False Fate
By MD1016
Part I: Cup of Oaths
Chapter 4 – Killing
Him Softly
The following
morning, bright and early, Ron left the manse via the dinning room floo for the
Hog's Head tavern in Hogsmeade. 81¼ Leather Wings Lane was just three
streets up. The storefront was not much to look at: a
large, grimy window; a narrow door; and a broken and faded canopy that
proclaimed Hector's Snapping, Clapping, Tapping Turtles and Turtle Supplies. Ron couldn't remember having ever seen it
before. The place was not quite what he'd
been expecting, and he checked the parchment Errol had delivered earlier that
morning.
"Oh, no. Not you again." Ron looked up to find the same sign from the
Hogsmeade Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes staring at him. "
Ron pulled his wand
from his pocket and tapped the door, which instantly unlocked.
"Bloody hell,"
said the sign. "I hate my job."
The inside of the
store was even worse. It was dark and
musty. Dust and filth covered every
surface save the dozens of boxes that were piled in the center of the
floor. In that respect, the shop looked
a lot like his bedroom back at the manse.
Attached to one of
the boxes was a parchment addressed to "Ronald Weasley, Employed."
He didn't want to
know what the note said. This wasn't
what he'd signed up for. An easy job the
twins had told him, 'the jokes practically sell themselves.' Well, nothing was going to get sold in that
pit of a shop. What did they expect him
to do?
Then he noticed the
small tapestry bag, tied with ribbon. He
picked it up and enjoyed the heft of it, the wonderful clink of coin on
coin. Unable to staunch his curiosity,
he opened the bag and stared down at gold.
Real gold!
Well, all right,
then. Now he wanted to know what the
note said.
Dear Ron,
We trust the boxes arrived this morning,
along with your first week's pay. Great
place, yeah? Yes, it needs some fixing
up, so keep a tally of the costs and we'll send reimbursements at the beginning
of each week. More boxes to arrive
shortly.
Sincerely,
Your brothers in blood and commerce
Fred and George
Ron looked back down
at the pouch. The money was his. His! Never in his life had he seen so many coins
in one place, let alone owned them.
Right. He tried to focus his
thoughts. He had a job. He had money.
This is what it is to be a man. So, what to do first?
The boxes? The dust?
The lack of light? He didn't have
the faintest idea where to even begin.
But, he did have an idea as to who might.
****
Hermione was still
in bed when he made it back to number
"Hermione?" Ron whispered, not wanting to startle
her. She didn't respond. "Hermione? Wake up." For a second or two he thought he might have
to jostle her a little, and he tried to think how to go about it. Where did one touch a girl to wake her? Her shoulder?
Hermione's was bare.
"Ron?" she asked groggily, a grin spreading across
her sleep-swollen face. She came awake
all at once, sat up straight as a board, and demanded, "What are you
doing, lurking about my room?"
"I was trying to wake you."
"Oh." She covered a yawn with the back of her hand, and Ron realized that she was sleeping in one of those sleeveless shirt-things girls usually wore under other shirts. It stretched across her breasts as she inhaled. Nipples! He could make out the shape of her nipples! It stunned him that she even had nipples. Ron began to panic. Hermione had nipples.
Yes, yes, of course,
he thought, trying to calm himself. Everyone has them. And yet…
"Ron? You all
right?"
He nodded, turned away, and tried to think of something else
– anything else. Nothing at all came to
mind.
"What do you want?" Hermione asked, now a little
annoyed. "And what time is it,
anyway?"
"Get dressed," he told her, heading for the
door. "There's something I want you
to see."
"Wait, Ron–"
He was in the drawing room when she came down a few minutes
later in jeans and a blue top, hair brushed but still fluffy and wild. She looked well rested, Ron thought.
"So what's the big mystery?" she asked. Her earlier irritation was now replaced with
intrigue, and maybe even a hint of excitement.
"And just for the record, it's not yet nine in the morning. I'm hardly a loafer."
He shrugged. No one
had called her one. "This way,"
he said, and then led her to the fireplace.
With a grin he told her, "Diagon Alley, next stop."
