Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1908255.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Fred_Weasley/George_Weasley, Vincent_Crabbe/Gregory_Goyle, Draco_Malfoy/
      Harry_Potter, Harry_Potter/Ron_Weasley, Fred_Weasley/George_Weasley/Ron
      Weasley, Ron_Weasley/Vincent_Crabbe/Gregory_Goyle
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Ron_Weasley, Hermione_Granger, Draco_Malfoy, Vincent
      Crabbe, Gregory_Goyle
  Additional Tags:
      Twincest, thrincest, Polyjuice_Potion, Dubious_Consent, Unknown/Confused/
      Masked_Identities, Memory_Alteration, Dangerously_close_to_PWP
  Stats:
      Published: 2005-11-02 Words: 7138
****** The Young Hedonists’s Annual Mistaken Identity Masque ******
by puckity
Summary
     Harry hears strange rumors of a secret Slytherin club, and decides to
     drag Ron along to investigate it in hopes that he can get Malfoy in
     trouble under Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four. What they find
     is a Halloween party beyond their wildest imaginations.
Notes
     Written in 2005. The precursor to Harry becoming utterly obsessed
     with Malfoy in HBP.
     Spoilers through HBP, though this takes place on Halloween in OotP.
     Also written under the pretense of gratuitous Umbridge bashing.
     Beta'd by the brilliant Rachel.
     You can also follow me on Tumblr.
Without Quidditch, Harry Potter found he had way too much time on his hands.
It wasn’t until that monstrosity of a witch, Dolores Umbridge, had decided to
make Hogwarts her own personal dictatorship that Harry realized how important
the game had become for him. It was the stabilizing factor in his otherwise
chaotically spiraling life.
Staring at the perfect piece of parchment mounted on the Gryffindor common room
board, he suppressed the frantic urge to obliterate the entire wall just so he
wouldn’t have to see it anymore. The bold black words radiated an unholy draw
for Harry; he wanted nothing more than to never see them again, yet every time
he passed through the dormitories he couldn’t help but stop and glare
unblinking, as though he could simply destroy it by the shear power of his
will.
Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four. If Harry needed an excuse to subvert his
rage without heed of consequences, this was it. Without Quidditch, Harry
started actively seeking other, less constructive outlets for his destructive
behavior.
Harry recalled that—as he’d paced back and forth in front of the Great Hall
waiting for Angelina to return with a verdict from Umbridge as to their team’s
status—Draco Malfoy had brushed past him and lingered just long enough to
whisper:
“I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you, Potter.” His lips had barely
twitched; that perpetual smirk remained unbroken.
Within that moment, Harry had found his new extra-curricular activity.
                                      ---
Much like watching his older brothers turn on him and smile
connivingly—attempting to convince him to be a test subject for their latest
product—Ron’s gaze nervously followed Harry’s pacing, hoping that some
distraction would come up before his closest comrade decided to make trouble
for the lot of them.
“Harry…Harry, please try and relax.” Hermione sounded timid, and Ron would have
relished it if he’d had the courage to say anything at all. With school and
Quidditch back in Harry’s life, his screaming fits and vicious outbursts had
subsided, and for a month or so Ron had almost been able to imagine that
everything was normal again.
Then that—that woman had taken it away, and Ron could have strangled her with
her little pink bow.
Harry ignored Hermione’s plea, and she glanced at Ron with an urging look. Ron
almost laughed; if Hermione thought he was going to say something to Harry, she
was absolutely mental. He tried to stare back at her blankly, pretending he
didn’t understand what she was getting at.
Say something, she mouthed to him.
What? Ron furrowed his eyebrows, and saw Hermione grit her teeth in
frustration.
“I, um, I need to go and do something.” Hermione stood abruptly. Her eyes
darted from Harry to Ron to the floor and the wall. “Um, the library. Need to
look at a—er, a book. For…Runes.” Ron quirked his head at her, half-astounded
by her atrocious lying skills, half-jealous that she was getting away.
Too busy trying not to follow Hermione’s slender—if jerky—legs, trying not to
notice how the hem of her skirt bounced up and down as she navigated her way
out of the common room, Ron didn’t hear Harry drop into the chair next to him.
“I thought she would never leave.” Ron spun about to face the newly stationary
Harry, marveling at how suddenly calm his mate looked after a good half an hour
of neurotic movement. Harry continued talking without really acknowledging
Ron’s presence.
“I mean, I love Hermione and all that, but sometimes she needs to leave us be.”
“Us?” Ron would have much preferred the lone company of Hermione to Harry, at
present.
“You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you Ron?” Harry turned an intense gaze on
Ron, and Ron felt his mouth dry with the strange focus in his mate’s eyes. He
knew that look, and began to wish that he’d taken up Katie Bell and Alicia
Spinnet’s offer for some keeper training lessons this evening.
