Chapter Text
Ron finds himself eating dinner in an opulent dining room, chandelier lit and casting crystalline light against a backdrop near empty. The light is dim, but bright enough to still see what’s in front of him.
The room is gorgeous, in its own right; arched ceilings and gold trimmings, plush chairs that sit beside a table that seem to stretch to forever. The carpet is plush and soft under his bare feet, and the decoration tasteful, or what he assumes is tasteful. The windows are high-arched, but the curtains are drawn shut— it’s nighttime, after all. There’s little point in keeping the windows open like they’re waiting for a gossiper or nosy onlooker to come by.
He picks at his food. It tastes delicious, he knows it. Even the meal looks delicious, worthy of something only the richest can afford. But the thought of himself eating and enjoying such casual luxury is repulsive. He doesn’t think he should be sitting here, in this opulent manor, feasting on prime venison while his own countrymen fight for scraps. He should be among them, maybe complaining and struggling, but at least he would be happy.
“Ronald, eat your food.” A voice calls from beside him; His voice runs smooth and cutting, uncompromising. “It’s getting cold.”
Ron pulls himself back to reality. “Of course, of course.” He mutters, willing the necessary parts of his body to move the meat to his mouth. It melts in his tongue; if it were any other day, or perhaps any other situation, he would have properly enjoyed himself. Now all he can feel is gnawing empty.
He would like to shove the plate away, maybe throw it off the table, or maybe throw it at some precious vase instead. He would like to eat it with his family, as everyone completely disregards every single etiquette rule ever conceived of. That would be fun, Ron thinks. They all would scarf down the food like wild animals, and talk with their mouths full and get berated by their mother in the same hour.
There is the quiet clink of a fork being put down: A warning. A lapse in judgment; or perhaps a lapse in manners.
Ron clenches and unclenches his fists under the table. Breathe in, breathe out. Just get through the dinner, without any lasting consequence, and it’ll be fine. No one will get crucioed in his place if he can help it.
“Apologies, grandfather.” He coughs as politely as he can into his hand.
He looks to his left. Voldemort cuts up the venison with precision, something mimicking a smile on his pale lips. It almost makes Ron want to barf, and he has to look away lest he suddenly vomits all over the nice mahogany. Voldemort and his rare smiles still unnerves him, even after all this time.
These nightly dinners have always been quiet affairs, unless he had guests over. It consisted of the Dark Lord detailing his day, almost like bullet points in an essay, hiding his worst crimes and offenses in the sharp indent of his diction, and Ron reciprocating as best as he can— even though there is barely anything he can do in such an empty manor.
What these horrid dinners made up for in general unpleasantness however, is the fact that he is Ron’s only source of any news from the outside that hasn’t been steamrolled by the newly instated “Department of Media and Entertainment” a hundred dozen times. While the tyrant has no issues hiding whatever he wants from him, Ron can say with great distaste that what he does reveal is at least true. At least Ron’s now getting answers at all.
Voldemort puts the other utensil down as well, bringing a napkin to wipe at his own face. Ron keeps eating as much dinner his stomach and moral integrity can take. “So, Ronald. I am sending you back to Hogwarts.”
Ron head whips so fast, it’s almost a surprise his head didn’t pop off. “Wh—what?”
“Indeed.” Voldemort puts the napkin down, and stares Ron directly in the eyes. It raises every hackle that Ron could physically hold in one body. “It should’ve been your fifth year a year ago, if only it weren’t for…well, it doesn’t really matter in the end. You have sufficient knowledge that I feel a little more secure in my decision. I have taught you up to standard, haven’t I?”
Fuck, fuck. Ron berates himself. He was too obvious. He needed to reel it in fast.
Ron sips from the goblet before checking his occlumency wards. His throat is a little too dry for comfort, but his mind is impenetrable as ever. Everyday he is reminded to thank Snape for what scant privacy he has now. “I am your dutiful child, grandfather. You’ve taught me that.” He replies easily, light enough that it doesn’t come off as accusatory.
“That’s a non-answer.”
“The result is sitting across you, isn’t it?” Ron puts the fork down and folds his hands on his lap. “I bring results, haven’t I?”
His hands are shaking. Ron continues to stare him down, refusing to be the one to look away. Much to his utter displeasure, Voldemort continues onward, still making uncomfortable eye contact with him.
“Quite. I trust that you will act with the decorum needed to represent the noble House of Gaunt.” Voldemort continues, cutting the meat in two. “Nonetheless, I have had the school reviewed properly, and deemed it safe enough for you to finish your schooling. As of now we can’t deal with the more unsavory additions that blustering fool Dumbledore established, but I have plans to abolish that by your seventh year.”
Ron leans back and thinks the words through properly, lets it sit quietly in his mind until he understands. When the answer does come to him, it tastes a little like bitter resentment, because of course, Voldemort would do that. “You’ve done some changes to the curriculum.” He says as diplomatically as he can, trying to keep his voice even.
