Servitude
Summary – [AU: late 1600s] Accused of petty thievery, Ronald Weasley is shipped off to America, where in Virginia he is bought as an indentured servant to the Malfoys.
Warning – SLASH. Don't like, don't read. Everyone is OOC. Historical inaccuracy may occur.
Disowner – I own neither history nor Harry Potter, just this measly fanfic of mine.
Late Autumn 1672
Chapter 1 – Entrance
There he is. Behind him stands the passing momentum of time. He is locked in time accompanied by his two week's worth of bread and salted cattle; in front of him stands the grey Atlantic sky, and there beside him a sea-worn ship, below him a sea-worn ship, and surrounding him a sea-worn ship and the sea. They'd gone so-and-so miles thus far, and such-and-such miles to go.
Ron gives his icy white hands a rare breath of warmth. His throat forces out a cough, it did not take long for his inexperienced lungs to stale from the cold sea breeze. The other men, a range of lusty young men like himself and old pirates, do not pity him, and refuse to share food. It should be, no it must be further than two weeks now, and there are neither the colonies nor food. Ron preserves his body warmth under his thin shirt of cheesecloth, now longing for the crumbs and salted meat adorning Finnigan's plate, the same food he'd once detested.
So Finnigan sits there, a rogue Irish boy who cursed and swore like the other savage Irishmen onboard however remained pompous that he could read, even write a little. He reckoned this ability could earn him the forbidden prize of returning to his homeland. Then there is Dean Thomas, who hardly talks to a soul but himself, who Ron reckons is liable to go mad very easily. They are not quite friends yet, they simply sit there, grimly, three serious young men shipped off like the livestock they nibble upon.
Suddenly, in the midst of a violent vomit, Ron feels the ship halt. The lateness of the hour ought to be an obscenity, though Ron can no longer recite the list of sins. He remembers instead the girl he stayed with last, the tobacco he smoked last, the lad he'd scuffled with last. He and the rest are forced to file out, and are given some potatoes to feel energized and new clothing to feel clean. The ship plans to leave here and now, for it must bring another shipload of white slaves, and the captain worries the deadline will not be reached.
What soil is this? It smells not like English soil. What place is this? Whose walls are these? Ron squints in the dark and sees the others already clutching stolen liquor, and decides to drink with them. They all wander to sleep that night, and hope that tomorrow and the rest of their lives are all a dream.
They are lined up in chains, the women too. Another platform is given to Negro men, women, and children alike. Ron stares at their strong bodies and bold, fathomless eyes, and croaks his first words in days, "Ought they be better, yeh think? Why can't we be off the chain?"
Seamus shrugs. He did not like the English, and colonists even less, and regarded the wealthy families with a brute anger. "Lookit them greasy mustaches," He growls to his clasped hands, "they prob'ly eat pigs a daily."
Without modesty, they are all examined, and some unfortunate pretty folk are observed far too closely by these rotten planters. Ron feels them all conform into one, and it does not matter that Dean's hair is black and Seamus' is blond and his is a most hellish red, they are the same scrawny white men put up to scrutiny. They are checked for strong bone and muscle, and fingers and teeth are violated in their search. With half already gone and bought as servants, Seamus and Dean amongst them, Ron lashes out and punches a wrinkly old fellow, and his spectacles smashed into pieces.
Two men appeared, from nowhere it seems, and hold him tight with his shirt thrown off. Ron bites his bottom lip till it bleeds. They will whip him for this, and if they do not give him five or ten years more of debt to serve they will give him death. He holds his breath, but—
"Excuse me, sir."
Ron felt, as if sensing through the vile ground, that the man with his steady whip came to a standstill by order of a boy. The voice is clean, laced with wealth, and handsomely bold. Ron turns around and sees the back of a blond boy, his shoulders squared between the man and his captive. Amongst the old plantation owners, he is a strange sight with his expensive black gloves and black coat, and immediately Ron knows he is very rich, and therefore immediately Ron dislikes him.
There is silence, though Ron does not notice such until he hears the jingle of a small purse of gold, alive amongst the stilled air. The boy and the man exchange foreign words, Latin perhaps, and then the purse of gold is received. The boy walks away, and Ron is released.
"Alright, get on with it," The man snorted, his beard dotted with frozen liquor. Ron snarls a struggling breath, coughs, and runs to catch up with the boy.
How does he walk so quickly? His strut lasts like three strides of Ron's lengthy legs, and his boots make an authoritative rhythm against the pitiless winter earth. Ron feels a tad dizzy when his foot finally lands next to the boy, his new master.
"You got a carriage?"
"What do I look like?" The boy suddenly snapped. His eyes stayed straight ahead to the horizon, arrogant as a mule. "Am I a King? Am I his Majesty with enough gold to afford a nice cart to play around in? We are walking to the manor, servant. Hurry it up."
Ron scowled in realization, he had just traded in one bastard for another, and this one is shorter than he.
The manor is not large, not like those of England, but practically a palace compared to his previous lodgings. It is surrounded by plantations, now void of tobacco crop, and is now nothing more than fields of hard brown nothingness waiting for snow. Ron grudgingly entered the door, opening to a prestigious inside. He smells the affable scent of fresh food.
