Author: Jadea

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. However, I do have green eyes. I don't own Ron Weasley. However, I do have red hair. I'm simply transplanting JKR's characters into my own little "ADWD" universe.

Summary: Some people live to take pleasure in other people's pain.

Warnings: This fic is a part of my "A Deal With the Devil" universe. This fic *can* be read independant of the other two fics in that category, "A Deal With the Devil" and "Interlude" but I strongly urge you to read those first; it will clarify some things. This will be slash. Draco's perspective on H/R and forced D/R.

Dedication: With special gratitude to Ash and Rainyday who have kept my feet moving with such excellent reviews, as well as to the crew of the Prince & Pauper. This *is* Draco/Ron, even if it's one sided and violent. There is nothing like a good shot of coffee on a cold day.

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Red-black, the dried grit was caked under his fingernails. He had washed his hands twice, but the last traces of Ron Weasley's blood clung to his fingers, ground between his skin and nails. He rubbed his hands fiercely, scowling as a few flakes of dried blood slipped out from underneath, but most remained, turning the white crescents of his nails a disgusting black color.

There were a few bruises on his fingers, too. He had hit the boy quite hard several times-harsh slaps that had made him recoil, made blue eyes widen at the sharp sting. He obviously wasn't used to being struck. Both times, the imprint of his hand had remained on Weasley's freckled cheek long after he had hit him. The colors had faded, of course. But there were other marks he had left that neither of them-Weasley or Potter-would ever be able to ignore.

Smiling softly, Draco examined his hand in the faint light of his bedside candle, studying the dried substance staining his fingertips. He could not wash it off-he had already tried.

Without so much as a shrug, he slid a finger in his mouth and began sucking on it. The dry taste of copper washed through his mouth, salt on his tongue.

The emerald green curtains drawn around his bed hung heavily, closing him off from his roomates eyes. They were all asleep, anyway-the clock had struck midnight as he had finally strode back in the Slytherin Common Room, ignoring the humble queries and questions of his house-mates. He had no desire to talk to them, to see them, to engage in any activity that would interfere with the pleasure of the last few hours.

It had been. . .exquisite.

Being buried inside the other boy...breathing, feeding off his desparate gasps for air, tugging, tearing out strands of the fiery red gold hair. Forcing pain or pleasure on him at his own whim.

He'd fucked before, of course. As soon as he'd felt the desire to; he had never lacked for partners of either sex. Glorying in his experience, in the pleasure and power sex gave him over his partners. All had submitted to him for he would accept nothing less, even in the beginning.

Nothing...nothing had ever felt like Ron Weasley.

Tugging his index finger out of his mouth, Draco examined the digit with a sharp eye. The nail was perfectly clean, slightly wet and warm from his mouth.

He didn't remember exactly where the blood had come from. The neck, the arm, the wrist, the thigh. . .By the end, the red head had been bleeding from a number of places. None of them dangerous, but enough to make Draco's fingers slip as his hands wandered the other boys body. Enough for the liquid to paint his fingers and Weasley's skin, to slip into the crevices between his nails and the skin of his fingers, where it had dried.

Yes. Taking Ron had been exquisite.

Taking Ron in front of Potter...

A rush of heat spread through him abruptly; a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth even as his eyes slipped shut.

At first, when Potter had followed him, tumbling clumsily down the stone stairs, he had been furious. Burning with frustration, fingers twitching, body humming with the desire to get what he wanted. Rage like he had never known; a cold, ice cold rage had filled him, sharper and harder then ever at the belief that the boy had ruined his one chance.

One 'Expelliarmus' had changed that.

Once you took away his wand, after all, what was the Boy Who Lived but another helpless sixteen year old? Another medium-tall, black haired, green eyed boy lying, gasping and bruised, on the filthy stone floor of the cave.

Dying.

The memory of Potter's eyes when the spell struck him lingered sweetly on Draco's vision. The way they had widened, the shock and pain reflecting in them almost immediately after the spell harsh pants for air Potter had tried to force into his tortured lungs.