“I’ve heard a lot of things, Harry.” Ron tried to keep his voice light and
genial. He didn’t know where this conversation was going, but he felt darkly
certain that it would end with him cleaning out the waste ducts in the
dungeons.
“The rumors about…Slytherin.” Harry’s voice dropped low, as if there was only
one rumor concerning Slytherin worth whispering about. Ron couldn’t stop a
withering sigh from escaping. Harry looked around the common room, seeming to
gauge how much he could talk about here.
“Rumors about certain decree-breaking activities.” A wicked grin spread across
Harry’s features, and Ron started shaking his head in wary disbelief.
“No, Harry. No. That is not a good idea.”
“Ron, come on. I know that you want to get them—him—as much as I do. Imagine
turning in the infamous secret Slytherin club to Umbridge. We might even get
our team back.” Ron’s thoughts were racing, but looking into those gleaming
green eyes he felt a chill. It didn’t look like his Harry.
“Mate, look, if we do find this club—assuming it even exists—and you turn them
in, you’ll be just as bad as Malfoy.” Ron hoped that this notion would help
convince Harry that what he was planning was not the most brilliant idea he’d
even had. But Harry only waved a dismissive hand.
“Then we don’t turn them in, and use what we know as leverage against Malfoy
for the rest of his school life. You’re right Ron, I like that much better than
turning them over to her. She’d probably coddle her precious Malfoy and let
them off with a slap on the hand.” Harry’s eyes flicked to his own hand and a
brittle frown passed over his mouth. Ron was not getting through to him; he
needed a new approach.
“Harry, why would they even be meeting tonight?” Ron decided not to argue the
validity of the club’s existence. “They aren’t just going to rally because you
want them to.” Ron let his words resonant condescendingly, hoping that he could
make Harry feel stupid enough to give up on this.
His ploy backfired. Harry gazed at him quizzically.
“You do know what day it is, don’t you?”
Of course Ron knew what day it was. Rather, he knew that it was nearly
November, and he knew that the first Quidditch match was rapidly approaching.
Even though the team had been officially disbanded by Umbridge, Ron still felt
like weeping at the thought of a real game. But he couldn’t think of what this
particular day had to do with anything relating to those bottom-feeders.
“It’s Halloween, Ron.”
“Oh, yeah, that Muggle holiday.” Ron tried to dismiss his ignorance with the
fact that the wizarding world treated the ‘dress up and get candy’ mentality as
something of a joke. “I highly doubt that Malfoy would take part in anything
that promoted muggles and their entertainment, especially at the expense of his
pride in wizard blood.”
Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Of course he wouldn’t. But he would
take part in something that mocked muggles and their silly traditions—and if
that means Slytherin debauchery in the process…” The thought didn’t need to be
completed, and Harry fixed Ron with a stare that made Ron’s arms ache already.
He could smell the pungent filth, hear Filch cackle as he threw the sponges and
bucket at him. With a long-suffering sigh, Ron stood up.
“I’ll go and get the cloak.”
                                      ---
If Ron asked one more redundant question, Harry was going to hit him.
“But Harry, why would they be in the dungeons? I mean, if you are going to have
a secret club, what’s the point of holding meetings in your own House’s common
room?” Ron was doing his best impression of bewildered ignorance, but Harry
wasn’t buying it. Ron wanted them to go back and sit quietly in Gryffindor
tower, not get in trouble, not make trouble. Ron didn’t want to spend the next
week in detention with Umbridge…or Snape.
Harry couldn’t care less.
“What better—what safer place than your own common room for a secret club?
Snape wouldn’t say anything. He’s probably the mastermind behind it. Plus,
Umbridge wouldn’t invade the darling Slytherin lair. They’re untouchable
there.” Umbridge would break through the Fat Lady without a second thought,
Harry mused bitterly.
Ron’s silence told Harry that he had no response to this, so they walked in
silence beneath the Invisibility Cloak until they reached the portrait of a
gluttonous, leering man in a green frock.
“What do you think the password is?” Ron was hovering right next to his ear,
his breath skirting across Harry’s neck.
“Snakesucker.”
Harry was vaguely aware of Ron gaping at him. He hadn’t realized he’d said
anything until it was already out.
“Um, I was joking.”
Ron sputtered and started giggling uncontrollably. Harry grinned in spite of
himself. Then he suddenly pushed his finger back towards Ron’s month and all
noise ceased; the portrait swung open to reveal three second or third year
Slytherins walking dejectedly out of the portrait hole. As Ron and Harry
slipped in before the picture slammed shut, Harry heard one of the girls whine,
“I don’t know what they can be doing that they need an age limit.”
Peering around the corner, the first person Harry saw was Colin Creevey.
Momentarily forgetting that he was still under the Invisibility Cloak, Harry
plastered himself against the cold stone wall and bit off “Creevey” to a
dumbfounded Ron. Ron stretched across him and gasped.
