The characters, setting etc. belong to J.K.Rowling not me.
Unfreezing Ron Weasley
A wet leaf brushes my ear; I can't even shudder. Branches come into view and then out again. Above us, the grey sky darkens towards night.
I float, paralysed, between trees, hearing only birdsong and the tread of one pair of feet through wet leaves. Whose?
Eventually he speaks, "I've been watching you, Weasel," and the well-bred drawl is unmistakable. Finally I know who, but where is Malfoy taking me? And why?
I had another lousy Quidditch practice. Couldn't keep the Quaffle out of the hoops. And what else is a Keeper good for? No one in the stands tonight, thank Merlin. Just my baby sister and my best friend witnessing my humiliation. So that's OK then. I mean, it's not like they're both instinctively brilliant at the sport or anything!
I didn't want to speak to anybody; didn't want anybody to speak to me. I was in the shower, dressed and gone before Harry had finished talking tactics with Katie. The gloom of the grounds suited my mood. I hefted my broom onto my shoulder and headed away from the school: for a long, solitary, brooding walk.
I wasn't aware of my surroundings, was focussed on my own self-pity. I saw the flash of green, but before I'd registered it, my body froze. It was no longer mine; I couldn't feel or control it. The ground flew up to my face and I wanted to put out my hands. My brain screamed but my voice didn't do anything. Through the white noise of panic drifted the thought: Full Body Bind.
The ground never hit me. I waited for impact, but it didn't come. I saw the grass. I had stopped just short of it. And then my feet rose to the same level as my head before my whole body rose into the air and flipped over, with a speed that would have been sickening. Levitation.
I could tell I was moving forward by the movement of the clouds. And then there were trees.
At a guess, I would say that I'm floating about three feet off the ground. I haven't hit anything and I haven't fallen. I'm too disorientated to know which direction I'm heading in.
So. Malfoy. Is this becoming his signature move? Didn't he use the Petrificus Totalus on Harry on the train at the start of term? Why can I only hear one set of footsteps? Where are the goons? He never goes anywhere without Crabbe and Goyle. Because he's small and weedy. If I could move, I could easily take his wand and beat him unconscious.
Harry reckons he's got the Dark Mark. What sort of dangerous shit does Voldemort teach you when he makes you a Death Eater? I don't want to be tortured. I don't want to die. My brain goes into free-fall. He starts talking again, but I'm panicking too much to make much sense of it:
"I've been watching the way you look at him, Weasel. I know. I watch your expression when he's talking, watch you follow him around, defending him, tagging along on the little adventures. And I know why. I know how you really feel about him."
I didn't think it was possible to be any more scared. But, I am now. How could he know that? He means something else. How vicious could he be if he had that knowledge?
His pale, pointy face comes into view - too close to focus. I'm slaloming between trees. Too many trees. We must have moved into the Forest. My mind swarms with visions of horrors with too many legs and eyes. I try to control the panic: they're further in, we're keeping to the very edge. I remember First Year. He was scared. He won't take me in there.
He's snarling bitterly now as he says, "But you know what? We're both out of luck. Because Potter's straight."
Did he just admit what I think he did? I wish he'd stop moving me long enough for me to think.
It makes no sense. They've been enemies for years. Hermione could explain this to me. Oh hell! That's what he's doing. If he fancies Harry and he knows I do too, then he's taking me somewhere to kill me.
As soon as I can move I'll beat him to a pulp. I'll smash him into pieces with my fists. And then run away. It'll be his word against mine. If he ever speaks again.
Why would he kill me? What would he gain? He's just said it: Harry's straight.
I'm dropping, slowly and gently. I feel the ground on my back. I hear leaves crackle. I'm still. I can see bricks. He's taken me all the way to the boundary wall. It's almost night now. As he sits down beside me, looking down onto my face, a cloud shifts and moonlight hits him. His spiteful face softens.
"I'm sorry I had to do this to you. I need you to hear me out and then I'll let you go. I know you hate me. I have to say this now, because soon you'll hate me even more."
