Author's Note:
Well I'm not a native speaker (really could use a beta) but I hope it will still be an enjoyable experience.
Oh and contrary to what the choice of main characters might suggest, there will be no slash here ladies and gentlemen. Sorry.
A Word of Introduction about the story:
I had the original idea for this thing before I read the Deathly Hallows so the story follows canon only until the end of the Half-Blood prince. Certain details will nonetheless be identical to canon, most importantly: Voldemort is worm-fodder.
The consequences ( and the events leading up to the "final battle") will be quite different though. I was never a fan of the Dark Lord cliche far more interesting to my mind are the conflicts of ordinary people - of normal political and economical leaders, who have no need for black cloaks but can be evil enough. The primary idea to this whole thing is the question: What would realistically happen if you managed to kill the leader of some terrorist organization? Would its members just lay down their arms and henceforth peacefully grow their crops, bitching over the wife, the boss and the disrespectful youth nowadays? I don't believe so. People are inherently lazy; to get them to rise up in arms there has to be some driving need, some injustice (true or perceived) to motivate them. Such things don't disappear because a leader has been slain.
We enter the action about four to five years after Voldemort's demise, so the Trio is in its early twenties.
"Well, shit!"
"Really Seamus, your powers of observation continue to astound."
"Weasley?"
"Yes my dear friend?"
"Go and fuck a furry rabbit, will ya?"
"Was that an illicit overture, or are you…"
"Silence you imbeciles, both of you or I will come down and knock some heads together, understand?"
It is said that the waiting for the battle to begin is the worst torture known to mankind. Obviously whoever came up with this drivel never spend even a split-second under the Crucio curse or they would rather have swallowed their own tongue than annoy posterity with their meaningless babbling.
Still the old saying is not entirely without merit, a fact to which Ron Weasley can sadly testify a hundred times over. His squad is as professional as they came these days, with rookies pressed into battle before they are ready, nonetheless the strain needs an outlet and finds it in slightly hysterical bouts of not-quite-so-funny humour.
Normally One-Eye would have ignored it, yet this morning finds him rather stressed out and when Alastor Moody is stressed out someone – Merlin help him – has to pay for it. If Ron was in a somewhat more conciliatory mood, he might have admitted that Moody has ample reason to be pissed off, starting with the ever present Ministry bureaucracy to the abrupt change of timetable for the mission. But his team has spend the better part of the last hour low-crawling over this industrial wasteland, turned mud hole by the driving rain and littered with garbage, shards and – as Seamus now knows firsthand – piles of dog shit. Therefore he is a tad irritable himself and not all that willing to deal with his commander's moods.
According to the Unspeakables the abandoned coal mine they are currently stalking contains a large Death Eater safe house, serving as hub and depot for illegal weapon shipments from the continent.
Ron slithers forward another meter through the darkness, easily avoiding contact with the heap of dog poo, now that its position is known courtesy of Seamus Finnegan. His petty triumph is rather short lived as they have to crawl through an enormous puddle, drenching every last bit of dry cloth that has managed to withstand the rain. They finally reach their waypoint beneath the old shaft tower. It is recognizable only as a looming shadow in the darkness.
A sharp Northwest is driving new rain clouds inland from the bay of Liverpool, cutting through their soggy chameleon cloaks with iron talons. Ron tries to huddle deeper in his dragon scale armour to conserve a last bit of fleeting warmth – a futile effort. He reaches out through the mind-crystal sticking behind his ear, which ties the whole task force together to one thinking unity with its low level Legilimency, and reports to Moody.
"Team Beta has made it through the outer wards apparently undetected and reached way point Beta-3. Commence attack?"
"Negative team leader. Team Alpha not yet there. Hold position and await further orders."
Ron grits his teeth and tries to ignore the streams of icy rain running down his back. He turns his head to survey his team. Under their chameleon cloaks they look like nothing so much as heaps of mining debris and rubble, recognizable as humans only to an alert watcher.
There is steady, reliable Seamus and the laconic Murdock McKenzie, still munching his toothpick; beside him, Sarah Doherty, no one is deadlier than her at throwing knives. They are his squad and he has laid his life in their hands a hundred times over. They have never let him down and he trusts them implicitly.
He is less certain about the other members of his team. The kid, whose name he has forgotten a minute after he had been told, – L something … Lionel, Liam, Lukas? – is supposed to be a top-notch curse breaker and Technomagi. He was already useful while navigating through the perimeter and will be so again when they will have to gain access to the security wards through the crystal ball, hopefully to be found in the barrack, which they are stalking. Still he will be most likely nothing more than a liability in the coming fight, and even worse – a liability that has to be protected.
