numb. Ron jumps to his feet. “What the hell are you doing here?” Ron says, voice rough with everything he hasn’t said to anyone in years.

“I—” Draco hesitates, then looks past Ron to the headstone. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Ron scoffs. “Didn’t mean to? This is my brother’s grave, Malfoy. Not a fucking dark corridor, you don't just accidentally end up here.”

“I know,” Draco says defensively. He looks small. He’s not smirking. He’s not preening at Ron's misfortune. He just looks… tired. “I wasn’t following you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he adds as Ron grips his wand tighter. He raises his hands in defeat. “I swear I’ve just been coming here. Just usually much later. After everyone's gone.”

Ron blinks. “You’ve been—why?”

Draco’s grey eyes flicker over the name on the stone before looking back at Ron with guilt. “Repentance, I guess.”

Silence stretches between them, thick and uneasy. “You fought on the other side.” Ron says flatly. “If it wasn't for people like you Fred wouldn't be—,” Ron pauses, swallowing the lump in his throat even after all these years he had never said those words. It feels much too permanent.

Draco flinches slightly before regaining his composure. “I know. But I fought to survive,” Draco says, his jaw tight. “Same as you, same as your brother.”

For a moment Ron wants to fill the space between them and break his jaw. It would be more than well deserved but he can't bring himself to do it, it's like the universe itself is rooting him in place. “Why today?” he mutters.

Draco shrugs, a slow movement, almost shameful that looks out of place on such an elegant and proud man. “I didn’t expect you to be here. No one I asked said you still came.” Ron doesn’t answer that. Malfoy is right he doesn't really ever stop by. Merlin knows Malfoy probably sees his brother more than he does.

Ron's shoulders slump as if the strings holding him upright have been cut. He loosens his grip on his wand. He's too fucking tired for any of this. “I should go,” he says, not sure if he's telling himself or Malfoy. He can see his brother some other time, Fred would understand but right now he just can't. He pushes past the blond not bothering to even say goodbye.

“Wait, Weasley,” Malfoy calls after him but Ron doesn't turn back. He can't do this, not right now. He dissaperates quickly, leaving the little plot of land and Malfoy forgotten.

—

The silence in the flat is deafening. Ron flings his keys on the counter watching them skitter on the fake marble before dancing off the edge and clattering on the floor with an unceremonious thump. All the energy he had is gone and all he can do is stand there, tattered coat still on, staring into the dimly lit kitchen like he forgot what he came home for. The only sound in the too small kitchen is the slow ticking of the clock above the stove and it is unbearable in the silence.

He curses into the silence, half at the world, at his stupid little life and half just to disrupt the silence. It persists and Ron can't be bothered to fight anymore. He toes off his boots, shrugs off his ugly flannel, and moves to the living room where unopened letters cover the coffee table like snowdrifts. Some are old. Final notices, hospital bills, Ministry rejections, charity fliers in his mum’s handwriting. Some are new but it's all the same. His eyes falls on the gossip magazine already flipped open to the page discussing the miraculous careers of Harry and Hermione. He knows he shouldn't let it bother him but the jealousy still simmers in the pit of his gut. He's still playing second fiddle even now. He sighs, flinging himself down on the old couch before flicking on the television Hermione had gifted him for Christmas.

The time drifts slowly morning turns to afternoon and then to early evening as Ron just…sits. The light fades quickly but he doesn't bother turning on a lamp. Everything feels like too much even after all these hours.

An owl taps at the window. Ron doesn’t move at first, probably another useless letter. The tapping continues, just loud enough that the sound of the television can't quite drown it out. Eventually, he drags himself up and opens the latch. The owl drops the letter in his hand before perching on his window sill. Harry's messy scrawl stares up at him."Trivia night tonight. Mione and I are going. You should come. We miss you. Just say yes. Please."

Ron stares at the parchment until the ink blurs. He thinks about saying no. About going to bed and letting the whole world pass him by. Instead, he scribbles two words and sends the owl back into the dark: "I’ll come."