Malfoy sighs and his silver eyes unfocus. For a moment, he is lost in his own thoughts. Then he looks back down at me and, unexpectedly, smiles slightly.
"I've been watching him for years, watching you gazing at him, wishing I could be as open. The more I've watched you both, the more sure I've become. He's straight. So straight he can't recognise how we feel. It wouldn't even cross his mind."
He lifts his wand and I expect a hex. Instead, he runs his wand over his own hands, muttering something I can't make out. Then he leans over me, concentrating.
I can feel movement in the little finger of my left hand. It feels warm and slightly tickly. I wiggle it to make sure I can.
Malfoy smiles his self-satisfied smile. Git.
The next finger comes back to life. And now I can feel that he's stroking it: gentle, fingertip strokes. That's how he's unfreezing me. One digit at a time. When I've got a whole hand, I'll punch him. No. I'll need the whole arm to do that.
"I've watched my own emotions playing out on your face, the feelings I hide better than you do. I mean, more effectively. I do recognise that insults and aggression are not better than friendship. I'm not stupid."
Three fingers, four, five. He holds my hand in his two hands and smoothes it between them. When he lets go I clench my fist.
"I wish someone would look at me the way you look at him. These past few months, this year, I've found myself watching you. I want someone, anyone, iyou/i, to gaze at me like that."
You'll need to stop being an evil little sod, then.
I could swing at him, but I'd miss his face from here. And then what? I could only lie here, flailing one arm while he stayed out of reach and maybe walked away, leaving me here, paralysed. There's no-one else around. He's my only chance of getting a useful body back. I unclench my fist. And listen.He's working on the other hand now, one finger at a time again. And he talks: "I hardly look at him these days. What's the point? And you've grown up so much. So quickly. He hasn't. I haven't. You're nearly a man, Weasley. Look at these fingers: long and broad and powerful. A man's hand. I wish I was tall and strong like you."
I can't see his eyes, he's looking so intensely at my forearm as he runs his hands over it. The nerve-endings tingle with life. And then, he lightly runs his fingertips over the live skin.
I exist from the elbow down on both sides. I'm going to make him wish I didn't have that strength.
Malfoy snorts loudly in exasperation. I realise that up to now he's been whispering softly - even though there's nobody else around.
"I didn't think this through," he snaps. "It's one thing holding you still so you have to listen, but with your face petrified I can't read your reaction. Only if I free your face now you might start yelling for help before I've told you everything."
Yell for help? Is there anyone here? It'd be worth a try. Yeah. That's what I'll do when I can speak again. I'll summon my wand and try out a few curses on him, too.
He's frowning at me, thin lips pursed, brow creased, eyes narrowed.
"Eyes so blue," he mutters. His hands move to my upper arms, stop, hovering over them. He sits back.
"Hmm. If I do that you'll be able to hit me. I can't tell how angry you are."
I'm still angry, but it's under control. I can think things through. I'm waiting 'til he frees my legs. And then I'll punch him, lay him out cold, hex him and run for it.
He smirks. He thinks he's clever. He points his wand at my face and instinctively I put up my hands but they only move from the elbow down and don't reach high enough to give me any protection.
"Silencio," he whispers. He runs a finger down my nose. I wrinkle it. And then relax it. I can smell the night air, pine and expensive soap.
"Strong nose," he murmurs.My nose, my eyes and my fingers? From anyone else I'd suspect I was being complimented. Maybe even flirted with. But from him? No. It's part of some deviousness.
His soft fingers brush against my face: cheeks, eyebrows, forehead, lips. He pauses for a while, touching my lips, a funny look on his face.
"Your body's matured and so has my taste. You're brave, funny, loyal. I wish I could soften towards you in public. We live in bad times, Weasley. Bad and getting worse. I have a job to do. Something awful. When it's done you'll really hate me. You won't forgive me."
I really hate him now, always have done. And I won't forgive him for this, for kidnapping and imprisoning me. When I get my voice back, I'll tell him. I'll tell him what a wanker he is.
He runs his fingers through my hair, waking my scalp. I don't know why I close my eyes. When I open them he's smiling at me, looking straight into my eyes. His eyes are still grey, but not as cold as usual.