The same cannot be said about Jeremiah Thompson, one of the most lethal warriors in the corps. Rumor has it; the last man to insult Thompson still hasn't been released from St. Mungos. Moody described him only as a "nasty, little hard-ass," which is high praise indeed, coming from the old son of a bitch. Even so Ron likes him little and trusts him less. He has heard rumours about the reasons for Thompson's sudden reassignment to this task force, just before the raid. Rumours about sexual assault against suspects and "excessive use of persuasion during interrogation," which means to say that he tortured the shit out of some poor sod. Even more telling is the fact that he actually got reprimanded for it, however slightly. In these dark times there are very few things an Auror can't do to a suspect.
Ron sighs heavily. He is two men short of full strength for his two squads. One of his team members is totally untested; another a loose cannon with sadistic tendencies. He iswet, cold, mud-sputtered and hungry. Not yet the fourth hour of the morning and already this is shaping up to be a great day.
They had left their Hippogriffs nearly ten miles to the west, out of detection range of the forward guardian wards and crept towards the mine under the cover of darkness. Fifty-seven heavily armed Aurors, 14 squads. A mile from the mine the battle group had split: the main force took attack positions just outside the perimeter wards, while the infiltration teams wormed their way in under the protection of their cloaks and Silencio amulets.
Currently Team Beta is huddled directly beneath the old shaft tower against the western wall of hulking brick building that might once have harboured the administration of the mine. On the south side a rectangular extension has been later added to the main body of the building, probably to serve as a guard house.
Built with a window directly next to the main door; it is ideally suited to control the coming and going of callers to the offices. Two other windows, set into the long side of the structure, are looking south over the yard; all three secured with heavy iron grates. He can feel the delicate cobweb of the strengthening charms in the rain slick, black-red brick walls – a sensation like warm honey running down the back of his neck. A cask of fire-oil would probably do nothing more than blacken the stones further.
Moody's orders interrupt his musings:
"All teams in position. Team Beta proceed."
Ron flexes his muscles, trying to warms his limbs; stiff from cold.
"All right people this is it. Sarah you take the sentry on the tower. The rest are with me. Remember this is strictly knife work, no spells, no wands unless it is that or die."
He doesn't wait for the chorus of assent, but reaches out along the link to Seamus only.
"Listen, mate: you look after the rookie. We need him alive and I don't trust him not to panic. If he decides to start throwing curses in the middle of the party, club him over the noggin. If he trips the magic detection wards, while we are still taking care of the guards, we are all fucked."
"Ohhh, splendid. Nursemaid has always been my dream job."
"At least your baby isn't a psychopath with a garrote. So stop whining unless you want to switch."
That shuts him up. Ron closes his link to him and addresses the rest of his team:
"Murdock, try and take a look inside. Kid, you stay with Seamus. Thompson you are with me. Move it!"
Sarah is already a quarter of the way up to the top, as they round the southwest corner of the main building. Barely visible black figures in a night full of shadows.
Warm light is falling out of guard house window, silvery laughter drifts to the men crouching beneath the windows. Ron watches as McKenzie closes his eyes and concentrates. He is gifted with a rare variety of the Animagi talent. In a limited range he can posses any kind of non-sapient animal, control it and see with its eyes, even feel the life-force and therefore the location of humans and other mammals to a certain extent.
A few heartbeats later Ron receives a picture through the Legilimency link: All colours leech out or turn into a hundred shades of grey, the angles subtly wrong but still recognizable as the interior of a room, presumably the guard house. Ron suppresses a sigh of relief. At least this time the animal had only two eyes. He once took a glimpse through the eyes of housefly, with Murdock's help, and the memory alone is still enough to make him nauseous.
There are three people inside: Two leaning against a long table in front of the windows that holds half a dozen crystal balls, serving as monitor stations, probably for the outer perimeter wards; the third dozing in an armchair in front of the fireplace.
His men function like clockwork. Seamus and the rookie take the first window, Murdock the third, Ron finds himself squatting under the second with cold-eyed Jeremy Thompson.
Ron doesn't hurry with the flask clipped to his belt. Basilisk venom will eat through anything that isn't Basilisk bone; there are no known antidotes and exactly two types of people that can deal with this substance: the very careful and the dead. Still applied correctly it has its uses: The black iron of the window hinges, spell reinforced, will pose no more of a hindrance for the foul stuff than soft cheese.
The venom has made good progress with the hinges, quietly sizzling, by the time Murphy's Law finally takes effect and the guard on duty decides he absolutely can't go another minute without fresh air.
Throwing open the casement with gusto the guard is more than a little surprised when it breaks clear of its hinges. Ron narrowly avoids getting his head bashed in by the heavy iron grate, only to find himself practically nose to nose with a lanky, young man leaning out of the window, slack jawed by alarm.
