Caged.

Author's note:
Warnings for this chapter: Masturbation, animal genitalia.
Review please!

THIS STORY STILL NEEDS A BETA! Help me? Please?

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When classes were over, Ron brought himself to feed Scabbers – it had been over a day, and he was pretty thin already. Best not to take chances, we need him alive and well. No, we don’t, we just need him alive. However.
Scabbers had, if anything, become more grateful for food. When Ron approached the cage, he squeaked and danced in circles, but stopped it at the shaking of Ron’s head. His classmates, having witnessed this once, were impressed and proud of Ron’s animal training skills, which made him even angrier that Scabbers had been such a dumb and boring pet before. It took the rat barely a minute to eat what Ron considered adequate food for a day. Had it been Scabbers (okay, it was Scabbers) and not Pettigrew, Ron would have thrown more through the bars of the cage, and it hurt to know he was supposed to care, but not care for him. Had it been just a rat, he wouldn’t need to keep him in the damn cage all the time. Had it been just a rat, Ron would pet and cuddle and cram him – he harboured more pity for the animal than the man it could become.
“Scabbers! Hey, Scabbers.”
Scabbers lifted his little head, sitting up on his hind legs.
“Sit down. Good. Come here!”
Ron found the rat obeyed most commands, especially when underlined with gestures. He made him run from one corner into the other, then sit down again.
“Worth showing off suddenly, are you?”
Ron wondered if Pettigrew understood all he said with those rat’s ears. Better ask Sirius Black about it. He’s an animagus too, he’d know. Or Professor McGonagall.
He fed him a little something extra, then went back into the common room.

That night, Ron went to bed knowing something was different, something was left undone, but couldn’t put his finger on it. It had been a roundabout successful day, there was another day ahead, he had no homework until after the holidays – still, there was something he hadn’t done that he should have. That feeling made it impossible for him to sleep, and he didn’t want to disturb his friends about something that … vague.
He snuggled into his blanket, willing himself to relax. There was nothing wrong, there couldn’t be. He closed his eyes and tried to stop thinking.
Ten minutes later, he gave up. There were only two things to do when unable to sleep: either stay awake or have a nice, quick, relaxing wank. Ron decided for the latter.
Pushing down his pyjama bottoms and casting the silencing spell on the curtains around his bed, he settled in a comfortable position and willed unwanted thoughts away to let the flow of images start.
Skin! Naked, creamy skin. Drawing lines with his fingers over an unfamiliar body.
His hand sneaked over his stomach and up again, rushing over his nipples that sent a jolt of excitement through him. He never stopped there to tease them, but he ran his hands over his body again just to have an excuse to touch them again.
Nipples. Nipples, growing hard from touch. From his touch. His hands, roaming another body.
Ron’s breathing sped up, and the images came easily now. His hands snaked south again, brushing his slowly filling cock nearly accidentally. He rested his hands on his legs, rubbing small circles on the inner thighs, drawing slowly closer to his centre.
Long, lean legs. Calves, strong and brawny. The fine hair on thighs. The inner side of a knee. Ankles. Trailing hands from the ankles up to the bottom.
His hands finally found his erection. He started with slow, lazy movements, tugging gently on his foreskin before pulling it down, revealing his glans. He licked his hand and swirled the moisture around the purple head.
Arses. The movement of bottoms during walking. Cupping arsecheeks with his hands. Firm, round buttocks. The feel of them beneath his hands. Squeezing.
Ron was fully hard now and sped up, fisting himself vigorously. His other hand crept downwards to fondle his sac.
Touching. Being touched. Someone’s hand on his body. There. Spread legs. Thighs opening to welcome him to the Holy Grail, to the mystery of between-the-legs. Pushing inside.
Pressure began to build, and Ron let go. He tugged and pressed and squeezed, even used his fingernails, and he knew it would hurt later when all the overwhelming sensation was over, but didn’t care. His hips jerked forward and in his mind it was fucking and burying himself deep in hot, wet, human flesh. He had only a vague idea what a vagina looked like, but the mental image of being inside someone else pushed him over the edge.
Come splashed his hands and he gasped, lost in bliss for long moments.
The aftershocks trembling through him, Ron sighed sleepily, lifted the silencing spell and rolled around to go to sleep. He never lasted long, and felt too guilty about doing it at all to draw it out to last longer or experiment. He had tried more complex scenarios, elaborate fantasies to draw himself into, but it didn’t really work out. There was no girl he really was interested in, and so it was all about bodies and a vague feeling of closeness.
He heard a rustling sound and was alert immediately. What if someone had heard him? Couldn’t be, that was what the silencing spell was for.
“Lumos!” he whispered. And suddenly, he knew what had bothered him all along. There, on his bedside table, was the cage he normally put under the bed for the night, with a very interested rat sitting in it, scuttling away when noticing being noticed.
Ron felt a surge of two very powerful feelings overwhelm him. Shame and anger flooded him and rendered him completely unable to move. He was blushing from head to toe, still naked except for his pyjama top, and hated Peter Pettigrew more than anything else in the world.
He finally found the courage to wrap his blanket around him when Scabbers came closer again, recovering from being found out. The rat eyed him cautiously, then made several suggestive movements in quick succession. Ron looked slack-jawed at the rat standing on his hind legs, showing off his monstrous penis to him, then rubbing it on the ground of the cage. He’d turned him on. He’d turned a rat on! Or more accurate, a treacherous, murdering rat. Ron was so shocked he nearly forgot to be disgusted. And why the hell are rat’s dicks so enormous?
Ron put the cage under his bed as quick and quiet as he could, trying to lose the mental image of Scabbers rubbing himself on the ground.
Getting sleep, it seemed, was not getting easier. It took a long time to calm down, and more to get rid of the nagging guilt that came along with remembering he never bothered to hide from Scabbers before and that Scabbers therefore would have seen Ron before. Ron heard the rat squeak a few times, and didn’t find much sleep that night, lying dozing and dwelling on bizarre images that might have haunted his dreams, had he not been awake. Which was a pity, as Ron forgot about dreams pretty soon, if he remembered them at all.

