Desperate Measures

Death Eaters do not offer their prisoners blankets in hope they freeze to death, Ron thought bitterly. He felt his concept of how much time passing, waning; he only knew he was bored and that a lot of time was flying above him in the outside world.

He noticed the sun rise and set, but that was no comfort; the daylight had been grey, and hiding the sun with thunder-threatening clouds. Ron carried on trying to have a mini battle with himself to keep his mind agile about which evil was worse: The oppressive darkness, or the frigid night temperatures. It was the only activity that took his mind off missing his family and friends.

He didn't like being cold. Who did? But, Ron dolefully gave up arguing with himself over whether dark or cold was worse. It was pointless; he was probably going to die soon anyway.

If he didn't starve first.

To be fair, he had only been conscious for a few hours, and they wouldn't have noticed his waking. They probably weren't even guarding him; listening for movement, left to charms and possibly dementors nearby.

He didn't want to stay positive, but he didn't want to give up either. He had no energy for it. Ron could feel his body declining in strength without exercise or nourishment, and it added to his deepening depression. He was a complete and utter twat for thinking Harry was coming to get him. When was he going to face up to facts? No one was coming for him. He may as well drop dead right now on the spot.

There was no such luck or release. The door began to rattle as someone on the other side tried to unlock it manually. Ron jumped. Would this be the end now? Were his prayers going to be answered? If he were going to be rescued (and that seemed highly unlikely) then the door would have been blasted open.

Ron started at the visitor. Its head was covered completely by its cloak (black). The figure was androgynous and of medium height and build. It walked into the middle of the room; a small distance away from Ron. It had something in its hands, like a platter. Would his head be resting on it by the end of this visit? 'Don't let your imagination run away with you idiot!' Ron said to himself.

"Cheese," the figure said. "Its all we got."

Ron stared in astonishment. He found enough voice to ask:

"When are you going to let me out, or kill me?" There was no use beating around the bush. The Death Eater tilted its head as if surprised Ron had the gall to ask. They answered anyway:

"You will be visited later," the figure croaked. "We've had a bitch of a time locating the source for veritiserum."

"Couldn't you get a hold of Snape then?" Ron knew he was being belligerent, but it didn't matter did it? He could say what he liked; nothing was going to save him.

"Shut up!" The voice attempted to roar, but it broke at a disappointing climax. It was still indistinguishable whether the speaker was male or female.

Ron remained defiant:

"Hit a nerve? Who is Snape? Your boyfriend?"

"It doesn't dignify an answer you little shit!"

"Who are you?" Ron bellowed.

He was answered by the slamming of his cell door, the panels rattling in the frame.

***

Time went by slower than ever. Ron longed to sleep as the hours went by. The sandwiches were eaten, and his plate discarded uncaringly on the makeshift bed. He sat on the floor, grabbed the plate, and attempted to amuse himself by rolling it in a circle in front of him, trying to see how long it would be until the plate dropped to the floor.

Ron giggled irrelevantly as he wondered what his rescuer might think if they saw him now: sat cross-legged in his cell, amusing himself with a china disc.

This was not the time or place for Ron to start losing whatever sanity he was still vainly trying to clasp to. He had his alertness taken away from the still aching effects of his earlier torture, and his slightly satiated hunger. His morale had been depleted by despair, humiliation and quietly bubbling hysteria of his imminent death. He was certain he was going to die, then why should he keep his head? If he was going to die, he should do it with dignity, fighting, and all faculties in tact. Knowing of the 'mercy' of the Death Eaters, he would be found washed up on a beach, naked and the dark mark etched on his torso. They would mockingly tell the order and his family he had died as a Death Eater in training, a snivelling wreck, begging for his life.

***

He didn't hear the door unlocking, or the footsteps of five heavyset people. Ron had finally taken to the stone step he had sarcastically called his bed, and fallen into a doze. It was more of a fitful sleep, but it killed time until he was killed.

One Death Eater stepped forward and violently shook Ron to wakefulness. He grunted as he brought himself out of his slumber.

"It's time, Weasley," the voice drawled.

***

His stomach plummeted the instant he realised they had come for him.

***

They sat him in a chair in the middle of the cell, pacing around him menacingly. They had all the time in the world, and they would shit him up good and proper. They were certain that he would spill Harry's secrets in time; it would be difficult, as he was a Gryffindor, he was loyal and brave, but they would break him.

Ron was visibly frightened. His face was a deathly white pallor; he was trembling all over, his wand hand twitching from its impotence. There was no way out. He was terrified that he would be forced to give out the order's location and plans under veritiserum. He knew he couldn't give plans as such; he wasn't a member yet, but surely in the depths of his mind there were things he couldn't remember of have picked up on.