—

By the time Ron hears the tell tale sound of Harry and Hermione's entrance, he’s halfway through his second beer and trying not to look as fucking shitty as he feels. He is failing miserably. Harry and Hermione breeze in like they aren't twenty minutes late to what had become a weekend staple with stale ministry snacks and his brother in tow.

George ruffles Ron's hair as he flops down into a stool. “Oi Ronniekins where the fuck have you been?”

“Couldn't make it last week…I had stuff to do,” Ron mumbles guiltily not bothering to mention the two other weeks before.

George feigns a solemn sigh before shaking his head. "He's gotten too good for us, Harry.” Harry snorts as he settles next to George. “It's good to see you mate.”

Ron nods as Hermione hugs him from behind. “Sorry we were late, we had to grab our secret weapon.”

Ron raises an eyebrow but before he can ask what Hermione means. Malfoy is walking over to greet them. Hermione's face lights up as she directs him to a chair next to Ron. Ron nearly chokes. He stands up fast enough to knock his knee against the table with a small wince. “What the—?”

“Don’t,” Harry says quickly, holding up a hand as he stands to take a step in between the blond and Ron.

Ron's eyes narrow as his voice fills with accusation. “You brought him here?”

Hermione, already opening the stale chips in her hand like this is normal, pipes up. “He’s surprisingly good at Wizarding Music trivia and as good as you at Quidditch trivia.”

“That is not a good enough reason!”

“Weasley,” Draco says, his maddeningly calm voice cutting through the brewing tension. “If it helps, I didn’t want to come either.”

“Oh, it doesn’t help,” Ron hisses through gritted teeth.

“Come on, mate” Harry says, guiding Ron back into his chair with practiced ease. “Draco is different and George said it was fine.”

Ron whips his head around to glare at George who just shrugs as he motions to the bartender. “Don’t look at me. I figured if we let Percy come to a few trivia nights, we can survive Malfoy for an hour.”

“Whatever,” Ron mutters as he sits back down, his appetite for trivia utterly destroyed.

Malfoy, of course, takes the seat directly across from him. The game starts. Questions about cauldron innovations and Quidditch scores and the Twisted Sister’s early discography all come up. Yet Ron barely participates. He keeps glancing at Malfoy, who is quiet, focused and unfortunately for Ron very good at this, much better than Ron is on his best nights.

It’s halfway through the second round, during a question about old Zonko's prank releases, that Ron catches Draco looking at him. Not smugly. Not mockingly. Just watching like he’s trying to figure something out or better yet like he's trying to figure him out. Ron suddenly feels vulnerable and raw in all the wrong ways. He pushes his stool back. “I need air,” he mumbles before beelining for the door. No one stops him. George is the only one who looks up, and even he doesn’t say anything.

Ron steps outside into the cool night. His hands are shaking. The alley outside the shop is freezing, even with spring creeping in. Ron tells himself that's why he can't stop shaking as he leans against the wall. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and closes his eyes as he tries to breathe past the burn in his throat. He hates how exposed he feels even now. Hates even more that it started the second Malfoy showed up.

The door to the pub creaks open behind him. He doesn’t turn around, it's probably just Mione coming to check on him. “I don’t want company.” It is silent for a moment before Malfoy steps out into the alleyway with him. His voice is quiet as he speaks. “Then tell me to leave.” For some stupid reason Ron doesn’t. Draco lets the door click shut behind him.

For a few long seconds, neither of them says anything. The hum of late night London fills the silence, distant traffic, wind curling down the alley like it’s eavesdropping, the laughter of twenty somethings too drunk for their own good.

Ron finally says, “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Ron turns to look at him, heat coursing through him like a bolt. “What the hell are you doing here, Malfoy?”

Draco stays silent for a second as if calculating the best answer. “I'm playing trivia and doing spectacularly, if I remember the scoreboard correctly,” he says with a small satisfied smile.

“Don’t—don’t act like this is normal. Like you belong here.”

Draco doesn’t flinch. His voice stays calm, but not cold. “I didn’t come to start anything. I came because I was invited.”