[insert wet rat dreams here]

“Mate, you’re up yet?”
“Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I’m up.”
Ron managed to extract himself from his disturbing dreams – have I actually slept? – and to get up. He ‘forgot’ to feed Scabbers out of spite, then went to class. It was the last day of classes before they got their exam marks and before the leaving feast. Ron was intent to not to let his high spirits be dimmed by a stupid, perverted animal’s aberrations.
They still had a free period instead of potions.
“I wonder if Snape’s still asleep?” Harry mused on their way to the quidditch pitch.
“Merlin, I hope not. He’d kill Madam Pomfrey.”
“He’s not. At least, he’s not in the hospital wing anymore, I checked,” Harry informed them.
“But he’s not in the Great Hall for meals, either,” said Hermione.
“Yeah, but he’s not the social type, is he? If he’s still not feeling well, he wouldn’t be.”
“But he’ll be there for the leaving feast, won’t he? I’d hate to think he was really hurt. We shouldn’t have attacked him in the first place.”
“Why not? He was acting mental. If we don’t see him again until next year, he might have calmed down enough to not to dock too many points from Gryffindor,” Harry grinned.
“Yeah, he’d cost us the House Championship,” added Ron.
“From what we’ve seen in the hospital wing, he doesn’t need to calm down more, don’t you think?” Ron and Harry sniggered, while Hermione scowled.
“Still, it’s not funny if he’d been seriously hurt.”
“C’mon, Hermione. You can’t feel sorry for that mean bastard.”
“Mean bastard or not, he’s still human, Ron. I’m not pitying him, I’m just saying pain and injury are not funny. He’s human, too.”
“Maybe not. I’ve heard he might be a vampire.”
“Oh, Ron, don’t be stupid. How can he be a vampire and run around in daylight?”
“Well, he’s not running around much nowadays, is he?”
“He could be a dementor in disguise! Just think how he manages to suck the happiness out of his students!”
Even Hermione giggled, as it finally became clear to her they were not really serious. Ron supposed they were only annoying her so much because she assumed they actually had thought about ethics and moral when saying such things. He knew he himself didn’t. He had no idea if he really would find it amusing to have caused pain for a human being, but he joked about it nonetheless. That’s Hermione’s problem, he thought. She’s taking us seriously all the time. She’s even serious when she jokes and only laughs when she thinks it’s right to laugh. How does she stand it?