Ron wrestled with himself; promise never to tell anything he knew. He was scared that he would crumble under intense mental and physical interrogation, that he would break down crying, telling them what ever they wanted to know - just so the pain would stop. He had hoped he would not be so weak; his endurance would outshine them all. He wasn't as strong as Harry - but would Harry ever be the same again? Ron knew he could and would bounce back if he ever got out alive. It was fine for him because he knew who he was; he had a strong support from family, and a well-grounded attitude. What did Harry have? He never really had the chance to explore himself, or have his family heal him, meld him back to his old self.

It was the silence that was the worst. They stared at him, scrutinised ever inch of his being. They appeared to dive into him and rack and violate his brain. He knew they couldn't really perform legilimens, very few people could these days - thank goodness.

It was just a graceful stage act to them. To artfully scare them, Malfoy would be behind it, judging by his budding thespian son, who never failed to try and get a laugh through impersonations or dramatics for extra attention.

One suddenly lunged forward and seized Ron's face. The Death Eater's hood did not slip from the movement. The brought out a spindly vial of a clear liquid Ron identified to be the powerful truth potion he was afraid of, a pipette was also brought out and stuck into the vial. Another hooded figure drew up a few drops of the potion and pushed it roughly into Ron's mouth. It hit his teeth, but he still swallowed it. He could feel it permeating into his system, and the burning as he felt himself go numb.

The hands holding him were crushing, he couldn't move, his neck ached. He was asked his full name and he felt himself dully telling the group. They appeared to be satisfied with his answer and cut to the chase:

"Where is Harry Potter?" One demanded.

"I don't know." Ron said.

That caused havoc.

"He's lying!" shrieked one voice. Ron identified it immediately. It was Bellatrix Lestrange, he should have known that she would be one of the group: a once attractive woman, tainted by power and bloodlust: a hardened torturer.

"I'm not lying!" Ron shouted. He knew he shouldn't have talked; he would only enrage the unreasonable woman further. She pulled back her hand and slammed the back of it into Ron's face. He felt a sharp crack, which he wasn't sure whether it was the bones in her hand breaking from the force of hitting his jaw, or his own teeth breaking. He couldn't check. His hands had been bound.

"YOU'RE NOTHING MORE THAN A LYING LITTLE CHILD!" She screamed in her fury, clutching her hand. Ron could see her fingers swelling up before his eyes. This would not bode well for him. He had injured her, and of course it would be his entire fault....

And who said he was a child? He was twenty years old! He seemed more indignant about that than being hit by a woman.

Ron felt the tension in the room thicken even more repressively; he was finding it hard to breathe, and the bonds from the rope holding him still were chafing his skin. They still circled him, playing for time, trying to intimidate him. He would not submit so easily. He knew it. They knew it. They would have to physically hurt him.

***

"I KNOW NOTHING!" Ron cried out. The pain was unbelievable, he hadn't expected being tortured to being a walk in the park, but this was beyond his imagination. He had been subjected to a series of cruel and painful spells. Ron had silently thanked the divine above him that they had not used any Muggle torture devices that he had seen in a museum with his father as a young boy. Hopefully they wouldn't garott him, or transfigure something into thumbscrews.

"Why won't you tell us the truth?" McNair growled as he held his wand against Ron's body, the wand emitting a scorching heat, burning his clothes, burning his skin, turning it a more than nasty red. Ron had wanted to squeal in agony, but kept silent. McNair seemed to be taking more pleasure out of it if the victim responded to his tormenting. The welts were all over his upper body. Ron doubted that Saint Mungo's could fix the burns after this, the skin had to break and melt soon; there was every deep shade of red that his skin had gone to.

The Death Eater relented and pushed Ron away from him. He fell to the floor hard; he tried to put his hands out to stop his burns making impact on the floor. Too late, his wrists made impact with the stone, and he felt something in the right one shatter. He was now fair game to the others standing around him, jeering, mocking, laughing at his suffering. Anticipation was rising among the ranks. He really did know nothing, and he was going to pay for it. They were going to teach the Order of the Phoenix a lesson. They were going to kill this young upstart, friend of Harry Potter to show them all that they were going to lose.

Lucius Malfoy would have dearly loved to place the killing curse on Ron, and he raised his wand to inflict a crushing charm, something not unlike a boa constrictor, leave his own mark upon the boy. The dark green sludge that came out of his wand slithered up to Ron's body and flirted with it for a moment, before wrapping it round him and beginning to squeeze. Ron could do nothing but choke and gasp. He would take this like he took the others - with silence and a refusal to bow down. He would tell them nothing.

A voice hailed them from above:

"Attack! We're being swamped by Aurors!"

Ron was left alone in a stampede of panicking Death Eaters.