Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.
Rating: T (15+ for this, for safety)
Warnings: Swearing, things that are vaguely implied but not actually said, mild torture and Slash (m/m).
Summary: In the midst of war, when most only face loss, Draco Malfoy gains something quite invaluable.
Feedback: Please, please, please!
A/N: This is my attempt at the 'captured by Death Eaters' cliche. It's not like the stuff I usually do, I don't think, so please tell me what you think.
"Run!"
If he had time for such sentiments, fear would be would be the overruling emotion in him at this point. Instead, he had to force himself to remain composed and do what was expected of him.
Help with a wide-scale evacuation.
"Don't panic!" he yelled, although, it was a bit late for that. People shoving and trampling as they tried to get away in their blind panic. As many had lost their wands, he had to arrange group Apparations and take out the emergency portkeys—a daunting task in such disarray. He fought through the terrified masses, going the opposite direction as everyone else. He had to make sure those without wands or those who were too young to Apparate could get out safely.
He led a snivelling girl, probably no more than ten-years-old, over to Hermione's group. She was immediately engulfed into the embrace of an older woman, no doubt a relative. They all stood around a ragged old pillow cover—the portkey.
"Hermione, take this lot and go, now!" Before she could open her mouth to protest he turned and once again disappeared into the crowd.
Eventually, the screams of the residents of Hideout 7B overpowered the watery, desperate voice calling, "Ron! Ron!"
He shoved more children towards adults he knew to have wands and at the same time reassured them that they would be reunited with their families at the designated Apparation point.
They had rehearsed the escape plan in case of such an attack, but everyone seemed to have forgotten it. Now, Ron's confidence that everyone could get out unharmed was dwindling away to nothing.
As he ran through the passages of the underground village he found many wandless stragglers huddled in crevices, hoping not to be noticed. Ron had enough portkeys on him—things like rings, wristwatches or other small items to for all of them but as he gave the last one away fear for his own safety began to bloom inside of him. He had never completely gotten the hang of Apparating.
A yellow curse flew past his ear, singing a bit of his air. The worst part had come—fending off the intruders in order to give the others time to find their groups and escape.
"Watch out!" It was Remus' voice. Thanks to the warning, Ron was able to narrowly avoid another curse.
He finally saw them. They were hooded in dark green cloaks with those same sick masks he saw in his fourth year. Ron gulped. On his side, there were roughly twenty of them with actual wands and…he couldn't even count the number of Death Eaters.
He pulled out his wand and started yelling every curse that came to mind. With grim satisfaction, he noticed he was able to hurt at least a few of them although most of his spells were easily deflected or avoided.
They were looking for Harry, of course, but capturing as many muggle-borns and blood-traitors as possible in the process was just an added bonus for them. Ron couldn't help but feel a little triumphant—they wouldn't find Harry here. They had the wrong hideout. Wrong country, in fact.
"Expelliarmus!" he yelled as he ducked another curse. One problem was that there weren't many places he could duck behind forcing him to rely on his wits alone, which were currently scattered all over the place.
"Back up! Everybody, get back!" Dean called.
Possibly realising this raid would lead to nothing, the Death Eaters became more and more agitated and started using the killing curse. The sight of the green lights drove people into a terrified frenzy. Fearing he would be trampled, Ron ducked into a nearby alcove. He was unfortunate enough to see people drop to the ground. He frantically hoped they were merely stunned.
"Who doesn't have a wand?" Tonks was yelling. She was rushing about giving families portkeys.
Admitting there was nothing more he could do, Ron focused his mind on Apparating and prayed he wouldn't splich himself.
"Ginny, thank god! Where's Ron? Ron!"
"Molly, I'm sure he's fine, but you need to go now!"
Ron fought the urge to call out to his mum. She probably wouldn't hear him, anyway. Tonks was right, she needed to get the others and leave immediately.
He took a deep breath and thought back to what he was taught at Hogworts. He had to clearly visualise his desired destination…
"Expelliarmus!"
Ron's wand was thrown out of his hand and vanished somewhere into the rushing crowd.
"Fuck!" he screamed and was immediately on all fours trying to find the thing. He couldn't get too close to stampede in fear of being trampled and hoped his wand would somehow be thrown nearer. A forlorn thought.
The last of the torches were dying out so Ron only had his sense of touch to rely on as his fingers hurriedly scanned the dirt. "No, no, no…" he murmured softly, fighting back unwanted tears.
