Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5186
Characters: Ron Weasley, Molly Weasley, Lorcan d'Eath, Hermione Granger, Azkaban Guard (OC), Guardswitch Murray (OC)

Hermione found the note.

"Where d'you suppose he's gone?" Ron asked.

"Does it matter?" said Hermione. "He'll come back when he's ready. Speaking of which --"

"What?"

"I need to go away for a bit, too. To Australia. I have to find my parents and bring them home."

The guilt was evident in her expression. He pulled her into a close embrace, planting a kiss on the crown of her frizzy head. They had only had a couple of weeks together since the events of the final battle against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, but in that time, their understanding of one another had deepened, and the connection between them had grown stronger, becoming far less nebulous than it had been over the long years of their friendship.

"You did what you had to do to protect them," he told her. "I'll come with you. It's time I met your mum and dad properly."

"No."

She pulled away from him. He looked at her, hurt and confused. Her expression softened.

"I'm sorry, Ron. It's sweet of you to offer, but this is something I have to do by myself. It's been a long time since I spent any time with them."

The hurt expression did not leave his eyes. She came back to him, smiling reassuringly and kissing him lingeringly on the mouth.

"I'll be back in a few weeks," she promised. "You should spend some time with your family, too."

"Yeah," he said. "I probably should."

Ron was bored. Everything urgent that needed doing following the battle of Hogwarts had been done. His father and Percy were at work all the time, helping Kingsley Shacklebolt get the Ministry of Magic back on track. Bill and Fleur were taking a long-delayed honeymoon in France. Charlie had gone back to Romania and his dragons. Ginny was spending the summer helping Lee Jordan at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, where she was staying above the shop in the twins' old rooms. George had unexpectedly eloped with Angelina Johnson the day after Fred's funeral. The only people left at the Burrow were his mother and Ron himself.

When Molly grew sick of her son's constant complaints of boredom, she banished him to the attic to sort through the detritus piled there, and pack it away properly into boxes. It did not stop his complaints, but at least it put enough distance between her and her son that she did not have to listen to him.

Ron scowled at the piles of dusty, useless junk, and pronounced a few choice words, which, if his mother had heard them, would have caused her eyes to narrow. The ghoul rattling in the corner giggled.

"Shut it, you," he said heatedly as he knelt by the nearest pile.

As well as he was able, he sorted the objects according to whom he remembered them belonging. There was a time when he would have just shoved everything in boxes, willy-nilly, and been done with it, but the first thing he picked up was an old Junior Potioneer's kit that had belonged to Fred.

He sat for a moment, staring at the dusty wooden box, remembering how much Fred had loved that kit, and he began slowly to realise that each object stored in the' attic meant something to someone in his family. In a sudden bout of maturity, Ron resolved to take as much care with their treasured possessions as he would with his own. He lined up nine boxes, wrote a name on each, and began more or less carefully tossing items into them.

He was about an hour into the task, and filthy to the eyebrows, when he found his mother's old collection of LPs. They were already in a box of their own, so his initial hesitation was due to indecision over whether to put this box into the larger one bearing his mother's name, or to leave it as it was. As he considered, he flipped absently through the old records.

A few of the artists he recognised from his childhood, or from music that was occasionally still played on the Wizarding Wireless Network. But at the very back of the box were half a dozen albums, all by the same artist: Lorcan d'Eath. The name struck a chord in Ron's memory, and that was the second reason he hesitated.

Where did he know that name from? He could not place it.

With furrowed brow, he stared at the handsome face of the man on the cover. D'Eath was pale, with dark hair and well-defined cheekbones. He wore formfitting black clothing in a style nearly twenty years out of date. His dark eyes seemed to see straight through Ron, and the corner of his mouth curled up in a smile that suggested a wealth of illicit secrets smugly kept.

Ron looked up, peering into the dark corners of the attic. Somewhere, he had seen his mother's old gramophone. Maybe if he listened to a song or two, he would be able to place the mysterious d'Eath.

There it was, in the corner; an ancient, hand-cranked dinosaur of a contraption. Ron tapped it with his wand to remove years of dusty neglect, and placed the first of the LPs on the turntable.