“I did.” Voldemort replies. If he knew of Ron’s real feelings on the matter, he didn’t say it. There was no need for Legilimency. “A change here or two, but it should be no problem. Just continue your education as normal.”
Ron doubts it, with how vague he is on the matter. And Ron cannot help but question what changes exactly, and what level of horrendous it could be.
He almost wants to chase the lead down, he wants to keep asking, probing for answers until there could be possibly nothing left to learn. He wants to curse at the man, break every porcelain thing and rip the chandelier down from its hinges. He wants to pull out his wand and curse him with all the hatred in his heart that he could possibly give. He wants to curse him for the injustice, the cruelty, for taking away everything that Ron held dear. He wants to take his revenge for killing his friends, for blackmailing him with his own family, for massacring half an entire society. He wants Voldemort dead and gone. He wants to rip off his face, he wants this house to burn, and he wants the vile, cruel man in front of him to burn with it.
Instead, he stays silent, the simmering anger boiling under his veins somehow cooling itself down to something tangibly controllable. His Occlumency hasn’t wavered once; while Voldemort could simply force himself in whenever he wants, at least Ron will know, and react accordingly.
He contemplates stabbing the potatoes, and he ends up having to restrain himself and instead push the root crop around. “Of course. Thank you, grandfather.” The words flow out his tongue, with the grace of someone who’s said it a hundred times before. It cannot stop all of the bitterness, however, but it at least hides the repulsion. It’s progress, really.
Voldemort must sense his reluctance, because he decides to show Ron mercy, for once. “Go to your room, Ronald. It’s clear enough to me you no longer have the appetite.” He finally says, waving a hand away dismissively.
Ron could not rise from his seat fast enough. “Goodnight, then.”
And with his back turned, Ron power-walks to the door. The only things left in the dining room is an unreadable expression on the Dark Lord’s face, and a plate only half eaten.
So where did it go wrong?
In the beginning, he thought that his fourth year would be the most emotionally-draining year of his life. Everything screamed at him left and right, he didn’t even want to think about whatever the hell his body was going through, and several times Ron cried on his pillow, thinking of all the ways on how to somehow salvage his relationship with Harry.
And then Ron’s world fell in the spring of 1995.
No one saw it coming. Why would they, in the excitement and the anticipation of the Triwizard Tournament? Who would expect the infallible defenses of Hogwarts to fall, on the night of the Third Task?
The air was filled with excitement, the announcer and the enlarged map floating in front of them the crowd’s only guide to the depths of the maze. Ron was cheering with his family in the stands, screaming as loud as he could, as if his voice could carry over the din of the crowds and into the dark maze. His eyes were trained on the red dot crawling through the map the whole time.
He had faith that Harry would win. Harry had survived trial after trial in all the time that Ron knew him, and triumphed all of them, at that. A maze wouldn’t stop his best friend. Ron didn’t know if anything could stop him at all.
And then Voldemort appeared on the winner’s podium: Triwizard trophy in one hand, a wand white as bone on the other, and Harry Potter’s unmoving corpse at his feet.
And then there was chaos. Screaming erupted through the quidditch court, as the school was suddenly penned in by all sides by black smoke and flashes of green. Ron found himself separated from his family, as multiple people from the crowd drew their wands and pointed to the sky to fell Death Eaters from above. There was screaming everywhere, ringing to the choir of wandfire and death.
Ron found himself more terrified than he’d even been in his life.
He stumbled to the front, to where Harry’s body was kicked aside in the battle, ignored in the dust and chaos as if he was never there at all. Ron forced his legs to weave through the fire, until his hands could grasp the Gryffindor red of his best friend’s shirt and shake him, check his pulse, feel his breath, anything to indicate that he’s somehow alive.
Harry was deathly cold, his heart still in his chest never to beat for anyone again. Harry was dead.
And then someone grabbed him, pale and calloused with blisters and strangely smelling of liquid luck, and threw him into the arms of someone Ron couldn’t put a name to. He struggled in their grip, and they dove through the castle and into the grand hall, his family nowhere to be found.
Ron remembered struggling in his grip, until what felt like days passed and Dumbledore was forced to calm him down. He may have passed out a few times. But he certainly remembered the shivers wracking through his bones, the tremors in his hands as the adults conceded with each other, about missing families and too many casualties. It was only a few hours, and yet, where was everyone?
“Professor Dumbledore!” Ron remembers interjecting whatever conversation the headmaster and the Auror were on. “My family, have you seen them?”
He just needed to know if they were safe. He didn’t even doubt their ability, not even once. It was the same assurance that told him Harry would be safe.
They looked to each other, then to Ron. There was something unsettling in their faces, but it’s been such a terrible year that he’d forgotten what they looked like. Ron remembered the way it locked their jaws, as if the truth was too much to bear. “Ron, my boy—“ Dumbledore said.
“—please, professor.” Ron begged. “my family, Hermione, they’re safe, right?”