****
Her expression of disbelief and horror was much like what
Ron imagined his had been when he'd first seen the store front. Hers, though, were for a different reason.
"Snapping,
Clapping, Tapping Turtles and Turtle Supplies? Seriously?
There was an entire store devoted to just one type of magical turtle?" She leaned forward and cupped her hand to the
grimy window to peer into the dark store.
"Can't imagine why it's not around any longer."
"We don't open until
Hermione stepped back and read: "Weasleys' Wizard
Wheezes." Her face lit up, and then
darkened as she looked back at the little store. "Oh, Ron, is this where they have you
working?"
He nodded and let her into the shop. "I was upset when I first got here, but
then I found this," he explained, and handed her the bag of gold. "One week's pay," he told her
proudly.
Her eyes bulged. "One
week! I never knew there was this much
money in jokes and silliness."
"I'll split it with you," he said, and when her eyes lifted to his – her clear, bright, brown eyes - he choked.
"I mean," he added after clearing his throat, "since
you need a position, and I've not the foggiest how to even go about making this
a store, and there's more money in there than either of us could possibly use
in a week…"
"Are you hiring me, Ron?"
Hiring Hermione?
Would she even consider working for him?
"I'd rather, I reckon, be partners.
Fifty-fifty."
She considered this, and then glanced around the shop
again. "There's a lot of work to be
done," she said at last. "And
I'm sure you could use the help."
"Oh, I could," he assured her.
"And this is quite a lot of money, especially since we're
living with Harry and don't have to worry about letting a place."
"Yes, it's quite a lot of gold," he agreed.
"But Ron, I'm not sure it's a good idea."
He was gobsmacked. "Not
a good idea? Why not?"
"Well, for starters, we tend to fight. A lot."
"No we don't!"
"And running a place of business is difficult and
stressful, and we'd be together all day here and then live in the same house at
night. That's a lot of together time."
"Sounds about the same as when we were at Hogwarts for
the last six years."
"Did I mention we fight a lot?"
"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" He kicked one of the full boxes, and
something small exploded inside.
"Ron, be serious.
I can't possibly work here with you."
Would she have said yes before? When the Fates were still with him and Harry was someone she considered a very good friend, but nothing more? Did she think of more with Harry now? Had she ever thought of more with Ron? He tried to think back and really couldn't remember those particular thoughts about Hermione having ever entered his head while they were in school. Yes, he'd been jealous when she'd shown interest in other boys; one Viktor Krum came to mind. But that was more because, well, she had no business going to a dance with anyone but him. She was his best friend, after all, and a girl. And being Hermione, who knew things, she should've worked out that it was bloody awkward to ask girls out and saved him the trouble. She should've known he was going to get around to asking her. Eventually. Right?
Now, looking back, it didn't seem quite so right as it once
had.
"I've messed things up, haven't I? Made a right blunder out of it all." The store was an impossible job. What had he been thinking? He took the sack of money from her and tossed
it back on the boxes. "Never
mind. I'll return the money to Fred and
George and tell them it was a bad idea."
"What? Because
of me? Because I said no you're going to
give up? Just like that?"
"Doesn't matter."
Without another word he walked out of the store.
She followed closely.
"Ron! Ron, wait!" Her hand found his arm and she stopped him. "What is it? Tell me what's going on? You, of all people, are not a quitter! What is it?"
Her pleading killed him. "Don't you know? Can't you feel it?" He grabbed at his chest, at the raw emptiness that screamed when she touched him. "How can you not sense this?"
He felt shaky, out of control. He closed his eyes, tried desperately to
reign in the storm inside him, but a tear escaped his left eye anyway, and her
confused expression turned to surprise, and then fear.
"Right," he muttered. She thought he'd gone mental, and maybe he
had. Maybe that's what happened when the
soul was split in two. But, how could
she not feel it? Maybe she did and just
didn't care that he was gone.
