InsaneJournal

FIC: Fractured and Tethered, 3/7, Ron/Draco, NC-17
Title: Fractured and Tethered 3/7 [COMPLETE]
Author: Tarie
Pairing: Ron/Remus, Ron/Draco, implied Bill/Remus
Rating: NC-17
Length: 36,500
Summary: The war may be over, but the race is on to save Harry's life.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters and universe are property of JKR, Scholastic & other assorted publishers, and the WB.
A/N: Written for merry_smutmas 2006 for thrihyrne . Eternal thanks and gratitude to my beta readers, mad_maudlin and nqdonne. Without their suggestions and keen eyes, this fic would be a jumbled mess. Also thanks to inthesewalls and Maud for excellent suggestions during the pre-writing stage, to ella_bane and legomymalfoy for their unrelenting encouragement and for the late-night buddy-up writing sessions. Lastly, a huge thank you to Gina for being so incredibly accommodating and not killing me for stomping all over my deadline.
*******

"But you're dead," Ron said again, mouth agape. The Malfoys had been all been quite dead for some time – Lucius dead by Voldemort's own hand, Narcissa by her own, and Draco by the wand of Yaxley. All confirmed by the Order's source inside Voldemort's circle of Death Eaters. Narcissa's death had been highly publicized in The Daily Prophet, as had the 'disappearance' of Lucius Malfoy in autumn of what would have been Ron's last year at Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy's name had been nothing more than a footnote on the weekly 'Have You Seen This Witch or Wizard?' column the Prophet took to running after the war became full-fledged.

"I assure you, I am very much alive." Malfoy drew himself up to his full height, which left him quite a few inches shorter than Ron. His face was as pale and pointy as ever, though it was more gaunt and sallow than Ron remembered it to be. His hair, curling about his collar, was tangled and dirty. His robe was torn and tattered in places, the hem absolutely filthy. If he squinted between the slight part in the cloak, Ron could just make out a dingy greyish shirt and rumpled trousers that had probably not been changed in weeks. To be perfectly blunt, Malfoy looked like shite. Not that he'd paid much attention to Malfoy's looks before, of course.

"I'm not blind," Ron said automatically, eyes narrowing. Then he, too, drew himself up to his full height, more than a little satisfied with the six inches he towered over the pointy-chinned git.

Malfoy scowled at him. "I would have thought otherwise. Still picking your robes out of rubbish bins?"

Ron scowled at him. "Fuck off."

"You fuck off and get off of this estate," Malfoy said evenly, though the way his eyes darted to and fro, as though he were on the lookout for something, did not escape Ron's notice.

"For all intents and purposes, Malfoy, you're good and dead....well, dead anyway, and this manor was confiscated by the Ministry and auctioned for War Relief Funds." For the life of him, Ron hadn't any idea why he was standing there explaining shite to Malfoy when he should have been hexing him.

Right.

The tips of his fingers tingled and Ron slowly flexed his hand, eyes never leaving Malfoy's face. Wand. Wand would be bloody good right about then. Malfoy's face was pinched, like he was up to no good.

One. Two.

"Three," Ron breathed, and withdrew and brandished his wand at Malfoy in one smooth, swift motion.

Of course Malfoy had to have complicated matters and done the very same.

Fucker.

Wand tip to wand tip, they circled round one another until Ron got tired of beating round the bush and swept the side of his foot under one of Malfoy's knees, sending Malfoy and his pointy arse right to the ground. Cursing, Malfoy scrambled to reach the wand he'd dropped in surprise, though Ron cut him off at the pass by stepping on its hilt.

"Get up, Malfoy," he said pleasantly, Levitating Malfoy's wand high enough so he could take it up. Ron got great joy in watching Malfoy grind his teeth together, pushing himself to his feet. Again, his eyes darted about, and Ron took Malfoy's moment of temporary distraction to shove him up against one of the mausoleum's tall marble walls.

Malfoy grunted as the back of his head connected with stone, though he made no attempt to recover his wand. "You don't own this manor."

Ron shook his head. "No."

"I knew it," Malfoy said triumphantly. "Go on then, Weasley. Go on before someone reports you for trespassing. I'd do it my bloody self if I–"

"Weren't running for your life?"

Malfoy's trap shut instantly, mouth setting in a thin line.

Goal for Gryffindor.

"That's it, isn't it?" Ron pressed, the tip of his wand steady against Malfoy's sternum.

"I'm dead, remember?"

Ron sighed. Malfoy had to have fucking cheek about everything, didn't he? "You aren't dead, Malfoy." Lowering his wand, he took a step back, eyes homing in on Malfoy's haggard face.

"What are you doing here, Weasley?" Malfoy asked carefully.

Shaking his head, Ron snorted. What fucking audacity. Malfoy was supposed to be dead. Yeah, he wasn't, but he absolutely looked like shite and technically he was the one trespassing here, not Ron. "I could ask the same of you, Malfoy. In fact, I just did. Answer."

"I asked you first."

Bollocks. He had.

"I'm looking after it for the new owner." There. That wasn't exactly a lie, now was it? Not that he gave a toss about lying to Malfoy.