They looked at each other again, apprehension and sorrow on their face. At the time, Ron didn’t know why they looked like so. Even now, did he wish he never knew at all. Maybe it would've been easier on his conscious, if he died on a battlefield feeling free.
“Ron,” Dumbledore finally said. “Your family was last seen fighting amongst the Death Eaters, getting crowded around them. We think they’ve been kidnapped, overwhelmed by sheer force.”
Ron’s mind blanked.
“I-what? You’re joking, professor.” A breathy laugh erupted out of him, but it sounded too fake in his ears. “Kidnapped, really professor? That can’t be, can it?” Ron had five competent brothers and a ferocious sister. They would've overtaken the Death Eaters in minutes.
Dumbledore lowered his head, remorse seemingly seeping into his very core. “It’s not the worst part yet, I’m afraid. Your brother, George, and Ms. Granger is…I’m so sorry, my boy. I couldn’t protect your family, and I couldn’t protect your friend.”
The entire great hall was full of white tarps and grieving families, but Ron couldn’t focus on it. All he could focus on was the lack of moving red hair, and a girl bleeding out on a white tarp. Her hair forever untamed even in death, her mouth agape, her chestnut eyes glazed over and unfeeling.
“Harry’s going to make it, I know he will!” Hermione’s eyes, crinkled in joy, cheeks painted red and gold, holding a banner up high and laughing with him in the rising and waning cheer. “He’s only our Harry, after all! Nothing’s impossible for him!”
Ron held onto Hermione’s cheek, a bleak cold that almost sent him reeling back. She felt like a corpse. She looked every much like a corpse, in the way that Harry looked like a corpse.
And beside her was George. Bright, mischievous, larger than life George, with the hidden knowledge behind his eyes and the empathy in his eyes that clashed with Fred’s protective ruthlessness. His hair was matted with dirt, his cheeks scuffed with dust and soil. Something was bleeding from his shoulder, and it fell to the floor in penultimate drip, drip, drip.
Ron could even remember what was the last thing he said to him. Was it before the third task, when they rounded together to scream out their improvised cheer for Harry? Was it that morning, when the twins greeted Ron at breakfast? Why couldn’t he remember?
Ron’s family wasn’t here. George was dead. Hermione was dead. Harry was dead.
The only thing Ron remembered after that, was clutching her scarlet-stained shirt and finally falling apart.
Ron took a sip.
The tea tasted like poison. The shortcakes tasted like ash. Every single thing on the damn table Ron was forced to accept tasted bitter and acrid, despite the pleasant lemon cake or the nice mint he could’ve been drinking. The roses suffocated his lungs, the sun shining from the greenhouse bearing down on him, as if it’s trying to fool him into a sense of security.
He puts the tea cup down. “Let them go.” Ron spat out with as even a tone as he possibly could. “Let my family go.”
Voldemort leaned on the garden chair, face the picture of amusement. “And you have nothing to trade them for, little boy. You snuck away from the safety of your little rebellion, and what? What makes you think I’ll simply hand them over to you? What do you have that’ll make me reconsider their timely execution?”
Ron bit his tongue. Voldemort was right, loathe he was to admit. Ron had no money to offer, no heirloom or secret to divinity or anything that Ron could think up in the heat of the moment. His family wasn’t exactly the richest either. They were poor, by wizarding standards. What could Ron possibly give the dark lord in order to get his family back?
But he knew Voldemort had something up his sleeve. He wanted something from Ron, ever since he slipped that damned owl note to Ron, when he found himself in the Owlery wondering how he got there. The Dark Lord knew that if he just dangled his family in front of his face, Ron would attempt even the most stupid of things to get them back, come hell or high water.
Ron was suicidal and most certainly the biggest idiot in Britain, but he was not dumb. Dad and mum would rather eat dirt than send their children out into the world without some sense.
“That’s right.” Voldemort smirked as he put his tea cup down. “You don’t have anything to offer me, except perhaps for one thing.”
He waved his hand, and a chess set materialized on the table, glimmering with polish as if brand new. Ron couldn’t help but notice the gold lined in the cracks of the chess pieces, like kintsugi. It looked too fragile to touch. “Here’s the deal, Ronald Weasley. Let’s play a single round of chess. If you win, I’m giving your family a full pardon. They will go free, no strings attached, no damage to their reputation. In fact, I may elevate it, if you impress me enough.”
“That’s too good to be true, and you know it.” Ron said, accusing and hopefully cutting. “There’s always a catch, so what is it?”
Voldemort smiled, wicked and gleeful. “Your family relinquishes you to me.”
The response doesn’t reach his ears, at first. For a split second, Ron thought he completely misheard the whole thing.
And then he finds himself standing, having pushed the table away and upsetting the ornate chessboard. Whatever else that was happening around him feels far away and unreachable, consumed by the fury that suddenly boiled his skin. “No—No, you can’t be fucking serious. Are you saying I have to bargain myself?!”