Realising it was hopeless, he stood and decided he could just find someone to side-along Apparate with. As he scanned the crowd for a possible candidate, someone shoved him hard enough to send him sprawling to the ground.
That vivid red hair was like a beacon. Struggling to get up, he made for an easy target.
When the stunning curse hit him, he staggered for a moment before his body went limp and collapsed onto the rough ground.
He awoke to the feeling of cold, damp stone. He shivered despite himself and went to hug his tattered robes tighter around himself when he realised how much it hurt to move. He lay still for a minute just listening to the rhythmic drip, drip, dripping of water nearby. After fighting with his mind whether or not he wanted to open his eyes—whether or not he wanted to see where he was, he hesitantly pried his eyelids apart.
He blinked. Black. He blinked again. Still black. For a moment, he thought he might have gone blind.
He heard muffled voices. With a pained groan he managed to sit up and strained his ears to hear.
"No one useful, I don't think…"
"…That was… I don't…" Ron leaned forward.
"I thought that redheaded one was close to Potter. We could interrogate 'im."
"Nah. Those Order bastards made sure no one know exactly where that damned boy is."
"Think we could use him to lure Potter out?"
"Won't work. Potter's being heavily guarded… They won't let him try and come near this boy. I already told Goyle we'll sell the blood-traitor. He's useless." The men continued to mumble something Ron couldn't make out.
His fears of being blind were put to rest as a door creaked open and a narrow pillar of light was spilled out before him, illuminating half his body.
He did not recognise the men that walked in.
"Hello, Red," one of them said. His voice was oily and Ron unconsciously crawled back a bit. The man noticed this and only leaned closer, allowing his breath to ghost over the now thoroughly terrified youth.
The other man crouched down and roughly grabbed Ron's wrist.
"What the hell! Let go!"
"Alright," he said and dropped his arm.
Ron's wrist now had a dull metal band around it.
"Welcome to the slave trade," Death Eater Number One said. "Now get up, you're coming with us."
Ron said the first thing that popped to mind. "Fuck you."
Their lips curled into sinister smiles. "Don't make this harder on yourself. Come along."
Ron crawled further back into his cell.
The two men looked at each other disbelievingly. One of them smirked and shook his head sadly. "Fine. Have it your way."
He drew his wand and casually flicked it in Ron's direction.
"Crucio."
Draco normally didn't wander through the seedy side streets of Knockturn Alley, but his feet had inexplicably taken him here.
Knockturn Alley was one of the few places that remained unchanged. It was still as dumpy as ever. The rest of Diagon Alley was missing a considerable amount of the hustle and bustle it normally saw. There were charred spots on the pavement and most shops were boarded up.
Draco realised how he got where he was. He had been unconsciously following a piece of paper caught in an updraft. In a rare moment of self-ridicule he smirked at his own aloofness.
His chin—which would normally be high in the air—was pressed against his chest in an attempt to fight off the cruel November chill that was snaking its way into Draco's robes.
"Mr. Malfoy!"
He slowly turned to see Zabini Sr. stepping out of a dingy pub. Really, he thought the man had better taste. The man waved widely as if Draco couldn't see him and scampered over. "Ah, Mr. Malfoy, so good to be seeing you here."
Draco glanced at his watch in an effort to look pressed for time. "Yes, good to see you, too, but if that's all you wanted to say, then I really must be going."
"No, no!" He placed a hand on Draco's shoulder to keep him from leaving. One frigid look from Draco and the man hastily removed it. "See, since you're not directly participating in the war, we thought you could do us a little favour."
Draco flared his nostrils in annoyance. Not directly helping in the war. After saying that he expects a favour?
"See, I could just ask Lucius but I caught you here so I might as well…"
Draco's shiny black shoe began tapping the pavement impatiently. "Just get on with it."
Zabini scratched his head. "Yes, well, I needed to know if I would be able to use your Manor to host a gala of sorts. You see, yours is the only family with any remaining house-elves…"
Draco suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Just because he was the only one that wasn't stupid enough to use bloody elves as cannon fodder, he'd have to host another Death Eater shindig. "May I inquire as to what this gala is for? I heard that those raids of yours didn't go well—all you caught were some blood-traitors and a few measly mudbloods. Surely that's no reason to celebrate."