"And the new owner would be...?"

"None of your fucking business," Ron snarled, putting an immediate end to that line of questioning. Malfoy couldn't be trusted, dead to the world or not.

Malfoy glared at him before he apparently remembered himself and adopted a bored expression. "Fine, suit yourself. House-elf."

"I'm not a sodding house-elf!" Ron cried indignantly, very tempted to snap Malfoy's wand in half and use the ends to plug up Malfoy's upturned nose.

"Of course you aren't," Malfoy said in a placating tone.

Valiantly playing the part of the better bloke, Ron ignored that little jibe. "Your turn."

"I'm looking for something," Malfoy said plainly.

"Something being...?" Ron opened his arms briefly, welcoming further explanation.

"None of your fucking business, I believe?" A white-blond brow arched maddeningly.

"You can't do that," Ron exploded.

"Do what?"

"Use my own words against me, you prig!"

"I believe I just did," Malfoy said, sounding quite bored.

"How daft are you, Malfoy? You do realise the Ministry's been locking everyone up who's ever consorted with Voldemort? And that any Death Eaters skulking about who haven't been picked up by Aurors would be rather interested to hear you've risen from the fucking dead?"

Malfoy looked pained for a moment, though the moment quickly gave way to an all-out glower. "Forget it," he barked, his shoulder jostling Ron's hard as he pushed past him.

"Where do you think you're going?" Ron whirled round, staring at Malfoy with disbelief.

"If you'll give me my wand, Weasley, I'll be on my way and you can return to your life of house-elfdom, tedious as it may be," Malfoy jeered, reaching for his wand.

"Oh no you don't, Malfoy." Ron made a show of tucking Malfoy's wand inside his robes, and then he faltered. What next?

He could give Malfoy back his wand and send him on his merry way (to certain death or imprisonment, undoubtedly) or he could keep Malfoy's wand in his pocket and....

Really, Ron would later think back to this moment and decide that he'd suddenly gone mental. He certainly didn't know what possessed him to do it, but as sure as the Cannons would one day again win the league championship, Ron heard himself say, "You're coming with me."

"I'm coming with you," Malfoy repeated.

He'd suddenly gone mental, or that crap cucumber and haggis sandwich he'd eaten that morning in St Mungo's tea shop was wreaking havoc on his senses, specifically his ability to not act completely off his nut. "Yeah."

"To my own home."

"Yeah– no. No, it's not yours any longer."

"It sure as hell isn't yours, Weasley," Malfoy sniffed, looking put out.

"No, it isn't," Ron said sharply, "but what it is is a safe place for you to be for now. You can't be flitting about the bloody countryside as you please."

"I," Malfoy declared, voice dripping with disdain, "do not flit."

"Not in those rags, you don't," Ron said solemnly, then he turned and began the trek back across the grounds to the manor.

Halfway across the lawn, he stopped, looking over his shoulder. Malfoy was just standing beside the mausoleum, still as a statue.

"If you want your wand, you'll come. Of course, you could just leave, but I doubt you'd get very far without a wand."

That did it. Malfoy steeled his shoulders and started toward him. And he was fucking limping like a damned cripple.

"Oi, what's that?" Ron asked, gesturing to Malfoy's leg.

"What does it look like, arse? My leg's bollixed up," Malfoy sneered, walking toward him unsteadily.

"How'd it happen?"

"It broke," Malfoy said coldly, pointing toward his thigh. "I didn't have access to any Skele-Gro, so it mended how it fucking mended. End of story."

Ron's mouth scrunched up and he took off again, myriad thoughts whirring about in his head. He should have tossed Malfoy out on his arse. No fuss, no muss. He should have Owled the Ministry. Oh, wait. Not a fan of the Ministry these days. Just because Malfoy and Snape had helped Harry find Helga Hufflepuff's cup, through no fault of their own, was that reason enough to protect him from the Ministry's constant vigilance (unwarranted vindictiveness against most, morelike) and rogue Death Eaters? Then again, Malfoy's leg was buggered up. If his mum were alive, she would've had Ron's head on a platter for even entertaining the idea of turning a sickly wizard out on his arse. Right. Ron would have to let him stay there.
"I should've been a Hufflepuff," he muttered to himself, ushering Malfoy into one of the manor's side entrances.

"Step aside, Weasley," Draco said snidely, bumping Ron aside with a roll of his hip. "I know my way around."

As they rounded a corner, Malfoy promptly stopped, his gaze swiveling about the corridor slowly. "Where are the fey-crafted candelabras? Where are the ornamental pixie reliefs? They're over seven centuries old and a family heirloom; I demand you return them immediately!"

The pit of Ron's stomach fell a bit. "Did you miss the part where I said there'd been an auction?" he asked slowly.

Malfoy's face grew peaked. "No," he said after a long moment's silence. "I didn't."

"A lot of the things are gone," Ron said awkwardly as they continued down the corridor.

Malfoy stopped again. "Everything?" he asked quickly.

"Not everything." Ron began to walk again, leading the way, and Malfoy fell into step beside him.