The Quidditch pitch, it turned out, was already occupied by the Slytherins. Hermione looked as if she wanted to suggest to try playing peacefully among/along them, but thankfully stayed silent when they turned and headed back to the castle, Ron furious and Harry disappointed.
“They must have hurried just to beat us to the pitch! It’s unfair, it was our idea.”
“Ron, you didn’t invent Quidditch. How is it unfair for them to play but not for us?”
Ron grumbled something unintelligible, mostly because he knew she was right, which made him even more angry.
“What should we do with all that free time?” Harry asked.
“Exploding Snap?” suggested Ron.
“I’ve still got my transfigurations essay left.” Hermione said, obviously expecting them to start with their homework, too.
“Hermione, we’ve got the whole summer hols for those essays.” Harry told her exasperated, but she didn’t give any indication she’d heard him. Then again, she never did and they had this conversation often. They still managed to have a lot of fun being three, Ron and Harry chattering or playing games, Hermione reading, writing or studying, from time to time giving out hints for their game or offering fun facts from her books that sometimes managed to amuse them, too.
“I’ll go get the cards,” said Harry and left for the dorm, while Ron and Hermione settled in a comfortable corner in the common room, Hermione immediately starting on her homework.
Ron wondered, once again, how she managed to stay sane under the immense workload she set herself.
“’Mione?”
“Hmm?”
“I still have no idea how you manage so many subjects. I mean, apart from the problem that you have several classes simultaneously, you haven’t slept much this year. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”
“Ron, it’s not as if it’s any of your concern, but if it really bothers you, I’ve already decided to drop muggle studies.”
Ron grinned. “I remember you telling us how interesting it is.”
“I said it would be interesting and believed it, too, at that time. It turned out it’s boring as hell, the only interesting thing is to know what problems people have dealing with muggles when they’ve grown up in the wizarding world. But it’s stupid to stay for hours and hours revising what a telephone is if you learned that at age three.”
“Yeah. Reminds me a bit of my first days here, all those kids knowing nothing at all about wizardry.”
“I suppose that would be similar. Anyway, I plan on having, well, more time next year. For everything. Not just more time to study, but for sleep and fun as well.”
Hermione sounded a bit distracted and wasn’t making too much sense to Ron, but in that moment, Harry walked over to them and gave Ron the cards.
“Scabbers is gone again, you know?”
“He is? So Dumbledore took him again?”
“Must be. But keep your voice down, alright?”
“Sorry. Deal the cards.”
They played until it was time to go to charms. However, before they reached the classroom, Professor McGonagall stopped them.
“Mr. Weasley? The headmaster wishes to talk to you. You’ll be excused from any class you’ll be missing. He awaits you in his office.”
Harry, Ron and Hermione looked nervously at each other.
“Sir, can you tell me why?”
“No, I can’t. I’m sure Professor Dumbledore will inform you when you’re there. And you two, class begins in three minutes. Hurry!”
With that, Professor McGonagall hurried away, presumably to her own class. Ron promised his friends to tell what this was about and got on his way, worrying. His best guess was that Pettigrew might finally be going to prison and Dumbledore only wanted to inform him he won’t have to keep him anymore. Then again, Professor McGonagall could have told him that, and as Pettigrew confessing concerned Harry’s godfather, Dumbledore would have invited him too, as well as perhaps Hermione.
Then it struck him: what if Pettigrew had talked about last evening? Ron had no idea how much he could remember from his time in rat form, as he didn’t seem to understand much human language in the shack, but from what else he knew about animagi he would surely remember that. A horrible sinking feeling settled in Ron’s stomach. That was not only embarrassing, it was utterly terrifying. And somehow private, too; if Pettigrew had talked about that, Ron could never look the headmaster in the eyes again.
He reached the office actually trembling. This was much worse than being found out using secret passages to sneak to Hogsmeade, or smuggling Dungbombs into Filch’s office. But he’d face it like a man. Well, like a boy awaiting impending doom, but at least doing so bravely and upright.
“Bwaak,” he said with resolution. If he was about to face death of mortification, at least he should try to do it proudly.

