
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/300529.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Peter_Pettigrew/Ron_Weasley
  Character:
      Ron_Weasley, Peter_Pettigrew, Harry_Potter, Lavender_Brown, Severus
      Snape, Bellatrix_Lestrange
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Voldemort_Wins, Sexual_Slavery, Stockholm_Syndrome,
      Fanwork_of_Fanwork, Cross-Generation_Relationship
  Collections:
      Crossgenerational_Slash
  Stats:
      Published: 2004-01-14 Words: 2680
****** Cut With Diamonds ******
by pauraque
Summary
     What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut with diamonds? or to
     be smothered with cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls?
Notes
     This is a sequel to Juxian Tang's "Damage_Control", which is in turn
     a sequel to Amanuensis's "And_Just_Plain_Wrong". As such, it is an
     AU, and may not make much sense if you're not familiar with the other
     stories.
     Many thanks to Amanuensis and Juxian Tang for letting me play with
     their toys, to Keladry for last-minute tweaks and encouragement, and
     to my everlastingly glorious beta reader Caesia.
See the end of the work for more notes
"Ron says he understands," he adds suddenly. [...] "He said Pettigrew... he
wasn't all that bad to him."
-Damage Control (Juxian Tang)
The little boat rocks sickeningly as it glides across the cold, murky water.
There are a few too many people to fit properly, and Ron is jammed up against
the side with Harry's hip digging into his thigh. The smell of pitch and wet
wood almost reminds Ron of the boats to Hogwarts, but not quite, because that
was always at night. This is an icy-bright morning, too early to be awake.
Harry's sharp elbow bumps his arm as he covers a silent yawn.
When they make land, for a moment Ron thinks they've just stopped off
somewhere, because it looks so... ordinary. A tiny dock and an old fortress,
metalwork and wilting ivy. And petrifying, unnatural cold.
They climb out of the boat, limbs stiff from sitting too long. It takes a few
minutes for everyone to gather their coats and handbags and whatever else and
get onto the pier. Ron rubs his elbows, squinting crossly at the horizon.
'Fucking dawdling,' he says.
'Can't blame them,' Harry answers in an undertone, sidling up close to him.
'They can't start until we get there, so it seems like... we're responsible. I
mean, we're not, but...'
Ron doesn't answer. Harry hesitates a moment as if he's about to say something
else, but then turns and steps briskly over to the boat to give Lavender Brown
a hand up.
The seven witnesses are carefully warded and then led through the gateway by
one of the human warders. It's still freezing, like being out in the snow
without a jacket, but the Dementors can't come near them, can't dig into their
memories. Ron thinks he hears Lavender whimpering somewhere towards the back of
the group. Harry's walking very close to him. The stonework of the floor is
slippery with frost, so Ron makes sure to place each foot down carefully as he
goes.
Light spills in at an angle from the high windows. It glistens off the
particles of ice on the stone walls, and paints Harry's face a faint sunrise
gold.
Ron remembers something then.
*
Light through the windows of Pettigrew's room, and he was sitting there looking
out with yellow spilling over his face, piggish little eyes squinting. 'Look at
the way they're blooming,' he said, and his voice could be a woman's if you
closed your eyes. 'It's summer soon, I think, Ron.'
Ron was on his knees on the floor, rubbing Pettigrew's feet, and Pettigrew
wasn't watching him. The feet were hot and blue-veined from being crammed into
tight leather and walked on all day, and they smelled stale. The soles were
thick yellow and rough-ridged under Ron's thumbs as he carefully kneaded,
staying away from the blisters. The toenails were small and curved and white,
and one was torn to the quick. He rubbed Pettigrew's fat-bony swollen ankles,
where the hair on his legs started.
'On my feet all day,' Pettigrew said faintly, still looking away out the
window.
'I could wash them if you want.' Ron froze as soon as the words came out, like
someone else had said them.
Pettigrew looked down at him sharply, the afternoon light making deep shadows
in his frown and double chin. 'Saying my feet are dirty?'
'No...'
Pettigrew drew his feet back out of Ron's hands, shifted his arse awkwardly,
leaned in, and backhanded Ron across the mouth.
The blow wasn't as hard as Ron had thought it would be, but he let himself fall
to his hands and knees on the waxy floor. He stayed there for a minute,
breathing, not looking up, feeling the heat rise in his left cheekbone where it
had caught a knuckle. Looking at the fuzzy shadow of his head and hair from the
yellow window behind him.
Pettigrew breathed too, shallow and fretful. 'Well,' he said eventually, 'well,
you can wash them.' Anxious, muffled as he looked away again. 'You can wash
them if you want.'
And then there was warm water rubbed over the pink and white indentations from
Pettigrew's socks, and the dribbling of a cloth being squeezed out into a
ceramic basin, like the sound of a weak piss into the toilet.
Pettigrew could have hit him with his right hand.
*
Ron feels Harry's hand on his arm, and he realises the group has come to a
halt. Their escort is whispering with the chief warder, a fat blonde woman.
'What's the matter?' Ron asks.