"You look confused. How can you still be confused? Angry, too, but not furious. Don't you get it?"
I twist my face into an expression that tries to say 'What's going on? What are you after?'
"Very well, I'll spell it out in words of one syllable. I fancy you. Like mad. Like an obsession. I've got things I'm supposed to be doing, concentrating on, things my family's lives depend on. Instead, I think about you. You can't be that shocked! It's not surprising."
It's astounding, surreal, weird!
"Haven't you looked in a mirror lately? And what kills me is, I know you like boys too, and I know I'm not bad looking and I know you'll reject me. And it's all my own fault. Because of the way I've always treated you."
I'm glad I can't speak. I wouldn't know what to say.
"You can have your arms back. I won't blame you if you do hit me."
He runs a hand down each side of my body: neck to shoulders to elbows. I don't hit him.
I'm sick of lying down. It makes me feel so vulnerable. I use my arms to push up off the ground, even though I know I'm still bound, that it's an illusion of freedom, I'm still completely at his mercy.
As I move, I hear a light gasp and know he's watching my muscles flexing, pushing at the fabric of my T-shirt.
I must be lying on my cloak; it tightens at my throat as I move. He flies forward to undo it for me. I stop choking.
I can't sit but I can lean back. I can move my neck now and follow his hands. There's a gape between my waistband and T-shirt. He runs his finger across the bare skin. My stomach muscles twitch. It's just a shock.
"You like that? Good. Have you got sensitive nipples?"
He's not going anywhere near my nipples!
"Fifteen percent of men have sensitive nipples. Are you one of them?"
He places his hands on the faded red cotton over my chest, slides his fingers together, lightly pinching. My nerve-endings sing out and I bite my lip, arch my back. It's involuntary. It's not fair.
"Oh! That's fantastic! I wish I had sensitive nipples! Can I take your top off?"
No bloody way! I shake my head.
"The shirt stays on, then. I don't want to do anything you're not comfortable with."
Oh? Apart from paralysing me, abducting me and molesting me?
He runs his awakening hands over my chest and then my back, leaning round me so that his hair is in my face. It tickles. And it smells of that expensive soap and sweat and something musky which must just be him.
I'm glad I'm still numb from the waist down. That could have got embarrassing.
My arms are starting to go to sleep. I lower myself back to the ground and, when he realises what I'm doing, he helps me - placing gentle hands under me to take my weight, sliding them out again. I'm lying on my cloak.
He's leaning over my prone body now. He's staring into my eyes. He's swallowing and running his tongue over his top lip.
It's a very good thing I have no movement in my lower body.
Which makes me wonder about him. I try to shift my head to look at his groin, but he's in loose robes and I can't tell. I shift my weight round and get my hand between his legs.
My eyebrows shoot up. He's very excited! Which will distract him and make him easier to attack when the time comes. His eyebrows have shot up, too. He wasn't expecting that. Good. It's about time I stopped being his prisoner.
Obviously, I'm just lulling him into a false sense of security. As soon as I can stand, I'm still going to smack him one and leg it.
It's only to be sure his guard is down that I unbutton his robe. He makes no move to stop me or help me. He stares at me, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. His chest is smooth, pale and almost hairless. There's more definition than I expected, but not much. He's not as muscular as me. So I'll be able to knock him out, even if he fights back. Which I have a feeling he won't.
He's got over the shock and he's grinning now. I've never seen that before. Not a smirk, but a proper, full, honest-to-goodness grin.
"You like?" He moves one leg over mine. Now he's straddling my hips. He's taking control back.
He lowers his mouth to lick my neck. Merlin! I'm losing coherent thought. My top half squirms under him.
I grab his hair and smash his head down. Onto my lips. I'm shoving my tongue into his mouth. To distract him. The plan stands. I'm not kissing him for pleasure. He's Malfoy. He's Slytherin. I'm pretty sure he's a Death Eater. He tastes good.