Zabini bowed his head and gave a quivering little nod. "Well, yes. That's precisely what this gala is for… We're going to have auction. Killing the lot of them would be so pointless when we could make decent revenue from them for the cause."
Draco arched a sceptical eyebrow. "Who would want a bunch of pathetic mudbloods and traitors running around there homes? I understand there is a lack of elves to do the work but really."
Zabini's own eyebrows nearly disappeared into his fringe. "Actually, I think quite a few people would be interested. Anyway…" He conjured up a piece of paper. "Here is the date and time. See you there."
He looked down at the paper. One week from now—that gave him plenty of time to prepare. Well, it gave his elves plenty of time to prepare, anyway.
Only when Zabini had Disapparated, did Draco realise with a scowl that he never actually agreed to this.
Draco's footsteps echoed across the grand entryway of Malfoy Manor. Lucius and Narcissa were god-knows-where actively helping the cause. He was sure Narcissa's job was more behind the scenes while his father was…Lieutenant Lucius. Of course, they couldn't bear to let their only-child get hurt, so Draco was stuck in a lifeless Manor getting mocked at by the others for being a coward.
In all truth, he was glad he wouldn't have to fight. He wouldn't reduce himself to whatever barbaric things one must do for self-preservation in war. It had nothing to do with cowardice.
He glanced around. The Manor was still in pristine condition but it was…dull. The silver and green upholstery was faded and dingy looking. There was also far too much grey. These things always used to bother him, but now he had an excuse to change them so he could feel like he was doing something.
"Tibby!"
With a snap a shivering house-elf appeared before him. She hurriedly wiped her hands on the begrimed rag she wore. "Y-Yes, m-m-mast—"
"Why must all house-elves stutter so damn much," he said irately. "Tell the others this Manor is to be beautiful in a week's time. There is to be a gala, which means a banquet for hundreds, if not thousands of Death Eaters. There is to be an auction, so setting up some sort of podium would be good. Is that understood?"
She opened and closed her mouth a few times before speaking. "F-Food f-f-for thousands, s-sir? B-But there is only b-being t-ten of us, sir…"
"You have a full week, I'm sure you'll manage," he replied coldly.
She wrung the hem of her rags nervously and bit her lip. Finally, she nodded feebly and was gone with another loud snap. She wasn't really right to be nervous, food was scarce, but not for Death Eaters. They had raided many stock houses and taken what was meant to be reserved for civilians, so he was sure the elves would find them.
With a sigh, Draco sank into a cushy leather chair. This whole watching-from-the-sidelines thing was getting terribly boring. There was simply nothing to do. To his displeasure, he found himself looking forward to the gala. At least then he would have actual people to talk to. He mentally berated himself for thinking like such a weakling.
"Ah, young Mr. Malfoy! So good to see you!" The man beamed and Draco was once again pulled into a hug with someone he wasn't sure he knew. "It's been a while!"
He wriggled out of the man's grasp and proceeded to straighten out his fine robes. "Yes. Quite." With a courteous nod, he strode off and snatched a champagne flute from the tray of a passing elf. The magical liquid caressed the inside of his mouth and the bubbles fizzed to tickle his tongue. He sloshed it around before swallowing.
If one were to see the Manor right now, they wouldn't be able to guess that a war was going on. If you were rich, powerful and/or a Death Eater, the war left you relatively unaffected. All they had to deal with was a lack of elves.
And gods were there a lot of them. After twenty minutes, Draco lost count of all the witches and wizards surging into his home. There had to be at least a thousand. These were the ones that didn't go into the fighting, more sidelines people who helped strategise or the like. Yes, only Death Eaters would be able to have such an elaborate get-together in wartime.
The house-elves had definetly done their job. The Manor was glowing and many of the guests had to catch themselves and stop staring in the entryway in awe.
Draco gripped a low-hanging string of lights and traced his hand along it. He manoeuvred through the crowds following it until it became too high to reach. He found himself at the edge of the hall and ducked behind a statue in order to avoid more greetings in forced cheerfulness. He had thought this chance for socialising would lift his spirits but he quickly found the whole thing tiresome. As a whole, these people were dull. He even found himself growing weary of the unimportant yammering of his former classmates and had quickly wandered away from that group.
Draco stared at his half-empty glass of champagne, watching the golden bubbles drift up and disappear.
"Attention, everyone!" a magically enhanced, booming voice called. All conversations faded to a dull whisper before ebbing away almost entirely a few minutes later.
