A Second Chance at Severed Ties

The Ministry of Magic hummed with its usual noise—people shuffling papers, quills scratching, voices rising and falling—but Ron Weasley’s office was a bubble of quiet. He sat behind his desk, buried in parchment and quills, staring at the name on the application form. Draco Malfoy. The handwriting was neat, precise. Nothing like the messy scrawl from their school days. Ron traced his finger along the edge of the paper, and something warm settled in his chest. He didn’t know what to call it.

When the door opened, his breath caught. Malfoy stepped in, but this wasn’t the boy Ron remembered. Leaner. Sharper. Dressed in a black suit that looked like it cost more than Ron’s monthly salary, a silver tie pin glinting at his throat. His hair was longer, swept back. Those grey eyes held a confidence that made Ron’s skin prickle—in a good way, maybe. He moved like he owned the room, and when he smiled, slow and knowing, Ron felt heat crawl up his neck.

“Weasley,” Malfoy said, voice low and smooth. “Or should I say, Head Auror Weasley?”

Ron cleared his throat and waved at the chair across the desk. “Sit.”

The interview was a formality. Ron had heard the whispers—Malfoy spent years in rehabilitation, worked with the Ministry’s outreach program, built a reputation as sharp and meticulous. But more than that, Ron had seen him at a charity gala three months ago. Malfoy was standing by the bar, a glass of firewhisky in his hand, laughing at something someone said. The sound hit Ron like a bludger, and he couldn’t look away.

Now, watching Malfoy cross his legs and lean back, Ron felt that same pull. He asked the standard questions, but his mind wandered. When Malfoy answered, his eyes never left Ron’s, and there was a challenge there, a dare.

“You’re hired,” Ron said before he could stop himself.

Malfoy’s smile widened. “I knew you’d make the right choice.”

The affair started two weeks later. Malfoy initiated it, of course—a hand on Ron’s arm while they reviewed a case file, a lingering glance over tea. Ron told himself it was nothing, just a fleeting attraction. He was married to Hermione. They had two kids, Rose and Hugo. He had a life. But when Malfoy pressed him against the wall of his office after hours, lips hot and demanding, Ron gave in.

Their meetings turned into a ritual. After the Ministry emptied, Ron would lock his door, and Malfoy would appear, shedding his tailored suits like armor. They kissed, touched, fell into each other with a desperation that left Ron breathless. Malfoy was exquisite—pale skin flushed, grey eyes dark with want, his voice whispering things that made Ron’s head spin. Ron told himself it was just sex, a release from the monotony of his marriage.

But it wasn’t. When Malfoy curled against him afterward, tracing patterns on his chest, Ron felt something he’d never felt with Hermione. They talked, too. Malfoy spoke about his father’s death, the years of penance, the loneliness that hollowed him out. Ron listened and held him, and wondered when he’d stopped listening to Hermione.

“Do you love her?” Malfoy asked one night, lying naked in Ron’s arms in his sleek apartment. City lights glittered through floor-to-ceiling windows. The air smelled like expensive cologne and sex.

Ron stiffened. “It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it,” Malfoy said, soft but with an edge. “For me.”

Ron didn’t answer. He kissed Malfoy’s forehead instead, and Malfoy let it go. But the question stuck, a splinter under Ron’s skin.

Three months in, Malfoy missed a day of work. Then another. When Ron finally reached him by Floo, his voice was thin, hollow.

“I’m fine. Just a stomach bug.”

Ron believed him because he wanted to. He was too busy burying guilt under paperwork, under dinner with Hermione and the kids, under the careful lie of a happy marriage. He told himself he’d end it soon. After the next case. After the holidays. After.

But then Malfoy showed up at his office one evening, pale and trembling. He wore a long coat over a thin shirt, and his hands shook as he closed the door behind him.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

Ron stood, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

Malfoy’s jaw tightened. He walked to the window, back to Ron, and when he spoke, his voice cracked. “I’m pregnant.”

The world tilted. Ron gripped his desk. “What?”

“I’m pregnant, Weasley. With your child.” Malfoy turned, eyes wet, composure shattered. “I didn’t think it was possible—male pregnancies are rare, but the Healers confirmed it. I’m sixteen weeks along.”

Sixteen weeks. That meant their first time, that reckless night on Ron’s office couch. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Malfoy laughed, a bitter, broken sound. “Say something. Tell me you’ll leave her. Tell me you want this.”

Ron’s silence stretched into forever. He thought of Hermione, of their children, of the life he built. He thought of the scandal, the headlines, the shame. He thought of Malfoy, alone, carrying his child.

“I need time,” Ron said finally.

Malfoy’s face crumpled. “Time.” He said it like poison. He walked to the door, hand trembling on the handle. “I’ve given you months, Ron. And you’ve given me nothing but your body.”

He left, and Ron didn’t follow.

The next week was a nightmare. Malfoy took leave from work. Ron’s calls went unanswered. He sent owls, but they came back unopened. Guilt gnawed at him, but so did fear. He was a coward, and he knew it.

Then, a Tuesday evening, Ron found himself outside Malfoy’s apartment. He’d taken a Portkey from the Ministry, telling Hermione he had a late briefing. The door opened after three knocks, and Malfoy stood there, pale as death, wearing only Ron’s old Quidditch jacket—a relic from their secret nights. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair tangled, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Go away,” Malfoy said, but his voice was flat, empty.

