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Ever since Ron came out two years ago, he had been avoiding going to the Burrow as much as possible. His mother, ever the meddler, had taken to inviting single young men to dinner whenever he visited for dinner. A colleague of Bill’s from Gringott’s, an old friend of Charlie’s from Hogwarts, the assistant shopkeeper from Weasley’s Wheezes Hogsmeade store, even just random people she suspected of being into other blokes. Ron appreciated that his mother was accepting of him, but she threw herself into finding him a spouse with the same intensity she had for her other children – to often embarrassing levels.
When the private security firm he sometimes moonlighted for asked for people willing to work over the holidays, Ron figured he could use the extra money that came with holiday pay. Plus, it would give him an excuse to avoid his mother’s attempts to set him up with someone over Christmas roast.
He showed up for his assignment a few days before Christmas and was intrigued to see the file for an international Quidditch star visiting for the Yule Ball taking place at Hogwarts on Christmas Eve. Ron studied the file, examining the itinerary, security needs, and packed his bag and stepped into the floo, arriving moments later in Hogsmeade.
He was sitting in the Hog’s Head drinking firewhiskey when the door opened, a familiar man with broad shoulders draped in a heavy wool coat, his dark hair covered by a fur-lined hat revealing a face Ron hadn’t seen in years. Viktor Krum. His angular jaw and sharp cheekbones were as striking as ever, though the stubble that lined his jaw gave him a more weathered, mature look. His dark eyes, deep and piercing, swept the room before landing on Ron, who was frozen in place, glass halfway to his mouth.
“Aaah, Ronald,” Viktor said, “I was told you would be here.” He took the stool next to Ron’s, squeezing in despite the entirely open bar.
Ron just shrugged, unsure what to say. “Funny, no one told me you’d be here,” he finally replied. Though he supposed that wasn’t exactly right, he’d seen the file about a Quidditch star attending the Yule Ball, it made sense for it to be Viktor.
Viktor just smiled his annoying cocky grin, “And yet, here I am. You are not with your family for Christmas?”
“Clearly not,” Ron answered.
Viktor was not deterred by Ron’s surly attitude, so he continued, “We can celebrate together then.”
“Great,” Ron deadpanned.
It wasn’t that he disliked Viktor—Merlin, that would be easier. The problem was that Ron liked him. Too much. Ridiculously much. Viktor Krum had been Ron’s big, blazing, embarrassing gay awakening nine years ago during the Triwizard Tournament. It definitely had not been jealousy he’d felt when Viktor and Hermione walked
Now, here they were, preparing for another Yule Ball, Viktor uncomfortably close to him and Ron feeling things he shouldn’t be for the superstar. They had been around each other plenty over the years—Viktor still visited Hermione, still sent Fleur fancy Bulgarian chocolates, still attended Weasley weddings, but Ron had always managed to keep a polite, strategic distance from the stupidly charming, stupidly handsome, stupidly muscular seeker.
Viktor took a slow sip of his drink, watching Ron over the rim of his glass with undisguised interest. “So, we are at the Yule Ball again,” he said casually. “Did you bring your dress robes?”
Ron blinked. “What?”
“Dress robes,” Viktor repeated, tapping one finger against the bar. “You remember them. The ones you wore to first Yule Ball…”
His smile went wicked-soft—fond, even. “They were very nice on you.”
Ron nearly choked on his whiskey. “They were hand-me-downs,” he sputtered. “They smelled like attic—Hermione still brings it up.”
Viktor made a thoughtful noise, tilting his head. “Mm. Yes. A bit old-fashioned. But you…” His eyes dragged down Ron’s frame in a way Ron absolutely, absolutely felt. “You looked good.”
Ron’s ears went nuclear. “They looked like the curtains in Grimuald Place”
“Maybe,” Viktor conceded. “But you were not.”
Ron’s mouth opened and closed several times like a fish who had forgotten how water worked. Viktor, the bastard, pretended not to notice. “And of course,” Viktor continued lightly, “there should be mistletoe.”
Ron froze. “Wh—why are we talking about mistletoe?”
Viktor shrugged, achingly casual. “It is traditional. Yule Ball. Romance. Makes the atmosphere nice. Traps falling from ceilings and forcing people to kiss.” His smile deepened. “Very festive.”
Ron swallowed hard. He could feel his pulse in his throat. “You—uh—do you like mistletoe or something?”
“I like opportunities,” Viktor said simply.
Ron stared. Then Viktor added, perfectly earnest, “Though I hope there are no Nargles.”
Ron blinked again. “How do you know about those?”
“Luna Lovegood told me they live in mistletoe. I remember very clearly. She said they bite,” Viktor said, leaning in as though sharing confidential intelligence.
Ron snorted—then immediately regretted snorting, because Viktor’s face lit up like Ron had handed him a Christmas present. “They don’t bite,” Ron muttered. “Nargles aren’t even real.”
“Ah,” Viktor said solemnly. “That is disappointing.”
“Disappointing?” Ron asked weakly.
Viktor’s grin turned devastating. “Yes, I like biting.”
Silence.
Ron made a strangled noise and immediately stood up. “Right… erm… I need to… check something… over there—”
“There?” Viktor repeated, amused. There was literally nowhere to go except the opposite corner of the bar.
“Yes,” Ron said, backing away anyway. “Over there. Very important security thing.”
Viktor took another sip of his drink, eyes following him with catlike satisfaction.
“I will look forward to seeing those dress robes again,” he called after him, voice warm enough to melt snow.
Ron tripped over a barstool as he made for the stairs to his room.
Ron managed to avoid Viktor throughout the next day, but as he made his way to Hogwarts for the Yule Ball, he knew that good luck would end soon. Ron’s job that night was simple: keep the dignitaries safe while the Hogwarts students and staff let loose. It should be simple, no one had attacked the Yule Ball since that first year when Voldemort was busy trying to kill a fourteen year old boy.
He liked returning to Hogwarts, though he was glad to not be a student. After the security briefing, he was able to go visit Harry in the Defense Against the Dark Arts wing. But, when he arrived, Ron paused outside Harry’s office door, hand hovering just shy of the knob. That laugh—that laugh—rolled down the corridor like thunder wrapped in honey. Deep. Warm. Familiar. Infuriating. Ron closed his eyes. “No. Nope. Absolutely not.” Of all the rooms in all of Hogwarts, Viktor bloody Krum had to be in this one. He exhaled sharply, squared his shoulders, and told himself he was a grown adult. A professional. Capable. Competent. Immune to international Quidditch stars with annoyingly broad shoulders. Then he opened the door.
Harry was slouched in his chair, one booted foot kicked up on the corner of the desk, head thrown back in laughter as he recounted some ridiculous Quidditch mishap. Viktor stood beside him, relaxed—one palm pressed flat against the polished wood, shoulders loose, as if he’d spent every afternoon here rather than just moments before. The sudden scrape of Ron’s robes on the stone floor snapped both their heads around.
Harry’s face lit up, his eyes bright behind round glasses. “Oh, good, Ron! Viktor was just—”
“Ronald,” Viktor cut in, his voice a low murmur that vibrated through the air and sent Ron’s pulse ricocheting up into his ears.
Ron froze in the doorway, legs locked and heart hammering like a drum. He swallowed against the dry catch in his throat. Viktor’s gaze rested on him, slow and deliberate, as though Ron were the final course at a feast he’d been saving room for.
“I didn’t know you two—er—were talking,” Ron managed, voice wobbling.
Harry waved a hand, oblivious to Ron’s discomfort. “I found him wandering the corridor like a lost first-year,” he chirped. “Apparently he was looking for you.”
Ron’s stomach plummeted into his boots. “For me?”
Viktor’s nod was solemn, almost ceremonious. “Da. I needed you.”
Harry choked on his own laughter; Ron almost did the same. Viktor leaned in a fraction, amber eyes steady on Ron’s. “I needed to know where you were stationed tonight. For safety.”
Ron blinked, dumbfounded. “You needed… my location… specifically?”