“It’s Ginny!” Harry would have joined Ron in staring if he wasn’t being crushed
between his best mate and the wall.
“Ron…Ron!” It was getting increasingly difficult for Harry to breathe. Ron
mumbled an embarrassed apology and went back to watching the scene over Harry’s
shoulder.
“Why would Ginny be here?” Ron was reverting back to his pointless questions,
and Harry scrambled to cut him off before he really got going. “I mean, I know
there are some things she does that I…I don’t know about, but she wouldn’t go
to a Slytherin party, right? I know she wouldn’t! I’m not that dumb! She might
think she can fool me, but I’ll snog Pansy Parkinson before—”
“Ron, stop it.” Ron’s mouth shut on command. Harry held his breath, prayed that
he wasn’t about to commit social suicide, and threw the cloak off both of them.
It fell over his shoes and he kicked it into the corner by the portrait hole,
hoping that nothing traumatic enough was about to happen here that would make
him forget it when they left.
“Ha—Harry?” Ron seemed to be trying to sink into the wall. His voice was a
terrified whimper. “Harry, what are you doing? We’re in the Slytherin dungeons!
They’ll hex us to Hogsmeade!”
“No, they won’t.” Harry straightened his glasses and ran his fingers absently
through his hair. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I know for a fact
that Ginny was helping Luna with her Shield Charms tonight.” He glanced back at
a very nervous looking Ron. “Let’s split up and try to find out what exactly
this is.”
“Well, I think that is what’s going on.” Ron pointed up above Harry’s shoulder,
to where a huge red and black banner fluttered in some Pleasant Breeze spell.
The elaborately arrogant lettering read: The Young Hedonists’s Annual Mistaken
Identity Masque. Harry snorted at the impressively appropriate name.
“Alright then, let’s split up and try to find out what that actually means.”
Ron made to protest, but Harry was already walking into the crowded, green-hued
common room like he belonged there.
Scanning the scene, Harry waited for something to pop out. No one seemed to
even notice him there, and he grasped the opportunity to take in all his
surroundings. Some people were in costumes—mostly famous wizards and mythical
creatures—and a few were in masks, but for the most part the room looked like
an all-Houses party, frightening in and of itself. After five minutes of
unsuccessful mingling, Harry found the drink table and ladled a glass full of
the eerie green-blue liquid swirling in the punch bowl. Shrugging to himself,
he downed it at once and refilled the cup to sip as he mixed.
With any luck, his senses would be floating about in no time.
                                      ---
“Hello, Mr. Weasley.” That was the fourth person to greet Ron in a highly
suspicious sort of way tonight. When a Ravenclaw girl had appeared out of
nowhere and batted her eyelashes at him, he’d frozen. Touching his arm, she’d
murmured, “How are you tonight, Mr. Weasley?” It was the first hint that he
wasn’t the person who everyone seemed to think he was.
“Hullo.” Ron nodded to the older Gryffindor boy in what he imagined to be a
nonchalant manner. The tone of awe and infatuation in these greetings had given
him a temporary social high, and he strutted about with importance. He’d lost
sight of Harry several minutes earlier, and only hoped that he wouldn’t come
across him in one of the tangled couples scattered on sofas, chairs, against
walls, and on the floor.
Deciding that he was bored with small talk, Ron made his way to the far wall,
near the stairs leading to the dorms. A few more sips from his bluish-green
drink and he might be able to justify announcing he was a little tipsy. He sat
up on the window sill and had nearly dozed off when he got the distinct feeling
that someone was hovering over him. Opening one eye, he saw Hermione standing
in front of him, a crooked smile on her face.
“Well, well, Mr. Weasley. Or may I call you Ron?” At Ron’s aghast look, her
grin widened. “I’ll take that trademark Weasley look of stupidity to mean that
you are surprised. I told you I had a great outfit.” Ron blinked a few times,
wondering if he might be more than just a little tipsy now.
It wasn’t really the fact that Hermione was here that shocked Ron. It was
Hermione herself that surprised him. To anyone who hadn’t spent the past five
years bickering and admiring her, the person in front of Ron would have looked
exactly like Hermione Granger. No one else would have noticed that three
buttons on her blouse were undone, when Hermione always kept all her buttons
closed. No one would have realized that she was wearing heeled shoes, when
Hermione only ever wore black flats. No one would have noted the dark eye make-
up and heavy red lipstick that made her look like a painted doll to Ron. No one
would have second guessed, but Ron knew instantly that whoever this was, it
wasn’t Hermione.
“Well, are you going to give me a kiss, or should we get right on with the
shagging? I’m dying to try these new ones out.” A very small part of Ron’s mind
urged him to ask what she meant by ‘these new ones’. But the rest of his mind
was reeling, and his body had already turned tail and fled.