“Why? Why now?” Ron asks, low and bitter. “You didn’t even fight with us. You just survived. Slithered out the other end with your bloody name intact.”

Draco’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “Is that really what you think survival looked like for me?” Ron looks away, stung by how quiet the question is. He hadn’t meant to say that. Or maybe he had. The worst part is, he’s not even sure anymore.

“Fred’s grave–,” Ron starts before trailing off into silence.

Draco nods as if he understands what Ron means perfectly. “I’ve gone every few months since the war.”

Ron exhales shakily. “Why?”

“Because he died saving people like me. Because I owed him more than guilt but it's all I have.”

The weight of Draco's words lands heavier than Ron expected. He hates how real it all sounds. How unperformed. How he can't tell if Malfoy is lying.

Draco meets his gaze for a moment. “Would you believe me if I said I’ve been trying to do the right thing?”

Ron tilts his head back and laughs, sharp and humorless. The silence that follows isn’t peaceful. It’s loaded. Like years worth of conversations neither are ready to have.

“I'm sorry,” Draco says, quietly after a while. “You looked like you needed air. I didn’t mean to crowd you.”

Ron stares at him for a long moment as if he had grown two heads. “You didn’t crowd me,” he mutters. “You just… showed up.” Draco doesn’t press him. Doesn’t move closer. Just stands beside him like he’s willing to share the weight of whatever this is for now. And for a moment, Ron lets him.

Draco shifts slightly after a while, then speaks low and deliberate, like every word has to be dragged out of him. “I wasn’t going to say anything tonight.”

Ron doesn’t look at him, instead shaking his head. “Then don’t.”

“I need something,” Draco says anyway, “and I didn’t want to ask like this. Not here. Not while you were—,” Draco pauses thinking better on what he was about to say.

Ron’s jaw clenches. “Then why change your mind?”

Draco is quiet for a moment. “Because the universe doesn't give perfect moments and right now maybe it isn't too late.”

That gets Ron’s attention. He turns, fully facing him now. “Too late for what, exactly?” Draco meets his gaze. There’s no smugness in it. No sense of pride or superiority. Just a quiet seriousness.

“I want a child.”

Ron’s stomach drops.

“I want an heir,” Draco says. “One that doesn’t come from an arranged match. One I choose. One that has some good to offer the world after all of my bad.”

Ron stares at him unblinking, too stunned to stop him.

“And you—” Draco swallows. “You’re one of the last pureblood omegas left who hasn’t been married off. You’re healthy. Strong. There would be money for you of cou—.”

“Stop.” Draco does. Ron takes a step back like he’s been hit with a stunning spell. “You’ve got some fucking nerve.”

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“You didn’t mean to make it sound like I’m just a fucking broodmare?” Ron snaps, voice rising. “Or like my blood is all a poor blood traitor like me has to offer?”

Draco’s expression shifts, his mouth tightening slightly into a line, as his eyes flicker to meet the omega's gaze. Still, he doesn’t speak. He doesn't even try to take it back. Doesn’t apologize for offering money Ron desperately needs.

Ron lets out a shaky breath that feels like it's been sitting in his chest for ten years. “No,” he says, voice quiet but hard. “Absolutely not.”

Draco nods once.. “Alright.” He steps back, giving Ron space. “I meant it when I said I was trying to do the right thing.”

Ron shakes his head. “It’s already wrong, Malfoy. All of it.”

Draco lingers a moment longer, then says, even softer, “If you change your mind… I’ll be around.”

He leaves without another word.

Chapter Text

Ron wakes up hungover with a dull, grinding ache that makes him feel like he’s been fighting in his sleep. Maybe he has. Maybe part of him always is.

He can't remember when this immobilizing pain in his joints and spine started but now it never leaves. His body feels heavy like something is pressing him into the old mattress and he can't help but wonder if this is what it feels like to be buried. Unable to move, trying desperately to shift a shoulder or bend a knee but every time the pain clamps down, fierce and immediate, like iron chains tightening.