'There's been a delay,' the warder says, looking from Ron to Harry as if not
sure who she's meant to be talking to. 'Don't worry, it'll be put right. Just a
quibble over the last meal.'
Ron laughs sharply. It sounds wrong in here, like the walls aren't sure where
to send the echo. 'He's getting picky over his food?'
The warder shifts uncomfortably. 'No, no... Of course, he isn't eating. But
there's a question of the offer being made, being documented. Under the new
law.'
'Good,' Harry says quickly, throwing Ron a glance. 'Fine. We'll wait.'
The pit of Ron's stomach is cold and numb. There are no windows here, and the
walls don't entirely muffle the groans of suffering prisoners. Their little
group herds closer together.
Harry turns his head to look back, and Ron follows his gaze. Snape is standing
a few steps off, his teeth clenched hard. The back of his stained hand brushes
against the stone wall. Harry throws him a wan, crooked smile. Snape's face
doesn't move, but as he looks at Harry, there's a little shift of reflection in
his eyes, and for a moment it seems like maybe you could see something inside.
*
Pettigrew had had a lot of sherry at dinner, and Ron knew he didn't hold his
liquor very well. They were walking back down the dim corridor with jumping
shadows like a crackling fire, and Pettigrew's soft hand was clutching Ron's
shirt at his lower back as if afraid he might fall while trying to negotiate
the moving stairways.
Snape came walking briskly the other way towards the dungeon steps, (how many
times had they run pelting down them laughing and late for class?), click click
click boots echoing even and sharp, with Harry naked and leashed like a poodle
at his heel. Harry's eyes were glassy; he looked concussed &#x2014; fucking
bastard, Snape.
As they passed, Pettigrew savagely raked his eyes over Harry's body like a
starving rodent. Looks just like James, doesn't he, Ron almost wanted to say.
Not looking where he was going, Pettigrew stumbled and pushed Ron's shoulder
into the stone wall, a breath-squeezed-out grunt. Snape glanced back at them
scalpel-sharp, tightened his grip on Harry's lead, and walked on quicker.
Pettigrew got his footing again, and they made their way up to his&#x2014;
their&#x2014; his rooms. All the way up the rickety stairs with the hairpin
turn, Ron thought about how this should have been Harry, Harry would have been
Pettigrew's first choice if he'd been allowed. The idea was oddly hard to pin
down, like it kept dancing away. Trying to catch it left a bitter taste in
Ron's mouth.
Pettigrew skipped the normal bedtime routine and stumbled into bed half-clothed
in the pitch dark, dragging Ron down with him. The springs moaned under their
combined weight as Pettigrew pulled him close with a sigh of intoxicated
exhaustion. Soft fat belly pressed against him, and a thick calf rubbing over
his leg.
'I was just a little boy once, you know?' Pettigrew mumbled into Ron's face,
pressing their foreheads together. 'An ordinary boy. How did I get&#x2014;'
He kissed Ron's lips, and Ron lay still. Pettigrew must not have liked that,
because he grabbed Ron by the side of the neck and squeezed, and when he kissed
him again, Ron made sure to kiss back. Red-fermented taste of stale sherry and
spit.
' 'S can't last forever, can it? You all go home over the summer, and even with
the memory charms, somebody's bound to find out.' Warm touch, heavy sweet
breath, a fat, shaky hand stroking his hair. ' 'M amazed it's gone on this
long. Don't you think someone'll find out?'
Ron wasn't sure if Pettigrew wanted him to answer. Alcohol had made him lax and
unpredictable, and forgetful of the fact that knowledge of a thing didn't grant
the power to end it.
'What do you think, Ron?'
Ron swallowed. 'I think you're right,' he said hoarsely into Pettigrew's sick-
sweet mouth. Because that answer could never be wrong.
*
The delay drags on, and Ron and the other witnesses are stowed away in a musty
little office. The warder hands around brandy, and hot water for those who
don't partake. It doesn't really make it seem warmer, but you can pretend,
can't you? She gives a very drawn smile as she hands Ron a drink. He tries to
smile back, but doesn't think it quite comes out. He turns the cup back and
forth in his hands as he and Harry sit on the cheap-looking desk. It doesn't
feel solid, like it might not hold them. One of the witnesses, a girl Ron
doesn't know, is turned around in her chair and picking at the back of it.
Lavender is sitting on the floor in the corner with her forehead on her knees.
'What time do you reckon it is,' Ron says.
Harry shakes his head. 'Hard to say, in here.'
Harry hesitates, then says in a very low voice, 'It's... you know, it might be
better, knowing&#x2014; knowing it'll be over. For him, I mean. It might be
better than just being here forever, not knowing when it'll end. Every day the
same, just you and&#x2014; them.'
'You don't know, though,' Ron says, looking at the cracks in the plaster wall.
'You don't know what they make him remember.' He takes a shot of his brandy
without thinking, and the burning in his stomach makes him want to retch. He
snatches Harry's water off the desk and gulps it down.
*
Evening-dim in the room, and Ron was sucking Pettigrew's dick as he lay in bed,
the way he liked to have it done. Ron knew this penis better than he'd ever
know his own &#x2014; short and tapering, the particular network of purple
veins, the way the left side of the head stuck out a little more than the
right. Ron knew what he liked, where he was sensitive and when. His heavy
wheezing breath in the quiet, the little creak of the mattress, the up and down
of the hairy distended stomach when he looked, all familiar and ordinary.