The music began with a throbbing pulse, slow and deep as the beat of a heart. It was soon joined by the eloquent sound of a mournful violin. The music flowed over him, resonating through his mind and singing in his blood. But when d'Eath began to sing, all else seemed to fade into insignificance. His voice was captivating, haunting, compelling. It overwhelmed Ron's senses, so that the power and emotion of every word echoed in his soul. D'Eath sang of passion, desire, and burning hunger with an intensity that left Ron breathless.

When he came to himself again, the record had finished. He was lying on the attic floor, staring up at the cobwebbed roof beams above him, filled with a bone-deep ache of loss and longing. The songs of Lorcan d'Eath had spoken to his soul, but he could not for the life of him remember any of the words. All he knew was that he had to hear more. He gathered up the gramophone and those six precious albums, and carried them down to his room.

The music surrounds him, penetrating every cell of his body, and shivering deliciously down his spine. He can see d'Eath on the stage before him, the words that bind Ron's world together flowing from his lips. Ron is aware of a crowd of people around him, but he takes no notice of them. His eyes are locked with d'Eath's.

The dark-haired man is walking toward him, singing directly to him, and no other. He is so close that Ron cannot breathe. And then d'Eath is behind him, close enough that Ron can feel his breath as he sings softly in his ear.

Ron closes his eyes and shivers as pale fingers reach around to caress his chest, and he realises that he is naked, but he does not care. There is a hand on his cock. He moans and presses against it. He is not sure if it is his own hand or d'Eath's, but that seems unimportant just now. The only thing that matters is that d'Eath never, ever stops singing to him.

The record ended and Ron awoke in a tangle of sweaty sheets. It was not the first time he had fallen asleep listening to d'Eath's music, nor the first time he had dreamed of the singer and woken hard and panting. But it was the first time his mother had been standing in the doorway when he awoke.

"So you've found Lorcan," she said in a tone that tried and failed to sound casual. "I was wondering why you've barely been out of your room in days."

"It -- it's good, isn't it?" he babbled, flustered. "This music. Really -- good."

He could feel his face burning, and he wondered how much of the effects of his dream she had seen and heard. He could only be glad that the sheets still covered him from the waist down, and hope that the darkness of the room hid how much they were tenting.

Molly smiled. "They used to play him on the radio all the time. I'd almost forgotten. His music can be quite -- affecting."

Ron drew his knees up to his chest as nonchalantly as he could manage, and gave his mother a sheepish grin. "Yeah," he said. "I bet you fancied him like anything."

It was Molly's turn to blush. She moved about the room, straightening things to no apparent purpose. "Of course I did," she said shortly. "Everyone did. Women. Girls. Men."

The last sounded half a question, and Ron picked up the record sleeve from beside the bed, staring at it intently to avoid meeting her eyes. "I was just listening because his name sounded really familiar, and I couldn't remember where I'd heard of him."

"When you and Ginny were small, you used to dance around the sitting room to his music," Molly said.

"Did we?" Ron could not take his eyes from d'Eath's face. "I don't remember."

"Mm-hmm. Before I put him away."

She flipped over the record on the gramophone, turning down the volume so that d'Eath's voice was not quite so overpowering, and sitting down at the foot of her son's bed. Ron could almost see the change in her that came with the music. She looked less like his mother and more like -- like a woman.

"I met him once," Molly said dreamily, after a moment. "Not long after Ginny was born. He was -- very charming."

"I'll bet he was," Ron said, grinning. His embarrassment had somehow left him the moment the music had started again. He leaned back on the pillows, stretching luxuriantly. "Why'd you pack him away in the attic, then?"

"He went out of fashion," she said. Then amended, "No, that's not entirely true. He went to Azkaban."

"He was a Death Eater?" Ron said, sitting bolt upright in shock. He did some quick mental arithmetic. "No, he can't have been. If Ginny was dancing to him, too, that had to be well after Voldemort disappeared the first time."

Molly nodded. "He wasn't a Death Eater. At least, not that anyone knew of. He was part vampire."

"Part vampire?" Ron's brow furrowed in confusion. "How d'you work that out?"

"I don't know," his mother admitted. "But that's what everyone said. He was charged with using his music to ensnare the wills of the young and -- with drinking their blood. In the end, he couldn't control his nature."

