Written for Curia_Regis at the Charlie Fic-A-Thon on Live Journal. Usual disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns everything Harry Potter and is a millionaire because of it. I make nada from creating dystopian societies for her characters to run amuck in.
I wish I could tell you this was the wizarding world I grew up in.
But it's not. It's not even close.
And it isn't just our world; it's the whole damn place, wizarding and Muggle alike.
I wish I could say that I'd contributed to the war effort, other than recruiting foreign wizards and witches, but several months before things came to a head, the reserve had come down with a nasty case of dragon pox. The whole reserve had been quarantined, even though I'd been given the cure—or what Harry liked to call 'vaccination'—at St Mungo's before I'd started my work with the dragons, to avoid such a thing. Mostly, I'd ran around taking care of the dragons and the keepers.
I learnt about the fall of Voldemort six months ago, and almost since the end of the second war, we'd been reduced to communicating via Muggle means, like calling on telephones or knocking on a person's door. The last time someone had tried to Floo into another person's house, they had apparently ended up as nosh for something, or so I'd heard from Caleb, the crew chief, who was the only other keeper that hadn't got sick. He'd got an owl from his family, telling him not to Floo, Apparate, or Portkey home... just in case. That had been two months earlier. He hadn't heard from them since, as far as I'm aware.
I'd tried owling Mum around the same time but I'd yet to hear anything from England by the time I left. The silence was unusual, especially for Molly Weasley. She's the nosiest woman on the planet, and if I told her I suspected something ran afoul, you can bet your last Knut she'd be on my arse like a Seeker on a Snitch to find out more.
That was why I left the reserve that day. Because I couldn't stand not knowing what was going on out there. Our miniscule community was extremely isolated, what with the dragons and all, so, little information was filtered to us from the outside world. In fact, I was one of the last keepers to leave the compound. Most everyone else had left to see to their families or loved ones after the quarantine had been lifted eight weeks earlier, or at least the isolation shield had fallen without warning. I'd stayed only because I'd known my family could take care of themselves, and I would probably have been underfoot in a house full of Weasley spawn. Plus, who would've taken care of the dragons? Not that I put animals before people—though they are easier to understand sometimes—but I honestly didn't think I made a difference in the world as a whole, just in my little corner of it.
I'd packed the essentials in my rucksack, as I planned on travelling light. I'd thought about flying, but there weren't any brooms there, and the closest wizarding village was near Bucharest—a good three-day journey on foot in the opposite direction from where I was headed. Besides, I'm used to being in constant motion, so it wouldn't be a hardship to walk for many miles a day... I hoped. At least I had my wand: Reed, nine and a half, a length of Centaur hair within. My previous one had been destroyed by a breeding Ukrainian Ironbelly, and I'd reluctantly let her eat it instead of me.
How Ollivander had been able to procure the Centaur hair, I'll never know, but I don't think I want to ask him about it. He's been off his game ever since his imprisonment with the Dark Lord. I think he started using several unorthodox cores, and it shows from all the backfired spells that I've heard about just after the war. I had been extremely lucky I'd got a wand that responded immediately without a hitch, since I'd ordered it via owl-post. A most unusual method of procuring one, I know, but I had been too preoccupied to travel. As far as I know, it's the only one he made with the possibly pilfered hair. I'd thought at times about finding a local wand-maker, but even at his barmiest, Ollivander outdid them all.
As I stood at the edge of the normal barrier that shielded the reserve from Muggle eyes, I took one last look around me, searing the image in the back of my mind, a visual reminder that said, "Charlie Weasley was here." I loved being a dragon-keeper. It wasn't a glorious job; in fact, it was downright lethal on the best of days.
But it was mine.
Three weeks later, I was in Budapest.
What. The. Fucking. Hell!
I finally camped down for the night in an abandoned barn that had some hay left inside. At least, I hoped it was for the duration of the night. One could never tell those days. Casting a Homenum Revelio did nothing; those things didn't show up as alive, though they were very clearly moving, snarling, and... well, the best way to describe them was "consuming." They ate anything that had a pulse.