"Well?" The boy's voice, previously seeming fresh, is now blemished with the air of a spoiled child. Ron met his expectancy with a headstrong look of mock obedience.
"Speak whence spoken to," The boy ordered, "what do you think?"
Ron thinks the boy is pompous and thinks himself God's servant to have such luck, though Ron believes all rich people are damned from the start and will damn themselves to hell. Ron thinks the manor has china aplenty for him to smash, depending on where he will be standing when he loses his temper. Ron thinks it is a mistake, not to steal but merely getting caught.
In the end, he shrugs. "It's nice."
The boy gave a rather dainty guffaw. "You can do better than that," He smirked. "For that horrible piece of lying, you're not to have lunch. You'll watch me eat mine."
This is unusual, what happened to the rumors that they are put straight to work in the fields upon their purchase? Ron's tall frame takes strides towards the kitchen, and there is the warmest air he's met in months. He gratefully sits down and watches the boy take off his scarf, gloves, and coat while he chatters with the chef.
"Good, you made the bread, and with five teaspoons of sugar? It had better be real, or we'll use your salary to get some real sugar off the West Indies. Where's that little maid run off to? Oh? Well where's her little sister? Have her run to the cellar and fetch the Italian wine, the one my father favors. No, of course he's not to know. For goodness sake, more bacon!"
The boy stops in his ranting, perhaps to torture Ron's mind with images of good bread, sugar, wine, and bacon. He stops, and looks Ron up and down, his eyes settling on his thin shirt.
"This is a good one, aye Pettigrew?" The boy smirks again. His eyes are a devious pair—they are filled with the fog of the oceanic sky Ron remembers, like chimney spoke reaching its peaks yet still wishes to climb further. They continue to eye Ron. "He could last a while, through winter and spring and then I shall have another the coming summer. Perhaps even a Negro this time."
Pettigrew is a homely man, a bustling chef, a nervous colonist. His mousy eyes dart at the boy, then Ron, then back at his plating. "Your lunch, young master; Pansy should be up with the wine any moment."
"Excellent," The boy says, letting out a hiss aroused by his food, and with ravenous table manners he eats it quite precisely while eyeing Ron. "I suppose I am more Englishmen than you," He ponders, his frown a strange mixture of scorn and something else as he fingers the cheap fabric of Ron's shirt. "You're a shapely one, though…" and then ever so lightly his delicate fingers move downwards on Ron's abdomen. Ron stares at him, bewildered, his own confusion suffocating, he almost chokes when—
"Your wine, young master."
A young girl of nine or ten is standing with a bottle of wine in one hand and a tray eagerly brandishing two small glasses in the other. Her name is Pansy, Ron supposes, and she brandishes a rather unfortunate face to the world. Modestly, she pours the coppery red wine and slips it into the young master's hand. When the boy is distracted, Ron looks away and gives a good cough.
"How sickly are they keeping you boys?" The boy demanded, looking peeved by Ron's obvious disordered health.
Ron gave a drooping shrug. If he could only sit there, undisturbed by this shameless young master, perhaps he could remain in a state of peace. And if he could only have some tobacco and rum to go with it.
The boy is unhappy. "If you continue conducting yourself in that manner," He hissed, "you'll be sent right back to your whipping. I paid off your debt to that old codger who suffered your blow, but I may have it returned…and in that case what sort of person shall master you? A drunkard who tosses hot irons for amusement and works you to the bone from dawn to dusk and then some, that's who. So—"
"Young master? A letter for you," Pansy murmured from the doorway. The boy paused, and then stood up to read the letter elsewhere, however not without a fleeting expression of contempt. Ron sat there, still, blinking.
Then, from the stove, "Don't worry yourself to death, servant boy." Pettigrew had spoken, his voice a very odd one, anxious and high-pitched. He fixed Ron in a stern gaze. "The young master likes a power over his boys. He'll only be rid of you when you tire him."
This is too much. Ron steals a gulp of the oh-so-majestic Italian wine, which turns out to be far too sour for his tastes, and slams it on the table with a country boy's glare. "Don't say it," He growls, "Don't say it's what I think it is."
"I want to give you advice," Pettigrew scolded, "So that way you don't turn out like the last boy."
"What—"
"Pettigrew!" There is the boy again, his handsome features jutting out alarmingly. Sinking further and further into his natural habitat, his home, his palace, his tungsten eyes have a certain meanness to them. "Pettigrew, don't disturb me until you have dire need to, you hear me? I shall be working in my father's study." He stops to give Ron a glance, and then while rolling his eyes he adds, "and give this one an antidote for that disgusting cough."
He is gone now.
Ron settles down with hot tea. Pettigrew is too afraid to say anything without being disturbed now. He writes it all down instead. Ron cannot read, so he sneaks into the cellar and tucks it away.
A/N – Helloes again. I was deeply inspired for this one by a primary source document from the text The American Spirit. The white indentured servant James Revel wrote a poem about his experiences, and immediately I considered distorting it into a slash chappie. Gut, nein? Bon, non? Bona, minime? (I hope I spelled those right; from left to right it's German, French, and Latin).
Erm, so happy reading! Just a warning, don't expect especially happy-happy scenes in this fic! n-n