Unshed tears spring to his eyes as he tries to move again. He can't. Breathing hurts. Thinking hurts. His limbs are leaden, every joint locked. He settles back down into the mattress with a frustrated hiss, his eyes already closing. He lays still and drinks in the little sounds he can hear from through his window. The slow whistle of wind through the trees, the far off sound of traffic and the happy shrieks of the neighborhood kids playing in the street below.

He doesn’t think about the grave.

He doesn’t think about Malfoy.

He doesn’t think about the offer.

Except that’s a lie. He does. Over and over again, like it’s carved into the inside of his skull.

Eventually the pain drifts like tides receding for a little while. He pushes himself out of bed with a grunt not bothering to pick up the sheet that falls in his wake.

He needs food.

He stumbles into the kitchen, eyes still bleary from sleep with a tired groan and turns on the kettle. He grimaces as the kettle whistles loudly into the quiet of the flat. The walls suddenly feel too thin, the ceiling too low, like the whole place is closing in around him ready to swallow him whole.

He exhales loudly and flicks off the stove without making himself some tea, instead opting for his specialty: burnt toast over the sink. He doesn’t even bother with jam. He just scarfs it down like a dying man barely reacting to the charred taste. His stomach still grumbles after but he ignores it. His eyes instead land on The Daily Prophet on the counter. It's another article about Harry’s latest Auror victory and Hermione’s new department initiative that is definitely going to make her a shoe-in for Minister of Magic when Shacklebolt retires.

Ron doesn’t read it. He doesn’t need to. He already knows exactly how the rest of it ends.

He sighs and throws the paper in the bin before walking across the kitchen and into the living room. He flops down on the rickety old couch that gives a tired groan of protest like it's begging to be thrown away. Last week's game between the Cannons and the Harpies plays on screen but he barely registers any of it. Instead his mind wanders. He thinks about how he needs to buy groceries and how he also desperately needs to go down to George's shop. He almost went last week after missing the third trivia night in a row. Almost. He just couldn't bring himself to go. George would be there waiting with too many questions and an offer to save Ron from his penniless existence. Ron had barely managed to not tell him to fuck off the last time he had offered.

Instead of buying groceries or going to George's, he apparates to the edge of the pond near the Burrow. It's as he remembers. The grass is soft and wet and the pond after all these years is still beautiful. The wind cuts through his thin jacket as he stands there watching the small ripples in the water but he stays anyway. He just stands and looks out into the water until the sun goes down.

That night, he dreams of Fred.

Not the usual nightmare. Not far off battlefields. This time there is no blood, no laugh cut short by a final painful gasp of air. Just Freddie sitting on the end of his childhood bed, swinging his long freckled legs back and forth like they’re both thirteen again. Maybe they are. He can't tell. Fred's hair is a bit longer than usual, almost hitting his shoulders. “Mum's going to be mad,” Ron thinks or maybe he says it out loud because Fred throws his head back and laughs like a child unburdened by the weight of it all. His laugh is comforting and unbearable all at once.

“You’ve got yourself in a right fucking mess, haven’t you?” Fred says, breathless.

Ron says nothing, just traces each freckle and mole on his brother's face with his eyes as though if he stared hard enough he could capture him in his memory.

Fred leans back on his hands, barely even noticing. “Not sure what’s worse. That he asked or that you haven’t told anyone.”

“Shut up,” Ron mutters with no real heat behind it.

Fred laughs again. “Still as articulate as ever.”

Ron leans over and goes to shove Fred but hands phase right through. Fred continues to laugh like he barely noticed.

Ron wakes up late into the afternoon. His heart is still pounding in his ears and his pillow is wet with sweat and tears and he’s already halfway through reaching for a bottle that isn’t there. His eyes guilty flick to the number of a therapist written in Hermione's neat cursive. He should call. He said he would months ago but he hasn't. It's too much work and too much money and he has nothing to talk about. Instead he just sighs as he rolls out of bed.

“I have work,” he mumbles as if the note would hear him and give a sympathetic nod before saying it would come back another time. He grabs his work shirt and dirty black jeans and throws on his work clothes before aparrating away.