She shivered visibly, and Ron thought it was not entirely with revulsion. His eyes narrowed.

"When you met him, Mum," he asked, "you didn't --?"

"It was a long time ago," she snapped, but a blush still stained her cheeks. "And that's hardly your business."

"Is he still in Azkaban?" Ron asked.

"I suppose he is," Molly said, sighing wistfully. "Why do you ask?"

"Because if he is," Ron said slowly, "we could go and see him."

Molly gazed at her son, seeing the same breathless, flushed look she wore mirrored in his face. Ron wondered if her heart was pounding half as hard as his, as he waited for her answer.

At last, she licked her lips nervously and nodded once.

"Tomorrow," she said. "Your father won't be -- we can go tomorrow."

It was impossible to Apparate into Azkaban, nor to Floo anywhere near enough to be useful. Ron's broom was the best they had, but it was not really comfortable for two, especially for long-distance travel.

It was Ron's idea to take the motorbike. His father had spent a great deal of his time in hiding over the past months working on it, getting it back into good condition after its crash-landing the previous July, and it now looked almost like new. The fact that his mother made no comment about Muggle machines and illegal flying charms told Ron just how deeply d'Eath's music had affected her. Without hesitation, she swung her leg over behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

Ron did not have to even think about which way to go. The music still sang in his head, a siren song drawing him onward toward its source. The green patchwork of England slipped by, unnoticed, beneath them as their eyes gazed, unfocused, into the distance.

"But how are we going to get in?" Molly asked, dismounting stiffly when they landed at last on the barren, rocky island, just outside the towering walls of the prison fortress.

"Leave that to me," Ron told her.

The deathly chill of despair had gone from Azkaban with the Dementors. The guards who watched the prison now were only human, and humans, Ron could deal with.

"We want to visit a prisoner," he told the guard at the gate.

"Which one?" the guard asked suspiciously, looking from Ron to Molly to the motorbike.

Ron met his gaze squarely. "Lorcan d'Eath," he said.

"And what business do you have with him?" inquired the guard, eyebrows raised.

Ron frowned in a show of displeasure. "Do you know who I am?" he asked. "I'm Ron Weasley. I only spent the last year on a quest with my best mate, Harry Potter, to bring down Voldemort and save the bloody world! I helped put half the Death Eaters behind bars! Do you really think I'm here to spring one of your prisoners?"

The wizard's eyes flicked nervously to the Sneakoscope which stood on the desk before him. It remained still and silent.

"Well -- all right," he said at last. "I suppose that's fine. But you'll have to leave your wands here. No wands inside the prison. Those are the rules."

Ron nodded, and he and Molly handed over their wands to be tagged and placed in a cubbyhole by the guard. He issued them claim tickets, and then summoned a second guard -- who introduced herself as Guardswitch Murray -- to escort them into the prison.

"Azkaban's a completely different place since the Dementors left," she explained to them as she led them along the echoing stone corridors of the fortress. "All prisoners have their magic drained regularly, and the guards are the only ones allowed wands inside the walls. Of course, most of the inmates from before are still mad as pants from years with the Dementors, but they're well-treated now."

She gestured toward a cell as they passed. A man lay on a bunk, reading from a thick book.

"No spell books or anything dangerous like that, of course," Murray went on. "But Azkaban's got quite an extensive library of Muggle fiction these days. Albus Dumbledore himself left us a great many books."

"Mmmm," said Ron uninterestedly. "Does d'Eath do much reading?"

The guard frowned. "Not that one. He -- sings to himself a lot of the time. You want to be careful," she added, giving them a sharp look.

"I thought you said the prisoners were drained of magic?" Molly asked.

"That doesn't mean he's not dangerous," the guard replied darkly. "There's power in his voice. It's not like normal Wizarding magic. Just keep that in mind and you should be all right. Here we are."

They had stopped in front of a cell exactly like all the others. It was furnished with only the basic amenities, and on the bunk lay a man, one arm casually draped across his eyes as if to shut out the dim light.

"I'll be back in exactly one hour," the guard told them. "Remember what I said." She turned to go.

"We want to go in," said Ron.

Murray turned back in surprise. "I'm not sure that would be --"

"Have you never gone in?" Molly asked sharply, her gaze fixed on the witch's neck.