"Oh." Malfoy nodded to himself, almost as though he were filing that bit of information away. And then: "Weasley, it has been a while, but I'm pretty sure the suites are the other way."

"Yeah, I know."

"Then why are we going this way?"

This time Ron was the one to stop. "Look, Malfoy...."

Malfoy frowned. Then he tapped his foot. "Out with it, then."

"I'm not the only one here, okay? My brother's here, and Dobby, and sometimes Pr– Remus Lupin calls quite often, so you've got to–"

Malfoy blinked.

Ron blinked. Then he opened his mouth, intent on staving off shouts and curses that would call his brother, Dobby, Remus Lupin, and the Falmouth Bloody Falcons to the lower level of Malfoy Manor.

"I don't," Malfoy held up a hand, "want to hear anymore. Take me to my hole, then."

Ron's mouth instantly shut, teeth clacking together. And then he exhaled the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "All right, then." He hesitated, though, and watched Malfoy. Malfoy's lower lip trembled – Ron saw it – and then his face hardened.

"Well. On with it," Malfoy said impatiently.

Nodding, Ron led the way, never looking back.

**********

The door to Malfoy's 'hole' (Honestly, it was no more a hole than the Ministry was the Shrieking Shack - granted, it wasn't as large as and lacked the decorum of the suites in the main part of the manor, but it was filled with nice, sturdy furniture. There was a perfectly acceptable bath just down the corridor!) swung open and Ron, seated on a low cot, looked up. And then up some more, because his initial sight-line was on level with Malfoy's hips and the fluffy, beige towel that hung dangerously low. He didn't need to be seeing any of that, thank you very much. Well, Ron did appreciate views such as that, but not when Malfoy was part of the parcel. Right.

"Where are my clothes?" Malfoy demanded, hovering in the doorway.

"Ah." Ron twisted, reaching behind him. "Here." Fresh after a vigorous round or two of Repair and Cleansing Charms were Malfoy's cloak, shirt, trousers, pants, and socks. They weren't good as new, as Malfoy's clothes were a bit too grotty to fully take laundering and mending charms completely, but they were much better off than they'd been.

Snatching his things out of Ron's grasp, Malfoy waved a hand, gesturing for Ron to turn round. Rolling his eyes, Ron did as directed. Behind him, he could hear the soft hiss of fabric as Malfoy pulled on and adjusted various items. "So."

"So," Malfoy repeated, and Ron could practically hear his stupid lip curl.

"You're not to come to the main part of the manor. Don't leave this level or this wing. Don't worry about food; I'll make sure you've got it, and drink, and anything else you need." This wouldn't go over well; Ron just knew it.

"Do I have to check in before I take a piss?" Malfoy said, and Ron yelped as something snapped the back of his ear. The towel, no doubt.

"Fucker," Ron swore, turning round, one hand clapped over his ear.

"I'll take that as a 'no,'" Malfoy drawled, buttoning up his now-white shirt.

"If you have to take a piss or have a wank or whatever; keep it to your sodding self," Ron grumbled.

"Or whatever."

"This is serious, Malfoy. You'll have to, I dunno, lay low for a bit till we can get you back to...where ever it is you came from. Where ever you were headed. You know. Without being caught by Ministry or Death Eaters. Or both. So where were you headed, again?" It was probably too much for Ron to hope Malfoy would maybe shed a bit of light on that mystery.

"Obviously I was headed here for the present. The future? Well...that's only of interest to me." Malfoy smiled mysteriously and Ron was very tempted to box his ears.

It had definitely been too much for Ron to hope Malfoy would shed a bit of light on that mystery. "I'm thinking....not, Malfoy. There're a good lot of people who'd be interested in your being alive and all. Minster Scrimgeour, for one. Fenrir Greyback, for another." Ron paused, watching him carefully. The Order had heard reports of what Greyback did, or attempted to do, to Malfoy before Yaxley killed him. Well, Malfoy hadn't been killed (and Ron was dead curious as to how he'd avoided that when all other signs pointed to DOORNAIL), so maybe reports of Greyback's torturing had been off.

Malfoy turned away, though not before Ron noticed his hands clenched into fists. "He hasn't been captured by the Ministry, has he?"

"No," Ron said slowly. "Nor Goyle, nor Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, nor–"

"I've seen her."

"Who?"

Malfoy turned round again, fixing Ron with a serious, intense look, the likes of which sent a chill up and down his spine.

"Bellatrix. My aunt. She didn't see me – Glamours can work wonders – but I saw her."

Leaning in, Ron's hands dug into his thighs, all ears intent on Malfoy. "And?"

"Death is coming. For people like me. Traitors." His lips curled. "As though I fucking had a side to turn on." A beat, and then he strode purposely to the door, opening it so roughly the pins in one hinge snapped.

Taking the hint, Ron got to his feet.

"And for your precious Potter."

He froze in the doorway. "What?" he asked, a sour taste in his mouth. "What did you say?"

"Death is coming for your precious Potter, and if I know my 'auntie', it will be sweet and terrible and slow. If he's been a good boy." Malfoy smirked. "And if he's been a bad boy...well, you'll wish you'd have killed him yourself."

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