The Kidnapping

"Wow! You blokes really kidnapped me!" Ron Weasley said as soon as the gag was removed from his mouth. His hands were still bound to his sides, but the portkey bag (which transported itself and its contents to the predesignated destination when the opening was sealed) that the Death Eaters had transported him in was still crumpled on the floor at his feet. No dungeon elves were allowed in here, at least not while the prisoner was still being interrogated.

The boy had been sitting in that hardbacked chair for nearly an hour, feet stuck to the floor, his wand in an adamantine case by the door so he couldn't Accio it. All the usual precautions had been taken. He'd been grabbed in Hogsmeade, where he'd been walking with his sister to get a present for one of their million relatives. She was so susceptible to Dark magic, just as their Master had predicted, that all they had to do was work a short stunning spell. Of course, they'd been told not to kill her. She had to be able to tell what happened, when she was questioned.

How else could they make sure that Harry Potter knew that his best friend had been taken away by Death Eaters? No, this was the only way that they could set a proper, well planned and effective trap for him.

But the trap wasn't cooperating. Well, he was, just not in a way that his captors had anticipated.

Weasley hadn't been smiling while the gag was in place, but now, he was grinning like an overexcited jarvey. Had those stupid minions knocked his head when they grabbed him?

They must have, the inquisitor mused. Otherwise, why would Harry Potter's best friend say things like, "I've always wanted to meet you guys!"

His usual repertoire didn't have a proper response for a statement like that. He was well prepared for things like, "Please let me go," or "The key to my vault at Gringots is under the third rock to the right by my front door," or even utter silence, both from shock and perceived toughness.

So he didn't ask one of his usual introductory questions, but merely murmured, "wait here." His copy of The Evil Inquisitor's Guide to Life was on the lower shelf, covered with enough dust that he sneezed as he pulled it from its place next to Steve The Evil Talks About Clever Potions. He'd memorized it years ago, when he'd first taken on this job as a recent Hogwarts graduate with three middle-grade N.E.W.T.'s, and had never needed it again. The job was so routine, it was easy to fall into a pattern, especially when the captor was more the cheese in a trap than someone who actually had a rasher of useful information.

It is not unusual, the book said, for a prisoner to display a strange association with their captors, even identify with them. The captives begin to identify with their captors. At least at first this is a defensive mechanism, based on the (often unconscious) idea that the captor will not hurt the captive if he is cooperative and even positively supportive. Let your captive know that you have the power to hurt him, no matter how cooperative and supportive he is. Never let a captive know that you are human being with your own problems and aspirations. Don't discuss your sleeping problems, your wife's propensity for Cheering Charms, or that unfortunate incident with your son and the Durmstrang Womens' Quidditch Team Chasers. Remember - your point of view is not just - you are not good - you are not nice. You are a bad guy! Embrace your bad self! Just don't let your captor embrace you!

The inquisitor turned back to the captive, determined to go forward with the interrogation, as planned. All the questions he had been told to ask were things his fellow Death Eaters already knew, but they needed to do something during the six or so hours before the trap was perfected.

"Where is the location of Potter's secret hideout?" the inquisitor asked in a voice that made even Ministry enforcers tremble. His wand was at the ready and the word Cruicio was forming in his throat.

"Number Four Privet Drive. Would you like me to take you there?" the captive replied in a voice filled with light and sincerity.

The inquisitor's wand dropped to the floor, and he moved away from the script without even thinking. "Take me? What sort of game are you playing, Gryffindor? Shouldn't you be braver when faced with a cunning Death Eater like me?"

"Actually," Weasley replied, "I'm not brave enough. If I was, I'd have hunted you down long before this and..."

"Tried to defeat us?" the inquisitor asked with a laugh.

"No, tried to join you! I've asked Draco so many times, but all he does is laugh and call me Potter's spy. I gave the Gryffindor Quidditch Team playbook to Millicent - she's their new captain - and she lied to me about the Young Death Eater meeting times. I ended up in the right room, I think, but there was a gaggle of first year girls there making dragonfly chains!" He paused to take a breath, then went on. "Crabbe and Goyle seem to know what's going on, but with the two of them, who can tell. I even seduced Pansy Parkinson last Christmas in hopes that she'd take me on a date to some Death Eater event or at least introduce me to her father, but all that happened was she tried to transfer into Gryffindor out of her love for me. Yuck. But at least the Hat moved her into Hufflepuff instead"

The inquisitor goggled at the words spilling from the Gryffindor's mouth. Harry Potter's best friend, this child was, and he'd been seeking out Death Eaters? And not just to spy on them either? He gulped and tried a new question - one he'd asked many times at Death Eater Induction Ceremonies, but had never before asked a prisoner.

"So, when did you first realise that you were evil?"