“Sit down, Ron.” Voldemort’s voice is cutting, somehow rending its way into Ron’s soul. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”
“You are asking for ownership of my life.” Ron spits out, hatred in every lilt and tone even as the dark lord’s voice shakes his resolve.“You already going to kill my family after killing George and Harry and Hermione, and you still want to take everything from me, you monster.”
“You are asking for me to spare seven people slated to die. And your life,” Voldemort replies, ice-cold. “Is merely the discount. Do you want to sit down and listen to me, or do you want me to call for the blood of your other companions? Lovegood or Longbottom would appreciate it, I’m sure.”
And that is what stops Ron in his tracks. Luna, Neville, they didn’t deserve to get dragged into this. No one did, really. Ron didn’t want to wish this kind of hell on anyone.
“No.” Ron muttered, pulling the chair forward and sitting back down. He doesn’t want to, but he’s got little choice left. “I’ll…I’ll do, I guess.”
“You will be.” Voldemort leans forward, a smug expression on his face like he finally figured Ron out. “Anyways, if you lose, which you will I’m sure, you no longer can use Weasley as your last name. In fact, what I do with you is entirely up to me and me alone.”
“And if I win, you’ll let my family go, no strings attached?”
“Of course,” Voldemort nods. “Let my Death Eaters be the witness.”
The thought scares Ron like nothing else. If Ron loses, who knows what the dark lord was going to do with him. Would he join his family as they got kissed by dementors? Or would he do something worse and make Ron watch? Would he treat him like a house elf, or would he put him in some basement forever, subjected to the sadistic whim of his generals?
But nonetheless, this is the best Ron is going to get. “Fine, Voldemort. I accept your terms.”
He smiles once more, and motions to the board. “White plays first.”
Ron stared at the board in muted shock.
There were barely any pieces left on the board. Ron had to wring out every strategy and every technique he knew, trying to see multiple steps ahead and barely keeping his own king alive with his strategies. It was a one-sided battle, he knew this; Voldemort is a dangerously good player, one of the best that Ron’s ever had the misfortune of playing against.
But the game was over—his king was surrounded, and his remaining knight and bishop too far away to help. It was checkmate. Ron had completely, utterly lost.
Ron looked up from the board, and saw Voldemort in front of him, leaning on his chair victorious.
“I’ll admit you had a few interesting strategies.” Voldemort says finally, uncaring to Ron’s mounting dread. “Multiple times I wondered who chess-master taught you their craft. But alas, I win.”
Ron’s throat was dry, his mind spinning in impossible angles that all told him you are finished; you are done for. You failed your family, and you are a failure. “I lost.”
“You did.” Voldemort smiles, picturesque of the devil.
Ron didn’t even recognize when something grabbed him with calloused hands, when the jeers and the crowing jabs of the deaths eaters echoed around him. He failed his family. They were going to die, kissed by a dementor in a fate worse than death.
He didn’t even recognize when those cheers of sadistic jubilee twist into shock, then confusion. He didn’t recognize Voldemort’s sentence wrapping around him like a noose, the way his words would change Ron’s life forever. He didn’t recognize the way Snape’s eyes carefully looked away, nor did he notice the way the knot in Lucius’s gut untangled. He didn’t even recognize being dragged along an endless procession of hallways, only staring at the carpet in dazed resignation.
It was when he was no longer being dragged did Ron find himself in a lavish bedroom with several barred windows, and clothes that were strangely his size.
When he first came into this room, his mind was blank, reeling from that chess match. His mind couldn’t help but think about it, wrapping his head around with what happened, what did he do, what could he have done to stop it?
He remembered sitting down on the plush couch, staring into his hands as he replayed the game in his head over and over, wondering how exactly did he lose, and when exactly did he go wrong. Was it during that awful move with the bishop? Or maybe earlier in the game, taking the black knight a move too early?
Or was Ron doomed to fail since the beginning, the second he went up and decided to wager his own life? Would he be in a better situation if he simply stayed put and waited for someone to save him?
He didn’t know. All he knew was that he lost. He failed his family. Voldemort probably wants to kill him now. He has every right to—considering that Ron's the best friend of the Chosen One, and that Ron was definitely loyal enough to be a liability the second he were to be let go.
He remembers sitting there on that chair, barely responsive, listening to the resounding tick of the grandfather clock. When he finally comes back to himself, it is with mounting confusion, and no answers. In the end, Ron stood up, rolling his shoulder to ease their tension, before properly exploring wherever he was.
The beginning was spent with Ron exploring the room and its adjacent archways, running his hands through every ornate carving and knocking on the walls for anything hollow enough to be worth breaking. It didn’t give him that much; the room is large and elaborate, velvet wallpaper reaching to its high ceiling, with some sort of reception area at the front leading to several conjoined rooms with a purpose to connect them together.
He explored the right side first: A bedroom just as ornate as the first, with a fireplace sat between two wide windows, also wrought with iron bars. The carpet here was plush, with a wide canopy bed so soft Ron could almost fade away in its embrace. There were several bookshelves built in its sides, the bed itself raised on a platform and adorned with two vintage lamps. Ron couldn’t help but notice how empty it was, exempting the dozen or so books that broke the emptiness of the bookshelves.
