Recalcitrance

"Take your paws off me!" Ron yells as he slaps at the offending arm. Lucius Malfoy pulls it out of harm's way in a fluid motion.

And here he thought he was going near-mad after two days in that room Malfoy dumped him in after Flooing him into his manor. It wasn't uncomfortable as rooms went, and a house-elf brought him meals and all, but he could barely keep from clawing at the walls after a while. Having to sit around and wait for the bastard's convenience is... well, better than this, definitely!

"But you belong to me now, Mr Weasley," Malfoy whispers, and the tone transforms Ron's insides into writhing worms. "The authorities have consigned you to me. Your own father stood by and acquiesced."

"Only because you threw money at Fudge, and he's corrupt and hates Dumbledore!"

Ron vibrates under the heat waves running through him, grateful that rage and adrenaline keep him going. It keeps hysteria at bay.

"But it doesn't alter the fact that I am entitled to your… service," Malfoy points out silkily. "Despite your little friend Potter's best efforts, I still have house-elves for menial tasks, and you," he grabs Ron's chin between thumb and index finger, "you insisted that I keep you for myself and not pass you on to my son."

Ron feels the trap building around him, one nail at a time. No, you bastard, you won't get me that easily!

"Oh please," he sneers. "You wouldn't touch me with a barge pole if you didn't know what it would do to my dad."

And Harry, don't forget Harry, who thinks all bad things should happen to him because it's so much easier than watching them happen to others.

"Exactly," Malfoy answers with a lazy smile. "You are, after all, completely insignificant except for the company you keep. Or should I say 'for those who had enough patience to keep you around'?"

Bastard! For all that Malfoy is an evil manipulative git, it's still true, and it stings.

"Though if you're so dissatisfied with my company, there are numerous... associates of mine who would enjoy having you to play with for a while."

Dread slides down into his bones in a white-hot surge. Don't show it. Don't give him anything!

"Are you saying you're a cheap procurer, for all that Malfoy posturing?"

Malfoy's knuckles connect with Ron's face, sharp enough to throw his head to the side, not sharp enough to intimidate. The ferret hits harder, at Quidditch.

"Do you truly have a death wish, Mr Weasley? Because your Mudblood died, because your beloved Harry hates you, and neither your family nor Saint Albus cared enough to fight for you?"

"Don't call her that!" A red-hot wire of rage burns through him. Of course he only realised he loved her when it was too late to tell her.

"I'm merely being accurate," the bastard murmurs and puts a bone-white finger over his lips, so arrogant that Ron wants to feed it to him with his fist. "Or isn't it so much the girl as the fact that our hero Harry has banished you from his arms?"

Ron's breath catches even as he tries to process the thought through his suddenly sluggish brain. His lips go cold. "You horrible, perverted bastard," he whispers.

Malfoy doesn't even take that finger away, just taps it against his mouth and fixes Ron with a cold stare. "A death wish indeed, it seems. Let me tell you that in aggravating me, you'll be settling for a particularly unpleasant form of assisted suicide."

"No, I haven't," Ron interrupts Malfoy's sneer-in-progress before the bastard can go for his wand and Crucio him for insolence. "I'm not all that worried about kicking the cauldron, but I don't have a death wish. Which doesn't mean I'm going to take shit from you."

And that's the Merlin-to-honest truth, Malfoy!

He waits for a curse, or perhaps another slap that doesn't come. And it's his own fault – he's given away what gets to him, and what doesn't.

"You're mine, Ronald, and you'll take whatever I decide to give you. Should you refuse, you're worthless to me and I'll be fully within my rights to dispose of you as I see fit."

Ron stares fixedly at the pointed chin, unwilling to look and read the hard truth in the bastard's eyes. He understands the unspoken conclusion just fine – Give me something, or you'll die. Or be passed around among my surviving cronies until you wish you had.

"I can play chess," he grinds out. If Malfoy wants anything else, let him break out the curses. Ron may not be able to fight him – not after having his wand taken away the minute he set foot into Malfoy's bloody manor-house – but he'll rather go to Death Eater hell than give the bastard anything for free.

"I know you do," Malfoy sneers. "I'm sure it must have impressed the lower-years in the Gryffindor common room to no end, but what makes you think I'd be interested? I planned strategy for the Dark Lord for years while you were chasing playing pieces across a board beside the fireplace."

"You wanted to be entertained," Ron reminds him, glad that his voice holds firm.

"And you think I picked you out from your litter to play board games, Weasley?"

Ron hears the contempt slithering in the bastard's voice, and allows a quirk to play around the corner of his mouth.

"No," he says. "You took me" – no, I bloody made you take me – "to lord it over my family and friends." He pauses to look up into those condescending, steely eyes after all, because this game wants a proper opening move. "But then I expected you to force me days ago."

Of course the bastard has too much self-control to show surprise, but his low chuckle makes Ron shiver. If he's miscalculated, Malfoy might just correct that oversight right away...

Malfoy slides his hand up the side of Ron's neck, thumb circling around his still-tender chin. Out of the corner of his eye, Ron sees his own hair, strands of flame in the glow from the fireplace, spilling over the pale fingers.

"Chess it is, then." Laughter trickles over Ron's skin like hand-warmed lotion. "With your body the price for the queen, and your soul for the king."

Ron's breath strangles in his throat, and he feels Malfoy's touch trembling right into his bloodstream, drumming the low rhythm of a funeral dirge.

"You're no Dementor," he objects, very quietly.

The palm on his face curves gently inward to cup his cheek. Ron's pulse flutters in his throat, a dazed Billywig stinging his lungs with dread at every breath.

"Believe me, Ronald, when I decide to capture your soul, it will be nowhere as crude as a Dementor's Kiss."

~ finis ~