They both jerk back reflexively like teenagers that have been caught in the act by their parents. Someone emits an embarrassingly shrill squeak. ( The Death Eater of course, no son of Arthur Weasley squeaks or squeals or yelps. Especially not this son. ) In any other situation the look of utter confusion on the guard's face might have been comical.
"What the fuck – ?"
He never finishes his question. Thompson lunges forward with the speed of a striking snake; his garrote a flash of crimson in the firelight. The guard's eyes widen in panic as the wire draws tight around his throat, silencing his cry of alarm before it can leave his mouth. Thompson throws his weight backwards and the man is jerked face first out of the window into the night.
Ron ribs his goblin-forged knife free from its leg sheath and vaults the window ledge. Thanks to his cramped muscles, he very nearly twists an ankle while landing, but manages to catch himself. His remaining momentum carries him forward, barreling into the soft body of a young woman. For a split second, a moment suspended in time like a fly in amber, their eyes meet and he is enthralled by their beauty. The colour of polished mahogany wood, flecked with amber and ochre and a hundred shades of molten gold, a galaxy of fairy dust suspended in velvet brown.
Then the spell is broken, time resumes its normal course. She scrambles away from him and lunges for the controls of the crystal balls – a long console made of black witchwood inset with strange levers, instruments of polished brass and gemstone buttons, in all colours of the rainbow – either to sound an alarm or to reach for some unseen weapon. There is no time for thinking, he runs on automatic. Hooking an arm around her waist, propelling her through a half circle and throwing her up against the far wall, none of it requires a conscious thought. He is upon her before she can regain her footing, driving the knife between her ribs with the whole weight of his body behind the blow. She crumbles again the wall; instinctively he slides an arm around her to support her. She reminds him of someone and that irritates him because he cannot place her. He can't. She doesn't look like her. She doesn't. Not at all.
Her lips move and a wet gurgling sound is emitted from her throat. His blade must have pierced a lung. He doesn't know what she wants to say and he never will, fore when she opens her mouth nothing comes out but blood.
"Are you kissing that bird or killing her, Your Grace1?"
Ron turns his head to find Seamus standing next to him, red dripping from his blade. The third Death Eater has died in his chair without waking, throat slashed from ear to ear. Murdock has taken guard position at the door, leading deeper into the building. The kid is already bent over the console, holograms and diagrams flickering in and out of existence in the air above it.
"You and your bonny kinda looked like the bloke and his bird from the poster of the movie, this girl I once knew dragged me into … wind something. Break a Wind, Close to the Wind or so. If you grew a poncy little mustache, it would be a perfect match. Whole thing was a terrible experience really, the bint cried into her handkerchief the whole evening. Crime against mankind these chick-flicks. If a girl should ever try to strong arm you into watching one, run for the hills mate."
Ron gives him a cold glare that wipes the grin right off his face. He gently lowers the corpse in his arms to the ground and yanks his knife free.
"Fascinating. Now is there a reason you are telling me this?"
Seamus sniffs huffily.
"I was just trying to impart some of my hard earned wisdom on the young and needy, but seeing that I'm not wanted…"
Sometimes the only way to deal with the Irishman is to ignore him. Turning away from Seamus Ron addresses the youngest member of his squad:
"How is it going…" Lincoln, Lance, Lou… good grief Lorenzo? "…kid?"
"Already deactivated the perimeter wards Your Grace1. Give me five minutes and we won't need the fire oil for the doors."
"Will they notice that you are fiddling with their wards?"
"I know my job. If they have a real artist at the Central Control Spell and if he is paying attention, they will notice. Unlikely but not impossible."
Better not waste any time. A short check-up through the Legilimency link shows him that Sarah has dispatched the lookout and taken his post. From her point of view the mine is silent and shadowed, nothing moves in the darkness and the rain. Thompson … Thompson does not answer his call.
Ron bites back an oath and hurries to the window. No matter the rumours, no matter his dislike for the man; Thompson is a member of his team, his well-being Ron's responsibility.
He can still feel his team mate's presence at the other end of the link, so he isn't dead at least, maybe unconscious, maybe injured, maybe just preoccupied.
He leans out of the window. What he sees next will stay with him for the rest of his life.
Thompson is whole and healthy. In fact he seems to enjoy himself. For the first time since Ron has known him his face holds an actual emotion: Eyes shining with ecstasy, face contorted in the rigor of an impending orgasm.
It's the perverted caricature of a loving embrace. The Death Eater 's head rests against Thompsons's chest, hands clawing at his throat, feet kicking feebly. The wire of the garrote is drawn taut around the victim's neck – but not tight enough to grant a quick death.