“Yes.” Viktor spoke it as though it were the most natural request in the world. “If trouble breaks out, I go toward Ronald. He is safest place.”
Harry’s eyebrows shot up behind his glasses. “Mate, you’re supposed to guard him, not the other way around.”
Viktor shrugged, completely unruffled. “He is better duelist. Stronger.” His eyes flitted over Ron’s robes—overstretched at the sleeves, hem brushing the floor. “Also faster, I think.”
Ron felt his cheeks flame crimson. He pictured himself as a lobster boiled alive, stiff with panic.
“Anyway,” Viktor said, stepping forward. The air between them crackled; Ron had to shuffle back to avoid brushing Viktor’s dark cloak. “You avoided me all day.”
“I did not—” Ron began, but Viktor just smiled and continued.
“You did.” Viktor closed the distance until Ron’s elbow jutted out to keep space. “It hurt my feelings a little.”
“Hurt your—your feelings?” Ron squeaked. His voice echoed in the hushed study. Harry covered his mouth to stifle a snicker.
Viktor nodded, solemn and earnest. “Da. I expected you to help me pick robes.”
“Pick—pick your robes?” Ron sputtered. His palm flew to his chest, where his heartbeat thudded like a basilisk’s footsteps.
“Yes.” Viktor tilted his head, dark hair brushing his collar. “I wanted your opinion. And also I hoped you still had your old ones.”
Ron swallowed hard. “They don’t even fit anymore!”
“Pity,” Viktor said softly, voice warm. “I liked you in them.”
Ron blinked—and once his eyes met Viktor’s, he felt both paralyzed and fizzing with something dangerously like delight. Viktor’s lips curved in that gentle, almost wicked way, and Ron’s throat went dry. Clearing his voice, Ron fumbled for composure. “I—I need to get to my post. Security. Dangerous dignitaries. Important things.”
Viktor slid aside, cloak swirling theatrically, but stayed so close that Ron could feel the faint scent of pine and something richer—cologne, perhaps? “I will see you there,” he murmured, voice low. “Try not to hide.”
“I wasn’t hiding,” Ron insisted, though his words came out wobbly.
“Mm.” Viktor’s gaze drifted over him once more, slow and appreciative, then he spun on his heel and swept out, robes fanning behind him like a dark banner.
Ron sagged against the doorframe, knees weak. He wiped a clammy hand on his robes. Harry gave a long, delighted whistle. “So,” he said, eyes dancing, “when exactly were you planning to tell me Viktor Krum is in love with you?”
Ron spluttered. “He’s… it’s not… no… He’s not in love with me!” Then Ron left the room, not getting the chat with his best friend he had been after, Harry’s laughter echoing down the corridor.
“Stupid Bulgarians… stupid accents… stupid faces… acting like—like—like he’s some kind of— feelings—doesn’t even make sense—Harry’s an idiot—bloody hell—”
A suit of armor turned its helmet as he passed, as if alarmed. Ron jabbed a finger at it. “Don’t start.” He kept going, robes flapping behind him like he was doing his best Severus Snape impression, boots thudding on stone. He’d come here for work—for actual work—and instead he’d been ambushed by Viktor Krum’s shoulders, Viktor Krum’s voice, Viktor Krum’s laugh… STOP IT RONALD! he scolded himself.
He turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs, and slammed straight into Viktor Krum. Viktor, who had apparently been waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Viktor, who caught Ron by the elbows before Ron could topple backwards. Viktor, who raised one eyebrow and asked far too intrigued, “Who is in love with you?”
Ron made a noise that could only be described as a dying teakettle. “I… no one… Harry’s an idiot—WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”
Viktor looked faintly amused—as though Ron had just provided the best entertainment Hogwarts had offered all year. “I am going to the Great Hall,” he said. “That is where the Ball is, yes? I thought you would wish to walk together.”
Ron's mouth opened. Nothing came out. Viktor continued, eyes gleaming. “Unless you wish to walk alone?”
“No!” Ron blurted, too loud, too fast. His whole neck went hot.
Viktor’s smile spread slowly. Dangerously. “Good,” he murmured. “Then come.” He extended an arm, the most gentlemanly gesture in the history of gestures. Like this was a bloody date.
Ron stared at Viktor’s extended arm like it was a venomous snake wearing a boutonnière. “I’m working,” he finally managed, voice cracking like he’d just hit puberty again.
“Yes,” Viktor said, completely satisfied. “I am dignitary. You are bodyguard.”
Ron blinked. “That’s—no—that’s not how this works.”
Viktor nodded solemnly, as though Ron had just confirmed the point. “Exactly. You guard me. So you must stay close.”
Ron opened his mouth to argue. Viktor gently pushed his arm a little closer. Ron shut his mouth. Viktor’s eyes sparkled—genuinely sparkled—with mischief. “Unless,” he added, tilting his head, “you wish to be irresponsible on your duty?”
Ron’s jaw dropped. “You— you can’t guilt-trip me into escorting you!”
Viktor hummed thoughtfully. “Is not guilt-trip. Is your job, yes?.”
Ron strangled a groan into his hands. “Merlin’s pants.”
Viktor waited patiently, arm still outstretched. “You’re impossible,” Ron muttered.
“Da,” Viktor agreed cheerfully. “Now take my arm.”
Ron glared at the arm like accepting it would forfeit his soul. Then—defeated by the inevitability of Viktor Krum—Ron grabbed Viktor’s bicep instead of his arm, because maybe that felt somehow less romantic. It didn’t. Viktor’s sleeve was tailored and warm and suspiciously soft.
Viktor brightened like Ron had handed him a bouquet. “Good. Now you look like proper escort.”
Ron nearly tripped. “I’m not your escort!”
“Of course not,” Viktor said. “You are security escort. Completely different. Very serious.”
They started walking. Ron’s ears were doing that thing again—the thing where they turned a particular shade of red that could guide ships through fog.
Viktor leaned slightly closer as they rounded a corner. “So,” he murmured, “should I try to stay out of trouble tonight? Or do you prefer if I make some? For practice.”
Ron was pretty sure he actually whimpered. “This is going to be the worst night of my life,” he muttered.
Viktor’s smile turned impish.
During the Yule Ball, Viktor was too busy to be able to annoy Ron. Ron was able to do his job, which admittedly was easy tonight. He stood in one corner of the hall, occasionally pacing the length of it, then returning to his spot. After one of these walkabouts, Viktor was standing in his spot. “Ronald,” Viktor said, grinning, and holding two cups of punch.
“Viktor,” Ron said, trying to maintain his work persona.
“For you,” Viktor added, thrusting the dainty cup of punch at Ron.
“I’m working,” Ron replied.
“So?” Viktor asked, blinking at him innocently. “You cannot have drink?”
“I—no. I mean—yes, I can’t. It’s policy.” Ron gestured vaguely at the room, the dignitaries, the glittering Nifflers sculpted out of ice. “I’m on duty.”
Viktor's dark eyes gleamed beneath the floating candles as he nodded with exaggerated sympathy. His calloused fingers—rough from years gripping broomsticks in all weather—encircled Ron's wrist, turning his palm upward with surprising gentleness before placing the crystal punch cup into it. "Then hold mine while I drink."
Ron's fingers trembled, nearly sending pink liquid sloshing over the rim. "Viktor!"
Viktor's smile spread slowly across his angular face, patient and maddening beneath his close-cropped beard. "Is compromise."
"That's not—this isn't—You're impossible." Ron's freckles disappeared beneath a rising flush.
Viktor raised his own cup to his lips, the movement deliberate as candlelight caught on his signet ring. His gaze, dark as midnight and twice as intense, never wavered from Ron's face as he took a slow, measured sip. "And you look thirsty."
Ron stared down at the delicate cup now clutched in his long fingers—pink punch swirling inside like liquid roses, embarrassingly dainty against his Ministry-issued robes—and tried to summon every ounce of professionalism he possessed. "It's punch, Viktor," he muttered through clenched teeth. "You could've poisoned it for all I know."