Cowering a few steps up the dormitory staircase, Ron tried to catch his breath
and assess the situation. Someone who looked like Hermione had just suggested
doing obscene things to him. Everyone else was treating him like a slightly
feared leader. He might have been able to make something out of all this if he
hadn’t suddenly heard a pair of sinkingly familiar voices.
“I can’t believe we managed to avoid him all night.”
“That might have something to do with the fact that we haven’t actually been at
the party all night.”
“Well, that’s because there were more important things to be done.”
“Mmm. Quite right.”
Ron could barely make out muffled voices behind the heavy green curtains that
lined the dormitory entranceway. Faced with the choice between returning to the
vixen Hermione and exploring the unsettling movements beyond the velvet, Ron
threw back the last swallows of his drink and tore away the curtain.
His older twin brothers stared back at him, looking uncharacteristically
stunned. Their robes and shirts—which, Ron noted with suspicion, were satin and
silk—hung open, exposing freckled chests and more than a few fading reminders
of Quidditch mishaps and joke tests gone bad. The nearest twin to him—possibly
George—had pinned the other to the stone wall and currently had his hand and
the better part of his forearm shoved down his brother’s trousers.
“What are you two doing?!” Ron had heard rumors, just like the rumors of the
secret Slytherin club, about the twins and their 'closeness'. And just like the
rumors about the Slytherin club, Ron had passed them off as total rubbish.
“What are you…er, why have you left the party, Mr.—Mr. Weasley?” The twin
against the wall sounded like Fred, and Ron decided that was who he was.
“Why are you two calling me Mr. Weasley?!” Ron was studiously ignoring George’s
hand still down Fred’s trousers. “You’d better explain what the hell is going
on here, or else…”
“You mean,” George eyed him peculiarly. “You want us to call you Ron?”
“Of course I want you to call me Ron!” This was all getting a bit much. “If you
both don’t start acting like yourselves instead of two sniveling...sniveling
lackeys, I’m going to tell the whole school about this!” Ron didn’t much relish
being known as the brother of the brothers who did each other however,
desperate times and all that.
The twins exchanged something like skeptical glances, then disentangled from
their position mid-groping and rounded on Ron.
“You want us to act more like ourselves, do you Ron?” Fred’s tone held a casual
malevolence.
“I’m sure that can be arranged.” George’s smile was laced with charming evil.
Faster than Ron could comprehend, the twins had caught him by the sleeves and
shoved him against the wall, yanking the curtain shut behind them.
                                      ---
After the third glass of what he heard someone refer to as dragon’s blood,
Harry found himself dangerously close to snogging Ernie MacMillan and decided
it was time to take a break. Winding his way through the tide of people, he
managed to make it up to the upper level of the common room—a set of rooms like
box seats in the theatre, ideal for watching the events below unfold. He sat
down in a slick leather chair and closed his eyes. When he heard a voice, he
could have sworn that he’d only been resting for a minute, except that his head
had stopped throbbing and his vision had steadied.
“You really don’t disappoint, do you?” Harry spun in his seat, then sighed in
relief when he realized it was only Ron.
“Bloody hell, Ron. You nearly made me jump out of the chair.” Harry paused and
turned around again, puzzled. “Were you wearing that shirt earlier?” He didn’t
think he’d ever seen Ron wear anything with so much…transparency.
“Glad you noticed.” Harry could have sworn that Ron smirked. “I thought it was
something of an improvement. And that is Mr. Weasley to you.”
Harry arched an eyebrow. “I’m not going to call you Mr. Weasley, Ron.” He
turned back to watching the party. “An hour at this place and you’re already on
a power trip.”
Without warning, a hand seized around Harry neck and pulled him out of the
chair. Ron’s face was too close to his, and with a jolt of fear Harry realized
his wand was in the pocket of his robes, which lay in a heap beside the chair.
“You’ll call me anything I tell you to, Harry.” The way Ron said his name,
almost like a hiss, reminded Harry of something he couldn’t quite place. The
hand loosened around his throat. “Then again, you do deserve something for your
choice of costume. You’ll have to tell me how you got ahold of it.” Ron’s hand
slid under Harry’s shirt and brushed below the waist of his trousers. “Later.”
Harry momentarily lost sense of everything. Then he felt Ron’s teeth scrape
over his neck, and the world came back to him. “Ron! What the fuck are you
doing?!”
In answer to his question, Ron slammed him hard into the dungeon wall. His
knee-jerk reaction was to fight back, and a second later Ron was standing a bit
further away, rubbing his jaw where Harry’s knuckles had connected with it.
“So you want it rough, then?” Ron didn’t look shocked or hurt, only
increasingly more gleeful. And that scared Harry.
“No, I don’t want it rough! I don’t want it at all!” Harry tried to make a run
for it while Ron was still dazed, but an arm shot out and pinned the left side
of his body painfully against the stones. Those eyes, usually so clear and
light, were burning dark and dangerous. All Harry could think of was that Ron’s
personality must not have agreed with the dragon’s blood.