All available nightmare clichés have apparently decided to forego their weekly pint in the pub to pop in on him: The very air has turned into viscous syrup, his legs refuse to move. When his limbs start to cooperate again, his rage is cold and sharp like an ice dagger.
Ron drives his knife upwards through the maxilla of the tortured man and watches as his struggle ceases. Something, some emotion is visible in the moribund man's eyes, as their light dims and dies – maybe relief, maybe accusation, or maybe gratitude. Ron cannot decide which would be worst and wants none of it anyway.
Thompson rolls his victim's body off him and springs to his feet. The man has something of a coiled snake about him.
Ron has to fight the urge to cut his throat and be done with him with all his might. Murder is temptingly easy on a battlefield. His team would have his back. No one asks inconvenient questions about surplus corpses in a war zone.
But then that is the problem in a nutshell. They have all become too accustomed to following orders without asking, without thinking. To killing without remorse. He will see the sick fucker dead, but it will be done the proper way: With lawyers and judges and a trial. More importantly there will a Dementor's kiss waiting and if anyone can give them indigestion it's this bloody asshole. He really doesn't want to think about it, but the clinical, detached part of his brain is also distinctly aware of the fact that the task force is already dangerously undermanned on a mission deep in enemy territory. The squad will need Thompson's experience, his cold-bloodedness in the coming fight.
"Leave the garrote. Get inside and await further orders. Now."
Thompson obeys without comment. Perhaps he feels instinctively how fragile the calm exterior is, how deep and deadly the abyss beneath.
Ron picks up the abandoned assassin's weapon. Not the normal piano wire but barbed wire – naturally. Cruel steel needles twisting like grasping talons. He thinks of his brother's hands – black-red with dried blood where his nails had dug into the skin. They needed to break his fingers with pry bars to open his fists. He thinks of cities burning, of great funeral pyres painting the horizon in colours of blood and flame. He drops the wire and walks away, in his mouth the taste of cold ash.
Tense silence receives him on his return to the guard house. Seamus and Murdock are both giving him questioning looks, feeling that something significant just transpired, but now is not the time. They have a job to do.
"Mission lead, here Beta lead. Wards are down, position secured."
"About time, team leader. We are proceeding according to plan. Get your ass in gear and do your part."
Ron smiles darkly. So Moody isn't a happy camper. Well big surprise, his day wasn't all sugar and spice either. Maybe he could get away with decapitating his commanding officer. But then again such behaviour is generally frowned upon during a mission. They might turn him over to the Dementors and their tender mercies – or even inquire after all his unpaid tabs in the Leaky Cauldron.
"Are you finally done with the access spells?"
The kid wisely keeps his mouth shut and only throws a notebook to him in response. Ron snatches the squealing thing out of the air and turns towards the door.
"I must strongly protest against this treatment! I am a Personal Ally Against All Ailments – Wizarding or otherwise – a product of highly complex charm work. I will have you know my warranty does not cover this kind of abuse. Additionally…"
The blasted thing doesn't even have a mouth but manages nonetheless to produce a noise level to rival the twins at their worst.
"Listen, because I will only say this once. If you don't shut your trap right now, I will personally see to it that you are converted to bum fodder. Now open that door."
He meets Seamus eyes and suddenly he has to fight hard to suppress manic laughter. Here he stands arguing with megalomaniac post-it note, while infiltrating a heavily guarded Death Eater stronghold, not to mention plotting the execution of one of his soldiers.
The humour is laced with black tendrils of gut wrenching fear and loathing for the war and the world; the things he has done and seen and not prevented; the people they were supposed to protect but didn't. Bitterness is oozing from his heart like puss from an open wound.
They are here to kill people they have never met. Kill them in their sleep on orders from men he despises, for a ruling class he no longer feels any loyalty for. They are young men still, some of them have yet to kiss a girl, but they have already killed and murdered – and some of them may not live to see the dawn. One may as well laugh as long as one can, for the alternative to laughter is bottomless despair and madness, slow poison for the soul.
He presses the notebook against the door and whispers an Ineo Incatatem, activating the charms bound to the booklet.
The kid has done beautifully; the self-contained key charm he placed on the notebook is working flawlessly. Complex Arithmancy diagrams and runes flicker and disappear above the paper. Short lived silver apparitions spun from moonshine and spider silk. The heavy iron door first turns cherry red then to a warm butter yellow before it swings open without a sound.
Seamus and Thompson take guard positions on either side of the opening, war-wands at the ready, but the revealed corridor is dark and deserted.