Ron lands in an alleyway a street down from Jeanie's Laundromat and walks the rest of the way there. Jeanie, the original owner, had been dead for years but no one ever bothered to change the name out front. Kim, the new owner, says anything new would just confuse people. Ron thinks she just doesn't want to repaint the sign but he needs the money so he doesn't say that and instead just nods. He quite likes the sign anyway.

As soon as he steps into Jeanie’s the usual cocktail: stale detergent, cheap bleach, and that always-present mildew stink no one ever manages to scrub out hits him.Home sweet fucking home.

Inside he can hear the small hum of chatter and people shuffling around, some more loudly that others. At the front counter sits Mina who barely even looks up from her phone as he drops his bag on the dirty checkerboard floor next to her.

“You're late,” Mina says flatly as she twirls a blue streak of hair back and forth in one hand.

“I'm the manager, you know?” Ron mutters. Instinctively dragging a rough hand through his hair as takes in that metallic scent of damp clothes and burned dust.

"Didn’t say you weren't. Just said you’re late. Is old age affecting your hearing?" she asks her voice filled with feigned concern.

He shoots her a glare but it only manages to make him look like more of an old man. She grins, toothy and unbothered, and he can't help but wonder if he was that much of a little shit when he was a kid. Ron thinks more than likely yes as he leans on the counter next to her.

“One of the dryers is making the clicking sound again,” Mina says after a beat. “You know the one that means it’s chewing on a zipper?”

Ron nods. “I'll fix it,” he replies. He won't.

They stay at the counter for a while, watching the customers come in and out, both counting down each hour as they pass the way working hours always do. Slowly. Grudgingly. Like they had a personal vendetta against Ron and Mina. Eventually the late-day crowd thins out, leaving behind the usuals. In the back is a college kid folding his only clean bedsheet. Ron had talked to him once or twice when he first started working at Jeanie's but now Ron couldn't remember his name. Beside him a woman a woman in pink floral scrubs with two twin girls sits dejectedly as the girls scream every time the soap dispenser hisses.

They all sit in relative quiet until the man finishes, pays and leaves and then a while later the woman and two girls do the same. Mina leaves a little before seven. Technically he should write her up for leaving early but he can't be bothered to care. She zips up her black hoodie and tosses her gum in the bin, pausing just long enough to slap a note onto the counter.

“For Kim...when she finally comes in,” she says dryly. “Also, don’t forget to empty dryer six. Someone left their shit in there again.”

“Charming,” Ron mutters.

She grins. “Good luck,” she yells and then she’s gone. And it’s just Ron and the machines.

He sits there for about an hour staring at the door begrudgingly before anyone else comes in. It's a woman around his mother's age who comes in every week with a tartan laundry bag and a cigarette in between her teeth. She doesn’t talk, which Ron appreciates. She just does her laundry and leaves before ten, nodding to him like they’re in on the same secret. Sometimes he likes to imagine that maybe they are. He watches her until she disappears into the inky black of night before deciding to do one of Kim's crosswords. It's boring, the paper is faded and a large ring stains the middle from where someone had left coffee but it was something to do.

He’s halfway through the crossword from the week-old newspaper when the bell over the door chimes. He doesn’t look up at first. Most people come in fast, throw in a load, and disappear and he prays whoever the fuck is doing their laundry past ten would get the message. They obviously don't as the footsteps stop in front of the counter and don’t move.

Ron sighs and glances up and for a second he genuinely thinks he’s hallucinating.

Draco Malfoy stands there, holding a plain canvas laundry bag and looking so out of place it's almost comical. His coat is too clean, his shoes are a shiny polished black and his eyes flicker over the contents of the laundromat like a man discovering a new depressing bleach scented world.

They stare at each other.

Draco’s expression doesn’t shift. Neither does Ron’s.

“…Weasley,” Draco says eventually. Voice calm. Almost bored.

Ron says nothing. Just looks at him. Then back to his crossword.

He writes the word grief.

Too short.

The silence stretches.

