Tales of the End
Chapter 0ne - Realizations, Gifts of Meat, and Old Friends
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Thursday, 17 May 2001 / 8:39 AM / Fourth Floor, Ward 49, St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries
"Time for your checkup Mr. Potter," a young, rail-thin witch spoke to him gently as she pushed in a small trolley. It wasn't that he could hear her; it was simply something she did. The white room was a slight gold color from the morning sun glaring through the windows…a slight adjustment from the darker corridor. The ward was almost empty at the moment; most of the residents had gathered for lunch.
She sighed, tucking a strand of long blonde hair behind her ear. Only a Trainee Healer, Beth Hayman couldn't do much for Harry Potter. He had simply slipped out of consciousness permanently after defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Pity, she thought as she looked at a sheet displaying his various symptoms, and treatments – both past and current. Every sort of reviving potions and spells and methods had been tried numerous times in the three years he had been in the hospital bed he lay on today.
"No sign of movement on your part today, huh?" she said to him with the same light, airy tone. She approached his chest and leaned closely over it, listening for even breaths. "But you seem to be working just fine."
She clicked her tongue and reviewed further instructions. White phial? Odd. "Dreamless Sleep?" she questioned aloud, her brows knitting together. "Been having fits in the night, have you?"
Beth suspiciously picked up the bottle off of the trolley, which held the rest of his necessities – nutrients and a bedpan. Why would they want to keep someone sleeping? Weren't dreams a sign of regaining consciousness?
Hmm. I wonder…
She opened the phial, taking a look at what was inside. Lilac.
"Since when was a simple Dreamless Sleep Potion lilac?" she asked him quietly. "Hasn't it always been—wait a minute!"
"…"
"A Draught of the Living Dead? But why?" she paused, pursing her lips together. Was someone trying to keep Harry Potter from waking up?
She set the phial back down on the trolley. This was dangerous business. And Harry Potter would simply have to have his potion taking postponed.
- - -
Friday, 18 May 2001 / 14:02 PM / Cubical 12, Level 2 : Department of Magical Law Enforcement Ministry of Magic
"Oi! Weasley! Catch!"
Ron spun around to find a large, white package being tossed into his arms. It was heavy, and cold -- obviously charmed to stay freezing.
"What--"
"It's roast; for your mum."
"That's nice Franklin, but tell me, why are you giving her an un-cooked roast?"
"Well, it's a gift…for you know, inviting me over to the 'Weasley Family Supper.' I thought she could cook it for tonight maybe."
"You're giving her raw meat?
"Well, it's not just raw meat. It's one of the finest pieces of meat that our house elves got from the one of the steers. Slaughtered just this morning," the brunette stated proudly.
"It's still raw meat."
"It's been well tenderized."
"It's still not normal," said Ron ready to finish the conversation.
"Regardless, since you know her better than I, you give it to her," he beamed.
"You want me to give my mum something that's dead?"
"If you must phrase it that way, yes, I do want you to give your mother something that's dead."
"Are you mad?"
"Not as far as I'm concerned."
"Right…"
"Look, just give your mum the meat, alright?"
"Sure," Ron stated without enthusiasm. "You want me to give her a card too?"
"No, she'll be fine," Franklin stated, giving him an odd look, not catching the sarcasm. "But I've got to run, so see you tonight."
"Bye."
Ron turned back to his desk. Instead of knickknacks, or perhaps pictures decorating the boring slab of counter, mounds of paperwork sat proudly in the way, bringing the redhead to a slight sulk. He leaned back in his comfortable dark leather chair, – brought from home, as the Ministry wouldn't bother with simple luxuries -- twirling a quill in his right hand. He glanced at the top file. Bartholomew Hacks. A muggle torturer, and a loser to boot.
He picked it up, opened it, and then tossed it back on the pile. i Tomorrow? But why procrastinate? Once you start, you never stop…then again that means I wouldn't have to do it the next day either… /i
"Ronald Weasley," stated a stern female's voice, interrupting his thoughts. He spun around to see Hermione Granger. He smiled softly, something she didn't return and tossed a heavy and hard bag into his lap.
"What is it with people and throwing things at me today?" he muttered, shoving a damaged finger to his mouth.
She ignored his comment, and started to speak. "Do you know what that is?" she questioned, her brows meeting in the middle of her forehead.
"A bag of dead cow?" he guessed without humor.
"No," she said, giving him a stern look.
He blinked.
She frowned sadly. "This isn't the time for weird jokes, Ronald. You know what happened today? After five weeks of working on the newest potion – I get a bunch of teal-colored, tiny pebbles."
He stood and scooped her into his arms.
"Almost three years Ron…almost three he's been gone…and I thought there was hope…but nothings worked. St. Mungo's hasn't gotten anywhere, and I haven't gotten anywhere…"
He patted her on the back as tears stung her amber eyes.
"I hate to think it would ever be so…b-but, what if he's never going to wake up?" she sobbed, her face meeting his strong chest, his protective arms wrapped round her tighter.
"And just think of what it did to the mice I've been testing it on…" she sniffed, her voice muffled by shirt.
He grinned and kissed her mop of wild hair. Oh how good it smelt – never mind it was three times larger than it should have been due to the humidity – honey and vanilla, and maybe brown sugar?; he couldn't really tell. He knew only that it smelt delicious, and he wanted to bury his head in it, inhaling it forever, inhaling her forever.
"Ron! Haven't you been listening to me?"