It shouldn't be possible for a PAAAA to look smug because it has no facial features whatsoever, but somehow this one manages just that. Ron returns it to the owner with no little irritation.
"Take the goddamned thing and unlock the main door. Murdock, Seamus look after him. Sarah will cover you from above if there is trouble but don't you dare to go looking for it. No one moves until Moody is here."
McKenzie gives him an irritated eye-roll but otherwise refrains from comment about his mothering. The three disappear quickly into the night while Thompson and Ron settle down to wait for Moody and his troops.
Time stretches in the darkness like spider silk. Empires rise and fall in the space of a heartbeat. Mountains are whittled away to sand. Hours (years, centuries?) later the night ripples. Outside the windows shadows and vapours materialize into human form, darkness made flesh. It's a sight fit to make man's blood run cold. Ron wonders briefly if that was the way the girl saw him. A creature of twilight, shifting in and out of sight; a ghostly apparition, lizard-like in his dragon-bone helmet; silent death coming through the windows with a blade in hand. He sighs and returns his attention to watching the corridor. He is waxing poetic and that's never a good sign
His clock tells him that only fifteen minutes have elapsed since he gave the attack order. This means that either his time-piece is broken – again – or they are making better time than anticipated. Suspicion rears its ugly head. In his opinion there is nothing scarier than a smoothly progressing plan.
Seamus returns with the rest of the team and half a dozen obsidian spheres gingerly pressed against his chest. A grinning skull and a blazing flame are engraved on the containers.
"Here, courtesy of Mad Eye. We are to clean up the barracks in the second quadrant and then to converge on the storage room from the southwest. He said he wanted to keep the notebook for when they reach the Central Control Spell and I wish him joy of it. I will never understand why people actually pay for these things; if they want a full-time pain in the neck I could direct them to several – absolutely free of charge." He offers Ron four of the ominous globes, only to be genially ignored.
"Here you are, Your Grace1. Take the blasted things already, will ya?"
"Nope."
"What do you mean, nope?"
"As you said Seamus, Weasley is your King1 and one perk of being monarch is, you can make some sucker carry your insanely dangerous potions."
"I'm feeling the love, alright."
Aurors are streaming into the safe-house through both doors. Gloomy corridors and dank empty rooms await them. Ron has taken point. His squad follows on his heels. His heartbeat thunders in his ears, he is sweating heavily, draughty hallways and sopping wet clothes notwithstanding. It is the fourth hour of the morning, the dark and silent time when the human sleep cycle is farthest from awareness and nearest to the abyss. Body temperature and brain activity drop to a dangerous low. A little further and you could feel the ferryman breathing down you neck. It is the hour of assassins, poisoners and secret murder.
The hour of the wolf has begun.
His squad has very nearly reached their assigned target when all hell breaks loose.
They are less then five steps from the door to the Death Eater's sleeping quarters, when a middle-aged, balding man rounds the corner in front of them. He is obviously still half asleep, struggling to close his fly after his visit to the loo, probably longing to return to his warm bed. Beneath their chameleon cloaks they are practically invisible in the blackness. There is no way in hell he will notice them, not if doesn't literally stumble over one of them – which he does. The kid freezes with fright like a deer in the headlight. Ron can only look on open-mouthed as the rookie tumbles to the floor with a squeal like a frightened mouse, as the Death Eater stands over him eyes wide with shock. For a heartbeat the bald man is frozen to the spot, trying to work out in what the hell he has actually tripped over. When he understands, when he sees them emerge like grey ghosts from the darkness, when he finally whirls around to run for his life, screaming bloody murder, it is far too late for him.
Ron has already raised his war-wand, three feet of black witch-wood with a basilisk tooth core.
He reaches out for that place where possibility collapses into being, where might be/is/was aren't further apart than the thickness of a shadow. His wand focuses his will like a burning glass and he twists the possibility wave, forces the ever changing face of maybe into a chosen path. Somewhere on another plane of existence his body hisses a Sectumsempra.
The man's screams for help are abruptly silenced. His momentum carries the Death Eater half a dozen steps further before his knees give out and the severed head rolls of his shoulders like a badly balanced bowling ball, eyes starring in mute accusation. Blood squirts from the cut arteries, painting the walls with a red Rorschach-test.
Somewhere in the building a war horn is sounded, calling the sleepers to arms and the Aurors are all suddenly very busy staying alive.
Seamus is already extending his arm to open the door, when it is pushed open from the inside and a bleary faze appears in the doorway.
"What the ... who the hell are you?"
"Why it's me dad. Don't you recognize your only son? I brought presents."
"What?"
"That."