(He ignored the black journal sitting innocently on the desk. He ignored the red wallpaper. He’d come back to it later, and besides—It probably belonged to some spoiled Gryffindor pureblood, anyways.)
But the one thing that shocked him the most was the room on the right, which was a glorified walk-in closet. The walls were completely covered in shelves, tiny nooks and long compartments meant to fit clothes Ron would never imagine himself wearing in his lifetime. The adjacent bathroom was positively shining, marble fixtures and an honest-to-Merlin bathtub. There were windows there too, framing the sides of an extensive vanity with too much shelves to make sense of.
It was beautiful, no. It was breathtaking. Ron would never imagine stepping foot into a room such as this, where some random child could possibly need three whole separate rooms for whatever rich kid activity they were doing. Ron would probably maim for one night in a room like this.
Which is why the scene brought tears of frustration to his eyes, as the reality of the situation finally dawned upon him. He is in a room of lavish opulence, where it holds everything that Ron wished he could have, but never really did. Why else is he here, in a room he doesn’t deserve, if only to somehow torture him until he dies as well?
Oh Merlin, he thought to himself. How did Ron come under the assumption that he had any chance of winning against Voldemort in chess? Had he just been playing with him, luring him along with piece after piece, just because he thought it was fun to watch him squirm?
He needed to get out of here, the idea presented itself with dangerous ferocity. Ron needed to get out of here, or else he’ll die or perish to some other horrible fate waiting for him.
But where could he go? Ron thought back sullenly, almost despairingly. He and Voldemort had a bet, and Ron lost. No one was going to help him. In fact, Ron had the sneaking suspicion that the ones who did care about him enough to save him thought Ron was with the rest of his family. Which he wasn’t.
(His family would’ve loved living in luxury like this, granted this wasn’t one big favor to be cashed on later. The high ceilings, the costly silk, the feather-soft bed, and what later would be the five-star meals. It would’ve sent the whole family to shocked silence, wondering what god or primordial force was looking out for them.)
(Ron’s mum would’ve cried her heart out until she practically shriveled. Ginny would’ve treated the Chinese silk like a strange heirloom, and she would’ve worn out the material until it was unrecognizable. Fred and George would have to somehow revive Percy, who would’ve fainted from excitement. His dad would probably try to sell it all, or maybe he’d be as chill about it as Bill and Charlie.)
(Ron would’ve thought himself the luckiest 15 year-old in the world.)
It's no time at all when the door creaks open after a period of time, and Ron hurriedly stands—to run or what, he doesn’t know. Ron almost expects it to be some sort of death eater, or at least a face he doesn’t know. There is the likely chance that it could be Voldemort himself, coming to gloat, or to finish him off once and for all.
Instead, it is Voldemort himself who’s at the front of the door, face unreadable. Which was just Ron’s luck, really.
Ron didn’t dare make a sound, not when something about Voldemort seemed so pleased right now. He closed the door behind him, and the dark lord seems to glide his way to the center couch, uncaring of the forces of the universe.
“Ronald. May I call you Ronald?” Voldemort wasn’t even looking at him. “Sit with me.”
Ron stared at him. The dark lord stared back, as if daring him to question it.
Ron hesitantly stepped forward, choosing to take the farthest seat he possibly could. He ended up sitting on one of the armchairs closest to where the dark lord sat, with nothing but the corners of a coffee table to separate them. The seat is comfortable, dare he even say it, pleasant.
Ron stares at Voldemort, waiting for him to say something. Ron isn’t that stupid, he still cherishes his life.
Voldemort sips the tea—when did the tea arrive? “You have questions.”
“Of course I do,” Ron fought to keep his voice steady. “I’m supposed to wake up in a dungeon, not whatever this is.”
The man in front of him smiles, uncaring by of how it drives dread into his heart. “I’ll forgive you this once for not listening. I’m a very merciful man.”
“Just get to the point.” The words fell out of his mouth, and Ron couldn’t get it to stop. “You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?”
“I told you, if I won, whatever happened to you would be entirely my discretion.” Voldemort’s words are light, but Ron knows that it isn’t the case. Something strange is happening here, and he doesn’t know why. “Does the room suit you? I see you haven’t changed your clothes once since I left you here.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Ron said. Urged. Pleaded. None of this made sense. It had to make no sense. It had to, because if Ron’s right, otherwise—
“Oh come on, Ronald.” Voldemort said, eyes crinkling in dark amusement. “You’re smart. You already put the pieces together didn’t you? So why are you hesitant?”
Ron took a bracing breath, his heart tumbling in his chest. He knew. He knew, but he prayed to every god he could think of that he was wrong. Ron knows of the rumors during his school days, of the many rumors that Ron was the dumber of their trio, but he’s begging now, that for once, they were right. Ron was pleading with the gods that he was completely, utterly wrong.
