Ron’s eyes widened nearly to the size of saucers as he took in the meal on the table. He glanced uncertainly at his plate, and then back up at Harry, suspicion written clearly all over his face.
“It’s not poisoned, Weasley,” Voldemort said dryly from the counter, his back still to the three friends. Ron squeaked, and Harry felt Voldemort’s amusement humming in his scar.
Ron widened his eyes at Harry, and Harry nodded his encouragement in response - he knew that Voldemort had promised he would not harm them. Licking his lips with a grin, Ron grabbed his fork and knife and went to dig in to his dinner - and then yelped as both flew up out of his grip, soaring up into the air and into Voldemort’s outstretched hand. The man still hadn’t turned around.
“Weasley, if I recall correctly, I haven’t killed your parents yet, so you’ve no excuse for poor table manners.” Voldemort shot a half-hearted glare over his shoulder at Ron, who tried to make himself disappear in his chair.
“I - it just - smells really good,” Ron said rather lamely, and Harry saw Hermione cover a giggle with her hand out of the corner of his eye, no doubt exceptionally pleased that someone else was objecting to Ron’s lack of table manners as well.