Seamus throws the black globe of a fire-oil grenade at him, which his opponent instinctively catches. A split second later he stumbles backward in a shower of blood and splintered teeth because Thompson has smashed the butt of his war-wand into his face. Somebody inside is thinking faster than his unfortunate brother in arms: A ball of Witching-fire misses Seamus by inches, because Ron pulls him backward at the last moment. It hits the far wall and sprays the Aurors with splinters of red-hot rock.
Murdock slams the door; a quickly conjured dragon flame fuses it to the frame. The gate is made of old oak and black iron, without spell reinforcement, it won't hold a determined wizard for more than a minute at most. This is more than enough time because the grenade will blow in less than twenty seconds.
His men are already diving for whatever cover they can reach. And not a second too early, Ron is still running for the alcove he intends to use for shelter, when a giant's fist sends him cart-wheeling down the hallway.
When he returns to his senses the door has been cleanly blown of its hinges, fires are flickering in the smoke filled darkness behind the empty archway. The stones of the corridor are sot stained, cracked by the heat for several yards. Around him his men are stumbling to their feet and picking their way through the debris. Thompson is limping and Murdock is gingerly examining his shoulder but their armour has shielded them from the worst.
"Wohooo, what a ride mate! What a ride! That's what I'm talking about mate." No it's not an illusion. Seamus is indeed bouncing around like a squirrel with a severe sugar rush. Ron sighs resignedly and adds a possible acute head trauma to his list of worries.
Murdock moans quietly and rotates his wrist tentatively, "I'm getting to old for this shit."
"One is never too old for some fun, though you might just be the exception that proves the rule." Seamus informs them, grinning manically.
"I think you hit your head, git." The old veteran retorts levelly.
"And what consequence might that possibly have apart from rustling the straw in there?" Ron interrupts them acidly. He really has no patience left to deal with two capering idiots.
Speaking of idiots:
"You, moron. Heel!"
The kid indeed looks uncannily like a whipped puppy as he slinks towards his battle leader.
"Boss, I…"
"Shut your gob! I'm talking and I really have no patience for your excuses. I just want you to know, that if Mad-Eye hasn't got to the main dormitory before the alarm went up, you just might have killed us all with your stunt. Now go away. Take guard position with Thompson and try not to faint if you see a Death Eater, alright? Thompson you take point. Go on, piss off."
"Don't be to hard on him. It's his first time. Virgins are known to be a bloody business."
Seamus wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Ron rolls his eyes but still has to bite back a grin at the crude double entendre.
"How would you know, you wanker? Did you bleed the first time you molested your uncle's goats?"
"Now look here my dear Ronniekins, I will have you know…"
Whatever Seamus intends to tell him is lost in the thunder of a second explosion. When the debris has stopped falling, he scrambles to his feet and does a quick head count.
Murdock gives him a questioning look, "The dormitory?"
"Not big enough. That was the north-western guard house. We have to get a move on. Anyone still alive in there Sarah?"
Doherty shakes her head, while climbing the rubble pile in the doorway.
"All crispy."
"There wasn't a second explosion. We were too early."
It is quite clear what Murdock is saying. Moody was supposed to blow the main dormitory first, giving the signal for the all-out attack. If he didn't manage that, they might be up against a two-score of heavily armed Death Eaters out for blood.
"Keep your pants on Gentlemen. His grumpiness told me he intends to use the Gorgon Breath. That wouldn't make any noise now, would it?"
"That's nasty shit." Murdock is none to pleased and with good reason. Once released Gorgon Breath is nearly impossible to control. Travelling with the wind, it knows no mercy neither for friend nor foe. Even their armour won't protect them then.
"I thought we agreed the risk for our own is too great."
"Moody apparently reconsidered."
"Oh your powers of deduction and analysis leave me truly speechless, Seamus. What I want to know you imbecile: When was this decided and why do I hear about it only now?"
"Uhh sorry. I forgot, Moody told me when I got the grenades." Seamus smiles sheepishly.
"You forgot?"
"Well there was this really pretty witch in Moody's squad and I …"
"For Merlin's sake, if you could only for five consecutive minutes stop thinking with your dick! On second thought scratch that. At least your dick is able to string together a whole thought; which is more than I can say for your head."
"Now that was genuinely unkind."
He decides to treat this feeble minded rejoinder with the contempt it deserves and ignores it:
"Is there anything else I should know about? Like what should have been the signal to strike? And how much did you get when you sold your brain. Cause I want a percentage, seeing that I'm going to suffer for your transaction."
"He just said to give him 20 minutes if there aren't any explosions."
A quick look on his clock tells him that more than half an hour has elapsed since they left the guard house but it is impossible to say how much of this time they spend arguing in this blasted corridor.
"All right people. Let's move out."