“Please.” Ron scoffed. “You come here, like that, and you expect me to believe
all you want to do is chat?” Ron leaned forward, and Harry was so ready for
pain that the kiss caught him completely off guard. He didn’t move, tried not
to breathe, and didn’t even consider that the sensation of that quirky mouth on
his own was at all appealing. At this point, he was glad no blood had been
drawn—at least on his side.
When those warm lips separated from his own, Harry suppressed the urge to pout.
He busied himself instead with trying to stare defiantly at his temporarily-
mental best mate.
“Alright, not rough then.” Ron smiled, but only with half of his mouth. Harry
swallowed hard, and decided that if Ron was going to take advantage of him in a
semi-drunken state, he was going to be the one in charge. Praying for mutual
hangovers and nothing else the next day, Harry threw his arms around Ron’s neck
and brought their faces crushing together.
Harry told himself he was thinking of Cho, over and over. He was thinking about
her perfect face, her kind eyes, her graceful body. But he couldn’t seem to
forget the color of Ron’s hair, like the deepest flicker in a flame, and he
kept coming up with a ginger-headed Cho, with mossy eyes, and lanky limbs.
Eventually he gave up that mental image and decided to focus on something non-
sexual. Quidditch.
Only Quidditch wasn’t non-sexual at all. With the sticks, and the balls, and
the locker rooms. And Ron, poor Ron, fumbling at the goal and flushing crimson
each time the quaffle whizzed past him. Ron flying—he flew well. And the robes
clung to his thin frame, extenuating his lengthening body. Ron’s hair whipping
about in the wind, his sly grin, the winks they shared that no one else
understood. Ron staring at Hermione when he thought no one was looking. Ron,
sick at the thought of their first match, egged on by Malfoy’s taunts.
Malfoy. Acting as if he owned everything he saw. Tormenting people for his own
sadistic pleasure. Making it his mission to ensure that Harry’s life was as
close to hell as it could be. Malfoy soaring beside Harry, just out of reach of
the snitch. Malfoy’s white gold hair streaking against the skies, his pale grey
eyes flashing with malice. Now Cho had become Ron, with icy eyes and a smirk.
It reminded Harry of something.
It reminded Harry that while his arms were clamped around Ron’s neck, Ron’s
arms were free to do what they wanted. And what they wanted appeared to be the
zipper of Harry’s trousers open. Harry thought about shoving his hands
away—especially since the front of his trousers had begun to tent under the
bizarre circumstances—but he hesitated, and Ron’s fingers slipped through the
open fabric and brushed against his pants. Then they paused, and Ron drew his
mouth back a breath.
“You’re wearing pants?” Despite the fact that they had been in the same
dormitory for five years and Ron routinely saw Harry change from his pajama
bottoms into his trousers, always wearing pants, this still seemed to surprise
him.
“Of course I’m wearing pants.” At the moment, Harry couldn’t decide whether he
was pleased by this or not.
Ron bit at Harry’s ear. “Going to make it difficult for me, aren’t you?” In a
nimble stroke, the button on the front of Harry’s pants was undone and a hand
had jerked Harry’s prick out for public exposure. Harry gasped when the cool
dungeon air hit his sensitive skin.
“I’m always up for a challenge.”
Then Ron was on his knees, holding Harry’s wrists against the wall, whetting
his lips before his tongue snaked out and licked around Harry’s moist head.
Harry’s hands clenched and a low broken groan echoed in his ears. Ron chuckled
as his mouth closed over Harry’s head, and the vibrations made Harry’s legs
shudder. He felt Ron slide his lips halfway up his cock, then slide back down
in a painfully slow tempo. He started to fight against Ron’s restraints, but
the pressure only increased on his wrists, and the back of his hands dug into
the gritty wall. Then Ron’s mouth left him altogether, and he couldn’t stop
himself from whining in protest.
“Tsk, tsk, Harry. You can’t offer me a challenge and then not keep your end of
the bargain. You play hard to get and I get to do things my way.” A long lick
up the underside of Harry’s cock. A few nips at his rapidly constricting sacs.
Then back again to that mouth sliding up and down over his pulsing skin. For
what seemed like hours Ron kept the cycle going, each time Harry thought he was
ready to go Ron pulled back. Harry began thrashing—trying to wrench his arms
free or violently fuck Ron’s teasing face—whichever came first.
Ron let his teeth scrap over Harry’s straining flesh, and Harry got the
warning. Putting all his energy into remaining as still as possible, Harry
began to plead as Ron finally decided to pick up the pace.
“Pleasepleaseplease Ron pleasepleaseplease!” Any hope for coherent conversation
at this point was a joke.
Ron sucked frantically and Harry tried to moan without air in his lungs. He
glanced down at that bobbing head, still glowing fiercely in the dull light.
Something about that ever-present fire that Harry had never really seen blaze
before made his stomach fall out, and he nearly doubled over with the force of
his orgasm.