Her eyes flew back and forth between each of his, and he
could see she was desperately trying to come up with some answer for him. But it was useless, he knew, because there
was only one answer he needed. Hands
still shoved in his pockets, Ron ducked his head and kissed her. A gasp escaped her lips. Her mouth was soft, sweet, her lips dry and
warm. She didn't pull away, at least not
at first, but she didn't touch him, or deepen the kiss like she had with Harry.
It wasn't fair. Even
when Ron stole a kiss, Harry was still between them – where he would always
be. Ron pulled back and didn't open his
eyes until he'd turned and began to walk away from her. He couldn't bear to see the look her face
would wear now. That their first and last
kiss should be what it was, gentle and brief and sad, seemed almost too
appropriate. This wasn't fair, he
thought again, to any of them.
"This never happened," he called over his
shoulder. He knew she wasn't following
this time. "Just forget it."
****
Ron didn't go down for dinner because for the first time in
his life he didn't have an appetite.
Besides, he didn't want to have to face either of his friends, both of
whom he betrayed. Harry was her Love
now, and no matter what Ron felt, nothing justified kissing a friend's
Love. He wasn't even sure why he'd done
it. To stun her out of the hex? To startle up some deep-seated trace from
their old bond? The truth was probably
closer to the fact that he wanted to know what Harry now knew, and he wanted
her to feel for him the way she had felt after Harry had kissed her – neither
of which happened.
When the knock came, as he knew it would, Ron forced himself
up off the bed and trudged to the door.
Harry was on the other side, and an odd feeling dripped over him, thick
like honey. Ron had changed in the day
since he'd last seen Harry (last punched his best friend in the face), but
Harry hadn't. In fact, Ron could tell that
for a moment Harry seemed stunned at the change he saw in him.
"You OK?" Harry asked with real concern. "Moody's here."
"Yeah," Ron said.
"Right."
"Where's Hermione?" Harry asked. "I thought maybe she was holed up in her
room like you, but she's not in the manse, as far as I could see."
"She didn't come home?" Ron asked. He must've really upset her. "I'm such a cad."
"Did you have another row?" Harry's tone went flat.
"Seems to be all I'm good for these days."
Harry nodded. "You
might want to think on that."
****
Moody was in the newly restored dining room waiting for
them. He handed them both a length of
rope when they came in. "Two
things, lads, before we start. Number
one, you are expected to behave as gentlemen while living in a house with an
unchaperoned young witch; and, number two, the fastest way to kill a friendship
stone cold dead – even one as tight as yours – is to fight over a witch. I hope nothing more needs be said on the
subject." He turned from them, but
his magic eye didn't look away.
Both Harry and Ron glared, not at each other, but at
Moody. Who the hell did the old wizard
think he was, anyway?
"Oh, and three, Kingsley has arranged a time for both
of you to take your Apparation exams.
End of next week. We expect
you'll each get your license without too much trouble. You both know how to Apparate, yes?"
They nodded, and Moody grunted his approval. "Well, we'll see about that, won't we?"
"Now then, each of you take a length of rope between
your hands and focus on the tension there.
Feel the strain of the fibers beneath your fingers. That's right."
For twenty minutes Moody had them explore their own energy
reserves and send small pulses of magic back and forth from one hand to the
other via the length of cord. It was
boring, tedious. Ron wasn't altogether
sure that he was doing anything at all.
"What am I supposed to be feeling?" he whispered
to Harry.
"Dunno," Harry whispered back. "Doesn't feel the same as it did
before."
Ron snorted.
"Really? Can't imagine why a
rope would feel different than your girlfriend."
Harry scowled.
The next half hour was a little more interesting. Moody took the ropes away and had Ron and
Harry try to transfer their energy from one hand to the other without physical
conduction: a task infinitely more difficult.
Ron tried to focus, tried to dig down to his inner well. He even held his breath, but nothing seemed
to happen. He was beginning to think
Moody was having them on, when a small blue ball of light twinkled from the
center of Harry's left palm and then lazily twittered its way to the center of
his right.
"Very good!" said Moody animatedly. "Well done!"
"That was it?" Harry asked, doubtful.
