Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.

Written for Showtime; 12. Dungeon.

Word Count - 1630

Warning for Stockholm Syndrome and brief mentions of killing.

Whatever You Wish

The dungeon was cold. Damp. He sat in the corner, playing with the ends of his fiery red hair. He didn't know how long he'd been there, had lost track of time long ago, but his hair had certainly gained some length, so he knew it had to have been a while.

He didn't see many people, and his dungeon cell had no windows for him to track the time by the light. Occasionally, another prisoner would be thrown down there with him, but they were generally in no shape to tell him the date.

Oddly enough, he was the only one kept in the dungeons that wasn't particularly hurt. At least not physically. He wondered why that was.

Food appeared for him twice daily; house elves, he assumed. He was given clean clothes too, and had an ever refilling container of water to keep him hydrated.

His cell wasn't comfortable by any means, but he knew it could be a whole lot worse.

He wondered about that too.

…

The light, brighter than the dull lamps he'd grown used too, hurt his eyes and he closed them automatically, raising a hand to guard them. The door to the dungeons clanged shut, and he opened his eyes cautiously, glad when he saw that the light had died back down to the dull lamp light.

Looking around, he almost didn't see the figure clothes in black, hiding in the shadows as he was.

"I… hello?" he asked, eyes straining to get a better idea of who was holding him.

The figure stepped into the light, and Bill's eyes widened when he saw the foreboding face of Lord Voldemort himself.

Bill had figured that it was him that had him captured and caged like an animal, but to see the man in person was much different to making assumptions based on little evidence.

"Bill Weasley," Lord Voldemort murmured, stepping closer to the bars of Bill's cell. "You're an odd one."

Bill blinked. "How so?" he asked, leaning back against the back wall. He wasn't too sure if he should be asking questions, if he should even be talking in front of the man, but he'd been there for so long and even this limited human contact was very much overdue.

"You've been here for seven months, a little over actually, and not once have you tried to escape. Even when given the opportunity."

Bill blinked. He hadn't been given the opportunity to escape. He was quite sure he'd remember such a thing.

"The other's that had been thrown down to the cells, have had wands in the robes, potions, and once, even a key to the cell. You didn't attempt to search any of them. Only checked to see if you could help them."

"I. Well. Now I feel a little stupid," Bill admitted, running a hand through his hair. "You… wanted me to escape?"

Lord Voldemort shrugged elegantly. "Call it an experiment. You never would have made it out, but… it would have been interesting."

"You've… you've been using me as an experiment? Don't you have more important things to think about?"

Voldemort chuckled, leaning against the bars. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? But no. Being an overlord isn't half as much fun when people are behaving themselves."

The thought that there wasn't an uprising seemed odd to Bill, who couldn't imagine his family and those that associated with them not fighting.

Of course, the flipside of that was that they weren't alive to fight, and he didn't even want to contemplate such a thing.

"So… you preferred the fighting to the winning?" Bill asked, raising his eyebrow. His want for conversation, for company, was such that he'd listen to Voldemort wax poetic about his own victories if that meant the conversation continued.

How was this his life?

"I preferred the planning, the strategy… the adrenaline. The world is perfect now… and utterly boring."

Bill snorted. "Perfect was always going to be boring, and it was naive of you if you thought different."

He wanted to smack himself upside the head as soon as the words left his mouth. He was going to be killed if he didn't keep his tongue in check.

Oddly enough, Voldemort merely chuckled, his red eyes shining with mirth. "Perhaps. I like you, Bill Weasley. I'm glad I chose to keep you."

With that odd closing sentence, Voldemort left the dungeon. Bill was left feeling wrongfooted, and perhaps… perhaps a little amused.

Who knew the Dark Lord had a sense of humour?

…

After that first time, Voldemort came to see him often. Every few days, if Bill was counting correctly. He thought, once, to ask about those he loved, but quickly batted the thought away. It was less painful not knowing their fates.

Occasionally, Voldemort would even fetch him books, and on one memorable occasion, brought a chess board. He destroyed Bill in very few moves, but the interaction was appreciated nonetheless.