A tall, coffee-coloured man with curly black hair was standing on the stage the elves had set up. Draco stood on his toes and peered over the many heads to recognise him as Blaise Zabini, whom he had been talking to earlier.
Blaise smiled over the crowd. "Now," he said, "I know many of you are distressed over the fact your elves had to be sacrificed for the cause." A murmur of agreement and acknowledgement of shared grievances passed over the onlookers like a wave. "Well, we have found a solution!"
Draco crinkled his nose. Human slaves seemed like quite the ridiculous and outdated solution. They couldn't do have the work elves could and they'd take a lot more time doing them. They also needed to eat more than elves, not to mention being bathed. Who would want filthy mudbloods and traitors scampering about their homes for all to see?
"We are auctioning off prisoners of war," Blaise boomed. "Blood-traitors and mudbloods." Confused and exciting whispering followed. Some began shouting questions at Blaise.
Blaise smiled grimly. "Now," he said to catch everybody's attention once again. "I know that may sound like a poor substitute for the elves…"
"Damn right!" some unidentifiable voice from the crowd called back.
Blaise smiled even more severely. "But…" he said, "you don't have to use them as house-elves… Give them what they deserve and let them rot in your dungeons, keep them as pets, torture them, you may do whatever you like to them!" He let that hang in the air.
Blaise stepped back and clamped his hands together. "They have all been given the bracelet to insure…some level of obedience. Now, the first prisoner, please!"
From a side door, two Death Eaters brought a weeping woman with a heavily bruised face onto the stage. Obviously, no one had taken the time to clean her up for this for she was an absolute wreck. "Apparently, she is an excellent cook!" Blaise said. "She could do all your kitchen work single-handedly! Do I hear ten galleons?"
After a moment's hesitation, people actually began bidding to Draco's surprise.
"Twenty galleons? Is that all? Come on, comrades, all proceeds go to the cause!"
"Twenty-five!"
The prisoner eventually was sold for forty and was taken into her owner's custody. Draco quickly lost interest in the proceedings as he watched more and more of the scum being auctioned off. They were all of little consequence for him and he recognised none of them.
The prisoners hardly put up a fight so the whole thing wasn't as amusing as he thought it'd be.
As he gulped down the last bit of his liquor he thought he might just go and retire to bed. The guests would eventually leave on their own accord; he wasn't really needed.
But Blaise caught his attention. "And now for the last one! This one's quite the fighter—as hard as we tried to break him, he's still tiresomely defiant. For those who want a challenge!"
Draco turned around. Finally, this might be fun.
Two Death Eaters emerged from the back with a struggling boy in their grasp. He put up quite the fight and managed to kick one of his capturers in the jaw with his flailing only to earn a punch in the face.
Draco smirked and decided to stay put.
The boy struggled against his shackles and vainly tried to slip out of them. As they got nearer to Blaise his struggling only intensified, as did his colourful vocabulary. "Fuck you! Get the fuck off me!"
Another swift strike at his face, and they were finally able to get him on his knees. He moaned and his head rolled to the side as blood sprang from a fresh cut on his cheek. Blaise preformed a body-binding spell and the two thugs finally released him.
He was…disgusting, Draco decided. Although his spirit was commendable and would probably be fun to break for whoever buys him, but the boy himself was a mess. His garb was tattered and covered in blood, sweat and dirt and hung loosely off his nimble frame. He was covered in bruises and cuts and Draco couldn't make out much of a face under the filth. His hair looked brown…although, that could have just been the grim covering it. Under his thin shirt, ribs jutted out as a testament to malnourishment and the grim reality of the war on common people.
Draco wrinkled his nose. He probably smelled, too. Who would want such a wreck?
"I know he doesn't look like much," Blaise was saying, "but he's strong. Believe me. Any hard jobs or heavy lifting and he'd be able to do them." Blaise removed the wand from his throat so his voice returned to its normal volume. "You've made quite a mess of yourself," he told Ron softly. He conjured up a bucket of water and stepped back. He then dumped it over the boy.
For a moment, Draco thought the boy would go into shock. No such luck; he clenched his jaw and shivered violently. The dirt and blood began to drip off his body and land in mucky puddles beneath him.
Blaise fisted his hand in the youth's hair and yanked his head up so it was facing his potential buyers. "Do I hear ten galleons?"