He looked to the room, shining in opulence and colored in Gryffindor red and gold. The bed is a steady wood, and the fabric is scarlet. The walls are a mix of burgundy and paneled wood, with gold seams running through the ceilings and around the room. This room didn’t belong in a house belonging to a Slytherin Family. The clothes he found in the closet are deep colors, complementing his features and perfectly his size.
He found some writing utensils. A couple notebooks. The scant books that were there was clearly for the fifth and six year of Hogwarts. There were chess books, some autobiography of a chess master Ron already read. Ron even found two or three books on Quidditch.
Perhaps the most telling confirmation was the notebook that sat pristinely on the desk, a leather-bound journal with the initials R.B.G in gold print. It shone under the lamp light, clearly of high quality, possibly custom-made.
It makes him sick. The entire room makes him sick.
His hands tightened into fists, shaking in its grip. “I hate you.”
He smiled almost placatingly. “That didn’t answer my question.”
“This is my room, isn’t it?” Ron rose to his seat, jaw shaking and halfway giving up on not screaming entirely. Hate rose up in him like a tidal wave, of having to admit something so terrible that it felt like bile when he had to spit it out. “So get out. Get out of this Merlin-damned room!”
“Having a temper tantrum, aren’t we?” Voldemort said, as his long pale fingers drummed against the soft plush of the couch.
“I don’t care.” Ron’s hands curled into fists, shaking in their harsh grip. “You will never replace my dad. Never.”
The grip on the armrest was tightening, and he was so sure that it would splinter. The Dark Lord looked at him once more, eyes calculating, probing into Ron’s very soul. “Not yet. But one day, perhaps. Your potential will not go fruitless, not when I have anything to say about it.”
Those words shook Ron to his core, and Voldemort wouldn’t. Stop. Staring. When he seemed satisfied with whatever it was he was looking for, he stood up and simply left. No last words, no scathing remark, nothing. He just left Ron and his shaking fists, alone in an empty room, locking the door behind him.
Ron had no wand, no escape. Magically locked doors to the front, iron-wrought bars to the windows. Ron could bet on his wand that the fireplaces were blocked by iron as well.
He fell to his knees nonetheless, wrung out of his own mind and terrified of what he’d just insinuated. His hands were shaking, the short conversation consuming his every thought.
Voldemort just confirmed it, didn’t he? This was to be his room. But why him? Why him, of all people? Why, why, why?
Fear held him there for a long, long time.
Here are the several things Ron slowly learns about in the span of a few weeks.
The first—and the most important thing, really—is that Ron, for all intents and purposes, is Voldemort’s property. And he means that whatever happens to Ron now is entirely up to the Dark Lord, and the man decided he, for whatever reason, wanted to play house. That meant Ron had a roof above his head, and food sent to him three times a day, and could easily summon Ron for Merlin knows what.
There is no news of his family. Voldemort only visited once, mainly to gloat to him about exactly how much power he held in Ron’s life. Ron had raged, tore down the curtains and screaming at the door to let him see his family, at least just once, just to calm the frenzy in his heart and reassure his family that he’s okay. Every time, no one answered. It only incentivized Ron into more damage.
He stopped trying to burn the room down, after waking up to too many mornings with the wallpaper replaced and the furniture repaired.
Ron despises being closely related to the man, and the way it’s phrased leaves a vile and bitter taste in his mouth; but he’s worked hard to wring the answers out of Lilly, no matter how much she stuttered or how long Ron had to convince her to not pin her ears to a random oven door.
That’s the second thing Ron found out about—he has a personal house elf now.
Lilly is a gangly thing with perky ears and wide eyes, and Ron only found out about her when he woke up in the middle of the night to a forgotten night terror, and Lilly was there, wiping down the windows. He nearly screamed, and the poor house elf fell down and landed in an ungainly heap below. She kept trying to apologize, and Ron tried to tell her it was okay, and the rest was history.
Her job is to clean the room, do the laundry, and attend to all of Ron’s needs. Already, Ron feels incredibly out of his depth. He’s never had a house elf before, let alone a personal one too. But Lilly keeps giving him snacks ever since he decided to take a crack at the few books he has, and when Ron tentatively asks for a second round she perks up and starts jumping around. She’s incredibly sweet once Ron starts attempting to break her walls down, and while she isn’t good at chess, she certainly tries.
Lilly is always walking around eggshells, and she sometimes jumps at her own shadow, but she is unfairly kind despite it. Ron knows that whoever her previous master was, they weren’t kind to her. And Ron wanted to try and be kind to Lilly, mainly because it’s been two weeks since he’s seen anyone that wasn’t Voldemort and Merlin forbid he be friendly with the glorified dictator.
And Ron has tried asking for information multiple times. Lilly has revealed some truly important things—at least when it pertained to Ron’s current situation. But every time he tried to ask about the Wizarding World at large, Lilly shook her head sadly and said she’s not allowed to. It’s one of the many things the Dark Lord forbid her to speak or write or even mention about.