Ron now saw a small scar which was not quite covered by the collar of her robes.

She blushed. "I never --"

"And if anyone asks," Ron assured her, "neither did we. Your secret is safe with us, if you'll let us have our secret."

The guard hesitated a moment, then shook her head and tapped the cell's lock with her wand. "One hour. And don't say I didn't warn you."

Ron and Molly stepped inside, and the witch locked the door behind them. They were alone with Lorcan d'Eath.

Ron realised that d'Eath had been humming softly to himself the whole time; he just had not heard it until the guard had gone. Now d'Eath let his arm fall away from his eyes, and gazed up at the two Weasleys from his bunk with a wicked smile.

"Molly," he said softly. "How good of you to visit me."

Molly turned pink. "I -- I didn't think you'd remember me."

D'Eath swung long legs over the side of his bunk, and rose, going to take her hands in his, dark eyes fixed on hers.

"Of course I remember you, Sweet Molly," he murmured. "I remember everyone I've tasted."

Ron watched, wide-eyed, as d'Eath drew his mother close for a passionate kiss. Then the vampire turned his gaze on Ron.

He was no longer as young and handsome as he had appeared on the covers of his albums so many years before. Age and hardship had hollowed his cheeks and left dark smudges under those piercing eyes. His hair had grown long, so that it hung nearly to his waist, but it was clean and untangled. There was a compelling beauty, still, in his eyes and in the shape of his smiling mouth.

"Dearest Molly," he said. "You've brought me something sweet and fresh. How thoughtful."

Ron's breath caught in his throat as d'Eath moved toward him.

"My son," Molly told him. "Ron, this is Lorcan."

"Ron," d'Eath murmured. "It is a pleasure to meet you. Would you like me to sing for you?"

Ron swallowed, throat dry, and nodded.

"All right. But you have to do something for me." D'Eath's voice was barely a whisper now. He stood so close that Ron could see nothing but that haunting, beautiful face. "Take off your clothes, Ron."

He did not even hesitate. Something about d'Eath made him forget that his mother was watching, that he was straight, that he had never voluntarily undressed for anyone but Hermione.

As he shrugged out of his robes and cast them aside, d'Eath sang softly, the words -- forgotten as soon as they were heard -- sending delicious shivers cascading over Ron's skin. He could not remember ever wanting anything so much.

"So fair. So pure," murmured d'Eath, eyes searching Ron's face. "Tell me, Ron, have you ever been bedded?"

Ron bit his lip. "There's a girl," he began. "We --" But all else had fled his memory. He knew Hermione's name, but could not summon her face to his mind.

"A pity," said d'Eath. "Innocent blood is a rare delicacy. Still, I imagine you are sweet enough. How could you not be? You are Molly's son. Kiss me, Ron."

It was oh, so simple. D'Eath's face was inches from his own. All he had to do was move forward slightly. Ron's lips seemed to burn against the vampire's cool mouth, and the hands that slid over his body made him shiver again.

When d'Eath released his mouth, it was only to whisper in his ear. "Come to my bed, Ron, and I will give you everything you want. That is why you came here, is it not?"

Ron's heart was pounding. "Yes," he whispered. "I want --"

"I know what you want."

Molly watched, breathless, as d'Eath drew his shirt over his head, and cast aside the loose drawstring trousers that hung from his bony hips. His skin was so pale that it was almost white, and he was thinner than she remembered, but his body was still beautiful enough that a whimper of longing escaped from her throat.

D'Eath's eyes found her again, and he smiled. "You shall have your reward, my Molly," he promised. "But your son needs me now."

Ron's eyes were wide, and his lips parted with longing as he gazed at d'Eath. His cock stood out, rigid in its nest of ginger curls. As the vampire led her son to the bed and laid him down, Molly could not help admiring the graceful lines of his body. In eighteen years, she had seen her son in almost every imaginable way. But never like this. As his back arched at d'Eath's touch, and he gasped with pleasure, Molly saw that he was more beautiful than she had ever imagined.

Their skins slid together down the whole length of their bodies, and d'Eath's voice murmured soft words of encouragement in Ron's ear.