"Then drink," Viktor said, voice as smooth and rich as melted chocolate, "and tell me if it is safe."
Ron's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. "That's not—even remotely—how that works!"
Viktor's broad shoulders rose and fell beneath his immaculately tailored dress robes. "Is very good punch. Try."
"No." Ron's voice cracked on the single syllable.
"Just a little," Viktor coaxed, leaning closer until Ron could smell the spiced cologne clinging to his skin. "Tiny sip."
"I said no."
"Ronald," Viktor drawled, eyes dancing like stars in a winter sky, "do you always follow rules so strictly? Even at dances? Even vhen someone handsome asks you to bend just a little?"
Ron's breath caught audibly, punch nearly shooting up his nose. "HANDSOME—?! Who—?! I—VIKTOR."
Viktor shifted his weight, one muscular shoulder coming to rest against the ancient stone column beside Ron. His posture was relaxed, leonine, his expression infuriatingly pleased beneath the golden glow of the enchanted ceiling. "You shout my name like you are annoyed," he said, voice dropping to a velvet whisper. "But you blush like you are not."
Ron's ears blazed scarlet, radiating enough heat to melt the ice sculptures across the room. "Stop," he whispered, mortification etched in every freckle.
Viktor's solemn nod was belied by the mischievous quirk of his full lips. "Okay."
Ron blinked in surprise. Viktor, however, did not stop. Instead, he leaned closer still, close enough that Ron could count each dark eyelash. "You are doing very good job tonight."
Ron's fingers tightened reflexively around both cups, knuckles whitening. "What?"
"Your work," Viktor said simply, gesturing with one elegant hand. "You are focused. Serious. I like this,” his smile was warm, earnest, devastating, it transformed his severe features into something breathtaking. "I like watching you work."
Ron's brain short-circuited with an almost audible fizzle, lungs forgetting their purpose for several thundering heartbeats. Viktor nudged his elbow lightly, the brief contact electric even through layers of fabric. "So... tiny sip?"
"NO," Ron yelped, voice jumping an octave.
Viktor's sigh was theatrical, chest rising dramatically beneath embroidered silk. "Then I must take it from you."
Ron thrust the cup outward, too quickly, arm extending like a mechanical toy. And Viktor, instead of taking it properly, captured Ron's hand in his—fingers warm and steady as they slid over Ron's knuckles, calluses catching slightly on skin—and extracted the cup with deliberate, torturous slowness. Every nerve in Ron's lanky body snapped to attention, tingling from fingertips to toes. "Thank you," Viktor murmured, the words caressing Ron's ears like a physical touch.
Ron's voice emerged as a strangled croak, "I'm going back to my corner."
"Good," Viktor said, teeth flashing white against his dark beard, "I will come too."
"No—NO—you absolutely will not,” but Ron’s protest fell on deaf ears.
A sharp crash of shattering glass cut straight through the delicate melody of the string quartet, crystal fragments catching the candlelight like scattered diamonds. Ron's wand materialized in his freckled hand before the first horrified gasp rippled through the ballroom, his knuckles whitening around polished wood. He stepped forward on instinct, chest squared, broad shoulders tightening like bowstrings, every sense heightened to painful clarity. The splattered punch formed a constellation of pink droplets across the gleaming marble floor, foam creeping like rose-tinted lace under the hem of silk gowns, but Ron's brown eyes locked only on the ashen-faced cater waiter trembling in the center of the glittering mess.
And behind him—Viktor. Ron moved faster than thought, faster than his own heartbeat thundering against his ribs. He planted himself directly in front of Viktor like a human shield, the scent of Viktor's spiced cologne momentarily overwhelming as Ron's robes billowed between them. His stance was textbook perfect: wand arm extended high, body angled to minimize target area, eyes sweeping the crowd for threats beneath copper lashes.
A beat passed, heavy as winter silence. Another, punctuated by the collective held breath of the crowd. The waiter squeaked, adam's apple bobbing frantically, "I—I tripped—someone's dress— I'm so sorry—"
Ron exhaled hard, tension draining from his shoulders like water. He holstered his wand in a smooth, practiced motion that spoke of years of training, his breathing settling back into its normal rhythm, chest rising and falling beneath rumpled robes. "Accidents happen," Ron said gruffly, voice rough-edged with lingering adrenaline. "No harm done."
He really should have stepped away then, should have retreated to his corner of vigilant solitude. But instead he lingered just one second too long, feet rooted to the spot as though hexed in place. Viktor was close enough that Ron could feel the furnace-heat of him radiating against his back, could sense the solid wall of muscle just inches away—leaned in with predatory grace, lips hovering near the shell of Ron's ear without quite touching, his warm breath stirring ginger strands.
"You protected me," Viktor murmured, voice low and unbearably pleased, rich as melted chocolate. "It was very sexy."
Ron's spine snapped ramrod straight, vertebrae aligning like soldiers called to attention. His ears went Gryffindor red so fast he nearly heard the sizzle, the blush spreading down his neck like spilled wine. "I… It… That's not… It was my job!" Ron hissed, whipping around so fast he almost smacked Viktor with his elbow, freckles disappearing beneath crimson flush.
Viktor just smiled at him, slow and devastatingly warm, white teeth flashing against his dark beard. "Da. And you are very good at it."
Ron made a strangled noise that wasn't a word in any language, more like a kettle reaching boil.
Viktor stepped in closer, far too close, with absolutely no intention of maintaining respectable space, the embroidered silk of his robes whispering against Ron's plainer ones. "I felt very safe, I will tell your supervisor you are very good at your job," he added, like he was commenting on the weather, though his midnight eyes sparked with mischief.
Ron backed into a column, ancient stone cool against his burning shoulders. "Stop saying things like that!" he squeaked, voice cracking like it hadn't since fifth year.
Viktor considered him thoughtfully, head tilting slightly, strong fingers stroking his close-cropped beard. "You prefer I say you did not look heroic? That it was unsexy?"
Ron groaned into his hands, long fingers splayed across his flaming face. "Merlin's beard, why me?"
Viktor was halfway through seeing if he could make Ron go an even deeper shade of red when a voice across the ballroom shouted: “Mr. Krum! A moment, please!”
Some foreign official waved him over. Viktor sighed, looking genuinely put out. “I must go talk politics,” he said gravely, like someone had asked him to scrub cauldrons. Then, he turned back, his eyes softer, “Do not disappear.”
Ron crossed his arms. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Viktor smiled like that was the best news he’d heard all night, then slipped into the crowd.
“Because it’s my job, Krum, it is quite literally my job,” Ron shouted after him. '
He rolled his shoulders, straightened his posture, and reacquired his professional veneer. No more flirting. No more smirks. No more Bulgarian nonsense. He was a damn good security guard, and he was going to prove it. He resumed his rounds with crisp efficiency, scanning for threats, checking exits, nodding at fellow staff. Professors complimented the security presence. A few guests even thanked him.
Ron felt like himself again, unflustered, focused, professional. Then his foot crossed a particular spot on the floor, and he felt the telltale spark of magic tickling the top of his head that told him a charm had been activated. Ron frowned. He tried to take a step forward, pausing when his stomach dropped into his boots. Because floating above him, glowing, shimmering, unmistakably charmed with an incarcerous spell was mistletoe.
Ron’s entire body tensed. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Students nearby gasped, pointing as one whispered, “Oh no! He’s trapped!”
“Trapped?!” Ron yelped.
A fourth year helpfully explained, “It won’t let you move until somebody kisses you.”
Ron nearly levitated off the floor. “WHY WOULD ANYONE ENCHANT MISTLETOE LIKE THAT?!”
A seventh year shrugged. “Lovegood taught the Ravenclaw first years to do it.”
Ron glared at the ceiling. “Luna, why.” He tried stepping out of the circle again, but it was like hitting an invisible barrier. “No. Absolutely not. I am a grown man. I am a professional. I will not be held hostage by holiday flora—”
A pair of first-years giggled. “Someone’s gotta kiss you, sir.”