"That was it? That was the exact same thing that
transferred between you and Hermione the other evening. That, my boys, is pure magic! Interesting that yours would be blue, though,
Harry. If I remember correctly, Lily's
was yellow and James' had a bit of orange.
Normally warm or cool colors run in the family."
"They do?" Harry asked.
"Well, mostly, I should say," Moody corrected. "Not always. I'd be interested to know if Miss Granger's
energy has a blue hue," he muttered, but not quite under his breath. Ron picked up on the insinuation
immediately. Was Harry still carrying
her magic inside of him? Jealousy
wriggled inside Ron's gut.
"Now you, Ron, let's see what color you are."
It was like attempting to blow the clouds away. After a while, Ron decided he'd had enough. "This is going nowhere."
He was defeated, and he no longer cared. Harry had the power, the girl, and what did Ron have? A promising shop career. One would think that with all the time he spent in Madame Trelawny's tower, someone might've clued him in to his pathetic future.
"Harry's the wizard, not me. I'm wasting everyone's time."
"No!" Moody said, cuffing the back of Ron's head. "There's no room for self pity
here. It's wasted energy, and we can't
have that. Now, take hands, the both of
you. Ron on the bottom."
Both of them stared blankly at the wizard, and his magical
eye zeroed in on Harry. "Try not to
snog this time," Moody quipped, and then let out a belly laugh that woke
the portrait in the entry hall. "Come
on, now, time's a wasting!"
Reluctantly, Ron held out his hands, palms up, and set his
jaw against Harry's look of anger. Harry
roughly took up his hands, like a challenge, and Ron instantly felt a jolt
pierce hotly through the center of his palms.
"Did you do that?" Ron asked.
"Sorry," Harry muttered, not looking the least bit
sorry.
"Enough talk!
Mouths closed!" Moody began
to slowly circle them, his wooden foot stomping unevenly on the floor. Ron couldn't help but feel a little like a
hunted puffskein. After all, he had
Harry in front of him shooting proverbial daggers at him, literal bolts of
energy with his hands, and Mad-Eye Moody limping about them with the kind of
glee one would expect from Snape just before he announced a surprise exam.
"No!" shouted Moody. "Look at him, Ron. Concentrate on him. Let yourself trust him – put everything else
aside. Nothing else matters, just the
here and now, just his hands and yours, just your magic and his. Good. Better. Now, Harry, slowly…very slowly…"
It took a few moments before Ron felt anything, and then
there was a coldness that began at his fingertips and crept slowly toward his
elbows. He was certain that Harry's
magic was reaching inside him – what an odd sensation. Not at all intrusive, but rather an almost
comforting sensation, like a warm blanket or belly full of porridge.
"Careful, Harry.
Not too much. Just take the magic
he's giving."
"He's not giving me anything," Harry managed to
get out through gritted teeth.
"What? No? Ron, come now. Give him a little. Just relax and trust. Not too much, Harry, just take a little off
the top. Come now, be a man!"
Be a man. Moody said
it only once, but Ron heard it over and over, and instead of Harry in front of
him, Ron saw Malfoy. Draco Malfoy with
his pale skin against the dark of the floor of the cave, and the blood, and the
anger that surged through him. Malfoy
had hurt Hermione. He'd cursed her, and
Ron hated him with every last fiber of his being, and the hate boiled into fury,
into rage, into death…
There was screaming, and at first Ron thought it was himself because his mouth was open and his throat was tight. But as he oriented, it was clearly Harry who was screaming. He just stood there and screamed.
Odd, Ron thought.
Moody snatched their hands apart before Ron could think
anything farther, and Harry instantly spun to face the empty fireplace, threw
out his hands, and yelled, "Incendio!"
The blast was
instant and constant, something Ron had never witnessed before. Fire didn't fly from Harry's finger tips, but
rather from an enormous ball at the back of the hearth, where it then shot
straight up the floo with a roar so loud one might've thought a train was ripping
through the wall. The heat from the
blast knocked Moody back a couple of steps, and he held up an arm to shield his
face.
"Stop!"
Moody ordered.