“Good morning, Mr. Weasley. Have a seat,” said Dumbledore good-naturedly.
“Why am I here?” Ron blurted.
“A little bit impatient, don’t you think? Have you done something wrong?”
Dumbledore was not looking angry, so Ron tried to sound confident.
“Not that I know of, sir. But I’m missing classes and was wondering what’s so urgent.”
“Ah, had I known you’re so intend on studying … I can assure you, Professor Flitwick doesn’t usually teach anything new in the last class of term. As for why you are here, I’ve permitted myself to kidnap Peter Pettigrew again. He’s quite stubborn on the whole confession matter, but has been forthcoming so far on providing information about Voldemort –“ Ron flinched. “– and Death Eaters. What surprises me is how much he wants to stay in your care. I have to admit, I’m interested in how you’ve been treating him, both recently and before.”
“Er … I’ve been feeding him. A bit, at least, though not as regularly as in former times. Mostly I ignore him. Except when I feed him, that’s when I tell him to be quiet or even settle down, and he does. I might have been showing him off a few times in the dorm,” Ron admitted.
Dumbledore seemed to be highly amused by that.
“And he never did that before?”
“No, on the contrary. I tried to teach him tricks when I was little, but it didn’t work. I always assumed he was just too stupid.”
“How did you care for him before you learned he’s not a rat?”
“Well, I fed him well, nearly all the time, and I took him with me everywhere I went. He spent most of his time in my pocket, though I mainly ignored him even back then. Why do you want to know?”
Dumbledore thought for a while and Ron grew slightly uncomfortable upon realizing that he had said nothing about Scabbers being with him when he bathed, used the toilet – or wanked. He was just a rat that therefore didn’t care. Who expects lunatics to grow out of pets?
“Mr. Weasley, the information we want from Pettigrew that he didn’t already give are of a more personal nature. He respects that he’s in our power, but he doesn’t really trust us. He’s deeply afraid of his old friends, and he doesn’t talk openly in front of me – his answers are accurate, but taciturn. He knows more than that, but he won’t tell us this way.”
“Pardon,” Ron interrupted, “but what exactly do you want to know from him?”
“How Voldemort –,“ Ron flinched again, “– recruits his servants, for example. How they approach people, what they tell them, what kind of people were informants for him in those time. Pettigrew knows those things because he was recruited himself. We have names, but he doesn’t give us the strategies. It’s of more personal nature to him, so I hope he’ll tell someone he feels more close to.”
An uneasy suspicion crept up to Ron.
“Me?”
“If you’d be willing to talk to him, I’d be grateful. I don’t expect results, but if he confides in you it would make working with him much easier. It’s his only way to atone for what he’s done until he goes to prison.”
“But he will go to prison, won’t he?”
“I expect so. But it could still take some time. I’ve started talking with the ministry about some recently discovered evidence that exonerates Sirius Black. If they’re willing to actually look into it, we might have a chance.”
“Harry’ll be pleased to hear that.”
“So, what I’m asking of you is this: Pettigrew is currently in a warded room in the dungeons, awaiting being put into his cage to be brought back to you. What we’re hoping for is his willingness to confess to the ministry – even if in exchange for a shorter sentence or the like – or remorse. If he doesn’t show an indication for any of those, and I don’t expect he will, to get him to talk more openly would be a good start.”
“But how should I do that? How could I possibly make him talk? Threaten to starve him?”
“Death threats don’t work on him all that good, or so Sirius told me. Judging him and his actions only makes him defend himself and trying to justify his actions.”
“Then I don’t see how – wait, did you say Sirius talked to him? Sirius Black?”
“Yes, he did. He was not very successful, as he’s too angry with Pettigrew to actually listen to him, but then again, he’d just spent 12 years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. So, will you try it? Remember, he accepted you as his master years ago. He trusted you with his life, and even now, he rather stays with you than in any prison I could provide. Just be yourself.”
“I hate him.”
“He knows that. Will you meet him or shall I bring him back as a rat?”
“I really don’t know what I could possibly do, but if you think I should, then I’ll go.”
Dumbledore was visibly relieved.
“You’ll be excused from all classes today, of course. Take your time, but if you have enough, you are free to leave him. I’ll bring him back later unless you don’t want him back at all.”
“Wait. You’re not –“
“Coming with you? No. What use would it be if you weren’t alone with him? Just go to the potions classroom, Professor Snape will explain the safety precautions to you.”
“Snape?”
“He’s not biting, you know.” Dumbledore seemed to be highly amused by Ron’s terror.
“I won’t deny he was angry at you three at first, but he’d been helping Sirius’ case ever since he heard the full story from me and saw for himself Pettigrew’s alive. He not even docked points.”
Ron thought that had to be worth something. Snape docked points for sneezing, if he didn’t then there was next to nothing to fear. He gathered all his courage [insert courage here] and got up.
“Might as well get it over with. I don’t know about it, but I’ll try.”
“Thank you, my boy.”