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Title:Six Weeks Charade
Author name: Icarus
Author email: email@example.com
Sub Category: From the Beg Me For It universe
Summary:The Death Eaters' Ministry of Magic as a low security prison, and Ron is slowly being worked to death. The Death Eaters don't care if Ron is sick... but Draco does. For Thywillbedone. Very brief.
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Copyright © 2004 by Icarus Ancalion. All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced in whole or part without the author's explicit permission. Ask, guys. I'm easy to reach and usually quite generous.
Author notes:For the 16 fics in two weeks challenge.
Six Week Charade
Ron's arm fell weakly to his side; he'd tried. He rolled over onto his back and swallowed.
"Don't feel like it…." he coughed.
Which turned into more coughing. He opened bloodshot eyes and offered, "I could be on the bottom if you want." And grimaced.
The 'sexiness' of this offer was enhanced by his reaching for a-not-particularly-clean handkerchief. The sheets weren't all that clean, either.
"You're going to have to stop being sick, Ron," Draco complained in a deliberately light tone. "Aside from the effect on my sex life, this place is filthy. And I don't think I can eat another bite of my own cooking."
Ron coughed and simply shook his head. His skin was clammy and pale under the freckles. Draco sighed and stroked his damp hair. Dull eyes looked up at Draco. They looked sticky and hot.
"It's been weeks," Draco observed. "You're sick. Stay home."
"Don't be stupid -" Ron wheezed, but managed to breathe enough to speak. "- you think I work a regular job, just 'cause I come home to our flat? Got paid vacations -- a little Christmas bonus at the end of the year?" His voice had that loud tone of somebody struggling to speak over a whisper. "I work for Death Eaters! They don't care if I drop. I don't show up, I lose my job. And that doesn't mean what it usually does."
He fell back to the blankets, spent from this outburst. The sheet over him was soaked in sweat. He glanced at the rag in his hand. "This handkerchief's gross."
Well, that was some sign of life.
Draco turned and glowered at the wall. "That wasn't a question, Ron. You don't get to have an opinion in the matter."
Eunice was generally the first one in the office in Green Section, the Minister of Magic's Executive staff. Whether she realised it or not, this made her brisk and efficient and far too awake by the time the staff blearily arrived. She'd done the week's calendar, already had Mr Weasley's mail in hand, and she'd taken the time to make him a special cup of tea -- a remedy from her mother's side. She stuffed the mail under her arm as she reached to open his door. Which struck her as suddenly odd. He didn't usually close it.
A man was seated behind the desk, his blond head lifted as she stepped in -- she stifled a gasp and nearly dropped the teacup.
"Close the door behind you," Draco Malfoy said.
"That's Weasley. Do you understand? I'm Mr Weasley to you until I say otherwise." His eyes were intense, and he spoke to her like she was a slow child.
A few other staff members already caught wind of a 'sensation' -- it was a small office -- before she could react and close the door. They hovered, and exchanged puzzled glances. Malfoy wasn't liked by any of them, though they'd never seen him enough to have any reason for it. His chin lifted challengingly. Someone coughed.
Eunice cleared her throat. "Well. Don't stand there gawking. Mr Weasley has a very busy day ahead of him."