What were they? Good question. They looked like a cross between Inferi and Zombies. Maybe a hybrid? Hell if I knew. I'd never heard of an Inferius eating a person's flesh, but then again, I didn't know if they had ever been used in that capacity; their overwhelming numbers had always been what had made them useful. Zombies, on the other hand, were indiscriminate in their tastes—as in, they had none. They'd gnaw on anything, but they couldn't be controlled. So what the fuck had been chasing me across two countries?
They were doggedly persistent, that was for sure, so it was a good thing that I was in shape and clever or I would've been on the menu long ago. And casting just any spell wouldn't stop them—it had to be a powerful one, like Fiendfyre. Otherwise, you were reduced to having to sever or destroy the head. Slice off their legs, and they still crawled after you. Lop off their arms, and they tried to kick you to death. But decapitate them, and they dropped like a loadstone.
I'd emptied my stomach on the remains the first time I did it. After the fifteenth one, I actually became rather ruthless and creative in dispatching them. It soon became apparent that it was a case of kill-or-be-eaten, while still alive.
Just before I'd passed into Cluj-Napoca, a day and a half into my journey, I'd started noticing that the small villages along the way had been deserted, in shambles, and in some cases, even burnt to ash. I'd poked my head into one căsuţă, or house, and seen a huddled figure rocking back and forth next to a decomposing body. The figure hadn't been aware of my presence at first, because I'd stared at the scene for several minutes before the person—and I use that term loosely—had turned and caught me in its opaque gaze. I could only assume it used to be a female, for it had all the necessary equipment, though what it did have was misshapen and rotting like a corpse's.
When the creature had stopped rocking, the dark red curls that hung to my shoulders had literally felt like they were standing on end. They'd gone positively straight when the creature had risen and started to approach me. The stench alone had made me gag, and I'd backed away hastily. A growl, like a cross between a banshee's shrill and a dragon's bellow, had issued from its mouth, and that had been my cue to leave in short order.
I'd run, as fast as I'd been able to, firing off hexes and curses of any kind that I could think of, but nothing had slowed my pursuer. In fact, I think the only thing that had saved me had been the Canalul Morilor, the body of water that runs through the centre of Cluj. She'd tried to follow me across but had been swept away by the current. Wet, shivering, and bloody cold once I'd reached the other side, I'd quickly made my way to Bánffy Castle in Bonţida. I'd known it had been abandoned, so I'd taken shelter in the nave of the reformed church located there. It had been considered consecrated holy ground, and I'd figured I could use all the help I could get.
That night I'd barely slept. Every little noise had caused me to startle, and I know I'd thrown several curses into the dark area behind the choir loft, but nothing had stirred. Well, nothing lethal, leastways. In the morning, I'd ached as if a Peruvian Vipertooth had trampled my body. I'd tried some stretching exercises to limber up but I had to admit to myself that I really wasn't in that good of a shape if a two-day journey had me feeling decrepit. I'd cast a Healing Charm to see if it would help, but all it had done had been to create an unnerving tingle that had raced along my skin. No, thank you. I'd had enough of that to last me a lifetime.
After determining that it was safe, I'd made my way off the grounds of the castle and headed towards Oradea, which is near the Romania-Hungary border. It had taken me almost two weeks to get there, as there were mountains and many miles of thick forest to traverse. I'd shied away from the Muggle roadways, because they'd seemingly drawn the creatures like those Muggle magnets dad was always so fascinated with. I'd seen more than one bloodied pavement along the way, and I hoped to Merlin that it had been one of those creatures and not a human, though I knew my hopes were in vain.
When I'd reached Oradea, after several close calls and one near bite, I'd been forced to travel on the paved road because the forest had become too dense and inhospitable. While I'd walked alongside the metal rail that ran beside the pavement, my eyes had constantly darted between the woods and the visible road ahead. During one of those scans, I'd spied a large piece of polished wood protruding from the boot of an automobile and I'd dared to get closer.