My hand runs over his robes, down his back, to his buttocks. I grab. I knead. He grinds into my crutch before remembering. Panting, he stands. I let my hand slide down his leg and he groans. I can't groan. When I get my voice back, I'm going to tell him how much I hate him while I punch him. And then I'll yell for help while I run away.
He's stumbling backwards, down to my feet, his robes open to the waist. I push up on my arms again, to watch him. He runs his hands over my feet. Nothing happens. He picks up his wand again. It was just lying there, beside us. I could have got it while I was distracting him with the kiss, could have cursed him, escaped.
I can see my own wand, now. And my broom. Just a little further off.
He's blinking and swallowing, trying to calm himself. He mutters and works the wand over his palms again.
I seem to remember there's a single incantation to lift a Body Bind. And when do I get to speak again, bastard?
And when I do, what will I say?
He still can't wake my feet.
"Bloody Quidditch boots!" he grunts. Time stands still as he fumbles with the laces. He's not in control of his movement. And I'm relying on him get me walking again. My future health is in his hands. And they're trembling. Because of me.
His blond hair falls over his face as he works at my feet. Moonlight suits him. Whatever else Malfoy is, he's not bad looking. He tugs off the boots.
I can still run away in my socks, but not as fast. I'll have to beat him 'til he blacks out first. He's massaging my calves now, stroking my shins. Left knee. Right knee.
He makes the mistake of crawling up me with my leg between his. When I can kick, I'll do him an impressive injury. I can feel how distracted he is. There's no way he can think straight with all his blood in his pants. He rubs against me as he rises up my body. I'm just flexing my leg to make sure it's still working. I'm not rubbing back.
And now he's reached it: the central area, the only place that's not awake yet. What happens now? How will it feel when he …? What state will I be in? He's touching my arse. Do I need the rest of my body? Can I strike now? Escape? Hermione will know how to get my voice back. She doesn't need to hear all the details of the ambush. I could even make myself sound heroic. Why am I hesitating? His hands slide to the front of my body. Both of them. So he hasn't got his wand, I could …
Or, I could lie here with one hand in his hair and the other clawing his back and let him touch me there.
Oh! I … um … mm … Oh, Hecuba! Oh, no … it's … oh no. Oh! Yes!
I can move. I can make any movement I choose. So I push over, roll; I roll him underneath me. Just to show I'm in control now. And I'm only pushing my mouth onto his to make him drop his guard. The plan depends on me grinding into him, pulling up his robes. The plan? There was a plan?
Or is it just two boys, nearly men, rolling on the ground, pressing their bodies together? Thrusting and wriggling until he cries out, throwing his head back, issuing a noise that is pure animal, beyond control. I'm sticky between the hips, but it's not mine.
He gazes at me as I keep writhing. He looks confused, blinking. Then he's rolling me onto my back, straddling me into position while my hips buck. He reaches for something.
His wand is in my face. It was him who had a plan all along.
I should care.
But I understand when I hear myself moan. I can speak! I could shout, scream, yell, or curse! And what I say is: "Draco! Draco! Draco!" He moves his hands back onto me and I climax in an uncontrollable wave.
It is completely dark now. It's night. One of the heavy, black clouds must have covered the moon. And it's raining lightly. I lie on my back on the forest floor and stare into nothing. I feel the water droplets cooling my face, feel his arm flung over my chest; I hear wet pattering on fallen leaves and his breathing.
My hand finds his head. I can only move slowly. I run my fingers through silken hair. Then do we doze? I don't know. The cloud passes and there's silver light again. He sits up: He, Malfoy, enemy, most hated and feared Slytherin.
I stand. Slowly. Wet socks remind me that I don't have my boots on. I find them. And my cloak. The only sounds are the increasing rhythm of the rain and an owl screeching.
I walk away.
"Ron!"
I keep walking. I don't look back. I didn't even know he knew my first name. I turn to look at Draco.
He's still sitting on the wet ground, holding out my wand and broom. I walk back and then, while I'm taking them from him, I kiss his forehead.
And then I fly, dazed, back to school.
Chapter End Notes:
It's a bit of an experiment. What do you think? Is it a successful one? Review please!