Speaking of the few things Lilly is allowed to divulge, here was the third thing Ron found out: Voldemort apparently, in front of his crowd of loyal sycophants, had gone and adopted Ron on the spot. And even worse; according to Lilly, it seemed like he was being completely genuine.
The conversation of several weeks ago seemed to be only the prelude of things to come, the foundation of whatever fucked-up relationship Ron and the dark lord was going to have; he was only allowed out as Voldemort so pleased, and even then Voldemort liked to show up in his room more times than he wanted Ron out of it.
There wasn’t much to talk about. Not when Voldemort kept asking about his day—in which he was fine, fuck you really—and Ron giving the most diplomatically appropriate responses. It always felt lackluster in the face of the Dark Lord, his malevolent aura choking his words and settling an oppressive atmosphere over the room.
And then Ron tried to ask for his family.
Ron scratches at his wrist, the cuff of his shirt slightly itchy against his skin. Lilly had insisted on the shirt, and while it was comfortable on his chest and loose in the sleeves, the frilly cuffs were a nightmare to wear.
“Ronald,” Voldemort snaps as he places a bishop forward. “Stop with this inane scratching, and focus. What is the rule on Gamp’s Law about the creation of organic matter?”
Ron winces. “Right, sorry.” He reluctantly stops itching at his wrist, but he turns to the board and both of his hands twitch with anticipation when he blocks the bishop’s target with a pawn. “Uhm…you can’t? I mean—permanently transfiguring something into anything organic is extremely difficult.”
Voldemort bores holes into Ron his with gaze. Ron’s hands stutter. “Right, uh. Gamp’s Law states that—that properly reorganizing the, what was that word—uh, molecular makeup of an inorganic object is impossible, and that the transfigured object will always…always have an imperfection, yeah.” Ron trails off awkwardly.
This has become a recent development. Voldemort would pull out a chess board—the muggle ones that require you to move them yourself—and played a round against him. If it were the chess game alone, Ron would only have to deal with desperately trying to find any semblance of foundation while saving his king as much as possible. Voldemort also decided he wanted to quiz Ron in between rounds, and if Ron got it wrong, he would take a random piece off Ron’s side of the board, even if he didn’t kill it.
Now though, Ron’s heart wasn’t in it. There was a question in his mind, but Ron couldn’t find a way to address it. Even as they moved piece after piece, and they were past-halfway through the game, Ron couldn’t find a way to ask in such a way that wouldn’t get his head lopped off.
“We’ll have to deal with your confidence, but you are at least remembering well.” And it seems Voldemort had noticed, with the way he set his bishop down with a sharp Tap. “It seems our game is far from your mind. Speak up, Ronald. What has you so distracted?”
His voice was smooth, deceptively persuading. Ron wasn’t having it, and he didn’t trust it. “Oh, it’s nothing, uhm.”
Voldemort kept staring at him. Ron decided not to provoke his mercurial wrath too much, today. “…Grandfather.”
That was also a recent development. It seemed that Voldemort realized that he could never possibly hope to replace Ron’s actual parents, but it didn’t stop him from trying to insert himself in Ron’s life anyways. The one thing that changed, really, was the fact that Ron was forced to call him ‘Grandfather’.
“…is my family…?”
Voldemort sips again. “They are fine, boy. You have impressed me with your previous matches, and I needed more room in my dungeons. I have people watching them as we speak.”
Ron gapes, then nods hurriedly. He was thankful, he really was. If what Voldemort was saying true, even if Ron didn’t trust the man, he would at least trust the scant bit of news he gives him. Now he just has to find a way to verify it…
Somehow, Voldemort’s stare only seemed to sharpen. Maybe it was because of the lackluster response.
“Thank you. I uh—have another question.”Ron gulped. “It’s just…why me? At first, I thought that it should’ve been Harry and not me, because he’s the Chosen One and all. I also considered Hermione, because she’s the smartest witch I know. But then you…” killed them both.
“So why me?” Why me, the less smart and the less powerful and the less everything else in their trio, Ron didn’t say. For some strange reason, he didn’t think the dark lord would like that.
Voldemort simply sipped his tea, eyes commiserating. The seconds between them ticked on, terrifyingly silent between them. Ron fidgeted in his seat, tapping his fingers against his hands in want of something to do. The silence was getting too oppressive, but there was little Ron could do at the moment other than stare at the board and wait.
When he finally responds, it’s with the most amusement Ron had ever seen with him. “Let me regale you with a story: I had a little experiment, in mind.” Voldemort put the cup down, leaning back on his chair leisurely. “The concept of an heir was frankly, quite preposterous at first. Having an heir meant that I was preparing for the day I would die, and that someone would take my place. And I, the great Lord Voldemort, will never die.
“But the concept is amusing, the more I thought about it,” Voldemort said. “My followers have children of their own, heirs of their own. I grew curious, perhaps. How would one go along with such a monumental task, one I heard could fell even with my most dangerous lieutenants?”