They advance along the walls, ready to bath the hallway in dragon flame on a moment's notice.
Visibility in the debris strewn, gloomy corridors is down to less than five meters, thanks to thick clouds of dust hanging in the air, which is the reason Sarah very nearly blasts the figure, that suddenly emerges from an alcove. At the last possible moment Ron realizes that he can feel the man through his Legilimency-link and forces her wand upwards, so that the fireball slams into the ceiling.
"Sir." It is only a single syllable but Ron would recognize that contemptuous voice everywhere. He is already regretting that he hasn't let Sarah kill the bugger.
"Thompson. Where is the kid?"
The pale, little man jerks his head towards the corridor, leading further into the darkness.
"Went ahead to scout."
"He did what?"
"Went ahead, sir. Was very passionate about making amends, returning to your good graces. Sir."
"And you let him? You let the kid walk away with no one to look after him?"
"I was under the impression that he is a fully qualified Auror, sir. He will learn from his mistakes. It will be a valuable experience. Character forming."
Thompson is fast but he never even sees the fist that breaks his nose.
The little man smiles at him, his teeth red with blood trickling from his nose.
"What do you think I should have done then? The simpering idiot was so hell-bent on getting back into your good graces he left his post. I either had to put him into a full body bind or let him go."
"You have seniority, he was your responsibility. May the Lord have mercy upon you, because if we don't find him whole and healthy I will not."
There is new urgency to their steps as they hasten through abandoned chambers and empty rooms, following the footprints in the dust. The cold, analytical part of his mind notes with approval that the kid at least managed to stay on their planned approach. They won't lose anymore time on this foray. Repeatedly he reaches out through the Link but only silence answers his calls. That is not exactly unexpected, the walls of this building are so riddled with Strengthening Spells and Imperturbable Charms, anyone out of the line of sight might as well be dead.
Cold moonlight is falling through the high windows of a cavernous hall, illuminating faintly crane chains hanging from the ceiling, igniting a sea of empty dust in cold silver flames. Wrought-iron Galleries on three sides, casting twilight patterns on the floor; against the far wall stacks of barrels and bales like hulking monster shadows.
They have stopped their advance in an anteroom overlooking the chamber. The footprints clearly enter the hall, disappearing into the shadows and Ron is less than thrilled about it. No cover anywhere, plenty of dark corners to hide in, a clear field of fire. The whole set-up smacks of ambush. He exchanges glances with Murdock and Sarah and sees apprehension in their eyes. They feel it too. The knowledge of being stalked: Hackles rising, heartbeat thundering, all his senses — perfected during uncounted generations, while his ancestors ran from thousand fold death in dark African jungles — strained to utmost.
Something moves in the twilight and five war-wands whip up and take aim. A figure detaches itself from shadows pooling at the foot of the western wall and makes for the empty doorway in the opposing wall.
"Is it him?"
Well Murdock, that's the million galleons question, is it not? At night all coats are black. Their mystery man is visible only as a black silhouette. Ron desperately tries to establish a link but the results are inconclusive. He bites back an especially imaginative oath. The distance between them is less than 35 meters, he has a clear line of sight and he yet can't get a clear reading. This should be impossible no matter the wards and charms in the wall. Once again acquisitions were stingy with the budget and send them off to slaughter with third-rate gear. Which means he will, on his return to the Ministry march into the accounting department and kill anything that moves. On second thoughts this plan will probably result only in a lot of dead secretaries, bleeding on blissfully slumbering accountants, so he will have to work on that.
"We can't just let him walk away Your Grace," whispers Seamus.
Maybe not but the alternative is calling out to him, thereby betraying their position to anyone laying in ambush; endangering the whole team for one man. Assuming Mr X is actually the kid and not some Death Eater on a midnight stroll.
Ron bites down hard on his lip. Time is running short. Their unknown friend has nearly reached the doorway at the other end of the hall. One more try with the Legilimency-link and if it still doesn't work… Merlin's hairy balls he will have to take a chance and call out. The risk seems acceptable: If it is really a lone Death Eater it shouldn't be to difficult to kill him and there really is no way they can cross this chamber undetected by potential watchers anyway, so they won't lose too much by making their presence known.
Nonetheless, he sighs with relief when he finally establishes the link. Thanks to his intense efforts he overreaches and actually ends up in the kid's head. It's a very particular feeling to be a passenger in a body with full access to all senses but no control whatsoever over limbs or thoughts.
"Boss is that you?"
"Get out of there kid. Get out of there now!"
"What is this…?"
Ron senses more than he sees a movement from the corner of his eye – actually the eye belongs to kid, but no matter – and suddenly everything happens at once.
"AMBUSH!"