“I need to use the machine,” Draco says finally, gesturing stiffly at the row of washers.

Ron shrugs without looking up. “They’re not bloody password-protected.”

Another pause. Then the sound of footsteps, slow and careful, as if Draco is unsure whether the floors would swallow him whole. Ron hopes it does.

Ron watches him from the corner of his eye. Draco moves like he’s used to being watched. Like he expects judgment or maybe something worse. He opens the laundry bag slowly, revealing crisply folded clothes and a small bottle of expensive lavender detergent with a French name Ron can't pronounce. Of fucking course.

He picks washer number five. Ron thinks that tracks.

The door clunks shut, and the machine starts to churn. Draco sits down on the hard plastic bench, his posture too straight as his hands grip the edge too tight, his eyes flicker to the clock, then the window, then Ron. He doesn't linger for long but Ron can feel it.

Still, he doesn't say anything. Ron lets the silence sit there for five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Then he says, without looking up: “Didn’t know you did your own laundry.”

Draco doesn’t answer at first as if he's trying to find the right words. When he does, it’s soft. “Didn’t know you worked in a laundromat.”

Ron almost smiles but doesn’t. He's still talking to Malfoy after all.

Another pause.

“I moved nearby,” Draco says finally, as if that explains anything. “To Marrowfield…the muggle neighborhood.”

Ron nods once. “Is this the part where you ask me not to tell anyone the great Draco Malfoy has stooped this low?”

Another pause.

Draco’s lips twitch like he might still have something sharp and biting to say under all this small talk and pretend niceties, but instead he just leans back on the bench, eyes half-lidded. “No. I don’t really care what anyone knows anymore.”

Another pause.

Ron frowns but doesn't say anything.

Another pause.

The washer hums between them. Steam curls up from a vent near the wall. Outside, the street is empty. Ron sighs and then scratches out grief and writes ghosts.

It fits.

The silence marches on.

Chapter Text

Ron dreams of French laundry detergent the night after seeing Malfoy.

It’s the first decent dream he’s had in weeks. It's not the usual flickers of war memories that refuse to stop their haunting, but something almost… quaint and mundane and so deeply jarring that he wakes up confused and irritated, with the scent of vanilla and amber clinging to him.

He sighs and scrubs the sleep out of his eyes with the edge of his palms, letting the thoughts of Malfoy and his expensive scent leave him as he drags himself out of bed. There's nearly two hours before his shift and it's rare that he's awake this early. He moves slowly, letting the morning stretch thin as he fills the kettle and rummages through the cupboards for tea or any leftover pasta he hadn't gone through the week before.

There isn't much except a few boxes of ginger and Earl Grey tea and a jar of pickled herring his mom had sent over a few months ago. It remained unopened in his cabinet, periodically being pushed farther and farther back. His eyes linger on the jar for a second too long before he shakes his head and tells himself he’s not that desperate.

Instead, he makes a cup of Earl Grey—one of the few nice things left in the flat—and reheats a sausage roll he found wedged behind a jar of pickles in the fridge.

It’s gone a bit soft, the meat suspiciously lumpy and oozing, but he eats it anyway. Payday’s not until next week, and he’s been putting off another grocery run for longer than he’d like to admit. It's just that the corner shop downstairs closes too early, and the Tesco a few blocks over always feels miles away when he’s dragging himself home after a long shift. Not that it matters. Even if he had the energy, he doesn’t have the money. Not really. Not enough for anything fresh. Not enough for anything decent.

He tells himself he’ll go tomorrow. He’s been saying that for days now, maybe longer. But this time he swears as he takes the last bite of the lumpy roll. It tastes like regret and preservatives.

After breakfast, Ron rinses his plate and mug and sets it in the drying rack. The flat is still dim but as he leans against the counter and stares out the kitchen window he can see two pigeons bicker over something shiny on the pavement below. One wins, barely. The other flies off in a huff. Then the winner follows.

