Stave 1 - Ronald's Ghost
Ronald was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Potter signed it: and Potter's name was worth the man's weight in gold. Poor Ronald was as dead as a door-nail.
And Potter knew that Ronald was dead. How could he not! Potter and Ronald Weasley's friendship was legendary - they had always been together since that fateful day when two eleven year old boys stepped into the massive Hogwarts Express and rode towards their destiny. Even as Potter struggled in his battles against the Dark Lord, Ronald had always been there beside him. Right next to Hermione Granger. And so, it was fitting that when Hermione Granger's mind was shattered into insanity, both Potter and Ronald stayed together in their grief - researching on quaint and archaic forms of magic. Until, of course, the day when Ronald finally wasted away in his sorrows and died.
There is no doubt that Ronald was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. Ronald was as dead as Potter's parents, his godfather, and the closest thing to an uncle he had. He was never coming back, and yet, Potter never removed Ronald's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. The firm was known as Potter and Weasley. Sometimes people would look at Potter and wonder which one he was, and then they would see the lightning bolt on his forehead and know.
The firm, you see, was established when Ronald's brothers saw the brilliant discoveries the two of them were making in the name of discovering a cure for Hermione. They got together and managed to convince the two lads, for at that time they were still young and impressionable, to patent and sell their discoveries even if it wasn't quite what they were searching for.
And in the process, Potter and Weasley became renowned researchers in forgotten and new magic lore. And extremely wealthy ones at that.
Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind-stone, Potter! Bitter and sarcastic, his life, full of a troubled childhood, life-death escapades, lack of a stable family environment, and finally losing the closest thing to a sister he had, had made him hard and sharp as a flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze with age, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red; his thin lips blue and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him, as he researched and discovered new magical spells and uses of artifacts; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.
At one point in his life, people cared about Potter and were much concerned with his state. After all, he was their savior. But how the times change, and warm wind gives up its task, unable to shake the aged oak, strengthened by the cold storms of winter. Nowadays, nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, "Hello there, Harry! How are you, my good man?" No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him to throw their quaffle back into the playground, no gentle wizard or witch ever asked old Potter for any act of kindness without the usual fee being charged, at no discount even on Christmas.
But what did Potter care? It was the very thing he liked, to be left alone. When had life ever been kind to him? They had taken away all that he had ever cared for. For many a year, the thought of discovering a cure to heal Hermione and resurrect the Trio had sustained him and Ronald. But then, Hermione had passed away. And Ronald followed her to the grave. Potter had been left behind, a shell of what one used to be a boy deeply concerned with the fate of his fellow man, hardened and embittered with age.
This story begins here.
Once upon a time - on the blessed day of Christmas Eve - old Potter sat busy in the warehouse where he did his research. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy: and he could hear people outside go wheezing up and down, rubbing their hands to warm them. The solitary clock in the dark warehouse showed it to be only three, but it was quite dark already - the day had barely seen any light: and torches were lit inside. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole and was so dense that Potter had to squint to read the arithmancy chart in front of him.
The door of Potter's research center was open that he might keep an eye on his clerk, who sat in a dismal cell, taking care of all the business elements of 'Potter and Weasley' while Mr. Potter kept himself busy in his research and Mr. Weasley - well, let us not speak of Mr. Weasley and disturb the slumber of the departed.
"A merry Christmas, uncle Harry! God bless you! And Merlin save you!" cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Potter's godson, whose voice preceded his entry.
"Bah!" said Potter. "Humbug!"
He had so hated the sudden opening of the door that brought in a gust of wind and sent all his papers flying around as he hastily tried to hold them down. He glared at his godson, whose face had a bright glow, the fire of youth was in him and his eyes sparkled.
"Christmas, a humbug, uncle!" said Potter's godson. "Surely, you don't mean that."
"I do," said Potter. "Merry Christmas? What right have you to be merry? You're poor."
"Come, then," said the godson happily. "What right have you to be so forlorn? You're rich."
"Humbug. Bah." Potter lowered his glasses and peered at the parchment before him. "What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying extra bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour closer to finding that what you search; a time for life putting a mirror before you and asking, 'What now, Potter? Have you saved Hermione yet? Have you? Oh, I'm sorry. You are seven Christmases too late!' If I could work my will," said Potter indignantly, "every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled in Snape's cauldron with an ample amount of Mandrake roots to give him company."