"Don't… don't you have… followers to do this with?" he asked, when Voldemort set the board up for a second time.

Voldemort's lips tilted up in an approximation of a small smile.

"At least with you, I know that I'm winning because I'm better, not because you are scared of my ire as they are. It is no fun, playing against opponents that will continually throw the game for fear of actually winning."

Which… Bill couldn't deny that it was a fair point.

He got so used to seeing Voldemort, that when he didn't come, Bill didn't know what to do. Days passed, with no visit, and he kept expecting.

Except… Voldemort didn't show.

Perhaps perfect wasn't so perfect. Bill tried not to examine why he was feeling so ambivalent about the possibility of getting rescued.

…

"Bill?"

Bill woke slowly.

"Bill? Omg, mum, it's Bill!"

He shot up in his bed, eyes widening when he saw his family in the cells next to his own. His parent's, Ginny and George.

"What the… what are you guys… what's going on… are you okay?" he asked, stumbling over his words as he got up to cross to the bars that joined their cells.

His mum gripped at him as best as she was able, tears streaking down her cheeks.

"He killed them all," she sobbed, resting her head against the bars.

Bill looked at his father for better explanation.

"There was an underground movement," his dad said quietly. "And we struck, three days ago. We were… unprepared for his forces. Everyone else was killed in the fight, and… well. We were put here just now. I don't… I don't know why we're still alive."

Bill wiped his mum's tears from her face, his mind whirling. He had a feeling he knew why they were still alive.

He tried to force away the hope in his chest. That wasn't something he could have, wasn't even something he should want.

"It's going to be okay," he murmured, knowing that it never could be but wanting to comfort his mum. "It's going to be fine, you'll be okay."

…

A masked figure was sent to fetch him three days later.

Bill went willingly, not attempting to fight when his cell was unlocked. His family screamed from their own cells, but Bill couldn't look at them. He couldn't deal with their fear.

He was blindfolded and led from the dungeons, a low voice guiding him up the steps.

Voldemort was waiting for him in a dimly lit room when the blindfold was removed.

"You were blindfolded to protect your eyes," he admitted quietly. "After so long in the dungeon… I didn't want to cause you pain."

"You spared them for my sake," Bill said, taking a step closer to Voldemort. "My family. You kept them alive for me."

Voldemort nodded. "I blame the hair. It reminded me of you too much."

Bill's lips quirked. "You love me."

"A Dark Lord doesn't love," Voldemort whispered, turning his face away from Bill.

Bill stepped closer, and with shaking fingers, turned his face back by placing his hand on Voldemort's cheek.

"You love me," he repeated, more firmly.

"Merlin help me, yes," Voldemort confirmed. "Yes, I love you."

…

"I want you to let them leave. They can't cause problems by themselves, and they told me the rest of the resistance is dead. I'll tell them to leave the country."

Pale fingers grazed along his bare stomach. "Whatever you wish."

…

"I don't… we can't just leave you here."

Bill gripped his mum's hand firmly and met her eyes. "Yes. Yes you can. I… I don't want to leave him. He needs me, and I… I love him."

"He's a monster," she shrieked. "You can't love him!"

"Stockholm syndrome," his father said.

His siblings stared at him in dismay.

They were still freed, and the last Bill heard, they'd gone to Romania, to where Charlie was last heard from.

…

"Is this stockholm syndrome?" Bill asked, leaning his head against Voldemort's lap. He was seated on the floor by Voldemort's chair, long fingers playing with his hair.

"Perhaps," Voldemort admitted. "I would… you would be permitted to leave. If you so chose."

Bill thought about it. He really did. He thought about leaving, about joining his family in Romania and living out his life in the sunshine, with the freedom of choice.

He thought about never having pale fingers on his skin, about never seeing fondness and amusement in red eyes, about never hearing whispers of love pressed against his skin.

Shaking his head, Bill leaned heavier against strong legs and tilted his head so it was resting more firmly against Voldemort's lap.

"I'd rather stay, if it's all the same to you."

"Whatever you wish, my love. Whatever you wish."