Ron went red. “NO ONE IS KISSING ME. This is—this is a prank—this is—”
Ron felt a cold dread unfurl in his stomach. “This is…” Slowly, terrified, he turned to see Viktor Krum striding directly toward him, expression blooming into slow, delighted joy. He stopped a few feet away, gaze traveling from Ron… to the mistletoe… then back to Ron again. His smile spread. Wicked. Warm. Absolutely triumphant.
“Ronald,” he said softly, “it seems you are stuck.”
Ron made a helpless, strangled noise. “I did NOT—this is NOT—this is ILLEGAL.”
Viktor glanced up at the charmed sprig and actually had the nerve to look impressed. “Beautiful spellwork,” he mused. “Very elegant. Someone must like you very much.”
Ron sputtered. “I DIDN’T DO THIS.”
“No?” Viktor stepped closer. “Then fate is being very kind to me tonight.”
“It is NOT FATE—STOP WALKING TOWARD ME—”
“Oh? You do not want help?” Viktor murmured, looming closer still.
“I—NO—I—I can fix it myself—”
“You will free yourself from mistletoe using what?” he asked gently. “Surely an auror such as yourself would have already if you could.”
Ron actually considered dying on the spot. Meanwhile a small crowd had gathered at a respectful, delighted distance, watching like this was tonight’s scheduled entertainment. “Viktor,” Ron begged under his breath, “don’t you DARE.”
Viktor put a hand over his heart. “I would never force you.” He paused dramatically, “But you do look very kissable under mistletoe.”
“VIKTOR.”
“I am simply obeying tradition, Ronald.” He shrugged, all faux innocence. “Is holiday.”
“NO.”
“Ronald…”
He reached out one large, warm hand and tilted Ron’s chin up with effortless gentleness, the crowd sighed. Ron was pretty sure a photographer was on standby. Viktor leaned in just enough that Ron could feel his breath. Ron opened his mouth, but nothing came out, not “stop,” not “go,” not even “Merlin’s pants.” Viktor’s eyes softened, victory, affection, heat spinning all at once. And then, stepped up, licking his lips and kissed Ron on the cheek. The mistletoe made a tinkling sound of success before disappearing. “You are free now,” Viktor murmured.
Ron whispered, faintly horrified, “You did this.”
Viktor beamed. “Of course I did.”
Ron stared at him, stunned, his cheek still tingled. The mistletoe had vanished, the crowd was buzzing, someone definitely had a camera pointed at them. “You— you— YOU DID THIS,” Ron whispered again, louder this time, voice cracking like a teenager’s.
Viktor only looked pleased with himself. Radiantly so. “Da,” he said. “It vas very effective.”
Ron wanted to melt into the stone floor. Behind them, a knot of students whispered, giggling, Ron’s soul left his body. Viktor didn’t seem to notice, or worse, didn’t care. He stepped closer again, his voice dropping low with a conspiratorial warmth that made Ron’s stomach somersault. “I would have kissed your mouth,” Viktor murmured, “but I did not think you wanted crowd to see.”
Ron pressed a hand to his forehead. “I need—I need air. I need to— to go guard something.”
“Guard me,” Viktor suggested brightly.
“No!”
“Then I will follow you,” Viktor said, starting to do exactly that.
“No—NO YOU WILL NOT.” Ron took three rapid steps backward.
Viktor took three leisurely steps forward. The crowd watched, enchanted. Professor McGonagall, of course it had to be her, arched an eyebrow like she was trying to decide between awarding points or assigning detention. “I am busy,” Ron said, flustered to his bones. “I have a job. I’m on duty. I’m— I’m— I am SECURITY.”
“Yes,” Viktor agreed warmly.
Ron briefly considered throwing himself off the balcony. “I’m leaving,” he muttered, backing toward the nearest exit.
“Good,” Viktor said, far too calmly. “I will come.”
“You absolutely will NOT!”
“Mr. Weasley,” Professor McGonagall said.
Ron snapped to attention so fast his spine might’ve audibly cracked. His hands patted reflexively at his waist, tugging his uniform shirt straight as though it had betrayed him. “Yes, Professor?”
“You may retire for the evening.”
Ron froze mid-step, posture locking into place like he’d been struck by a Stinging Hex. “Oh, Professor, no, really, I,” Ron spluttered, words tripping over themselves as he gestured vaguely at the Hall, the dignitaries, the entire concept of responsibility. “I’m on duty, I can stay, I’m fine—”
“You are not needed here any longer tonight, Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall said, voice crisp and immovable.
The words landed with finality. Ron’s mouth opened and closed before he managed a weak, “Yes, Professor,” his shoulders slumping just a fraction as the sentence settled into him.
McGonagall inclined her head, satisfied. “Excellent.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and swept away, leaving Ron standing there—dismissed, flustered, and painfully aware that Viktor Krum was still smiling at him like this had gone exactly to plan. Ron turned to Viktor, cheeks blazing, voice strangled. “I can’t believe— I cannot believe— McGonagall just—”
The remaining Yule Ball attendees were watching them like it was the long awaited finale of their favorite drama. Viktor offered him his arm, but Ron ignored it, brushing past him to exit the Great Hall. Viktor followed him, easily falling into step with Ron’s long strides. Ron paid him no mind as he made for the grounds. The moment they stepped into the cold, quiet corridor, Viktor reached for Ron, but Ron saw it coming and stepped out of the way. He whirled on Viktor, hands clenched at his sides, freckles blazing across his cheeks. “You. Are. The. Worst,” he snapped. “This is my job! What if I came to your match and followed you around trying to get you to kiss me?!”
Viktor didn’t miss a beat, he tilted his head, considering this very seriously. “I would not complain.”
Ron sputtered. “That’s not— You— that’s not the point!”
Viktor’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Is it not?” he asked lightly. Then, eyes glinting, he added, “Is the point that you want to kiss me?”
Ron made a sound halfway between a growl and a whine. “I did NOT say that!”
“You did not deny it either,” Viktor said calmly, stepping closer.
Ron took an involuntary step back. “You are twisting my words!” he shouted—and then he turned and bolted. The large oak doors slammed shut behind him, cutting off the music, the warmth, and any chance at dignity.
The cold air hit him like a slap. Ron sucked in a sharp breath as icy air burned down his lungs, snow stinging his cheeks immediately. The grounds were nothing but white now, thick flakes blowing sideways, the wind howling low and constant like an angry beast circling the castle. Ron stopped for half a heartbeat, blinking. …Right, so, apparently it had started blizzarding while he was being publicly mistletoed. “Brilliant,” he muttered.
He considered turning back—just for a second—but the thought of walking back into the Great Hall, into Viktor’s smug smile and the watching crowd, made his skin crawl. No. Absolutely not. He pulled his wand and cast a warming charm with a sharp flick. Heat bloomed around him, chasing away the worst of the cold. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and started walking—fast—down the familiar path toward Hogsmeade.
It was only twenty minutes. He’d done it a hundred times as a student, he was an Auror, he’d be fine, he told himself as snow crunched under his boots, the wind tugging at his robes like it wanted to drag him back. Ron leaned into it stubbornly, jaw set, eyes narrowed against the white swirl.
Behind him, the castle lights blurred and faded, but he didn’t turn back. He didn’t want to know whether Viktor was following. He especially didn’t want to know how stupidly pleased Viktor would look if he was. The path grew harder to see the farther Ron went. Snow was already filling in footprints almost as soon as he made them, the world narrowing to the sound of his own breathing and the steady crunch of his steps. “Twenty minutes,” Ron muttered to himself. A gust of wind nearly knocked him sideways. “No problem,” Ron swore, throwing out a quick Shield Charm more out of irritation than fear. The snow hit it in a soft, constant hiss.
He squinted ahead, trying to spot the familiar bend that marked the halfway point, nothing, just white. Ron slowed despite himself. “Alright,” he said aloud, because apparently talking to himself was where the evening had landed him. “That’s… fine. Still fine.”
Then—faint, but unmistakable—he heard someone shout his name. “Ronald!”