As the grime began to drip out of his hair, a vivid red became obvious. At first Draco thought it was more blood, but…
No, it can't be… Something sparked inside Draco's mind. Recognition. He began worming his way to the front of the crowd, eyes unflinching from the redhead.
"Fifteen!" he heard a woman's voice call.
"Do I hear twenty?"
Red hair…tall…pale…freckles… He finally made to the front and took in the face that was forcibly being held up towards the bright lights of the hall's glittering chandeliers.
Blue eyes. They were duller than he'd ever seen them but still sparked with insolence. Draco parted his lips. "Well, I'll be damned…" he murmured softly.
"Fifty-five!" someone behind him called. He didn't realise the bids had gotten so high.
His mind was straying. He couldn't believe it. Weasley. That pauper, that stupid little muggle-lover. The idiot got himself captured! How could he have been so stupid! He remembered their rows a year ago at school all too vividly. How he wanted that blood-traitor to get what was always coming to him.
And why let someone else have all the fun?
"Seventy," Draco said.
Weasley strained his neck against Blasie's grip to see the person that all-too familiar voice belonged to. His eyes widened almost comically. He mouthed the word you.
Draco smirked wickedly.
"Seventy-five!" a tall, middle-aged man nearby called.
Draco glared at him. "Eighty." Everyone close by was staring at the young Malfoy. What did he think he was doing? they seemed to ask. He still had elves.
"Ninety," that same man said, sending Draco a nasty look. Draco glowered—obviously, this had to be fucking difficult.
"A hundred," Draco said. This is much more than Weasley's worth.
"A hundred-fifty!" the man yelled.
Draco groaned. Why wouldn't he just give up? What use could a scrawny Weasel be for him? "Three hundred."
This shut the man up. "Three hundred galleons!" Blaise exclaimed. "Sold!"
Draco ignored the disbelieving stares as his property—his property—Ronald Bilius Weasley was unceremoniously pushed off the stage and into Draco's awaiting arms.
Draco had shoved Weasley into a room upstairs and ordered him not to leave it. He knew that if Weasley disobeyed, the bracelet around his wrist would tighten painfully. He knew Weasley knew that, as well. As an extra precaution, he decided to set up wards so that if Weasley took one step outside the Manor…well, he'd melt.
"Yes, thank you, goodbye," he said to each leaving guest resignedly.
"I can't believe you wasted three hundred galleons on the Weasel," Pansy said as she was leaving. "I don't know what came over you. I hope you get your money's worth," she snickered.
"Yes, alright, Pansy. Goodbye." When the last of the guests trickled out, Draco closed the door and leaned against it heavily. He sighed deeply.
When he was bidding, it had been so clear why. It was clear why he wanted the Weasel and what he wanted him for. But now, for the life of him, he couldn't remember. What had come over him?
Now there was the question as to what to do with him. It. His possession. Whatever. He could let him rot in the dungeons like Blaise had suggested. Or perhaps subjugate him to the Dementor's kiss. Maybe he could hand him over to Lucius.
A part of him wondered if Weasley was still sane. Being so close to Potter, he must have been interrogated. Being his normal obstinate self, he was probably thoroughly tortured.
He started off for the room he had locked Weasley in. Maybe looking at him would give him ideas as to what to do with this brash purchase.
He walked the desolate halls at a fast pace and unlocked the sturdy black door.
Weasley was sitting on the edge of the bed at the far side of the room, right where he had left him. A lone shaft of moonlight spilled through the sky window, illuminating the filthy redhead.
The shackles had been removed but they had left their chaffing and bleeding marks. His hands were trembling and tightly fisted into the bed sheets.
Long, red eyelashes obstructed the eyes from view and cast faint shadows on his soft cheeks. The freckles had almost disappeared and his skin was now chalky looking. His hair was over-long and disorderly. He looked frail, but not overly so. His posture held nothing submissive; he sat rigid and upright.
As he observed more carefully he noticed things that were…off. Most of his marks were around his neck and collarbone. His lips were swollen and bruised, like someone had… Draco shook his head. Maybe he'd ask him about it later.
Draco roughly grabbed his face by the chin and lifted it up so he could see into those eyes. Just as he thought—not a trace of fear, just anger and defiance.
And suddenly he remembered why he bought him. To beat that defiance out of him.
"Hullo, Weasley."
No reply. No matter, he could deal with that. "You should be relieved I bought you. I'm not as much of a sick sadomasochist as some of the people that bid for you."