Ron stepped inside. The apartment was a mess—papers everywhere, a shattered glass on the floor, curtains drawn. The air smelled like stale tears and despair.

“Draco,” Ron said, reaching for him.

Malfoy flinched. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare.” He backed away, hands trembling. “I am not your whore anymore, Weasley.”

The words cut deep. “You’re not,” Ron said. “I never—”

“You never what?” Malfoy’s voice rose, cracking. “You used me. Every night, you used me to escape your boring marriage, and I let you because I was stupid enough to fall in love with you.” He laughed, vicious and hollow. “Look at me. I’m carrying your child, and you can’t even say you love me.”

Ron’s throat tightened. “I do love you.”

The words hung in the air, desperate and fragile. Malfoy stared at him, eyes wide, and for a moment, hope flickered. Then it died.

“Prove it,” Malfoy whispered. “Leave her. Right now. Or let me go.”

Ron stepped closer. “I will. I swear, I’ll talk to Hermione tomorrow. I’ll tell her everything.”

Malfoy shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “Liar. You’ve said that before. You’ll go home, kiss her goodnight, and forget about me until you want another fuck.”

“No, I—”

“Then do it!” Malfoy screamed, raw. “End my pain! Kill me, Ron! Put me out of my misery!”

Ron recoiled. “What? No. Gods, Draco, no.”

Malfoy fell to his knees, clutching his stomach. “I can’t do this. I can’t carry this child knowing I’m just a secret, a shame. I’d rather die.” He looked up at Ron, pleading. “Please.”

Ron knelt beside him, pulling him into his arms. “No. No, I won’t. I love you. I love you, and I’m going to fix this. I promise.”

Malfoy sobbed into his chest, and Ron held him, stroking his hair, whispering apologies and promises he prayed he could keep. He stayed until Malfoy fell asleep, then carried him to bed, tucked him in, and left with a heavy heart.

He went home, told Hermione he needed space, and slept on the couch. The next morning, he called in sick and spent the day planning how to tell her the truth.

But when he returned to Malfoy’s apartment that evening, the door was unlocked.

The sight that greeted him carved a hole in his chest. Malfoy lay in the bathtub, water pink with blood. His wrists were slit, deep and clean, and his face was ashen, lips blue. A razor blade on the floor.

Ron screamed. He fell to his knees, pulled Malfoy’s limp body from the water, pressed his hands to the wounds—Auror training kicking in. Summon wand, cast tourniquet, shout for help. But his heart was shattering.

“No, no, no,” he sobbed, pressing his forehead to Malfoy’s. “Please, Draco, please. I love you. I love you. Don’t leave me.”

Malfoy’s eyes fluttered. A faint pulse under Ron’s fingers. Still alive.

The Healers at St. Mungo’s worked fast. They stabilized him, healed his wrists, monitored the baby—healthy heartbeat, a miracle. Ron never left the waiting room. When they finally let him in, Malfoy was awake, staring at the ceiling, tears sliding silently into his hair.

Ron took his hand, careful not to squeeze. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”

Malfoy turned his head slowly, eyes hollow. “You’re here.”

“I’m here. I’ll always be here.” Ron pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I filed for divorce this morning. Hermione understands. She’s angry, but she understands. I told her everything.”

Malfoy’s breath hitched. “Everything?”

“Everything. That I love you. That we’re having a child. That I’ve been a coward, and I’m done being one.” Ron’s voice broke. “I nearly lost you. I can’t lose you. Please, Draco. Give me a chance to prove it.”

Malfoy closed his eyes, exhaled shakily. “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“I know. But I’ll earn it. Every day.” Ron leaned down, brushing his lips against Malfoy’s forehead. “I love you. I love our child. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Silence stretched between them. Then Malfoy’s hand, weak but real, curled around Ron’s fingers.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

The weeks that followed were hard. Ron moved Malfoy into his flat—the one he kept after the divorce, modest, with a view of the London skyline. He took leave from the Ministry, spent his days cooking meals Malfoy barely touched, sitting with him through therapy sessions, holding him when the nightmares came.

Slowly, Malfoy began to heal. The hollow look in his eyes faded, replaced by something fragile but hopeful. Ron took him for walks in the park, bought baby clothes in soft greys and greens, read to him at night—old Quidditch magazines, romance novels, anything to fill the silence with his voice.

One evening, as the sun set over the city, Malfoy sat on the couch, hand resting on the swell of his belly. Ron knelt in front of him, pressing a kiss to the taut fabric.

“He kicked,” Malfoy said, a small smile touching his lips.

“He?” Ron looked up, grinning. “You think it’s a boy?”

“I know it is. Malfoy intuition.” Malfoy’s smile widened, then softened. “Thank you, Ron.”

“For what?”

“For staying. For proving me wrong.” Malfoy reached out, cupping Ron’s face. “I love you.”

Ron turned, pressing a kiss to his palm. “I love you too. And I’m never letting you go again.”

They sat there as the stars emerged, the weight of the past slowly lifting. It would take more time—more trust, more healing. But for the first time, they looked forward instead of back, and the future, though uncertain, was theirs to build.