Ron stopped dead. He squeezed his eyes shut. “No,” he said firmly to the universe. “Nope. Not engaging.” He started walking again.
“Ronald, stop!” the voice was closer now—wind-torn but strong.
Ron clenched his jaw and kept going, stubbornness digging in like iron. “Go away,” he muttered. “I’m fine. I’m working through feelings.”
A hand caught his sleeve, Ron yelped and spun, wand already half-raised and found Viktor Krum standing there, snow plastered to his coat, hair dusted white, chest rising and falling hard from the chase. "You are,” Viktor said between breaths, “very stupid.”
Ron stared. “You followed me so you can't be much smarter.”
“Yes,” Viktor said plainly. “Well. You ran into blizzard,” Viktor replied, gesturing vaguely at the screaming weather around them.
Ron opened his mouth. Then another gust hit them, stronger than the last, nearly sending Ron stumbling. Viktor caught him without hesitation, one solid arm around his waist. Ron froze. “I said I’d be fine,” he snapped weakly, though he didn’t pull away.
Viktor looked down at him, snow melting on his lashes, expression no longer teasing. “Ronald,” he said quietly, “you are warm because of magic. Not because storm.”
Ron swallowed. The path behind them was already disappearing, and somewhere ahead—completely invisible now—was Hogsmeade. Viktor tightened his grip just slightly. “We need shelter. Now.”
Ron hated that he was right, he hated even more that the dark shape Viktor was pointing at—barely visible through the whipping snow—was what used to be Hagrid’s hut, hunched low and half-buried in drifts at the edge of the trees, its windows dark and unwelcoming. And he really hated the realization settling into his bones that he’d been walking in a circle for the better part of ten minutes. Ten. Bloody. Minutes.
Ron stopped short, boots sinking into the snow. “No,” he said flatly. “Absolutely not.”
Viktor squinted through the storm, then back at Ron. “It is shelter.”
“It’s Hagrid’s,” Ron snapped. “Or it was. Which is worse. That place has eaten people.”
Viktor blinked. “Has it?”
“Metaphorically,” Ron said. “Mostly.”
Another gust of wind ripped through them, biting hard enough to make Ron wince. Snow stung his face, shoved down his collar, melted immediately against his warming charm. Viktor didn’t comment on Ron’s sudden silence. He just shifted closer, broad shoulders blocking the worst of the wind without making a fuss about it. “Fine,” Ron muttered, “only so I can kill you before the storm does.”
He pivoted on the icy path and trudged toward the hut, each heavy step sending a crackle through the waist-high drifts. His breath fogged in ragged puffs, but it was his bruised pride—throbbing sharper than any winter gale—that drove him on. Ron’s gloved hand slammed into the rough timber door; a rusty hinge protested as it swung inward, gusts of snow swirling across the threshold. Inside, the gloom pressed in. Frost-laced air smelled of stale woodsmoke and damp moss—evidence of past fires, long since cold. He stamped his boots on the flagstone floor, white flakes flaking from his shoulders in a mini-avalanche. “This is temporary,” he snapped, teeth chattering.
Viktor shrugged out of his parka, golden hair damp at the collar, and draped it over a crooked peg. “Of course,” he said as if they’d rehearsed this moment a dozen times.
Ron scowled. “Don’t get comfortable.”
A slow smile curved Viktor’s lips. He waved his wand with a soft swish. A burst of orange sparks leapt onto the hearth, logs hissing as flames climbed in cheerful tongues. Heat rippled across the tiny room almost instantly, and a glow pulsed against the stone walls. Ron huffed his disapproval, yet couldn’t resist edging closer until the warmth teased his numb fingers back to life.
Outside, the wind roared like a wounded beast, hammering the shutters until the hut shuddered. Snow pounded the roof, rattling loose flakes into the corners. Trapped by the storm on Christmas Eve, Ron pressed his palms to his cheeks, glancing into the dancing firelight as if seeking an escape. He felt absurdly like a heroine in one of his mum’s guilty-pleasure romances—down to the thunderous weather, the cramped cabin, and the man who simply refused to stop teasing him.
Viktor kicked off his boots next, sending clumps of frozen mud clattering to the rug. His woolen sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms sprinkled with fine hairs still frosted at the tips. “Don’t—” Ron warned, but Viktor’s brow rose in genuine curiosity.
“Do not what?” he asked, tilting his head.
“Don’t say it’s fate. Don’t say it’s romantic. And especially don’t say this was all part of your plan.”
Viktor rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then looked up with a grin that glowed as warmly as the hearth. “I will not say it,” he promised.
Ron’s shoulders sagged with relief—until Viktor’s dark eyes sparkled. “You’re thinking it,” he accused.
Viktor chuckled, the sound low and amused. “Da.”
A fresh rush of fatigue weighed on Ron’s eyelids. He collapsed onto the nearest bench, brushing a hand across his forehead. “I’m trapped in a blizzard with Viktor Krum on Christmas Eve,” he muttered.
“Is nice, no?” Viktor whispered, voice soft as falling snow. He extended his hands toward the hearth, letting the amber glow kiss his knuckles. “Reminds me of home in Bulgaria.”
Ron risked peeking at him from beneath his lashes. “You actually think this is fun?”
Viktor shrugged, bare arms warming by the fire. “Very.”
“Do not finish that sentence,” Ron snapped, but his lips twitched.
When the fire popped and the wind shook the window frames, Ron edged even closer without meaning to. Viktor noticed. “You are shivering,” he stated, brow furrowing with concern.
“I am not,” Ron lied, but a quiver ran through his shoulders.
In one smooth motion, Viktor slipped off his heavy cloak and draped it around Ron’s narrow frame. The wool still retained Viktor’s body heat, and it settled over Ron’s coat like a snug embrace. Ron froze, cheeks burning. “Viktor—” His voice dropped so low it almost dissolved in the crackling air.
“Temporary,” Viktor echoed gently, his warm breath stirring Ron’s hair. “Until the storm passes.”
Moments later, after three shared yawns, Ron jabbed a finger toward the small bed shoved against the far wall. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
Viktor’s head tilted, confusion flickering across his face. “No,” he said simply.
Ron blinked. “No?”
Viktor’s eyes were steady. “We will share.”
Heat rushed to Ron’s ears. “Excuse me?”
“One bed, two people. Efficient,” Viktor explained, as if discussing window insulation.
“Efficient,” Ron echoed in a hollow whisper.
“Yes. Practical. Also warm.”
The words hung between them, mingling with the hiss of the hearth and the howl beyond the walls. Ron surveyed the narrow bed—hardscrabble mattress, thin blanket, promising little comfort. He exhaled, long and defeated. “Fine. But no funny business.”
Viktor raised an eyebrow in mock solemnity. “I would never.”
Ron gave him a withering look. “That was not convincing.”
Viktor’s expression softened, blue eyes gentle in the firelight. “Ronald, we will sleep. That is all.”
After a pause, Ron nodded once. “Right. Sleeping.”
They moved as one towards the bed, awkward as two strangers forced into a duet. Viktor claimed one side, lying still beneath the quilt. Ron perched on the edge, then inched onto the mattress with all the grace of a frozen statue, leaving a conspicuous gap between them. He felt ridiculous. He felt warm. He felt nervous. A moment later, Viktor shifted, just enough that their shoulders brushed. A current of heat flowed through Ron. Viktor’s voice drifted softly in the darkness: “Is this okay?”
Ron swallowed against a lump in his throat. “…Yeah. Fine.”
They lay side by side, backs pressed against the rough planks of the wall, as the fire’s glow dimmed to embers. Outside, the blizzard raged on, impotent to touch the small island of warmth they had created. Viktor’s last words came on a gentler note. “Goodnight, Ronald.”
Ron stared at the ceiling, heart hammering. “Night.” And for the first time that evening, sleep came easily, wrapping around him like the wool cloak Viktor had lent, safe against the storm.