"Can't! There's too much!" Harry turned his head away, but his
outstretched hands continued to strain toward the fireplace and began to shake
under the strain.
"Help him,
Ron!" Moody commanded. "You
gave him too much! Take some of the
burden back!"
"How?" Ron
asked, and reached for his friend.
"No!" Moody yelled.
"For magic's sake don't touch him!
Do you want to blow us all up?
Close your eyes. Find your magic,
it's yours so you can find it. Look
outside yourself. Find it and calm
it. Don't force it, Ron! Don't take what isn't yours! Just find your lost magic and bring it back
home. Yes, that's it. Good, lad.
Easy now. That's enough. Harry can handle the rest. Very nice, the both of you. And that was wandless, Harry. Remember how that felt."
Ron wobbled a step
to his left and then opened his eyes again.
The room was quiet once more, and only the fireplace looked the worse
for wear this time; the bricks and center of the mantle were blackened from the
heat. Harry stood near Ron, chest
heaving, sweat rolling from his flush face and down his neck, tears streaming
down his cheeks. He stared out at
nothing.
"Weasley!" Moody snapped. "Come here!"
Reluctantly, Ron
obeyed. His knees felt weak, and his heart
still hammered.
"Look at
me," Moody told him. "And give
me a hand."
Ron stared into the wizard's
human eye for not more than a moment or two.
He couldn't tell that Moody's hand actually touched his, but Ron felt a
definite magical tremor, followed by the jarring sensation of his insides being
ripped up through his throat. When Moody
pulled away, Ron doubled over and choked.
Moody laughed
triumphantly. "Do you know what you
are, boy? What the Fates have given
us? You're a Smisurato! A Smisurato! Ha-HA!" He danced around
the room a little, his heavy leg banging unpleasantly. Instantly he was back in Ron's face. "No one knows, do they? You've not told anyone?"
"Told them
what?"
"No, no. You don't even know how lucky you are – how
fortunate we all are to have you with the Order. Don't tell a soul, Weasley! Constant vigilance!"
"Uh…" said
Harry. He looked sick. "What's a Smisurato?"
"It's
Ron!" Moody exclaimed. "It's
what you felt when you tapped into his magic!
It's the wizard with the magical well that can't be drained! It's the endless, boundless magical energy,
so rare they say only one wizard possesses the gift for every ten
generations. And we've got you!"
When Mad-Eye smiled,
he looked akin to one of the gargoyles outside the Ministry of Magic. Probably why, Ron reasoned, he rarely did it.
"We'll call a
meeting for tomorrow night. Just the key
people again, don't want too many others getting wind of this." Moody grabbed Ron by the front of his shirt
and pulled him right up to his face. His
breath smelled of turnips. "Swear
it! Not a word, Weasley. Not a whisper to anyone."
"Uh…I swear."
Moody released him,
and Ron's head felt like it floated off his shoulders. "I think perhaps I should lie down for a
moment," he said, and then watched as Harry fainted backwards to the
floor.
"Stamina,"
Moody said, disgusted. He clasped his
hands behind his back and began to pace the floor. "We need to work on stamina. And control, of course. And finesse.
This kind of power used like a club will get us all blown up."
"Uh…Professor…sir…Harry's
down there," Ron said, pointing to his unconscious friend.
"And you need
to work on yourself," Moody told him sharply. "There's nothing wrong with your
magic. It's you who doesn't know how to
use it properly. It's time to get
serious, Weasley. Be a man!"
With a heavy sigh
Ron trudged over to his friend and knelt down to give his cheek a good, hard
smack. Moody caught his wrist on the
up-swing.
"I told you not
to touch him, Weasley. You don't
listen."
"I was going to
rouse him," Ron tried to explain.
"If you touch
him now that your magic knows its way to Harry, you risk burning him with
everything you've got. And needless to
say, that could kill several people. Or
several hundred."
Ron looked at his
hand. It was large and red, and it knew
murder. And now, he saw the real
possibility of doing to Harry what he did to Draco. Men killed.
Every inch of Ron went ice cold.
Even that part of him where nothing resided any longer.
End of chapter 4