"…What?"
"Are we going to say something tonight or not?"
"About what?"
She scowled, lifting up her left hand and waving it in front of his face.
He paused, registering her action.
"Oh! That…right…"
- - -
18 May 2001 / 14:13 PM / Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes
"Just out of curiosity, Weasley, did you honestly say that you wanted to get rid of me?" drawled a blonde woman in robes that displayed her wealth quite well. She approached the front counter and her dainty hands rested on the display glass.
The store was empty at the moment, which was common during midday of the school months. Well, empty, except for her. Fred glowered. Why didn't George ever seem to run into her?
Her. Agatha Calder. Sure, she was intelligent, well refined, pureblood, and was allowed her mother's doll-like looks and blonde hair. But her intelligence made her cruelty thrive, her well-refined manner made her arrogant, her pure blood, old heritage, and money made her proud, and her pretty face had let her conniving mind trick even the wisest; not that she needed even her face, she could out-smart most in a duel of words, or of wands.
And Fred Weasley couldn't stand her.
"Are you just going to stand there and ignore me, or are you going to attempt to answer me with one of your pathetic, stuttering sentences?" the cliché former Slytherin questioned.
He looked up, and she smirked. Oh, how he wished it were all right for him to hit a woman at that moment. It wasn't that he stuttered his responses; he just had discovered ignoring her usually made her uncomfortable and she went away.
"Well?"
"Well what?" he replied, resisting that oh, so powerful urge of slapping her mouth.
"Did you say that you wanted to get rid of me?" she repeated with some care. Her voice was oh-so-sweet, and oh-so-fake.
"Yes," he said coldly. "Did some little bird whisper it to you, or did you kind of pick up on the drift yourself?"
"Both," she stated without enthusiasm. "Shall I cut to the chase and end our small talk? I've just been informed of some fabulous news."
She paused, as if begging him to guess.
"Does your fabulous news happen to be that you've suddenly decided to go jump into a large, deep well in Canada and never come out?" he humored her with that same mock sweetness.
She smiled wickedly, her tone full of happy-sounding marshmallow-y goodness. "No…"
"Are you going to send me to the said well in Canada so you can fulfill your sadist pleasures?"
"I didn't know that you liked that sort of thing, Weasley – but even if I was ever tempted by your sickening color and silly wit, I never mix my personal life with co-workers," she said with a wink and the same wicked-happy voice.
His blood boiled in her presence and a grumble seemed to pour out of his lips.
"Since you haven't come up with the proper guess, I'll answer it for you. It's been requested you and I work as a team for the next few months or so."
His mouth must have dropped open or something in surprise over the working together part, because her next sentence was something along the lines of, "Do you have to breathe with your mouth?"
"Team?" he ignored her comment on his surprise. "What do you mean, 'team?'"
A low, soft laugh worked its way out of her. "Are you always this naïve, Fred?" Why did he bother growing his hair longer than George? Everyone who knew who had the longer hair knew which one was which.
He gave her a rather nasty look.
"No need to get fussy…" she chided. "Are you getting proper nutrition? Your face is slightly yellow and red…kind of blotchy."
"What do you mean by team?"
"Oh, nothing really, its just things have been heating up with Moody's trust issues, and he wanted someone to, how shall I phrase this? 'keep watch,' of me, while I teach you some 'new tricks,'" she said with a bored tone.
"I have to make sure you don't torture too many small woodland creatures, then?"
She let out a real laugh, and if she wasn't such an awful person, it would be a nice laugh to listen to.
"Sort of, I suppose," she voiced with a sigh. "The old brute doesn't trust me well enough, and thinks I'm up to something…and besides, they think you need something to occupy yourself with lately."
How come he of the twins had to have the more unpleasant situations? He frowned, his eyebrows furrowing low above his bright blue eyes.
"Anyway," she continued. "Remus would like to meet with us when you're available."
"All right," he agreed after some time and consideration. "But I'm not agreeing to this 'team thing,' I'll have you know."
"I don't believe you have a choice, actually," she said, and the malicious glimmer in her eye worried him in a strange way.
"I do have a choice."
She smirked. "That's nice."
He muttered something about killing people for pleasure, as well as the bunnies, yet she didn't bother to listen, only stood waiting for something, her brow raised.
"What?"
She let out an exasperated breath, and rolled her eyes. "Time?"
Fred gave her a funny look, then glanced to the clock on the wall. "11:56."
"No…not that time. What time are you going to be finished at then?" she said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes once again.
"4:00?"
"Right then…" she uttered, and walked out of the store.
Fred found himself staring at her odd allure as she walked with speed, but an airy grace. Too bad she was too much of a bitch for him to even consider being attracted to her.
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Disclaimer: If I owned anything Harry Potter, trust me folks, I wouldn't be writing this story here.
Author's Note: Well, I'd like to tell everyone that I will not be giving up on this story. On a side note, I want to give a huge thanks to my beta, who is going to be special and have her own notes in here, even though she doesn't know it yet. ;
Beta-note: Speaking of Voldie, I must tell you of the dream I had last night. Ok, so I was dreaming I was in a church, and there was this really pale dude wearing robes with some odd mask on that everyone was oblivious to. It was Voldemort. And I was dreaming from Harry's perspective. Well, I killed Voldemort, and then it turned into a grave right there in the church. A gravestone stuck in the floor. Then, I made fireworks outside and balloons and streamers inside. It was ODD!