In the morning, Ron floated in that hazy space between dreams and waking, his body curled around something solid and radiating heat. He pressed closer, chasing the warmth, his nose buried in something that smelled of pine and cloves. His fingers tightened around fabric, pulling it closer as he inhaled deeply. The surface beneath his cheek shifted, vibrating slightly. "I did not think you wanted to cuddle," came a low, heavily accented rumble against his ear.
Ron's eyes flew open to meet Viktor's dark gaze, mere inches from his own. Every single sensation caught up to him at once: the unmistakable breadth of Viktor’s chest beneath his cheek, the arm draped solidly around his back, the fact that his leg was very much thrown over Viktor’s thigh like it belonged there. And, oh, brilliant, his face was pressed right into Viktor’s now messy hair.
“I—” Ron croaked, then stopped, because his voice had apparently decided to abandon him entirely.
Viktor didn’t move, didn’t tease, didn’t even smile. He just watched Ron with those dark, unreadable eyes, one brow lifting ever so slightly. “You were very determined,” he added mildly. “I admire commitment.”
Ron yelped and attempted to scramble away from Viktor. The bed creaked ominously and shifted, immediately betraying him. Ron ended up flailing for half a second before landing flat on his back, hair wild, ears flaming, blankets tangled around his waist. “I was asleep,” he blurted. “That doesn’t count!”
Viktor rolled onto his side to face him, propping his head up on one hand, studying Ron’s flushed face with a barely hidden smirk. Ron covered his face with both hands. “Merlin, kill me now.”
Viktor chuckled softly, the sound warm and unguarded in the small hut. “If it helps,” he said, “you are very good cuddler.”
“That does not help!”
“You held me very tightly,” Viktor continued, clearly enjoying himself now. “Like this.” He demonstrated by wrapping Ron into his arms, “Very secure.”
Ron’s brain stuttered, he admitted a squeak of surprise that earned him a chuckle from Viktor. Their eyes locked for a second and Ron truly couldn’t ignore the heat between them.
The moment stretched—too warm, too close, too charged to pretend was nothing. Ron was acutely aware of everything all at once: Viktor’s heartbeat steady beneath his ear, the ridiculous width of his shoulders, the way the firelight caught in his dark hair. He was also painfully aware that his own hands had somehow fisted themselves in Viktor’s shirt again, as if they’d made an executive decision without consulting the rest of him.
Ron swallowed, Viktor tracked the movement. Ron’s ears went scarlet, Viktor’s eyes burned with heat. Ron hesitated, just long enough to question himself, then lifted his chin. Viktor didn’t move, didn’t lean in. This was Ron’s move to make, and he did, closing the distance himself until their lips were pressed together. After a few seconds, Viktor took charge, dropping his weight on Ron and deepening the kiss with his tongue stroking into Ron’s open and needy mouth.
Viktor's lips were warm and insistent against Ron’s, a heady mix of sweetness layered over the unmistakable flavor of firewhiskey. The moment felt electric, like a charge of magic sparking through the air between them. Every proclamation from Ron's own erratic heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out every other thought except for how right this felt: as if they'd been dancing around this moment for years, and finally, at last, they were colliding.
Ron’s hands tightened around Viktor’s shirt, fingers sinking into the fabric as if anchoring himself to this reality—a reality where Viktor Krum was kissing him back, without hesitation, without pretense. Viktor’s breath mingled with Ron’s, a whispered promise that made that simmering heat coil in the pit of Ron's stomach. They pulled away just enough to breathe, Ron’s cheeks flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the cozy glow of the fire. Viktor's gaze was dark as he studied Ron, searching for: rejection? acceptance? desire?
Ron felt drunk. He’d never been kissed so thoroughly before, and he wanted it to happen again. He reached up to kiss Viktor again but Viktor pulled back, not dismissively, but out of curiosity. “Please,” Ron begged.
Viktor’s breath hitched—just once. It was the smallest thing, but Ron noticed it anyway, because of course he did, he noticed everything.
“Viktor,” Ron said, softer this time, like the word had slipped out before he could overthink it.
Viktor’s mouth twitched, not smug now, not teasing—fond. Almost stunned. “Ronald,” he murmured, thumb brushing Ron’s jaw where the heat still lingered, “you say that like you think I need convincing.”
“Do you?” Ron shot back, defensive even as his hands stayed fisted in Viktor’s shirt, as if letting go might undo the last thirty seconds entirely.
Viktor laughed quietly, a warm sound that seemed to settle right in Ron’s chest. “No,” he said. “But I wanted to be sure.”
“Sure of what?” Ron demanded, ears blazing again.
“That you want this,” Viktor replied simply. “Not because we are snowed in. Or because it is Christmas. Because you… want… this.”
Ron stared at him, then groaned, tipping his forehead forward until it thunked lightly against Viktor’s collarbone. “You are unbelievable,” he muttered. “You know that?”
“Yes,” Viktor said cheerfully. “I have been told.”
Ron lifted his head, met Viktor’s eyes, and before Viktor could say another infuriatingly calm, reasonable thing, Ron leaned in and kissed him again—slower this time, more deliberate. Viktor made a pleased, surprised sound into the kiss and this time didn’t pull away. His hands came up, steady and warm, settling at Ron’s back like that was exactly where they belonged.
When they finally broke apart, Viktor rested his forehead against Ron’s again, smiling like he’d just won something far more important than a Quidditch match. “So,” Viktor said softly. “Still hate me?”
“Haven’t decided,” Ron said with a teasing smile.
Viktor groaned, resting his head on Ron’s collarbone. “Ronald, what must I do?”
Ron’s fingers slipped through Viktor’s silky black hair. “I don’t hate you.”
“But you don’t have crush on me anymore,” Viktor replied, rolling off of Ron and back to his side of the bed.
“I never said that,” Ron answered.
“You don’t have to,” Viktor muttered. He rolled onto his side, facing Ron now, expression softer again, firelight catching in his dark eyes. “Ronald,” he said quietly, “I am not asking you to confess undying love. I just—” He shrugged, awkward for once. “I have wanted you for long time. I thought perhaps… you stopped.”
Ron stared at him for a moment, then groaned and flopped back onto his own pillow, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Merlin help me,” he muttered. “You are impossible.”
“Yes,” Viktor agreed pleasantly.
Ron turned his head, fixing Viktor with a look. “I spent years pretending I didn’t fancy you because it was easier to be annoyed than… whatever this is.”
Viktor’s eyes widened slightly.
“And,” Ron continued, voice gaining momentum now that he’d started, “then you keep showing up—at matches, at weddings, at Charlie’s bloody dragon reserve—being tall and charming and stupidly nice to my family, and I thought if I acknowledged it I’d combust.”
Viktor smiled, slow and delighted. “You do turn an alarming shade of red.”
Ron snorted, “fair.” Then he sighed, long and loud, “I didn’t stop having a crush on you,” he said at last. “I just got very good at pretending I didn’t.”
Viktor didn’t speak for a moment. Then he shifted closer—careful this time, giving Ron space to retreat if he wanted. Ron didn’t. “That is… good to hear,” Viktor said, a little roughly.
Ron glanced at him sideways. “You’re not allowed to gloat.”
“I will gloat very quietly,” Viktor promised.
Ron laughed despite himself, the tension finally easing out of his shoulders. He reached out again, fingers finding Viktor’s hair without thinking this time. Viktor leaned into the touch instinctively, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Alright,” Ron said softly. “It’s Christmas. We’re snowed in. And we’ve already kissed. There’s nowhere to go, nothing to do…”
Ron took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the fire and the rhythm of Viktor’s soft breathing soothe him. He felt uncharacteristically calm, a cozy haze settling over him like the blanket they had draped over their legs. Outside, the blizzard howled like something writhing in agony, but here inside the hut, it could almost be romantic.
“Right,” he said finally, gathering himself. “So we’re stuck here. And I suppose... since you’re right there, I guess I can tolerate another kiss. Or two.”
