Author: Sarah
Summary: Ron knows what he's fighting for, even if no one else does.
Disclaimer: Not mine. No way, no how.
AN: This is proving to be an experiment for me. Somewhat inspired by
the speculation that was running rampant after PoA about Ron as betrayer,
but with a twist (because I love Ron, and because I love Ron, I must cause
him the greatest amount of pain possible).
Invisible Circus
Four steps into Knockturn Alley and Ron Weasley is already tugging his worn jacket more tightly around his large frame, hands in pockets, eyes to the ground, so as not to meet anyone's gaze. The air is cool, clammy to his skin, and tastes bitter with the residue of dark magics he wished didn't exist.
He wants to spit, to try to clear the taste from his mouth, but he swallows instead.
This is who he is now, he reminds himself. This is who he must be.
One of his eyes is bruised nearly shut, there is dried blood edging both of his nostrils, and there's the raised shape of his mother's handprint on his left cheek, red and angry looking against pale skin. His bottom lip is split and swollen, damaged by the guard's fist as Ron had made his escape. He winces as he probes at it with his tongue.
As he walks, he closes his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, but even though it's only for a moment, he stumbles over the uneven cobblestones on the path in front of him and weaves, bumping into a passing witch. She's smaller than he is, of course, hunched and gnarled, with thin, scraggly gray hair hanging down from beneath the wrinkled hat that is shoved down onto her head.
His first instinct is to apologize to her, so he does, stumbling over the words. Her eyes are narrowed and glassy looking, but then she seems to recognize him because her expression lightens into a… smile? Her lips are curved, loose and nasty, showing gums devoid of most teeth.
"Young Weasley," she lisps. "Finally seeing the light, I hear."
Ron closes his eyes again, for a single, pained instant, but when he opens them, he's looking as alert as he can.
"I did, I am," he says and as he says the words, he wants to throw up. He wanted to run to the nearest nook or cranny—and on Knockturn Alley, there are plenty of those—and empty his stomach of everything he's eaten in the past day, during his entire lifetime even. Instead, he smiles. Sourly, he knows, but that's right, too. It fits who he is now, who he must be.
The witch cackles, drawing a few disinterested glares from those around them.
"Well done," she continues. "Well done. You'll be taking after that smart brother of yours, then. He was a good one, Percival was. A smart one, so much potential. It was such a shame when he—"
Her eyes narrow as she breaks off and suddenly she's looking beyond him, reaching out to him with one disfigured hand even as he evades her grasp.
"But we can expect great things from you," she continues. With her other hand, she reaches towards her own face and taps at her eyeball; Ron can hear the soft clink clink of the long chipped nail against glass. "I can see it in your future. Great things."
She reels away from him then, conversation abruptly at an end, and Ron watches her go; she weaves as she walks, back and forth, back and forth, and he suddenly wonders if he was the one to bump into her at all. As he turns back in the direction in which he was going, he realizes that there are others who are watching him now, him and his too apparent interest in his surroundings, so he ducks his head again, quickly, and continues on his way.
There are unspoken (but universally known) rules for those who live down the Alley: don't notice anything, don't care about anything, and don't tell anyone anything. Unless someone makes it worth your while, that is, because everything has a price.
Everyone has a price. The world, Ron knows, believes him to be a living testament to this.
Five blocks further down Knockturn Alley, two over on one of the dark and twisting side streets, three more up another side street, then around the block just to make sure that he isn't being followed, and Ron finally reaches the building where he's let a room.
It's not much, but for two sickles a week, he hadn't been expecting anything more. The building sags towards him as he steps closer, leering at him with its cracks in the outer plaster, broken glass in two of the windows on the bottom floor, and boards over at least two others that he can see. It's gray and dirty, like everything else in this godforsaken alley, but now—he shudders—it's home.
He steps up to the front door, looks for a bell, and then raises a fist to knock on the worn door. Before he can, though, a look hole opens up and a wizard of Tom (of the Leaky Cauldron's) stature is standing there, peering suspiciously at him through squinted eyes.
"What do you want?" the wizard hisses. Then, more suspiciously still: "You, you. I know you."
Ron blinks. He swallows again and thinks randomly that the world suddenly doesn't taste quite as foul any longer. He's getting used to it. He doesn't want to get used to it.
He takes a deep breath, resists the urge to smile, as any normal, civilized human being would when greeting another, and says, "Ronald Weasley. I've let a room."
The eyes widen and the look hole closes just as suddenly as it opened. He hears bolts being drawn back, locks unlocking themselves, and then the door swings open, creaking as it does so. The landlord—for that's whom Ron assumes he's talking to—gestures for him to come in.
"Mr. Weasley," he hisses. "A pleasure. An honor. Your brother was… an inspiration."
Ron nods. He tries to look sympathetic, like he agrees, but maybe he's not successful because the landlord eyes him up and down, gaze trailing over Ron's ragged clothing, over the patched coat.
He only says, "First and last weeks' rent up front, that's what I ask, Mr. Weasley."
Ron's hand goes back into his coat pocket and comes out with four sickles; the coins are still warm from the death grip he's been giving them since he ran from the Ministry two hours before, executing his carefully planned escape. He drops them into the landlord's hand and watches the man's face light up. The man, in turn, plucks a dirty set of keys from his own pocket and drops them into Ron's outstretched palm.
"Third floor up," the man says. Then he turns his back on Ron and walks to a desk piled high with papers and parchment and a small sack of coins, to which he adds Ron's own. There are cubbyholes behind the desk, for the owl post, and Ron wonders briefly if Ginny is taking care of Pig like he'd asked her to.
The floorboards creak underneath his feet as he walks to the staircase that stretches up in front of him. With a sigh, he starts climbing. The third floor is five sets of stairs up and he's panting by the time he reaches the landing. He walks to his door, his feet dragging across the thin carpet on the floor, and he fits the key to the lock. It wiggles out of his hand, turns itself, and then the door swings open.
It's worse than the Burrow ever was, Ron decides as he peers cautiously inside, but he's long since passed the point of caring. Namely because it wouldn't matter if he did.
He has a job to do and he's going to do it.
He walks to the bed, which fills most of the main room, and sits down gingerly on its edge. He slouches as he pulls a wand out of the pocket of his jacket and points it at the door, muttering a locking charm, and then casting the wards he needs to cast to keep himself safe. Afterwards, as the wand drops to the floor in front of him, he lets his head fall to his curled fists and he sobs.
Just once, because the new Ronald Weasley doesn't cry.
He's undercover now, he reminds himself, and undercover spies masquerading as traitors don't get to have cracks in their façades.