Ron keeps staring at the little spot below; it's not peaceful, exactly, nothing in this neighborhood ever is. Just quiet in the way his life has been lately, emptied out of anything with any real substance. Work, home, sleep. The occasional drink with Harry or a letter from Hermione or Mum, usually brief and cloying with pity at his lonely little life. Then more drinks, usually on the floor of his kitchen. He’s not lonely, he tells himself and them. Just… busy. And tired. And not in the mood for most things, most days. Which is fine. It’s all bloody fine.

A sharp, impatient knock cuts through the quiet before Ron has the chance to spiral. He frowns and pads toward the door, barely managing to get it halfway open before his landlord shoulders his way inside.

Archibald Chesterfield or simply Archie isn’t an imposing man, not with his loud Hawaiian shirt, khaki board shorts and thinning curls that cling stubbornly to his scalp but the irritation rolling off him is unmistakable and it makes Ron shrink a little.

“Ron,” he says, voice clipped. “We need to talk.”

Ron swallows, already bracing for it. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

Archie shifts his weight as he leans against the doorframe. “Look mate, I’m not here to evict you. Not yet. But the rent’s been late for two months now and I gotta have that money, or I’m gonna have to start weighing my options.”

Ron rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, trying to keep his voice even as his eyes flick to the pile of bills on the coffee table. “Payday is next week. I just need a bit more time.”

Archibald snorts. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. You’re not the first guy to tell me that. The thing is, I got bills too, Ron. I can’t just wait around.”

A tense silence settles between them. Ron can feel it stretching, thick and sour and for a second, he’s sure Archie is going to give him until the end of the day. But then the beta exhales sharply, annoyance giving way to something closer to weary understanding.

“I get it,” Mr. Chesterfield says, shaking his head. “Life’s rough. But I gotta keep the place running. If you’re struggling, you need to let me know sooner rather than later. Don’t make me chase you down for any more late payments alright?.”

Ron nods, swallowing down the lump forming in his throat. “I won't. I promise.”

Mr. Chesterfield cracks a half-smile, running a hand through his hair. “Alright. I’m counting on it. Don’t make me regret it.”

With that, he turns and disappears down the hall without another word. It's a minute before Ron finally closes the door and returns to his dull morning. His skin feels tacky under his shirt as a whiff of his scent makes him wince.

Right. Shower.

He strips down in the hallway and hops into the tub, the water taking forever to warm, and even then it only manages a half-hearted lukewarm that sputters every few minutes. Still, he scrubs down fast, trying not to think too hard about the state of his razor or the half-empty bottle of body wash he’s been watering down for a week.

It doesn't take long before he’s out, dressed, and halfway through lacing his shoes. He looks up at the standing mirror in front of him, realizing his work shirt has a toothpaste stain and his hair, like always, looks like shit. He sighs and decides against changing instead apparating to the same spot he does each morning and walking the rest of the way there.

It takes some time to open the door as the lock jams each time he tries to turn but eventually he manages to get inside and turn on the flickering open sign. Then Ron makes his way to the counter and checks the schedule pinned beside the till. Mina’s off today. Lucky her. She probably planned that. Probably saw the rota and thought, “No thanks, not with Ron’s mood lately.” Smart.

He turns and walks through the rows of machines out of habit, checking for left-behind socks, stuck zippers, or the occasional melted sweet someone forgot to fish out their pocket. Half the doors creak when opened, and the heat from the overnight dryers still clings to the metal. He's half way through when he finally sees it. Third dryer from the back — something white and expensive-looking balled up in the drum.

Ron pulls it out and immediately knows.

It’s that same Oxford shirt. The one from that day. The one with the ridiculous silver buttons and the collar sharp enough to cut someone. He stares at it for a beat too long before sighing and giving it a hard shake, holding it up like it might bite him. On the cuff of the right sleeve is the letters D.M. embroidered with silvery thread. He checks the label — of course it’s dryclean only — and folds it carefully anyway, more from obligation than anything else. He sets it on the counter, far from the stain remover and the battered till, smoothing the fabric down with the flat of his palm.