"Yes, that's it. Relax. Enjoy it. There is so much pleasure to be had."

He rotated his hips, bringing his own hard cock flush against Ron's, making the boy gasp and moan beneath him.

"Do you like this?" he breathed against Ron's neck.

"Oh, yes --"

He ran his long, bony fingers down Ron's chest, and over his slim hips, then reached between his legs to stroke and caress him. Ron parted his thighs with a whimper.

"Please," he moaned.

"Sweet Ron," d'Eath murmured. "How tragic that we have so little time in which to enjoy ourselves. You deserve to be loved well and thoroughly."

D'Eath bent his head, and Ron felt a cool tongue on his chest, the sharp point of a tooth grazing his nipple. Then d'Eath slid smoothly down his body, until his breath caressed the tightly-stretched skin of Ron's cock. And again his tongue was moving, tasting, teasing as Ron whimpered and squirmed beneath him.

Carefully, d'Eath drew Ron into his mouth. His fangs never touched that sensitive flesh, but the danger of their proximity heightened Ron's senses. His breath came in gasps, and his heart thundered as the vampire pleasured him with his mouth. Any second now. He was almost there -- almost --

D'Eath lifted his head for a moment. "The blood is always sweetest at the moment of ecstasy. Come for me, Ron. Let me taste you."

He ran his tongue once more up the length of Ron's cock, and the boy's body convulsed. He gave an animal cry of mixed pleasure and pain as d'Eath sank his fangs into the crease of his groin, and drank deeply of the blood and endorphins that pounded through his body.

For a moment, everything went black, and when Ron came to himself once more, d'Eath was staring down at him, lips red, eyes burning into his, looking younger and healthier than he had before.

"You taste so sweet, Ron," he moaned. "It's been a long time since I tasted anything so good."

His mouth found Ron's, and he tasted of coppery blood and the musk of sex. At last, almost regretfully, d'Eath rose and stepped away from the boy.

"Rest now," he said. "I must see to your mother."

Molly had watched with wonder as her son cried out and spilled his seed. Seeing the two beautiful men moving together had kindled the sweet ache of arousal between her own thighs. One hand had risen unconsciously to caress the curve of her ample bosom, and the other clutched tight in the fabric of her skirt.

Ron followed with his eyes as d'Eath's graceful, naked form approached his mother.

"Molly. Sweet Molly," d'Eath said with a smile. "Look at her, Ron. You should see her as I see her. She is Fertility, with the wellspring of Life burning between her thighs. Such power and energy and love and passion. Have you never wanted to taste it?"

Ron had no answer for this. He had never seen his mother as a woman, but as she looked hungrily at d'Eath, all the lines of worry and strain gone from her face, he wondered how he had never seen her beauty before. He watched d'Eath kiss her and open her robes, and was inspired with a sudden longing to feel the rounded curves of her body under his hands, and to find out everything about her that was all women, and not just his mother.

D'Eath removed her robes and unbuttoned her shirt to expose the soft flesh of her breasts, caressing them with his mouth.

"I think you have grown more beautiful than ever, Molly," he told her, as his fingers teased her skirts up around her waist.

Ron gasped along with her when d'Eath's fingers found their way between her thighs.

"So wet," he murmured. "Did my time with your son excite you?"

She nodded, speechless, eyes shining.

Ron's eyes were fixed on the long, white fingers moving between his mother's thighs. He remembered, distantly, how Hermione had felt when he had touched her like that, and he felt the first stirrings of arousal stealing over him again.

"Ron's got the bed, I'm afraid," d'Eath was telling Molly. "But I seem to recall you don't mind a wall at your back."

He moved forward until her back was pressed against the stone wall of the cell, and then he sank to his knees, palms pressing her thighs apart. Molly's head fell back, her eyes closed, and her hands pressed against the stone at her sides. She moaned loudly, and as if the sound were a summons, Ron rose shakily to his feet. D'Eath seemed to sense his presence, turning his head to look up at the boy as he drew near.

"She is so close," he told her son. "It won't take much more. Perhaps just the feel of me inside her."

Wordlessly, Ron put out his hand and raised d'Eath to his feet. Molly's eyes were open now, watching them as Ron stepped close to the other man and kissed him, tasting the warm, musky flavour on his lips. Then, with a dreamy sigh, Ron left d'Eath and moved to his mother's side.