He wasn’t aware that it was finished until his arms fell limp at his sides, his
hands sore from the rough stone wall. His eyes fluttered shut and he wavered as
his legs threatened to buckle. Ron ran his tongue around the shell of Harry’s
ear, murmuring in low tones, and he felt faint.
“Your turn, Harry.”
                                      ---
Ron couldn’t quite comprehend how this had happened. His best shirt was torn
open, and he was sure he’d heard some buttons pop off. His mum was going to
skin him alive. And what would he say? Sorry mum, but the twins molested me in
the Slytherin dungeons and tore up my shirt. I tried to stop them, honest. He’d
be sent off to St. Mungo’s faster than he could say Veritas Dictatum!
Ron’s trousers were shoved past his knees, and his pants were being haphazardly
pulled at, repeatedly catching his utterly mutinous arousal.
“Oi! If you two aren’t going to let me go…” Ron struggled against Fred, who had
his arms caught behind his back, without success. “Then at least try to not
permanently damage my—er, well…that!” Ron made to kick at George, who blocked
his leg and shook his head.
“Now now, Ron, no need to fret.” Fred voice tickled the back of his ear, and
Ron’s cock twitched. “All you need to do is stand there; we’ll take care of the
rest.”
One long finger ran up the side of Ron’s prick. A calloused thumb rubbed the
drops of precome over his throbbing head. Behind him, the hand that wasn’t
twisting his arms slid over his lower back, dipping down to squeeze at his
arse. Over his shoulder, the twins began to snog.
Ron shut his eyes until he saw sharp streaks of light. Too much excitement, too
much of that awful drink. Too dark, too…eerie. That bloody muggle holiday,
clearly tossing about with my mind. Ron imagined that these were all tricks in
his brain, that he’d wake up with a splitting headache and possible without a
shirt, wandering the corridors of Hogwarts tomorrow morning.
A sudden thrust of George’s hand over his cock brought Ron jerking back to the
stuffy, sweaty reality. The twins had stopped sticking their tongues down each
other’s throats, and their mouths refocused on Ron’s neck instead. Two pairs of
lips and tongues and smooth teeth attached themselves to the skin just under
Ron’s jaw. It was like a whirlpool, spinning around him and dragging him down.
Ron didn’t want to be pressed naked between his two, half-clothed older
brothers. He really didn’t. But the idea of being accosted by Hermione at the
party appealed even less to him. And it wasn’t like he could go back to Harry
with a hard trouser front. Best he resist as little as possible—the twins would
be sure to make it worse for him if he tried to fight—and then he would find
Harry and they’d get back to Gryffindor tower before anything more upsetting
could occur.
Suddenly the hand which had been forcefully kneading his hips and arse was
removed—something Ron refused to admit he missed—and the arm slung over his
left shoulder instead. George leaned forward and sucked two fingers from that
raised hand into his mouth. Ron watched, unnervingly mesmerized, as George’s
tongue sliced between Fred’s fingers, taking one, then the other deep into his
mouth and pulling them back and forth. After making quite a show of this, Fred
slowly pulled his fingers out and George went back to tonguing the hollow under
Ron’s left ear.
George’s increased beat on Ron’s cock distracted him long enough for those
cool, wet fingers to slip between his back cheeks and run over his clenched
entrance. As one of those rough fingertips pushed against his arsehole, Ron
jolted.
“Oh no, no no no no, you two! There is no way that I’m letting you do that! No
chance at all!” The fact that neither of the twins stopped their ministrations
didn’t bode well.
“Not much you can do about it is there, Mr. Weasley?” George’s voice buzzed
beneath his ear. He began rubbing Ron’s cock flat against his stomach.
“Don’t worry, little brother. Just relax and enjoy it.” Fred bit at the nape of
Ron neck, and pushed harder against his hole. Ron held his breath and tried
desperately not to hyperventilate. With a sudden thrust, Ron felt a pain slice
through him and he let out a very unhappy whimper.
“Breathe, Ron.” Fred sounded genuinely concerned, and his movement stilled. Ron
forced himself to exhale. The finger moved deeper, and Ron focused on
controlling his shallow inhalations. The farther Fred pushed the worse it felt,
and Ron was about ready to threaten with telling their mum about this when a
shot of pleasure ran up his spine, and he arched towards George. The twins
chuckled.
“What did you just do?!” Ron gaped at George. His brother grinned wickedly.
“That wasn’t me, Ron.”
The finger flexed and Ron thought he might come right then. Suddenly it was
being pulled out and Ron whined in its absence. He remembered that George had
sucked two fingers just as the pressure returned, stronger now, and the pain
returned too, sharper and more intense than before. He sucked in a lungful of
air and dug his nails into his palms. Fred paused.
“Ready, little brother?” Ron nearly sobbed in reply.