"Uncle!"
"Godson!" replied Potter. "Celebrate Christmas in your own way, and let me celebrate in mine."
"Celebrate?" retorted Potter's godson. "But you don't celebrate it at all."
"Let me leave it alone then," said Potter. "Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done me!"
His nephew lowered his eyes. "There are many things from which I might have derived good and yet not come closer to achieve my ambitions, Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas - when this day has come - apart from the holiness that its sacred name and cause deserves - as a good time, a family time, a humane time - a time when all of humanity comes together as one to celebrate itself by being kind, forgiving, charitable and pleasant: the only time I know of, when men and women consent as one to open their hearts freely and see those in lower stations as one of them. And therefore, uncle, thought it has never helped me closer towards being a Quidditch star or my Potions mastery, I believe Christmas has done me good, it will do me good - and it is a kind of good that you sorely need."
The clerk outside inadvertently applauded. "Hear hear!" and shriveled at the glare of his employer.
"Dine with us tomorrow, uncle. Please say yes."
"Good afternoon," said Potter dismissively.
"I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. But should you have a change of heart, please come to the Burrow."
"Good afternoon," said Potter.
"I ask nothing of you, uncle!" said his nephew. "Not a penny! Why can't you come?"
"Good afternoon," said Potter, a bit louder.
"Why can't we be friends, uncle."
"Good afternoon, nephew," said Potter.
"Why can't you let go of the past?"
"GOOD AFTERNOON!" shouted Potter, banging his paper weight down on the table.
"Very well then," said his nephew sadly. "I will leave now. But please reconsider." So saying, the nephew left quickly, raising his hat before the clerk and disappeared from sight.
Potter frowned at his clerk, who inadvertently, while letting Potter's nephew out had let two others in. They were stout and cheerful looking wizards, wearing top hats and traditional black robes.
"Potter and Weasley, I believe," said one of the wizards, referring to a list in his hand. "Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley?"
"Mr. Weasley has been dead these seven years," Potter replied icily. "He died seven years ago, this very night."
"We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner," said the gentleman.
Potter frowned and waited for them to continue.
"At this festive time of the year, Mr. Potter," said he. "We like to make a donation to the war orphans from the last war. Knowing full well of the role you played, we are quite certain you would want to show some generosity."
"Are there no prisons?" asked Potter.
"Plenty," said the gentleman.
"And the orphanages?" asked Potter. "Are they still in operation?"
"They are."
"The Common Workhouse?" asked Potter.
"Still is, I am afraid. I wish they were not."
"In that case, there is nothing I have for you. Let the war orphans go to one of these places."
"Mr. Potter!" exclaimed one of the gentleman in disbelief. "Surely you don't mean that?"
"Oh I do."
"Many would rather die."
"Then they better do it and decrease the surplus population," and he went back to his research.
The gentlemen, seeing they had little chance of success, withdrew and left the workhouse and into the cold afternoon. The fog had thickened and yet, outside, there was a distinct warming of spirits as a group of choir children started their singing, moving from door to door in the busy Diagon Alley, regaling the travelers and shop keepers with their caroling. Potter frowned. He could ignore it at first as it was a faint echo in the distance but it soon kept growing in volume until finally, he could hear the words very clearly:
"God rest ye, Merry Gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay…"
Potter leaned back and closed his eyes. He found himself in the dark yet vibrant setting of Grimmauld Place, full of people. It was Christmas time and a hearty meal had been prepared. A shaggy haired man was singing:
"God rest ye, Merry Hippogriffs
Let nothing you dismay…"
His memory suddenly changed, and the shaggy haired man's merry eyes became confused as he fell into a mysterious veil and -
Potter forced his eyes open and clenched his fingers. "Bah," he said, getting up from his desk. He walked out of the building and chased away the carolers, ignoring the evil stares he was getting from his neighbors, on a day where there should have been no trace of evil or foul humor anywhere at all.
He walked back in and saw his clerk's gaze on the clock and frowned.
"I suppose you will want all day off tomorrow," said Potter.
"If it is convenient, sir," the clerk muttered.
"It is not," snapped Potter. "A poor excuse for a man to stop working, this Christmas. But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here early the next morning."