The kid whirls around and runs for his life. With deceptive slowness a ball of Witching-Fire emerges from the doorway. The lad dodges it with the agility of youth and counters the second with a shield charm, while jumping the crater left by the first.
Before the connection was severed by the shield spell Ron felt the adrenalin surge, the fear skittering perilously close to excitement, the vibrating vitality, the energy. For a few glorious seconds he thinks the boy might actually have a chance. His men are laying down heavy cover fire, burning white lightening and emerald green tongues of flame bath the far side of the chamber. Drops of molten iron and heated brick splinters spark and fill the air with deadly shrapnel.
It ends as abruptly as it has begun. A silver-light lance strikes from the darkness, knifing through the kid's shield charm like wet paper and smashing his left ankle. He collapses with a cry that contains more alarm than actual pain, trying to turn his fall into a roll, to re-erect his Protego spell, to keep going. He has just made it to his knees when a blue-hot ball of Witching-fire slams into the visor of his helmet, melting the obsidian-crystal, searing the flesh beneath.
Even over the infernal crack and thunder of the war spells Ron can hear the howl of pure animal agony.
It is a time-honoured tactic among snipers everywhere: Wound a member of the enemy pack, display him as bait in a position where all advantages are yours. Wait. As like as not, his screams of pain will draw some soft-hearted idiot to his doom.
The intensity and number of flung curses lessens first, and then peters out completely. None of the opposing parties got a fix on the position of their enemies and there really is no point in continuing to destroy the opposite wall.
Silence returns to the chamber, apart from sobbing screams of their brother in arms. He is less than 25 meters from help but might as well be on the moon for all the good it does him.
Murdock is looking at him; they are all looking at him, awaiting his orders. Coldness takes hold of him, an icy certainty. There are no good choices here, no happy endings. Only a brother in agony. He can't remember his name. He was supposed to protect him, to bring him home and he can't even remember his name.
"If we…" Seamus's voice breaks and he has to start again, "If we were to combine our Shield Charms and rush them, maybe…maybe we could get to him."
Ron meets Murdock's eyes over the Irishman's head. The grizzled veteran shakes his head slightly – they both now it will not work.
But he wants to hear it. He has to hear it or he will not have the strength to do what's necessary.
"How many of the hoods are there, Murdock?"
The old man gives him a sad smile and no hope.
"Judging from their performance, at least four, maybe more. At least one of them is strong enough for the killing curse."
He doesn't add that charging under these circumstances is as good as suicide and he doesn't have to.
The noises, reaching his ears, slice into his soul. No human should ever produce such sounds.
"But… we can't just leave him there."
All the laughter has gone from Seamus, but he is right. They can't just leave him and they can't rescue him. Even if they could, any real medical help is many miles away and until the central control crystal ball is secured no one will be able to deactivate the Anti-Apparation wards. Their brother-in-arms is already dead. There is only one thing left to do: Ease his road to the ferryman.
"Lad, let me do it." Murdock has laid a hand on his forearm.
The first time since Ron has known him the face of the old soldier holds an emotion disturbingly akin to pity. And the only thing he hates – has hated since he was old enough to understand the words – more than charity — is pity. He shakes of the restraining limb and reaches for his wand.
He knows what he has to do. It is his duty and his alone.
The rest of his squad bears solemn witness, while Ron raises his war-wand and draws deeply on the things, hidden away in the abyss of his soul. Every insecurity, every slight, every taunt endured, all his self-hate, all his disgust for corrupt Ministry officials and sadistic Death Eaters, for the crimes committed by both sides in a war without mercy. Most of all for the things he has done, for small minded envy and bitter thoughts and secretly nursed grudges.
When everything you have is poured into a spell, what is left but emptiness?
"Avada Kedavra"
Authors Note:
1.
My old man once told me: Son, if you have to explain the punch line of your jokes… do everyone a favour and just shut up.
Yeah, thanks dad. Always nice to get some encouragement.
Anyway I thought I was being perfectly until I got the first review asking why the hell I made Ron king. As a master of the glib and witty retort I promptly went: Eh? What the fuck are you talking about idiot?
Apparently I'm somewhat to subtle for my own good – or I just suck goldfish at writing, take your pick.
To make that perfectly clear: Ron isn't king of jack-shit. The "Your Grace" etc. is a teasing nick-name, a jibe referring to his less-than-glorious days as quidditch keeper in Hogwarts. Remember? Weasley is our king etc.? The Order of the Phoenix? The nick name was probably introduced by Seamus to annoy the shit out of our man and after a while it just stuck.
I really hate nothing more than an author addressing his readers directly – still until I find the time to edit this chapter I felt the need to clear this up.
Happy reading everyone.