Upon further inspection, I'd noticed it had a slim handle and a wide paddle body, like an oversized Qudditch Bludger bat. Hefting it, I'd realised that if I swung it, there was enough weight behind it that it would send anything in its trajectory flying backwards several metres. I'd had to have it. That it had fit into my rucksack had been a bonus.
Village after town after city had been either empty or full of the dark things. I'd soon learned to keep as quiet as possible; they'd seemed attracted to noise, much like to a dinner bell ringing. I'd jogged as much as I could, to remain agile. I'd strengthened my arms with the paddle contraption I'd found, by swinging it in wide arcs. It had proven to be very useful shortly after I'd appropriated it.
I'd taken to calling the creatures Zombiferi, since they had traits of both. Crossing into Berettyóújfalu, a town in the Northern Great Plain region of eastern Hungary, I'd come across several of the Zombiferi, feasting on what looked like the majority of what had been the town's inhabitants. Of course, I'd taken a running charge at them. Stupid, I know, but I think in that case it was better to be on the offensive instead of waiting around for them to use my shin bone as a toothpick.
The first 'victim' had roared towards me and I'd popped off his head like a bloated blood boil, with the same results of sticky goo. For some reason, it had made me grin. I took to incapacitating them like a Goblin takes to accumulating money: quick, efficient and creating a large pile. For all their ferociousness, they hadn't been that smart or organized, which sometimes defeated the advantage their number gave them. Occasionally, they'd just been too numerous, and I would try to sneak around them or just flee as if the Dark Lord himself were chasing me. After I'd dispatched them all, I'd stood in the middle of a deserted road, drenched in blood, gore—and, oh, dear Merlin, had that been an eye sticking to the wooden board? I'd become sick once again. Like I said, it took quite a few times before I became desensitised to the fact I was... what? Killing? Murdering? Visiting a mercy upon recently damned souls? I didn't know what to call what I was doing. To me, it was survival, but I don't think laughing maniacally after a point was considered key to my continued endurance.
Working with the dragons had been nothing like that. The dragons had been peace and harmony, like the Muggle philosophy of Zen; I'd found my centre, my balance, while working on the reserve. Now, I suffered a major paradigm shift beyond any rational thought. I still don't know if I've completely dealt with it, but I'm focused on getting back to my family, so I really don't have time to think about it.
When I finally made it to Budapest, I was bone-weary and I know I had a wild look about me. My hair was a bit scraggly, I'd lost weight, and I was extremely paranoid. With my wand in one hand and my heavy wooden paddle in the other, I was definitely one normal humans—the rare few that I'd encountered—shied away from.
I guess it didn't help that the one tattoo I bare spans the length of my body and is fearsome to behold: a Hebridean Black dragon, its tail wrapped around my right thigh, calf and ankle. The body and wings cover my right hip, arse, torso and shoulder. Its neck winds around my own, only to have its wide, toothy smile firmly in place on my right cheek. It had taken a year to complete, and having it magically inked had fucking hurt. I wouldn't trade it for the world. But to strangers, I suppose I look a bit freakish, more like an old Celtic god, hell-bent on destruction.
Mum hasn't seen me in since before the war. I wonder what she'll think...
It was a bit of a relief that I found that empty barn on the outskirts of Normafa in the Buda Hills. Autumn was approaching, but, while the array of colours was fascinating, I took little joy in the changing of the seasons. In a moment of idle vanity, I spelled the coarse stubble on my face into what I hoped was a stylish goatee, not that I had a mirror to check, mind you. It itched like hell-fire anyways. I didn't bother casting any spells to see if there were any inhabitants—it looked like it hadn't had any in years—before I settled down for a bit of light sleep. I was just closing my eyes when an uneasy feeling crept up my spine. In hindsight, a spell would've alerted me to the other presence deep within the shadows, but I'd grown a bit too arrogant in my ability to survive thus far.
It wasn't the footsteps that woke me, for there weren't any. Nor was it any kind of rustling amongst the stale hay that littered the place.
It was the forceful prod of a wand tip aimed right between my eyes that had me cringing internally.
"Well, Mister Weasley," drawled the familiar baritone of Severus Snape. "Fancy meeting you here."