And then that shock of pleasure, blinding and gasping. Fred barely had to move
his hand for another burst to wrack Ron’s body. George redoubled his efforts on
Ron’s cock. When Fred stopped moving his fingers, Ron started to buck
backwards, willing his body to fuck his older brother’s hand.
“Whoa, slow down Ron. You’re going to hurt yourself.” Fred pulled his fingers
halfway out, in silent threat, and Ron forced his body to still. In exchange,
Fred thrust his fingers back into Ron’s arse, and seemed to finally be getting
down to business.
Ron closed his eyes and tried to forget that these were his brothers. He
flipped through the mental list of girls he found moderately attractive,
replacing the twins’ hardened bodies with their softer ones. Only he couldn’t
forget their smell—like gunpowder and old Cleansweeps—and he couldn’t make
their muscles become curves or their insistent erections disappear.
It didn’t matter, in the end, because whatever Fred’s fingers were doing only
got better, and George’s hand sped up, and Ron forgot about girls, forgot about
the twins, forgot about everything except heat and friction and pain and
holyfuck pleasure.
Then he forgot not to scream as he came. It wasn’t shattering or mind-numbing,
but the dual sources of sensation and the fact that he couldn’t steady himself
with his arms still twisted back made it difficult not to release the rest of
his tension vocally. George pressed his mouth over Ron’s to stifle the noise
with a chaste kiss.
When Ron’s senses solidified, his arms hung slack at his sides. They were sore,
just as he’d anticipated when Harry first suggested this little venture. Fred
held him around the waist, licking lightly at his shoulder blades. George
stepped back, suddenly with wand at the ready, and said casually, Purgio! The
slick mess that was making its way down Ron’s legs vanished, and Fred let go of
him. Ron’s back hit the wall with a thud.
Fred walked to his twin and snaked a hand into that identical ginger hair, and
Ron suddenly felt like he’d become invisible. The twins started snogging again,
and George’s hand slid between their slim bodies. Ron saw George take his cock
out from the folds of his pants, then made to do the same with Fred. Feeling
his face burn, Ron tried to focus his eyes on a strange streak of grey in the
green curtains and ignore the unnecessarily loud moans coming from his older
brothers.
“Aw, you don’t have to look away, little brother.” George’s mocking tone was
less effective because his breath kept catching.
“By all means,” Fred added with a chuckle. “Watch the show.”
Ron purposely stared away, purposely pictured Snape in a lacey corset to stop
his prick from embarrassing him further. But the moaning became panting, and
Ron hazarded a peek at the twins, now furiously thrusting into George’s hand.
Fred bit down on George’s lower lip—and Ron got a slight feeling as to who was
the sadist and who was the masochist in their relationship—before a low growl
rose in the thick air and Ron knew what happened next. After a minute or so, he
cleared his throat.
The twins started laughing; obviously there was some joke that Ron wasn’t privy
to. Then they used the same charm George had cleaned Ron with on each other,
and began to put their clothes back on. Ron tried to look unaffected, but his
chest was heaving.
Somewhere in the common room, the massive pendulum clock began to ring.
                                      ---
Ron’s face was screwed up—like it got when he couldn’t understand how to start
one of Professor Binn’s essays on vampyre tribes—and Harry took that as a sign
to continue with what he was doing. With a flat tongue he rubbed Ron’s cock
head roughly, and both his hands were working Ron’s shaft up and down. It was a
pale pink—even in arousal—just like the rest of his body. Harry half expected
it to be freckled.
Ron was working over his bottom lip, yanking at Harry’s hair—but not forcing
the movement of his head. Harry appreciated that Ron wasn’t gagging him. But
Ron’s hands were twining tighter, and Harry thought he might lose a handful of
hair before Ron managed to come.
“Now…now…now…nownownownow!” Ron’s hips bucked forward and Harry let Ron’s head
slip into his mouth. As Harry worked his hands in a frenzy, Ron’s cock
twitched, swelled, and Harry felt the hot liquid before he tasted it. It
reminded him of Aunt Petunia’s bread pudding: heavy, tangy, and a bit patchy.
But it was Ron’s taste, and Harry could reconcile with that. When the hands
released his mercifully unharmed hair, Harry stood up and kissed his best mate.
Ron grinned against his lips and started to zip up his trousers.
Somewhere in the common room, the massive pendulum clock began to ring.
“To all the members of The Young Hedonists present, the end of midnight
approaches!” Harry knew that voice. He spun around and saw Hermione standing on
top of a table in the middle of the common room, a maniacal look on her face.
Harry’s mind looped; surely Hermione wouldn’t be anywhere near a seedy
gathering like this. He tried to quash the nagging bit of guilt that rose in
his stomach at the thought of his activities with Ron while Hermione was in the
direct vicinity.
