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It's a quiet night. Too fucking quiet, but nobody asked Ron, so he keeps to himself and tries not to drown in the memories.
He is, as he so often is these days, out drinking because there's fuck all for him to do and he isn't needed or wanted anywhere. They have been pretty clear about that, thank you very much. Not even so much as a pat on the back or a job well done and it's a here's the door, don't let it hit your arse on the way out.
Ron tips back another shot, his face screwing in disgust as the hard liquor trails down his throat — he can't tell if it has lost its burn or he just doesn't feel it anymore. He's not really sure he cares.
He drinks to numb, drinks to forget, drinks to delay going to the house. He can't bring himself to go back there, to the Burrow, where his mother cries into the pie when she thinks no one is looking. It used to be his favourite, but now it's always too salty.
He's even tried washing it down with firewhiskey but all that did is make it taste bitter.
He slams the tumbler down onto the counter and signals for more. The landlord — great bloke, a real solid sort of fellow — serves him up another right away, just like that, no question asked.
Hannah will do well to learn from him.
Ron would tell her that but he hasn't been back in the Cauldron since she kicked him out for the seventh time in a row. It isn't even the throwing out that he minded it's that look she gives him, like she fucking pities him.
Well, good riddance — it's her lost. The Cauldron has seen better days, that's for sure, or his name isn't Ron Weasley.
Ron blinks up at the television screen. It seems like a stupid place to put that thing — it'll put a crick in someone's neck one day.
A fight — boxing or is it UFC? Something with rings anyway — plays out on the monitor, a Yank against some Irish bloke who looks like he's met the jagged end of a bottle one too many times.
Most wizards think fighting — muggle fighting with bare fists and legs — is uncouth, but Ron knows for a fact that wizards also think the sun shines out of their bloody arseholes, so he isn't too inclined to put much stock into what 'polite' society thinks.
He watches the fight and for a time, the drink goes untouched.
The landlord is calling for last rounds by the time Ron realised he's been sat there, eyes glued to the box for ages. He looks at the clock and is only just mildly surprised that it's already two in the morning.
He downs the last of his drink with one hand while stuffing the other down the pocket of his trousers. He doesn't bother to count the money, just flings pound coins and notes onto the counter and hopes it's enough. It's not like he ever got the hang of muggle money anyway — too many paper, too many coins.
The landlord helps him to the door but slams it close behind him once Ron has stepped over the threshold.
Ron staggers, but the prospect of the Burrow keeps his legs moving.
He stumbles once or twice and has to hold on to the odd lamp post for support, not really caring if he falls on his face, but he has the feeling that if he lay down now, he might not want to get up at all. But then his world starts to spin and he is forced to lean against the wall to get his bearings.
The taste of vodka is right at the back of his throat — it already tastes like swill the first time round, it'll be downright shit the second time.
Ron grabs onto his knees, trying not to vomit, but amidst the dry heaving and the trying to keep it all in his stomach, he notices a set of neon lit doors, blinking like a beacon in a storm. It seems strangely dim, but it's enough to stand out in the bracing dark of the night on the outskirts of Soho.
The door opens and he can hear the roar of a crowd inside — pulsing and alive.
Nausea forgotten, Ron straightens up. The door closes — it is silence once more.
Like a moth lured into a glowing flame, Ron makes his way over. It isn't easy considering how difficult it is at the moment to get his legs to co-operate but he'll be dammed if he doesn't try.
When he finally does make it inside, it's gloriously deafening. The sounds of people, jostling and yelling, wash over him and it feels something akin to coming home. It also smells, of underlying piss but mostly of sweat and blood.
The people — muggles, he's certain — all seem to be mesmerized, as they face, as one, towards the centre, watching. In the middle of the room, there is, Ron realises, a fighting arena — he recognises it from the telly in the pub.
Eager to get close, Ron pushes his way forward.
The throng doesn't give at first, but he pushes back, harder, more insistent, and it relents, like the parting of a sea, and suddenly he's right in front, so near he can almost touch the cage.
The stink of sweat grows sharper this near to the stage but Ron finds it hard to muster the concern.
A harsh, bright light shines down on the arena, throwing the two fighters already in it into the centre of attention. It's fucking hot there but the two in there don't seem to notice the heat as they circle around each other.
One of them is a giant of a man, with skin dark as ebony and built like a hippogriff. Ron tries to imagine being squashed between those arms — his spine bending backwards, eyes bulging out of their socket, face turning red from the lack of breath and then pop! Like a grape. He shudders and diverts his attention to the other fighter, trying in vain to catch a glance of the person. Whoever it is, is being cautious — sticking to quick jabs and dodging for the time being.
Ron squints. Everywhere the person steps, there always seem to be a fucking pillar in the way and will this guy next to him shove off? There's plenty of room on the other side of the guy, he can move over then maybe Ron can bloody well see- His thoughts stop in its tracks as he realises that the other fighter is a woman.
Her long hair is tied up into a ponytail. She bounces on her feet, testing, pushing, but never moving in fully, not yet. The well-defined muscles in her arms and legs ripple as she dances around her opponent.
Things do not bode so well for Mr Hippogriff over there who's been spending his energy trying to catch up to the elusive butterfly. He's getting tired — Ron can see it in the way the man clenches his jaw. Unfortunately for him, she sees it too. She smiles and Ron's eyes grow wide.
His breath stutters and he's not too sure if the floor is still underneath him.
All Ron can focus on is the cage, on the way her eyebrows arch when she notices an opening, the tightening of her calf muscles as she sidesteps into her opponent's space and wrenches his legs from under him. He falls like a sack of bricks and she follows suit on top of him. She grapples his arms and legs and locks them down, holding on amidst the punches he rains down on her, but still she will not let up.
Every blow hurts.
Ron can see with clear detail each flinch, hear each grunt, but her limbs do not yield and she keeps her chin tucked tight against her neck. The referee stands guard nearby and it seems almost an age before the man taps — the action minute but enough.
Ron remembers to breathe again.
More sounds and more yelling erupt around him as winners rejoice, losers moan and men clap each other on the back for a fight well spectated.
The ref pulls the female up, raises her arm, triumphant, into the air.
Once again, she smiles and Ron is lost, rendered helpless at the mere sight of it.
Ron doesn't need to listen to the hissing, crackling announcement to know who she is.
He knows her name once, a lifetime ago, before a war, before death. He remembers her from a fistfight on the floor with the girl he had thought he loved, back in second year, remembers the consequence of her fur laden robes.
"Millicent 'Butterfly' Bulstrode!" they cheer and celebrate as the crowd roars her name and he hears it reverberate in his very bones.
A/N: Because I'm rare pair Millie x Ron trash. Anybody else actually as keen on this pairing as I am?
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