Pettigrew wouldn't ask him to lick his arsehole that night.
Easily readable, the buildup of tension and grunts and hitches of breath, and
Ron may have been going crazy but he thought the smell-taste changed, sharpened
just a little and gave him half a second to brace himself before Pettigrew
grabbed his head and ground into his face, filling his mouth and throat with
hot liquid salt that all had to be forced down if he didn't want to be
punished. Ron swallowed almost all of it, but deliberately let a dribble spill
onto the mattress &#x2014; it gave him a pleasant feeling of defiance to know
that he'd technically broken the rules.
Pettigrew caught his breath and pulled Ron up beside him. He murmured and
petted him, his hair and back. It made Ron think of Ginny, the Christmas before
she'd started school, that stuffed lion she'd wanted so badly, the way she
wouldn't stop hugging it after it was opened. Pettigrew shifted and turned,
putting his arms around Ron and then pulling back and doing it again a
different way. He hummed and mewled in pleasure, patting him. Ron lay there
like a rag doll. Too much come boiled and sweltered in his stomach, and the
dark chandelier was a giant burnished spider above his eyes.
Ron waited for him to drift off. He thought about Harry being beaten and torn
somewhere else in the castle. Pettigrew hadn't even fucked Ron in what seemed
like a month or more; he never could seem to find the right position to get
comfortable to do it, so he just got Ron to suck him instead. Ron thought about
being here, being cuddled, used, and hoarded like gold.
Pettigrew began to snore. He slept soundly, and slept late every day, and
sometimes took naps in the afternoon. Ron missed class a lot because of it,
because Pettigrew hadn't got up yet and wanted Ron in bed with him. He liked to
sleep. &#x2014;Well, of course he did. That was all Scabbers had ever done.
Ron carefully extricated himself and crept over to the bathroom. He knelt on
the cold tile and vomited it all up into the toilet, and it was pure salt and
burning acid, but getting rid of it would settle his stomach and let him sleep.
He'd done this so often that his throat felt red-raw all the time, and nothing
tasted right.
He drank a trickle of cold water out of the tap, and came carefully back into
the bedroom. He stopped abruptly with a seizing shock.
Pettigrew was awake.
He was sitting up and had the blanket clutched in both hands at his waist, and
his eyes were shining as he stared. There would be punishment, but what Ron
remembers is just this: Shining wet beady eyes in the darkness, and a sharp
indrawn breath like half a sob.
*
Ron opens his eyes, and the door is open, the warders are ushering them out.
This is going to be it, everything's been settled and arranged. There's nothing
left to wait for.
It's a little room with a thick heavy wall of protective magic in between the
witnesses and the prisoner, which distorts the view, but Ron can see well
enough. Pettigrew struggles against the warders' arms and the knotted magic
chains bolted into the floor, wild with terror. He's dirty and has lost a lot
of weight, but he looks... he looks the same.
The masked warders behind him have their wands at his back, preventing him from
transforming. The Dementor hovers a few feet off, waiting, flexing its rotten
fingers and shifting from side to side.
The chief warder passes around a parchment for the witnesses to sign. Under the
new law, the Dementor's Kiss cannot be administered without seven witnesses.
Ron doesn't know why &#x2014; as though seven people are too many to conspire
to do wrong. Lavender Brown signs last. She's crying, and they take the
parchment away from her quickly, probably afraid she'll smear the names. Harry
stands with his hand firmly on Ron's shoulder, and somewhere back there Ron can
feel Snape's presence, fiery and penitent.
The chief warder nods, and the Dementor lunges forward eagerly and shoves its
mouth against Pettigrew's. In his animal terror, Pettigrew seizes the sides of
its wet, decaying neck with both hands and digs his nails in.
Ron remembers: Lestrange's hand around his neck and her wand at his balls
&#x2014; 'We have your friend, Potter. Come out before we start cutting off
pieces of him' &#x2014; and Harry was barricaded in the Room of Requirement
with Snape, and Ron was going to let himself be slowly torn apart to save him
(just like always, just for Harry)&#x2014;
And that anxious, androgynous, hand-wringing voice from behind them, and the
almost undetectable calculation that modulated the words:
'My lord. He's my property.' Pettigrew's voice broke. 'Please...'
Ron remembers that, and the Dementor feeds, and Harry's hand is tight on his
shoulder.
Even through the wards, there's still a hint of ice like a draught from a crack
beneath a door. What Ron is seeing is beyond his experience and too horrible to
be a part of real life, but he has a feeling he'll remember it anyway &#x2014;
the soft wet suck as the Dementor pulls back, satisfied, and the body slumps
down to the floor.
Pettigrew is gone.
End Notes
     - Yet, methinks,
     the manner of your death should much afflict you;
     this cord should terrify you?
     - Not a whit:
     What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut
     with diamonds? or to be smothered
     with cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls?
     -The Duchess of Malfi (Webster)
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