The clerk promised that he would and Potter walked out with a frown. The office was closed in a flash and the clock ran off towards the floo to get home to his family, while Potter strolled down the path to The Leaky Cauldron had his usual melancholy dinner while reading the Daily Prophet, and occupied himself for the rest of the evening with 'Lydia Borgman's Third Law of Magical Interference', and went home to bed. He lived in an apartment he used to share with the deceased Ronald Weasley. They were a gloomy suite of rooms in a run down part of town, purchased months after Hermione's death that seemed to fit into their mood then - and it still fit into Potter's mood, after nearly twenty years.
The flat, despite being in a magical part of London, was completely an ordinary flat, and especially the knocker on the door. The knocker was quite ordinary and Potter knew that very well, having become something of an unofficial Charms Master with all his research. For years, Potter had seen the knocker, on his way out and his way in, and it was always the same - round, large and golden.
So, it came as a shock to Potter when he stepped up to his door and instead of the round knocker, he saw Ronald's face.
Ronald's face. It was not in an unclear shadow that a trick of light could be taken as an explanation for this strange occurrence, nor was it a dismal anomaly in Potter's head, for he blinked and he blinked again. It was most definitely Ronald's face - not as the cheerful eleven year old, or the battle hardened seventeen year old. It wasn't even the grieving twenty year old or broken thirty year old Ronald that stared back at Potter.
Ronald's face was shriveled and full of agony - not a dark silent grief, the kind you get after mourning for years for a loved one's demise and allowing the mourning to affect your life - but a white and green agony that can only come after being tortured under the cruciatus for hours.
As Potter looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.
To say that he was not shocked, or his heart, if he still had one, turned, would be a terrible lie. But the trained occlumens that he was, Potter cleared his mind and opened his door and stepped inside. He did pause for a moment upon entering, but he shut the door, and then the windows and then said, "Bah!"
Several hours and half a bottle of firewhisky later, Potter could be found sitting in front of a low fire in his living room, frowning as he scribbled on a paper. "The third law of magical interference indeed," he muttered. "The third law of utter garbage is what I call it." He threw the book aside and started scribbling on a piece of parchment - when suddenly, the face of Ronald Weasley appeared on the parchment.
"Humbug!" said Potter, throwing the parchment to the fire, and gasped. The flames on the low fire flared up - dancing in the mild wind - as if hundreds of golden Ronald Weasleys were marching in a row. It was then that the booming sound first came, followed by bells - not church bells, peaceful, serene and divine - but one that sounded as if it hadn't been used - and for good reason - as an aura of impending doom came over Potter.
The bells might have lasted for a minute or less, but it seemed like an hour to Potter. But they did cease and were succeeded by the clanking of chains, deep down below, as if someone were rising from the pits of hell, being dragged forward in chains.
"Humbug!" said Potter. "I'm hearing things."
His colour changed, however, when the noise shot up and came through the heavy door and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though shouting the arrival of the newcomer.
The same face. Ronald Weasley in his faded and shredded robes and worn boots, his red hair a pale white glow, but considerably a lighter shade of white than his once dark robes. The body was transparent. Dragged by chains that were bound to Weasley's arms and legs, he crept ever closer to the armchair where Potter was sitting.
Not even when he saw the phantom before him did Potter believe it. "What do you want with me?" he asked, his voice caustic and cold.
"Much," said the phantom in Ronald's voice. There was no doubt about it.
"Who are you?"
"Ask me who I was."
"Who were you then?" asked Potter in a louder voice. "You're a strange ghost, invading my privacy like this."
"In life I was your partner and best friend, Ronald Weasley."
Potter sighed. "Will you sit down?" he asked, and thinking, amended it to, "Can you sit down?"
"I can." The ghost sat down on a chair and looked closely at the living man next to him. "You don't believe me?"
"The Ron I knew would never choose to come back as a ghost," said Potter calmly. "You are clearly a trick - a prank - a highly distasteful one at that. But I have little desire to grant my tormentors the joy of seeing me react to this."
"You can see me for who I am - the ghost of Ronald Weasley. Why do you doubt your senses?"
"Because," said Potter, "I have known too many pranksters in my life to take this for anything else. Who is it then - George Weasley? No, I doubt he would prank me in this particular manner. Teddy?" He chuckled lightly.
Potter was not in the habit of laughing. Nor did he, in his heart, feel any mirth as he laughed. He was disturbed and uncomfortable for he could perceive the truth - even if he didn't particularly want to - that he was in the presence of the ghost of Ronald Weasley.
