Chapter Text
His head was bowed, his feet dragging. Each Death Eater had him by an arm, their vicious laughter filling his head, taunting him as they regaled him with how they murdered his uncles. How they were going to break him apart, bit by bit, until there was only something small left—a finger, an ear—and send it to his mother.
“Prewetts are always so fun to tear apart,” one of them hissed in his ear.
Ron struggled weakly, too exhausted to try to get free. He wished they’d just get it over with, but knew they’d be dragging it out as much as they could. Probably chain him up or something, dangle him like a toy. The Cruciatus curse, for sure. Multiple times. He shuddered, slumping even more.
He wasn’t sure where he was being taken. It had happened in a flash. The battle… spells flying everywhere… Harry’s voice… Hermione’s scream… something hitting Ron’s back, and then… blackness. Until this. All he really knew was they were going down a long, dim corridor. There wasn’t much sound to be heard beyond the doors, although there were several paintings watching with curiosity. Whispering about a prisoner. About him.
They arrived at a large double door, which the Death Eaters shoved open. Beyond the door was what used to be a ballroom and now was turned into some sort of throne room. A few Death Eaters hovered around the edges, and at the front of the room was a dais and a black marble throne where Voldemort sat.
Ron shrank back, and started struggling more, causing the two Death Eaters dragging him to laugh. He should have known this was where he was being taken, and yet—it didn’t really hit him until he laid eyes on the Dark Lord.
“A present for you, my Lord,” said one Death Eater.
“You need to bow,” snapped the other one, shoving Ron down onto his knees. “Show subservience to your better.”
Voldemort slowly got off his throne, eyes locking in on Ron. He wasn’t looking back, he could just feel it. Feel the stare of the evil wizard, feel it burning into him. His hope for death vanished, because he knew perfectly well what Voldemort was going to do: use him as bait. And Harry, the stupid idiot, would take it.
“And who is this?” Voldemort approached him, his bare feet whispering across the floor, his robes like smoke around his legs. He stopped in front of Ron and his wand came into view, wedging under Ron’s chin and forcing him to look up at him. “Weasley, is it?”
Ron swallowed, heart pounding. The wood pressed against his jaw, and the top of the wand rested very, very gently against his Adam’s apple. He was too afraid to look away, and stared back into those red, soulless eyes. Voldemort smirked, twisting his wand slightly so the wood rolled under Ron’s chin.
“Answer me.”
Ron clenched his teeth, remaining silent.
Voldemort snorted and stepped back, his wand tapping against his other hand. “I see. Stand him up.”
Ron was hauled back to his feet and he gave a slight gasp at the sudden yank upwards. Voldemort tilted his head and began circling him slowly, eyes grazing up and down as he took him in.
“Fine then. Don’t answer me. I know perfectly well who you are, Ronald.” He came to a stop in front of Ron again, the smirk spreading across his dead face. “Harry’s best friend. Weren’t you the one he had to rescue during the tournament?” His wand tapped against Ron’s cheek now. “His most precious friend?”
Ron drew in a deep breath… and then spit in Voldemort’s face. There were gasps from the Death Eaters watching, and the ones holding Ron flung him to the floor, shoving his face against the wood; one put his boot on Ron’s head, thrusting his head forward a bit so the tip of his nose rested right against Voldemort’s foot.
“There, there, boys. Stop that.” Voldemort snapped his fingers and Ron sprang back up into the air, dangling from unseen forces. He struggled a bit then settled for glaring, managing a slight smile as Voldemort wiped the saliva off his cheek. “Feisty one. Well. We better be sure you aren’t a risk for anything more, shouldn’t we?” He stepped back and pointed his wand at Ron.
Ron lifted his chin, mentally preparing himself as best he could for the Cruciatus curse… but instead felt something cold squirming all over his body. He jerked as his clothes began falling to pieces to the floor, turning to ash at Voldemort’s feet. Bit by bit his clothes disappeared until he was hung in the air wearing nothing but his undergarments.
He… seriously… regretted wearing his usual undergarments.
There was a lot of snickering and laughing from the Death Eaters, while Voldemort simply looked him up and down again, something flickering in his eyes as he did.
Ron kept his chin up, doing his best not to look embarrassed at being so exposed. A lacy black stomach covering, matching lace back panties, and black stocking suspenders dangling empty as his stockings had turned to ash as well.
Voldemort flickered his gaze back to Ron’s face, his red eyes even darker. “I suppose you don’t have your wand on you, after all. Unless…” He stepped closer, tapping his wand against Ron’s exposed thigh, right next to his panties. Ron flinched. “No. I don’t suppose so.”