“I considered Potter, as my first choice. Imagine the outrage and the riot, when I would eventually bend him to my will, and the world would see not their Golden Boy, but as my right hand man. And then he had to die in the graveyard. Of course, he had to die. That was what fate ordained, after all. He practically killed himself at that point. I saw no point in keeping him alive.”
Ron could feel himself flinch. Don’t fight back, don’t fight back. Just because you’ve been playing chess with him for the better part of a few weeks, doesn’t make you safe. He could kill him the second he wanted to.
If only he could convince the rest of him to follow through.
“I didn’t even consider your other friend, Hermione, wasn’t it?” Voldemort wasn’t even looking at him, wasn’t even looking at the way Ron knew he was spasming in place. “Oh, she had a brilliant mind, that’s for sure. She would’ve been a useful lieutenant. But even then, I particularly never cared for her in the first place.”
Gods, Ron was trying his damn hardest to calm down. But all he could see was blood, the pale, cold hands. The drip, drip, drip of tangy iron, the glass eyes of a corpse. Beautiful brown hair, beautiful brown eyes, beautiful soul in a brown wooden coffin.
“And…and me.” Ron hadn’t meant to phrase it like a statement.
“I just wanted to.” Voldemort said.
Ron almost forgot how to breathe, the answer completely blindsiding him. I just wanted to. As if it explained everything. As if it made complete and utter sense. As if it was meant to simply click in Ron’s mind, for Ron to sit there and go, oh! That makes perfect sense actually. Sorry to bother you with a question to such an obvious answer.
Even when it didn’t make any sense at all.
“You just…wanted to?” Ron croaks out, his heart hammering deep in his chest like it was meant to make up for something. Something furious lit up in him, threatening to boil over and consume him. “Am I—am I just a hobby for you? Was killing people not bad enough?”
Drip, drip, drip.
Voldemort looks at him, his amused smile evening out into something annoyed. “Boy.”
“I’m just entertainment for you, aren’t I? Something to do while you sit in your opulent chair and burn all of Britain down?” Ron couldn’t stop himself, his words growing hotter, more heated. He felt like he was eating jagged glass, cutting himself at every opportune moment, not knowing how to stop. His anger has boiled over, tipping downwards and spiraling like a ship in the bowels of a raging ocean.
“People are dying, people are being suppressed by your batshit laws and even more batty sycophants. Are you seriously so bored that you have to tear my family apart, that you have to kill hundreds, if not thousands of people, and you just did that—on a fucking whim?!”
And then lightning surged toward him.
Ron was struck with unimaginable pain, no other injury he suffered before amounting to this. It felt like a hundred tiny needles dove its way into his skin, and he could feel the way they penetrated his core, how every part of him was screaming, how he was also screaming, but that didn’t matter because he was screaming and the world was screaming—
And then it let up. Ron gasped, and found himself writhing on the floor, mind clear and throat hoarse and body shaking.
“I don’t think I made it clear.” Voldemort hissed, as his voice carried over him, crystal clear despite the ringing in his ears. Since when did Voldemort stand? “Yes, you are nothing more than a mere plaything to me. Do you think I care about your opinion on the matter? You are mine now, and I have tolerated your behavior for far too long. You are in dire need of motivation.”
“W-what?” Ron whispered, and he found himself shaking once more. He just—he just crucioed him. He actually turned his wand to Ron and crucioed—
“You heard me, you stupid child. Think back to the Weasleys.” The dark lord scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Did you think I let the Weasleys live because of some ill-perceived goodwill? I am not above such methods to incentivize you. Earn enough of my ire, and I might let you watch as their heads roll.”
Voldemort was sitting back in his chair, but Ron was still there on the floor, shaking with the revelation. Of course. Of course, Ron, you imbecile. Who said your life is supposed to be easy? Who said you could have everything you want? Of course your family isn’t really free.
But it was all so unfair, Ron lamented.
“Get up.” Voldemort said. “We must finish our game. I, the great Lord Voldemort, can be merciful when it is demanded.”
And so Ron did, the new information turning in his brain, the lighted mess in his chest replaced by boulder after crushing boulder.
“I don’t want to have to do this.” Voldemort continued, peering from his chair with eyes emotionless. “Considering this a lesson in restraint, Ronald. I could put you under the Crucio for far more than 1 second.”
Ron struggles to make it back to his chair, legs like jelly and hands shaking to badly anyone would’ve thought it was winter. That was one second? That moment of pain, the needles that threatened to tear him apart, that moment of suffering that Ron thought lasted much longer, was actually one second of a proper Cructatious? Then what of ten seconds? Twenty? A whole minute?
“Go on,” Voldemort gestures to the table. “Tell me the difference between supplementing Arabic and ancient Norse in a basic ward?”
Ron loses this round even more pathetically than the rest, hands shaking and mind scrambling to put itself back together. Voldemort leaves once the round is over, and never comes back until it is a month later. Ron finds himself in the dark, shaking and alone, left to ruminate on the several realizations he made today.
Ron finds himself much more agreeable, when the Dark Lord decides to finally darken his doorway.