"Humbug!" said Potter, turning his head in a different direction. "Ron would never come back as a ghost."
"I didn't choose to," said the ghost and let out a frightful cry. The phantom shook its chain with such a dreadful noise that Potter held on tight to his chair, as if scared of being thrown away. But much greater was his horror when the phantom took off the bandage around its head and its lower jaw dropped down upon its chest.
Potter fell upon his knees and cried, "Mercy! Dreadful apparition of my deceased friend, why do you torment me?"
"O faithless one," said the Ghost. "Do you believe me now?"
"I do," said Potter. "I must. But what reason has made you come back, in such a guise, and here, of all places, O Spirit?"
"It is required of every man," the Ghost returned, "that the spirit within him should walk among his fellow men, and travel far and wide; and it that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world - oh, woe is me! - and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!" Again the phantom raised a cry and shook its chain.
"You are chained," said Potter fearfully and sadly. "Tell me why? You were a good man, you saved the lives of many innocents, same as the rest of us, and devoted your life to bringing back the woman you loved? For what reason have the fates deemed your life to be unfulfilled? What has caused this condemnation. Speak, Ron, speak to me."
"I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my free will and of my free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?"
Potter trembled.
"Do you not see the chain? Do you not recognize it?" pursued the Ghost. "This is the very chain you had wrought for yourself as well, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have labored on it, since, at double the pace. It is a ponderous chain that awaits you."
Potter glanced about him on the floor, as if expecting to see himself surrounded by a terrible amount of iron, but could see nothing.
"Ron, why?" asked Potter. "You were a good man."
"A good boy, aye," said the Ghost. "But I strayed from the path of goodness and kindness. I cast aside warmth towards my fellow beings, and shred to pieces generosity and benevolence, in my quest to find that which I ought to have realized was impossible. Above all, I forgot what it meant to be alive. As have you!"
"Oh, captive, bound and ironed!" cried the phantom. "Not to know, not to feel, ought but the weariness of age and the emptiness of a soul long lost; how I have labored in my travels - flying on the wings of the wind itself - laboriously for the past seven years - not a moment of sleep, not a moment of rest; to find that my mortal life, cut short, was truly cut short many years before my death at my own two hands. Not to know that regret is but a bitter pill that serves no effect and soothes nothing and changes nothing when the opportunities of life have passed one by. Yet such was I! Oh!"
"But you were a good man of magic," said Potter. "You nearly discovered the cure in time. If only… if only, she had survived the Christmas, we could have brought her back. You were a good man in the business you chose."
"Mankind was my business," cried the Ghost. "The good of all was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance and benevolence, were all my business. Magic, research, trade, potions were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business." The Ghost stayed silent for a moment. "At this time of the year, I suffer most. Why did I walk through the crowds of humanity with my eyes closed, avoiding to see the suffering that surrounded me, pretending that I was the only one who knew the meaning of pain? Were there not others who had suffered much greater than I?"
Suddenly, the Ghost jumped from the seat. "Hear me!" he cried. "My time is nearly gone. I am here to warn you, Harry Potter, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope that is available due to the kindness and goodness of your heart years ago."
Potter's face shone a bit at that. "You were always a good friend to me, Ron."
"You will be haunted by Three Spirits," said the Ghost uncaringly. "They will come one at a time and the first will arrive at one in the morning. You must convince them that there is still some light left in your soul, Harry Potter. You must show yourself capable of pulling yourself out of the quicksand of coldness and apathy that you have yourself plunged into, and bring back the spirit of Christmas in your heart. Choose well."
After speaking these words, the phantom put back the bandage it had removed and slowly turned around. Slowly, it dragged its chains out of the room and back into the nothingness it came from, leaving behind Potter, shocked and trembling.
Potter followed the phantom to the window and looked out. The air was full of spirits, ghosts and phantoms, flying around on the wings of the wind - every one of them had chains like Ronald Weasley - some were even linked together; none were free.
When these spirits faded into mist, Potter closed the window and examined the door through which the spirit had entered his apartment. When he could see no opening, he frowned. "Bah," he said. "Hum -" but couldn't quite finish. Shivering, he shook his head and went straight to bed, not even bothering to pick up the parchment on which he had been working for the past few hours.