Ronald Weasley raked his scornful eyes over the messy shapless heap laying in the comfortable bed beside him. The boy beside him breathed shallowly, labored would be the right word. Dark bruises dappled the pale flesh, the once delicate angled face was now bruised, blotchy and swollen, long elegant fingers broken at odd angles, a strange red line ran down the young man's side, inflammed and painful, deep. Black welled under two of the nails of the broken boy's fingers, where they had been rudely smashed with a hammer. His closed eyes were puffy and tears dribbled bitterly down the muddled mess of a face, cutting lines through the grim layered over the pale skin. He hiccuped and rolled over painfully, the sleeping form facing Ron. For the first time his dark shapphire eyes took in the whole damage done to the sickly man beside him, his breath hitched, a flickering of pity was squashed down by the rage of the bullying he'd suffered at this boy's hand and a resounding slap awoke Draco who yelped out, eyes flipping open to reveal panicked pale eyes, he scrabbled to the edge of the bed, pressing himself to the wall, chest heaving as his eyes flickered wildly before resting on Ron with terrifed recognitition. His face contorted into a mask of painful terror, tears bustling down his cheeks in a bussiness like manner, his cracked lips began to bleed violently as he bit them, holding back a scream. The side of his face throbbed painfully. Ron laughed cruelly and reached out to drag a cold calloused finger down Draco's already wretched face, blood beading to the surface and trailing his cheek like a tear, the blond boy whimpered softly, trying to pull away. Ron caught a handful of that filthy blond hair and ripped Draco towards him, pressing the small blond to his chest, forcing him to look up and pressing a vicous kiss against the bleeding lips, tasting the sweet tang on his tongue. Draco had stilled, and kneeled on the bed numbly as Ron attacked his lips, jawline, neck, throat and chest. His teeth crushing Draco's sensitive nipples, drawing more blood.
"You're a dirty fucking faggot Malfoy." Ron hissed, pushing Draco away roughly, "Just a fucking fairy. You pansy bitch." He spat then, it landing on Malfoy's left cheek. Malfoy simply curled in on his self, whimpering softly, his eyes buring with deliorus panic and fever. Indeed Draco was very, very sick. For nearly a week now he'd been coughing weakly, thinly. Sweat beaded and rolled, his stomach rolled and gurgled, pushing bile up his throat. He curled tighter, reopening old drying up wounds. He flinched as the door closed and there was the sound of a lock clinking. Draco was used to being shut up in this forsaken room, sometimes for up to seventy three hours. Draco ate up his time sleeping or counting the seconds that passed, he usually got to about four thousand and eight before he lost track and gave up, tears of frustration lighting his eyes. He was a prisoner. No. Worse than that. He was Weasley's whore.
His torn anus could attest to that. Blood clumped his pale pubic hairs and caked his thighs in lumps, it grew increasingly hard for Draco to walk when he was allowed out of the room, he hobbled weakly and had to rest often.
Ronald Weasley sat down at the table for breakfast, a plate of eggs and bacon, toast with plenty butter and jam. Ron wolfed it down, chasing it with a hearty swig of orange juice. He heard Draco screaming wordlessly from the next room over. It was something the ginger had grown accoustmed to. Ever since he had recived Draco as a gift after the war. Ron had been nearly giddy with excitement. Finally, a sort of payback for all the things Malfoy had done. He'd used a whip the first night. Delighting in Malfoy's deafening screams, Malfoy's back still bore the pretty little marks. Draco's screams raised to a shrill panicked buzz, it sounded as though a struggle was going on.
Draco's voice had grown hoarse by the time Ron wrenched the door open, he lay in a pool of blood, the blanket still wrapped around his ankle. Ron put the pieces together slowly, sluggishly. Draco must have gotten himself tangled in the sheets and panicked, his feverish mind tricking him into believing someone was attacking him, and he had fallen, slicing his side apart on the corner of the metallic dresser, bashing his head as well. Draco whined thinly, eyes glazed with fever and pain, he reached for Ron, babbling broken and weakly. Ron recoiled as the bloodied fingers touched his pantleg, repulsed by the bloody mess that was Draco. And the blood, the blood smearing his lips, it looked like lipstick.