Pleasure. Power.

Killing Harry Potter.

Fucking Ron Weasley.

Potter had been sweet. Watching the savior of the wizarding world groveling on the floor at his feet, watching bitter realization fill those pretty green eyes.

Such anguish in those eyes when Potter had finally realized what he wanted Weasley for.

But Ron...

If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the red heads choked voice, furiously demanding what it was he wanted.

Smooth skin warmed under his fingers as his hands slipped under his dark emerald robes. But the robes he saw in his minds eye were not green but scarlet, the hideous color of the Gryffindor quidditch team. The worn cloth of the Gryffindor Keeper's robes parting for his fingers, for his hands. The hot, freckled skin of another body shuddering underneath his fingertips. The soft sounds of pleasure issuing from another throat, a throat marked by his mouth and teeth.

Images danced in front of his eyes as his hands worked. Ron, shirt and robes torn off, illuminated by the dim green light of his own wand. Ron, blue eyes wide and stunned, gaping at Draco with his mouth open. Ron, naked beneath him.

/Ron, clutching Potter protectively to his chest. Ron, glaring at Draco with hatred evident in his eyes. Ron, mouth pressed to Potters, tears trickling down his cheeks.../

Release came, but it felt hollow. An ache in his stomach, a sour smell. Gasping, his head fell back against the pillow, damp strands of silvery-blonde hair tickling his face.

He should have kissed Ron before Potter had. He had meant to-to wake the red headed boy up with a preview of what to expect. But then Weasley had muttered Potter's name in his sleep, and he hadnt been able to restrain the frustration that had surged through him at the sound of *that name*, or the hand that reached out and slapped the soft freckled cheek.

Buried in the warmth of his bed, body tingling with the aftershocks of his release, Draco Malfoy dimly felt his hands clench into fists.

And so Potter and Weasley had kissed. Right there in the cave, with Potter snivelling helplessly in Weasley's arms, tears slipping out of Weasley's blue eyes. Kissing each other like the other was the very breath of life. Which, for Potter, he supposed was true.

It didn't matter. Not really. Potter may have kissed Ron first...but that was all he had done. Draco was the one who had claimed him, not Potter. Oh, they would try and forget it, but Weasley would never be able to forget who it was that had him first. And second. And third.

He had never fucked in front of an audience before.

Truly, he'd also never taken a wholly unwilling partner. He had little desire to mix his own pain with pleasure, and forcing someone was a good way to get at least a few bruises. Of course, he had a few bruises this time, but those were through his own choice, necassary to keep Weasley submissive.

And it had worked, hadn't it? The boy had made an admirable whore, providing his services to Draco in exchange for payment. That the payment was his best friends life instead of galleons, sickles, and knuts mattered little. After the intial agreement he had submitted easily, allowing Draco to do whatever he wanted.

Which was exactly what Draco had done.

The tip of his tongue slipped out, licking the upper pad of his lip. A taste still lingered there; dust and stone and sweat. Sweet whimpers of pain that he had fed on.

Sweet, really. Taking something like that, like Weasley. Finally ripping away that veil of innocence the fucking Gryffindor always had. Sixteen years old, *six* fucking feet tall, and still a child.

Not a child anymore.

And Potter...

Potter had almost been as good. The expressions on Potter's face when the boy had been watching him and Ron, so evident, so clear. Green was the color of jealousy, after all.

Slowly, Draco slipped his thumb and index finger in his mouth, wetting them before reaching over and pinching the candle flame next to his bed, extinguishing the only point of light in the room.

Within seconds, he was fast asleep.

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Sorry that took so long. (Lousy Real life) Err...should I continue with Draco's POV? To be quite honest, I shocked myself with how utterly despicable I made the boy. (At least, *I* think he's despicable. I dunno about you guys.) I don't want Draco's POV to get all repetitive, but I also want you to understand his character in this. Does this work? I guess feedback will tell me.

BTW-Rose, the actual sequal is going to be dedicated to you :)