He turned around, walking a foot or two away, keeping his back to Ron. One hand lifted and his fingers snapped; Ron came floating back down to the ground; at least he hadn’t been flung down. As soon as his feet touched the floor, the two Death Eaters seized his arms again.
“Shall we take him to the dungeon, my Lord?” one asked.
“Or to our special room, for answers,” laughed the other, fingers digging into Ron’s flesh so hard he knew there’d be bruises.
“No,” Voldemort said, his back still to them. “I will question him myself. Chain him in my private room. Make sure the room is enforced, so even if he somehow gets the chains off he can’t escape.” He then spun around, eyes narrowed. “Now .”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused and dragged Ron off.
Ron quailed under their grips, trying to dig his bare heels into the ground to no avail. The dungeons or the Death Eaters’ torture room sounded horrifying, but Voldemort questioning him privately sounded worse. He tried to tug himself free and then slumped down, pushing with all his might; he was simply too weak from the fight earlier, too tired, too… pathetic. He gave up, and slumped once more.
*
He was against a wall, the thick, magicked chains holding his wrists hung high enough that even stretched out he could barely stand on the ground. He stood on tiptoes for a while then hung, then tiptoes, and then hung down once more. He spent a lot of his time yanking at the chains, trying desperately to get free before Voldemort came in to question him. He also tried to do wandless magic, which he wasn’t good at. Nothing worked, and by the time the door opened, he was beyond exhausted and in more pain than before.
Voldemort swept in, robes billowing behind him. Ron glanced up, watching him warily as he approached the wall, eyes narrowed.
“This is not what I meant,” he hissed out, pulling his wand from his pocket. “Those idiots never listen to me properly.” He flicked his wand and Ron winced, but all that happened was a silver chain started slithering across the floor like a snake. One end was attached to the very big, very heavy looking bed that sat in the center of the long wall. The other end flickered a bit like a snake’s tongue as it approached Ron. He cringed back as the chain slithered up his body and then he felt something snap around his neck.
Voldemort studied him for a second. “No. Silver isn’t your color.” He flicked the wand again, and the chain turned gold; another flick, and the chains on his wrists disappeared.
Ron fell to the ground, gasping in pain a bit, and blinking rapidly as he tried to gather himself. The first thing he did was rub his bruised, sore wrists, and then one hand went to his neck to feel the collar that had gone around it. Before he could do much else, the chain began shortening. Not very fast, slow enough that once he realized what was happening he was able to get to his feet so he wasn’t dragged. He stumbled across the room, running his fingers along the collar to try to feel if there was some sort of seam, and then he collapsed down next to the bed. There was only a couple of feet of chain now, tethering him to the bed.
Voldemort walked over, and Ron got back up, trying to hold himself high, trying not to look frightened. It was hard not to, being without his wand… and mostly naked. Voldemort ran the tip of his wand along Ron’s cheek, down onto his chest, coming to a rest over his heart.
“Any particular reason why you’re wearing such… fascinating underclothes?” he then asked, reaching down to tug at one of the suspenders. Ron began working up some saliva in his mouth. Voldemort noticed, and moved his wand to tap the end of Ron’s nose. “If you spit on me again, I will put you under the Imperius curse and make you lick it off.”
Ron pressed his lips tightly together, all thoughts of spitting on Voldemort again immediately disappearing.
“My sources say you prefer Ron to Ronald, is that right?” Voldemort tilted his wand back and forth, waiting. Silence. “Ron Weasley. Sixth of seven. Molly and Arthur are your parents. William. Charles. Percy. Fred. George. You. Ginerva. Is that right?” More silence. Voldemort took a few steps back, looking him up and down again. Ron trembled slightly under that hot red gaze. “My sources also say you are supposedly at your parents’ house, sick with spattergroit. Instead you are running about the countryside with Potter and the Mudblood. In this,” he said, tugging at the suspenders again, smirking. “Hmm. Still nothing? Not one for talking? Very well.”
He turned and left the room, and Ron slowly sank down to the floor, confused. The whole interaction had been confusing. Then suddenly he grew paranoid that Voldemort was going to come back with something to use against him. More knowledge of his family. Ginny? She was at Hogwarts. Were the twins safe? Bill? Charlie? Percy? His relationship with Percy was strenuous at best, but he knew he’d break if he saw Percy being tortured in front of him.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, carefully breathing in and out as he tried to focus on the good things. Harry and Hermione were safe. That was important. By now they would have moved their campsite, and were probably figuring out how to rescue him. Which they shouldn’t. That was what Voldemort would want: Harry to come running into this, and be killed. He wished he could somehow send a psychic message to his friends, telling them to stay away.
He’d rather die than let Harry be captured, and he suspected that that’s exactly what was going to end up happening.