"I want to kiss you," he told her.

D'Eath was there, whispering in his ear. "There is no harm in it, Ron. Show your mother how you appreciate her as a woman."

Ron pressed his body close against Molly's, and found her lips parted and welcoming and hungry. Unthinking, he moved his hips against her, and her thighs parted instinctively in response. He felt the wet heat of her, and then he felt a hand wrapped around the shaft of his cock.

"No, Ron," d'Eath whispered. "This time, she is for me."

The hand guided him away from his mother, and d'Eath stepped between them. Ron found himself admiring the shapes and shadows of the vampire's slender back, and the cascade of dark hair falling nearly to his waist. His hands twitched as his eyes caressed the tight curve of d'Eath's buttocks.

D'Eath, his arms around Molly, paused and glanced back over his shoulder. "Do you think I would deny you, Sweet Ron? That I could drink of your blood without wanting to take you into me in every possible way?"

Ron swallowed as d'Eath shifted his feet apart, leaning into Molly.

"I can pleasure you both at once," he promised. "Come to me."

As Ron stepped toward him, d'Eath moved a hand between Molly's thighs again, making her gasp. When he reached for Ron, his fingers were shining with moisture. He wrapped them around Ron's cock once more, slicking him from root to tip.

"Now," he said with a smile. "I am ready for you."

Ron moved behind the vampire. With one hand, he guided his cock, and with the other, he stroked the cleft between d'Eath's buttocks to find the right place. His heart was thundering in his ears. He had never thought to do this, but now that the moment had come, he wanted it so badly that he had to force himself to go slowly.

D'Eath was singing again, a soft and soothing song of quiet passion and desperate need. Ron pressed against him, and felt the vampire gradually open to the intrusion. Slowly, Ron pushed forward, groaning as the tight muscles of the man's body slid up his shaft.

"Good," crooned d'Eath. "That's very good, Ron. Now --"

Ron felt d'Eath move forward, and moved with him. And then his mother gasped again, and Ron knew that d'Eath was sliding inside her. Ron could not help himself. He slid a hand around d'Eath's waist to find the place where the man and woman were joined.

The vampire had been right. She was wet and ready and stretched tight around him. She moaned as Ron stroked, finding the nub of flesh where Hermione had so liked to be touched.

And then all three were moving together, finding a rhythm, pressing and sliding together and apart again. And when d'Eath came with a hiss of breath between his teeth, Ron felt it, but it was not until his mother crowed her own release, and d'Eath buried his fangs in the flesh of her bosom, that Ron's hips shuddered and jerked, and he poured himself deep inside the vampire.

Ron barely paid attention to where they were going on their ride home. He felt weak and lightheaded, and his mind was still in the cell with Lorcan d'Eath.

"Say you'll visit me again, Sweet Ron," the vampire had said. "I will be waiting for you."

Could he come back again? How many times would being Harry Potter's friend get him through the gates of Azkaban? He knew he could not hide his feelings from Harry and Hermione forever. How could he explain the how and the why of what he felt to his two best friends? And then there was his mother. How could he ever see her the same way again, or she him, after what had happened? People were bound to notice something was amiss.

His mind was still reeling when they touched down at the Burrow. No one was home. Molly went to put the motorbike away, and Ron stumbled up to his room, dazed. Not knowing what else to do, he went to the gramophone, cranked it up, and put on one of d'Eath's albums.

He stood, swaying, in the middle of the room. When Molly came to lean against the door frame, he looked up at her, lost.

"It wasn't enough," he said plaintively. "I want to go back."

"It's never enough." Her voice was touched with sadness. "That's why I put him away in the attic."

Ron looked at his mother, remembering all the ways and places that d'Eath had touched her, longing to do the same, as if echoing the vampire's touch would somehow conjure him. He stepped toward her, and she did not move away.

"I'll put them away," he promised. "Tomorrow."

He would. But as he lay, an hour later, with his mother's head pillowed on his chest, he thought that, just maybe, he would get them out again when Hermione came home. Perhaps she would be interested in meeting Lorcan d'Eath, too.

Thrall © 2007 Skjaere