Ron let out an odd sound that almost sounded like a scoff. Draco decided to let that one slip by. "From hereon in, you are mine, Weasley. Understand that you are as expendable as any of my many possessions. I'm sure you know what that lovely bracelet of yours will do if you refuse to listen. You are to address me as 'sir' and answer to my every whim. Is that clear?"
Ron muttered something.
"I can't hear you, Weasley."
"I said fuck you."
Draco clicked his tongue sadly. "And here I thought my demands were reasonable." As he drew his wand he was satisfied to see something flicker across Weasley's eyes. Worry? Fear? Well, they were almost one in the same. That was all he needed. He stowed the wand back. "You better belt up and get used to being here, Weasel."
"It's not like I'm going to be here for long," he mumbled.
If Draco weren't trained in self-control, his jaw would have dropped. Was that hope in his voice. No, not hope. Confidence. Draco gawked.
"You actually think Potter's coming back for you, don't you?"
Weasley's lips formed a stubborn red line.
Draco smirked. "Potter's hiding away somewhere with your blasted Order, Weasley. He's not coming back for you. They think you're dead. They're mourning you, not looking for you."
Weasley still didn't respond. Draco was infuriated to still see that confidence glimmering in those blue eyes. How could he be so damn sure after everything that's happened?
"Clean yourself up, Weasel, you're filthy." With that, he strode around and left, making sure to slam the door on his way out.
He really was too kind. He had given Weasley a proper room and made sure he got two meals a day. And Weasley was being so ungrateful about it. With the bracelet, it was almost like having someone under Imperius, but at the same time unsatisfying. Weasley did all the demeaning chores and bore all the verbal abuse Draco could dish out but was still adamant that someone would come for him, that the war would be won soon and he'd be free to go.
Also, as much as Weasley's assurance unsettled him and as much as he thought he should, Draco was unable to physically hurt the boy. He had enough bruises as it were, and the bracelet took care of the rest.
As he flipped through the Daily Prophet there was a small mention of Weasley under the Have You Seen This Witch or Wizard? section. So they were looking for him. He had to make sure his fiery little servant didn't get hold of this.
Draco thought he wasn't as sadistic as he should be. Where he should be Crucifying the Weasel, he was making him do stupid chores.
"Weasley! My feet are sore! Rub them!"
"Fuck you, Malfoy!" called the voice from the kitchen. The end of the sentence was punctuated by a loud scream of pain. Yes, the bracelet was definetly doing its job. As daft as the Weasel was, you had to admire his spirit.
Weasley slowly made his way over to where Draco lounged in his chair. He bent down and proceeded to massage Draco's bare feet. Draco continued to flip through the paper. "Why, look at this. They printed your obituary, Weasley."
Weasley actually flinched. Draco was making progress.
"Do you still think Potter's coming for you?"
Weasley remained silent.
That night, insomnia—or at least, he thought it was insomnia—compelled Draco to wander the Manor, so of course his traitorous feet would lead him outside Weasley's door. And of course, his traitorous hand turned the knob.
Weasley appeared to be having some type of fit. He was gripping the bed sheets for dear life and his face was contorted in fear. He murmured nonsensical gibberish. Far away in his dream, Weasley was suffering.
Draco hesitantly crept up to the side of the bed. He poked the redhead in the chest. Weasley flinched violently and hit his skull on the headboard. After a hiss of pain, his eyes flew open. His anxious eyes traveled around the darkened room and when they finally set on Draco, his disposition transformed from alarm to slight annoyance. "Yes, sir? What do you want?"
"I have a few questions for you, Weasley."
Weasley stared. "You woke me up in the middle of the night for--?"
"I merely want to check the worth of my property. I think I may have overpaid for damaged goods."
"What are you on about?" he asked groggily.
He got right to it. "What exactly did they do to you when you were captured?" This question had nothing to do with concern for him, as it was simply idle curiosity.
Weasley shifted uncomfortably, debating how to answer this. "Nothing I couldn't handle. A few Crucios aren't going to affect me much."
Draco leaned in and placed his hand over Weasley's lips. Then he traced the bruises that covered them. "How did you get these…?"
Weasley seemed at a loss for words. When Draco withdrew his elegant hand, blue eyes followed it. "I…" He turned his face. "Was just some of your Death Eater friends trying to scare me." He settled back into his bed.