It still smells like that fancy soap. Vanilla, amber. Something expensive. Something unreasonably nice. But underneath there's something else, something sweet yet commanding like crisp apples and the softest hint of leather and wood. It's Malfoy's scent, he would know it anywhere after being assaulted by it for most of his teenage years. He shudders and steps away from it like it might accuse him of something. Still his gaze lingers on the counter longer than he meant before a small cough pulled him back to the present.

A middle-aged woman, her arms full of soggy laundry bags, was waddling in. She pauses and gives him a small nod.

“Morning,” Ron says, forcing some brightness into his voice. “Machines seem to be behaving today.”

She smiles tiredly. “That’s a blessing. These old things have a mind of their own, don't they?”

Ron nods with a small hum of agreement, grateful for the normalcy. “If anything’s stuck or broken, just let me know.”

As she settles at a nearby folding table, Ron resumes his rounds, wiping down machines, stacking baskets, and quietly counting the minutes as they tick by slower than the drying cycles.

The day stretches on, sparse and dull except for the occasional sound of people coming in.

Then, as the afternoon light waned, the door swung open again.

Ron didn’t have to look up to know who it was. That scent hit him first. Warm and cool at once, all expensive soap and sharp leather. His stomach tightens as Malfoy approaches the counter, hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his long black coat.

“Forgot something, did you?” Ron asks dryly.

Malfoy smiles faintly, glancing down at the neatly folded shirt. “Ah. I knew I left it somewhere. Thanks for not binning it.”

Ron shrugs. “Was tempted.”

Draco hums in amusement and reaches for the shirt, his fingers brushing Ron’s hand by accident. Ron flinches like the mere touch burns.

Draco freezes, his brows furrowing. “Didn’t mean to—”

“S’alright,” Ron mutters, pulling back.

As Draco tucks the shirt into a sleek black bag, something inside shifts give way to a glint of metal and a small vile pulsing faintly under a linen cloth.

Ron’s eyes narrow, his mouth moving before he can stop himself. “What the hell is that?”

Malfoy's hand pauses for the briefest second before zipping the bag closed. “Just work.”

“What kind of work needs unmarked potions and knives?” Ron says, voice rising despite himself.

Draco arches an eyebrow. “Still suspicious of everything I do, Weasley?”

“You showing up around here, poking into things, offering money, what am I supposed to think?”

Draco looks away, jaw tight. “I wasn’t trying to start anything. I just thought Harry would’ve explained.”

At that, Ron goes still.

“What?” he asks slowly.

Draco’s expression falters. “You mean he hasn’t told you?”

Ron’s chest prickles with something close to envy. “Told me what?”

There was a beat of hesitation, something unreadable passed through Draco’s eyes, almost pity.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says quietly, turning to go.

“No fuck that. Don’t do that. Don’t drop cryptic shit about Harry and then walk away like it’s nothing.”

Draco turns back, his voice clipped. “It wasn’t meant to be cryptic. I just thought, given how close you were, he might’ve— Never mind.”

“Oh, piss off,” Ron growls. “You think you can just show up and act like you know me or my friends? Walk around like you of all people care? You don’t get to do that, Malfoy.”

The words came out sharper than he meant, venom laced with confusion and something almost like hurt. Draco’s jaw clenches.

“I’ll remember that,” he says coldly.

He turns and doesn't look back as he leaves.

The rest of the shift crawls by.

Ron doesn’t remember the faces that come and go. He doesn’t remember what loads he cleared or whether he locked the back door. His mind keeps circling the same point like a drain refusing to clear.

That glint of metal in Malfoy’s bag.

The potion.

The look on his face.

The way he said, “You mean he hasn’t told you?”

By the time Ron shuts off the lights and locks the door, the sky outside is pitch black and the street lamps flicker to life. He shoves his hands deep into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind as he heads home.

His feet move out of habit, but his thoughts don’t follow. They’re stuck in the laundromat. In that moment.

And in the quiet that follows, he realizes something he doesn’t want to admit.

He didn’t want Malfoy to leave, at least not before he could figure the alpha out. He sighs then apparates the rest of the way home before flopping down on his bed with a quiet huff.

He needs sleep.