Viktor’s eyes lit up, a glimmer of excitement dancing across his features that made Ron's stomach flutter. “You may be coming around,” he replied, grinning boyishly.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Ron said, trying to maintain his composure, though the teasing lilt of Viktor’s voice sent a shiver down his spine. “I still think you’re utterly infuriating.”
“Infuriating?” Viktor asked, tugging Ron closer. “I’ll show you infuriating.”
Ron fell onto his back, and Viktor pressed in, mouth warm and insistent, and Ron had to admit he’d grossly underestimated “cuddling” as an activity. Viktor’s hands were everywhere, both respectful and decidedly not, sliding under Ron’s shirt (when had he lost his shirt?) and mapping the territory of Ron’s ribs, his back, his bloody hipbones.
Ron was embarrassingly responsive. He’d known, sure, on a theoretical and intellectual level, that he had a thing for Viktor Krum, but the lived experience of having Viktor’s lips on his jaw, his shoulder, his navel, was a thousand times more than he was prepared to handle. Ron was pretty sure he’d squeaked at one point. He was definitely making higher-pitched noises than what dignity allowed. Though, Viktor did not seem to mind. In fact, Viktor seemed—if anything—encouraged.
Through the haze of sensation, Ron realized he would actually be spending Christmas with Viktor Krum in a way that would make his mum’s eyes pop out of her skull. He giggled, actually giggled, at the absurdity, which made Viktor pause, nipping at Ron’s shoulder and peering up at him, a strange glint of worry in his eye. “Did I bite too hard?”
Ron choked on another laugh and shook his head, hiding his crimson face in Viktor’s shoulder. “No, you maniac. Just—” Just that his crush was making a meal out of Ron Weasley, and it was better than the best dream Ron had ever had.
Viktor’s brow furrowed. He shifted so he could see Ron’s face, the sharp lines softened by concern. “You are okay? I do not want—” He cut himself off, biting down on the words.
Ron managed to catch his breath. It was weird, how easy it was to fall back into joking, even with Viktor making a snack of him. “Yeah, I’m fine,” Ron managed, grinning like an idiot into Viktor’s shoulder. “You’re… er, actually very good at this.”
He felt Viktor tense, then relax in stages, the way a Seeker’s grip loosened after a match-winning catch. “Thank you,” Viktor murmured, the words thick and strange, like he wasn’t used to saying them.
Ron fumbled with the tangle of bedding, trying to edge closer and not get socked in the head by the wooden headboard at the same time. Viktor made a humming noise, low in his throat, and pulled Ron in again—no hesitation this time, no need for tricks or holiday charms. Ron found himself wanting to wrap around Viktor, to see how much of Viktor he could touch at once.
He did, and then it was Viktor’s turn to make an embarrassing noise—half gasp, half groan, utterly undignified and totally brilliant. The heat between them burned like fiendfyre. They couldn’t seem to get close enough, even with both of them half-naked and tangled together. Ron had to ignore the fact that this was once Hagrid’s bed.
Viktor's hands shifted from barely-there touches to iron grips at Ron's hips, pinning him to the mattress with his full weight. Ron gasped as Viktor's mouth found the pulse point below his ear, then the hollow of his throat, then the sensitive skin over his collarbone. Each spot Viktor's lips touched burned like a brand, sending shivers radiating outward until Ron's fingers clutched desperately at Viktor's shoulders, his breath coming in ragged, broken sounds he barely recognized as his own.
Viktor's mouth trailed lower, dragging open-mouthed kisses down Ron's sternum, each touch lingering as if he planned to taste every freckle individually. Viktor's hand splayed wide over Ron's ribs, grounding him, and the other caught the edge of Ron's waistband, thumb slipping beneath to stroke the trail of ginger hair. Ron sucked in a breath, legs shaking. He could see the outline of Viktor’s shoulders, the strong curve of his back as he knelt halfway off the bed and started to tug at Ron’s trousers, slow and methodical like he was unwrapping a present.
Ron tried to help but ended up just making a mess of things—kicking off his pants and nearly bashing Viktor in the jaw, which Viktor found unreasonably hilarious. He nuzzled into Ron's hip, stubble scraping, and said something in a language Ron didn't understand but felt somewhere deep in his spine. Then Viktor was lowering himself again, his mouth hovering so close to Ron’s cock that Ron forgot how to breathe. Viktor looked up at him—just a quick, sidelong flick of the eye, enough to send Ron’s heart double-speed—then pressed a kiss to the head, soft and deliberate. Ron's hips twitched. Viktor’s hands moved to grip Ron’s thighs, anchoring him fast as Viktor parted his lips and took him in, just the tip at first, tongue swirling, then more, sliding down with a slow thickness that made Ron’s stomach drop away entirely.
Ron's fingers dug into the sheets until his knuckles went white, his eyes unable to look away as Viktor's dark head bobbed between his trembling thighs. His hips bucked upward of their own accord, but Viktor's calloused hands clamped down on his hipbones, pinning him to the mattress with the same precision he used to control a racing broom. "F-fuck," Ron gasped, his voice cracking like it hadn't since fifth year. "Viktor... that's... bloody hell..." The words dissolved into a strangled moan as Viktor's throat constricted around him, sending sparks shooting behind Ron's eyelids and turning his thoughts to static.
“Cum for me Ronald, I want to taste you, then I want to fuck you,” Viktor growled before diving back on Ron’s cock.
“Uungh, Vik…tor…” Ron groaned, his voice cracking as his orgasm neared.
Viktor placed well-timed squeeze of Ron’s balls, sending hot cum shooting into his mouth. He sucked until Ron was frantically pushing him off from overstimulation. Viktor pulled off with a plopping sound and crawled up to kiss Ron, who was a jellied mess beneath him. Ron returned the kisses lazily, but as soon as he’d returned to his body, his hand wrapped around Viktor’s cock. Viktor hissed at the contact, painfully erect from just kissing and sucking Ron. He broke the kiss, with a heavy breath, “Ronald, I want to cum inside you.”
“Mmph, yes,” Ron replied, “please.”
Ron rolled onto his stomach, giving Viktor room to open his hole. With a wet finger, Viktor traced Ron’s puckered hole twice before teasing the opening. It took no time to prepare Ron, but Viktor knew his cock was quite large, so he used his three fingers while grazing Ron’s prostate. Ron’s cock had hardened again, and Ron was trying very hard to not hump the mattress.
“Viktor, please,” Ron moaned when the fingers were withdrawn.
Viktor’s calloused hand stroked along Ron’s spine. “Patience, Ronald,” he soothed.
Mere moments passed before Viktor was spreading Ron’s cheeks and notching his cock against Ron’s hole. “Viktor… hurry,” Ron pleaded.
Viktor did as he was asked. The pressure was so sweetly relentless Ron thought he might actually weep. Viktor’s cock pressed blunt and hot against his hole, crowding in with a patient, unhurried grind that bordered on reverence, and Ron’s entire body shuddered around the slow give. It felt like Viktor had mapped out every inch of him before even getting them to the bed—like Viktor had been thinking of this, planning for this, building a whole tactical campaign around the concept of Ron Weasley taking Viktor’s cock and liking it.
The first stretch stung in that delicious, starlit way, crawling up Ron’s spine and making his breath catch. He couldn’t breathe—not properly, not with the way Viktor was pushing in, deeper and deeper, bringing a fullness that wiped every clever comeback right out of Ron's head. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow to stifle a noise, but Viktor must have noticed because he paused—a beat of hesitation, his hands smoothing over Ron’s hips as if to anchor them both. Ron drew in a shaky breath. “Don’t stop,” he managed. “Merlin—just—don’t.”
“Good?” Viktor’s voice was hoarse, ragged, almost pleading.
Ron nodded. “Yeah. Merlin, yeah, keep going.” His own voice sounded distant and wild, like it belonged to someone else. He clutched at the sheets, body arching helplessly as Viktor began to move—not fast, not at first, just a gentle roll of hips that made Ron’s toes curl and his fingers dig into the mattress. Viktor’s hands tightened, anchoring them together, and Ron gave himself over to the feeling—let himself be handled, opened, filled, adored.
