Scales of Silver and Green

The Slytherin common room was a mess of green and silver, the dim ceiling lights throwing long shadows across the stone floor. Party night had finally come, and the air stank of firewhisky and that usual teenage rebellion. Draco Malfoy leaned against a leather sofa in a fitted black silk shirt that shimmered under the low light, a glass of something strong in his hand. His platinum hair was messy on purpose, eyeliner flecked with a little glitter, and his laugh cut through the noise as he flirted shamelessly with Fred and George Weasley.

“Well, well,” Draco purred, swaying a bit on his feet. “Two for one. How tacky.”

Fred grinned, wicked. “Careful, Malfoy. We might take you up on that.”

George circled behind him, hand brushing Draco’s waist. “Never known a Malfoy to party like this. What’s the occasion?”

Draco laughed again, brittle. “Freedom. Annihilation. Take your pick.” He drained his glass and let his head fall back, exposing his throat. “I’m bored. Entertain me.”

Dangerous game, and he knew it. But the firewhisky washed away his caution, left him desperate to feel something other than that cold dread in his bones since the Dark Lord’s return. He let the twins lead him through the crowd, their hands on his hips, his back. They were tall and broad, their laughter infectious, and for a moment he forgot who he was.

The rest of the night was a blur of green light and whispered promises. They found his dormitory, the door clicking shut. The twins were relentless, rough and demanding. He let them undress him, arching under their hands. When they discovered the truth—the soft curves, his chest, the milk—they went still. Then Fred cupped his breast, thumb brushing his nipple, and a bead of milk pearled at the tip.

“Well, well,” George murmured, voice hoarse. “You’re full of surprises, Malfoy.”

Too drunk to care, Draco moaned as they pushed him onto the bed. It was rough, no tenderness, but he welcomed the pain—it was real. When they left, sated and smirking, he lay in the dark and cried.

Weeks went by. The party faded into memory, a blur of green silk and rough hands. Draco shoved it away, buried it under homework and Quidditch and the cold weight of his assignments from the Dark Lord. But his body wasn’t cooperating.

First came the morning sickness. He’d be in the Great Hall and suddenly need to run to the bathroom, heaving over the toilet until his stomach hurt. He got thinner, paler. Blamed stress, the war—anything but the truth.

Then came the day he couldn’t ignore it.

In the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey waved her wand over his belly. “Mr. Malfoy,” she said carefully, “you’re pregnant.”

The room spun. He gripped the bed. “That’s impossible.”

“And yet, here we are.” She was kind but firm. “I won’t ask who the father is. That’s your business. But you need to take care of yourself. The baby is healthy, for now.”

He didn’t remember leaving. He ended up in an empty corridor, back against the cold stone wall, gasping. Pregnant. A Weasley’s baby. Or both. The thought twisted in his gut.

He slid to the floor, head in his hands. The war. His father. The Dark Lord. And now a child. A life he didn’t know how to protect.

Ron Weasley had been watching Draco for weeks. He wasn’t proud of it, but he couldn’t stop. He noticed Draco’s laugh had gone brittle, his hands shook when he thought no one was looking. The shadows under his eyes, the way he just pushed his food around. And the day Draco ran out of the Great Hall, green, and didn’t come back.

Something was wrong.

His feelings for Draco were a mess he didn’t want to look at too closely. They’d been enemies for years, but lately when Ron looked at him, he didn’t see the sneering bully. He saw someone terrified. Drowning.

He found Draco in that corridor, slumped against the wall, face in his hands. Ron’s heart squeezed.

“Malfoy.”

Draco’s head snapped up. “Weasley. What?”

“I saw you run out.” Ron sat across from him. “You looked sick.”

“I’m fine. Go away.”

“You’re not. I’m not stupid. Something’s going on. I’m not leaving until you tell me.”

Draco stared at him. Defiance fought with desperation. Then his composure broke. He sobbed into his hands.

“I’m pregnant,” he whispered. “And I don’t know what to do.”

Ron’s world tilted.

The confession hung there, thick. Ron’s mind raced. Pregnant. Draco Malfoy was pregnant.

“How?” Ron’s voice was hoarse. “Who?”

Draco laughed bitterly. “Your brothers. Fred and George. At the party. I was drunk. They were... enthusiastic.”

Ron went pale. “Did they know? Did they hurt you?”

“They didn’t know what I was until it was too late. And it was consensual. I wanted it.” He looked up, eyes red. “I just didn’t want this.”

Ron slid closer, hand hovering. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. If my father finds out, if the Dark Lord finds out—they’ll kill me. Kill the baby. I can’t go home. I can’t stay. I’m