“As you all know, we are here for the sole purpose of selfish indulgence, and I
think tonight has been a rousing success.” As she shouted over the clock tolls,
the room erupted in cheering. “Now the moment of revelation is here. Let the
new day show us for what we really are!” The final toll of the clock filled the
room and—as Harry watched in paralyzing terror—the people at the party began to
change.
Hermione grew considerably taller, and her hair shortened until it was cropped
against her head. Her pale skin began to darken, and out of Hermione’s shifting
figure the boy Harry knew as Blaise Zabini appeared.
Colin Creevey’s sandy hair turned an ugly dirt color, and Millicent Bulstrode’s
hulking form seemed to rip him apart.
Ginny Weasley’s flamed locks shot jet black, and her soft features stretched
long. Pansy Parkinson began smoothing the wrinkles over her suddenly too tight
robes.
This, Harry thought while attempting not to panic, is not good. Reminded of his
immediate situation, he spun around to face the Ron who’d been acting out of
character all night.
Mossy eyes stared back at him. Harry watched as Ron’s flush skin gave way to a
paler shade of white, watched as white gold streaks began to appear in his
ginger hair. Lips twisted into a sneer, his whole body grew a few inches
taller. Icy eyes stared back at him.
“What’s taking you so long?” Malfoy’s voice coming from Malfoy’s mouth and
Malfoy’s body was the final nail in the coffin. “Tell me you stayed on the
schedule.” Impatience crackled in his tone.
“What schedule?” Harry knew he should just run, but he was so close—so close to
knowing the truth about Malfoy’s secret little club. He’d just sucked off his
best mate—who ended up being his worst enemy—for the love of Morgana! He wasn’t
leaving here until he got some bloody answers.
“What do you mean, what schedule? The drinking schedule, obviously. Every hour,
on the hour, drink your Polyjuice and stay as the fucking Saint Potter until
midnight.” Malfoy narrowed his eyes at Harry. “You drank late, just so you
could upstage me, didn’t you?”
“Well,” Harry decided to take the bait. “Much as I would take any opportunity
to upstage you, Malfoy, I’m afraid you’re the one that got the better of me
tonight.” Harry saw the comprehension begin to dawn horribly in those cold grey
depths.
“I am the fucking Saint Potter.”
Malfoy froze, unspeakable hatred and confusion—and that flash of desire that
Harry had seen in Ron’s eyes—stretching across his face. Luckily, the real Ron
chose that moment to make a rather loud entrance into the common room.
“Harry! HARRY!” Ron was white as a sheet, choking and sputtering like he’d seen
Voldemort himself. “Tw—twins! And, and Cra…Goy…HARRY!” The whole common room,
now filled with irate Slytherins, made to advance on Ron’s terrified form. The
imposing figures of Crabbe and Goyle stood a bit behind Ron, looking rather
sheepish, with their robes ready to burst at the seams. Feeling this might be
his last chance at recklessness for some time, Harry turned to Malfoy and
kissed him.
“Thanks for the evening, Ron.” Harry moved his head to whisper into Malfoy’s
ear. “You don’t tell, and I won’t tell.” Then he raced down to the main floor,
grabbed Ron by the wrist, and ran to the portrait hole, kicking his
Invisibility Cloak out before them. He left Malfoy immobile, aghast, and
grudgingly impressed.
“Touché, Potter.” Malfoy muttered, to no one in particular. “Touché.”
                                      ---
“Oh! I can’t watch this!” The Fat Lady hid her face in exaggerated despair at
the scene before her.
“Ready?” Harry looked at Ron, and adjusted the tip of his wand against his
mate’s forehead.
“Bloody hell yes, I’m ready!” The wood of Ron’s wand felt cool next to his
scar.
“Alright then. One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Obliviate novum noctus!” A bright yellow light filled the corridor, then
everything was silent.
“Oi, my head feels like someone used it as a bludger.” Ron swayed in his spot.
“What happened?”
“Ah…” Harry touched his forehead tenderly. “I dunno. Weren’t we going to look
for that Slytherin club?
“No,” Ron said pointedly. “You were going to look for that Slytherin club. I
got dragged along against my will.”
Harry ignored this distinction. “Well, did we find it?”
“I…I dunno.” Ron seemed perplexed. “I guess not. I can’t really remember.”
“One too many Halloween drinks, there?” The Fat Lady turned in her picture, and
her eyes looked a little sad. The two boys glanced up at her voice.
“Well dears, what’s the password then?”
                                      ---
The next morning, Harry’s hangover had essentially vanished.
After Potions, he, Ron and Hermione were lamenting their latest assignment when
they passed the portrait of a gluttonous, leering man in a green frock. Malfoy
stood before it, ready to speak the password.
“Hey Malfoy!” For some reason, Harry couldn’t stop himself. “Have a nice
Halloween?”
The blonde head turned. Icy eyes stared at him, and that mouth pulled into his
perpetual smirk. It reminded Harry of something.
But he didn’t know what.
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