Draco sat patiently, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn't, he presumed Weasley had fallen back asleep—or was pretending to be. Draco got off the bed and tiptoed out, gently closing the door behind him. They weren't the answers he was looking for but he decided some things were better left unsaid.
A month later, Draco caught Weasley gazing out the window longingly as he scrubbed the floor.
Draco stopped beside him. "Would you like to go outside, Weasley?"
The redhead glanced up and gave him a hopeful look before remembering himself. He scowled and resumed his cleaning.
Draco began relying on his new servant for everything. To set out his clothes, to run his baths, to dress him… Almost like he was dependant on him.
Before he knew it, he began seeking out the Weasel and just…watching him. The Manor was boring and Weasley's temper was interesting. As was the way Draco had total power over him. And the way those rags hung to his slim frame, extenuating his…
Now, Draco Malfoy was not stupid. This was when he realised he was in trouble. Weasley was the only human he had close, constant contact to; of course he would end up feeling something towards him.
So he did what any non-stupid person would do. He sublimated his anger towards Weasley, or anyone who got in his way. Especially the elves—they were getting too chummy with him, giving him some sort of kinship. That wouldn't do; after all, Draco was still trying to break that ridiculous air of confidence around him.
Weasley was becoming more and more desperate. Anywhere Draco found him, he was staring out the window as if someone would materialise from thin air and rescue him. This annoyed Draco immensely—he was treating the traitor right; why did he want to get 'rescued'?
"Keep watching, Weasley, but no one's coming for you."
Weasley kept looking outside as he polished a suit of armour.
"They ran a memorial for you over the WWN." A blatant lie, but his redhead wouldn't pick up on that. "Give up. You're presumed dead."
Something inside him must have snapped. He turned at Draco with a heated look. "What do you know? This war's far from over! Anything could happen!"
Draco immediately took the defensive. "I know more than you think, Weasley! Stop taking what you have for granted! You're lucky you're here!" He paused to gather his thoughts. "You should be grateful… If you weren't here, you'd be fighting in the middle of this goddamn war."
Weasley's eyes were actually tearing up. Unfortunately, Draco didn't feel triumphant. He felt something else entirely.
"That's where I want to be!" Weasley cried. "You know how useless I feel here? Sheltered and safe when I should be laying my life on the line to keep people like you from destroying the world!" Somewhere between 'useless' and 'safe' he had started sobbing and Draco could hardly make out his distressed words.
"Weasley, just deal…"
In an instant, in pure rage, Weasley lunged at Draco. The bracelet kicked in, of course, and Weasley was quickly on his knees a metre away from the blonde, clutching his bleeding wrist. "You don't know anything…" he kept blubbering.
He didn't know what possessed him to do it, but Draco kneeled down beside the boy. Perhaps it was guilt, or pity. He took hold of the shuddering frame and began making shushing noises. Weasley's attempts at pushing him off were weak and half-hearted. Weasley continued to mumble nonsensically.
Something odd happened; Weasley rubbed his face—nuzzled his face—into Draco's palm. Draco felt something he thought was long dead stir inside him. He had seen Weasley angry, sad and desperate plenty of times but he never saw him with this childlike, austere vulnerability. It made him so much more desirable in Draco's eyes. As much as he tried to fight it, Draco gave in.
He cupped the tearstained face with both hands and leaned down slowly, deliberately. Weasley's eyes caught his and widened with some unrecognisable emotion. Foolishly, Draco hoped it was caving he was feeling. In one quick movement, he captured the pouting lips with his own. He gently caressed the bottom lip, tasting salty tears.
Draco moved to the corner of his mouth and then down to the neck, leaving a trail of butterfly kisses. He didn't know how desperately he needed this until just now. He coaxed the other body down onto the floor. Getting slightly impatient, he latched onto the smooth skin of his neck and bit.
It was when he made it down to the collarbone that he realised something. Since the first kiss, Weasley hadn't moved. The body against his was rigid and…shaking?
Getting together all his courage, he willed himself to look at his faded blue eyes. He saw it. The defiance was gone and replaced with pure fear.
He wasn't sure if he wanted that anymore.
He nuzzled against the other's cheek and gently tucked a tendril of red hair behind his small ear. "You know Potter's not coming for you, right?" he whispered.
He felt the boy deflate. It was said in barley a whisper; it easily could have been mistaken for a sigh. "I know."