Somewhere in the middle of Viktor’s slow, breathtaking thrusts, it occurred to Ron that maybe this was what all the fuss was about. Maybe getting kissed senseless and then well and properly fucked was actually worth enduring a bit of holiday humiliation. Maybe Viktor wasn’t just showing off, wasn’t just playing a part—maybe he really had wanted this, wanted him, the whole time.
The thought made Ron’s chest ache and his vision blur. He shoved it away, focusing instead on the rhythm of Viktor’s hips and the soft, steady groan that vibrated through Viktor’s chest every time he bottomed out. The next time Viktor’s cock grazed Ron’s prostate, he nearly arched clear off the mattress, gasping as pleasure ricocheted through him, fireworks behind his eyelids. “Oh—fuck—Viktor—” The words fell apart, drowned by the slap of skin and the sound of fire popping from the hearth.
There were hands, warm and sure, sliding under Ron’s chest, pulling him upright so his back met Viktor’s chest, so Viktor’s arm could wrap around him and hold him there. Ron’s face was burning, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes from the intensity of it all. Viktor pressed his mouth to Ron’s shoulder, trailing open-mouthed kisses up the column of Ron’s neck, and Ron shuddered, the pressure in his belly coiling tight and hot.
“You feel so good,” Viktor groaned, words barely more than broken sounds against against Ron’s skin. Viktor’s arms locked Ron in place, his chest pressed tight against Ron’s back. Each thrust was a ruthless proof of Viktor’s strength and intent, headboard thumping cowed and uneven against the wall in rhythm with Viktor’s hips. Ron’s own cock throbbed, flushed to scarlet, slick from Viktor’s palm. He needed—something—couldn’t name it, but Viktor’s hand on him and Viktor in him might almost be enough.
He rocked back, matching Viktor’s rhythm, every nerve ending shimmering. Ron’s noises were desperate, ugly, uncoordinated. He’d never been so turned on in his life. Viktor murmured something in a throaty, slurred stumble of syllables—Bulgarian, probably, though for all Ron cared it could have been gibberish. The words crackled hot against the back of Ron’s neck.
“Viktor—fucking hell—don’t stop, I—” He braced himself, the heat in him growing massive and imminent. Viktor’s hand was wrapped around his cock again, stroking in unison with his relentless hips, and Ron sobbed at the pleasure, shame and pride tangling together in the back of his throat. He was going to come, for the second bloody time in twenty minutes. That had never happened before.
He tried to warn Viktor, a strangled “I’m gonna—” but Viktor just growled, tightening his grip mercilessly, and Ron came again, helpless, shuddering, bright pinpricks popping behind his eyes, an incoherent string of Viktor’s name stuttering off his tongue.
Viktor gathered him close and pressed a hot, greedy kiss to the back of Ron’s neck. Ron shuddered, boneless, and let himself be handled, let Viktor hold them both there in the crumple of tangled covers and discarded shirts and the last lemony rays of morning. The wind was still howling outside, whipping snow against whatever magic protected the hut, but in here Ron could only hear his own heartbeat and Viktor’s—still pounding, still erratic, a matching drum.
“Christ,” Ron mumbled, his face mashed into the pillow. Every inch of skin burned. He’d sweat through his own shirt and someone else’s, and Viktor was still very much inside him, pressed from ribs to knees. They should both be completely disgusting, but Ron couldn’t bring himself to care. He might have even liked it.
Viktor’s hand followed a slow, lazy track up the ladder of Ron’s spine; the weight of his palm was a benediction, a promise, a declaration of intent that Viktor was not letting go anytime soon. Eventually, Viktor softened enough to slip out, and Ron made a faint noise—loss, relief, who could tell. Viktor must have felt it too, because he didn’t move away. He just curled closer, a bear of a man with a streak of gentle in the way he tucked Ron’s hair behind his ear. “That was…” Ron tried, but words were slow to arrive, and the sentences he attempted came out all wrong.
“Very good,” Viktor finished, lips warm on Ron’s nape.
Ron could only nod into the mess of blankets. Viktor’s hand stroked Ron’s hip, delicately, like he might break or spook. “Do you believe me now, Ronald?”
Ron blinked. Once. Twice. He was suddenly hyperaware of every brush and press of skin down his back, the whole length of Viktor still pillowed warm and soft, resting against him. The words took a moment to land, thick and slow as treacle. “That—” Ron started, then stopped, because the sentence didn’t want to cooperate. “That was—” Pure electricity fizzled just below his skin, nerves still firing in wild, unmapped patterns. Every pulse of his heart shuttled a new wave of heat straight through to his still-overheated face.
Viktor’s breath tickled at the corner of his jaw, slow and humid. “Everything you ever hoped it would be?” Viktor asked.
Ron rolled over. Viktor's eyes were soft, his expression unguarded in a way that made Ron's stomach flip. No victory smirk. No swagger. Just Viktor's calloused fingers trailing down Ron's forearm, pausing at his wrist to trace small circles there. Ron swallowed hard. The Viktor he remembered from Hogwarts had stalked across the Great Hall like he owned it, shoulders back, jaw set. This Viktor curled around him like a question mark, his breath warm against Ron's neck, thumb brushing the sensitive crease of Ron's elbow. Ron's chest tightened. The joke he'd prepared died on his tongue. "It's just—" Ron's voice cracked. "For years I scowled every time someone mentioned your name. And now you're here, all—" he gestured vaguely with one hand, "—gentle. Like I'm some spooked hippogriff."
Viktor's lips curved against Ron's neck. "Perhaps you are. I've seen how fast you run."
"Oi."
Viktor's thumb stilled. "I don't want to be another thing chasing you."
"You followed me through a bloody blizzard," Ron said. "And before that, across a dance floor. And before that—"
Ron's fingers found Viktor's forearm, gripping it. "I need a minute," he whispered, surprising himself with how raw the words sounded.
Viktor shifted, his dark eyes meeting Ron's. "Take many minutes," he said, his accent thickening. "I wait. Is not what people expect of me, but I can."
"Minutes?" Ron's mouth twitched. "Right. Thanks."
Viktor nodded once, solemnly. His eyes never left Ron's face. One heartbeat. Two. "Have you had enough minutes?" Viktor asked."Not really," Ron said, voice still gravelly. "But now you’re looking at me with those bloody puppy eyes, and I can’t think straight." He pressed both palms to his temples, then swept them through his hair—a nervous tic that left it standing sky-high.
Viktor's lips quirked, but he didn't tease. Instead, his gaze turned serious, measuring, searching. Ron could practically hear the years of Quidditch drills churning behind those eyes, Viktor counting out each interminable minute as if they were laps around the pitch. Ron let out a shaky sigh. "It's just. I dunno. I thought it was a dumb crush. You and me." He chewed his lip, unwilling to meet Viktor’s eyes. "I convinced myself a bloke like you’d never want—"
"But I do," Viktor interrupted. His hand found Ron's, thumb rubbing careful, slow stripes over Ron’s knuckles. The words hung in the air, unembellished. No drama, just a plain, simple truth.
Ron stared at their laced hands, skin still pink from the cold and, he had to admit, from Viktor’s clever mouth. "You know this is barking, right?"
Viktor nodded. "Is not the first time I have done something barking." His laugh was a raspy rumble in his chest, not quite self-deprecating, not quite proud.
The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t tight anymore. It was soft, easy. Ron let Viktor hold his hand. Let Viktor spoon in behind him when he flopped onto his back, let the weight of Viktor’s arm drape across his chest, let Viktor’s chin rest in the pit of his shoulder. Let Viktor exist next to him, solid and heavy and indisputably real. He traced Viktor’s callused fingers with his own, feeling the roughness from years of broom handling, from a life built around holding fast and never letting go. Ron didn’t recognize the lazy way his own hand lingered over Viktor’s. He didn’t mind it.
“So what now?” he muttered, voice climbing from the blanket cave they’d fashioned.
Viktor’s breath hummed against his ear. “I take you on date when snow stops.”