Title: The Belly of the Whale
Pairing: Draco/Ron
Prompts: Confession. Tribute. Defeated. Hidden. Victorious. Formalities. Fireworks. Slut. Wanker.
Rating: R
Word Count: 9 x 100 word drabbles
A/N: A dystopian fugue in nine movements (so far), written for my friend T.
The Belly of the Whale
He looks like a whippet, Ron thinks; a hound in tailored robes and grey flannel. His face has become impossibly pointy, with a set of cheekbones that whisper depravity.
Ron frowns and watches as Malfoy tugs off his kid gloves, finger by finger by finger. The digits don't look right, as if having his hands broken (then mended then broken again) had made Malfoy double-jointed.
When Ron lifts his eyes to meet Malfoy's gaze, he finds it surprisingly gentle. Full of compassion. "Master Weasley," Malfoy says softly, drawing his wand, "you may rejoice. I am here to hear your confession."
---
It's probably a tribute to his breeding, or his determination, or his cold-bloodedness, that Malfoy doesn't so much as flinch when, after a sixth and rather liberally-applied Crucio, Ron vomits all over him.
"Ah," Malfoy sighs, "how I wish you were as forthcoming with information as you are with the contents of your stomach." If there's a shudder, it's whisked away with the same flick that takes care of Ron's mess.
"Piss... off."
Malfoy croons, unnervingly, patiently. "Shshsh. None of that." Way to chip away at a man's sanity.
Ron would find it easier if his tormentor sneered and spat.
---
"Ronald, listen to me very carefully now-"
Hugging wet concrete, his senses coming and going, Ron can't concentrate. Not only does his jaw feel tender, it feels completely squashed, and he almost passes out, imagining the pulverized bits of bone.
Malfoy's voice has dropped to a whisper. "The Dark Lord is watching. Give me something. Anything."
Keep your hand there, Ron wants to say. Yeah. That's better. Nice. And, Who'd have thought you can still weave healing spells, what with those mashed-up paws of yours-
"May I suggest you keep your thoughts securely on the defeated side?"
Malfff... fuck you.
---
There are things he's never known about Malfoy. Hidden talents, like the gusto with which Malfoy tears into him, his spells precise, his curses sharp and painful.
And who would have thought Malfoy could develop such grace? That he'd turn into a sleek thing, where once was there a loud-mouthed, gangly youth, a coward, a bully with a bit o' brain but no brawn?
He was beautiful on the pitch, true. And afterwards, in the showers, too. What a world class moaner he was.
The way he's looking at Ron now… that's not a talent, no. That's only Ron's fever.
---
With the Dark Lord victorious and the Resistance virtually crumbled to nothing, Ron's chances are dwindling. His luck has run out. His entertainment value has diminished to zero. His spine has given out.
When he looks up - something he has learnt not to do lest it earns him a curse - Malfoy stands with his back to him, hands gloved and clasped, head tilted to watch the wheeling gulls of Azkaban.
"You're awake," Malfoy says.
Ron wheezes. "And you're smarter than ever."
Turning on a heel, Malfoy draws. "I'm sorry, Weasley. Perhaps you would like to close your eyes for this."
---
"Look, can we skip the formalities?" The voice sounds impatient. Imperious. "He's yesterday's meat. I don't see why you need to delay this."
Something prods at him, prods and pokes, and Ron would scream if he could but he can't. Being dead isn't so bad. What grieves him though, in an abstract, detached, over the hill kind of a way, is that he should have had it so much easier than Harry. The papers said it took Harry a month to die.
"'Course he's mine," the voice grunts. "You imbecile. Why, the Dark Lord said I could have him stuffed."
---
There's fireworks behind his eyelids, bright blooming fizzbombs frying his synapses, and Ron twitches like a twitching thing. Spasming like a galvanized frog, his limbs jerk this way and that, and once he stops seizing, he blissfully pisses on Malfoy's persian rug.
Malfoy sits with his elbows on his knees and watches. "Sorry about the side effects," he says drily. "I'm afraid there was no other way. Normally, your only chance to leave that island is by becoming fish food or a single use sex toy."
Spare me, moron, Ron wants to growl, until the "sex toy" part filters through.
---
"While we both know you're a slut" - Malfoy rises and walks the length of the room a few times, looking for all the world like an anorectic version of his father - "I draw the line at necrophilia, Weasel. So," he says and lowers himself into a chair by the window, "I propose you go and sort out your funeral. Preferably somewhere on the Continent."
Ron can only stare. "But-"
"What?"
"You saved me. Why?"
"Did I?" Malfoy looks at him with practised seigneurial boredom. "Perhaps. Although, should you happen to be picked up again, we'll both wish we were dead."
---
"You stupid wanker." Ron has crawled to Malfoy's chair and sits on his haunches, quietly doubling over. His face almost touches Malfoy's polished boots before he can come up again. "Forget it."
It was seeing Malfoy's hands that did it, taking them in his and learning they were Malfoy's punishment for having touched him, back in the showers, where every pureblood with a chip on his shoulder could see and store the tidbit for later. "You're not going back to them," Ron says firmly. "Because I'm not leaving here without you."
"Is that so." Malfoy's smile looks small and tired.
---
tbc?
---