I have been here before.
It was not quite so dark, nor so cold, but I do recall the gritty snow softening each object that it covered. It used to be so clean, but now.now I hardly know what to think. Have I visited this place in a dream since that day? Beauty means so little to me now, but with the memory of this place comes something that I have almost forgotten. Comradeship, fighting for something that I believed in. This place is so tranquil now, so peaceful.
Peaceful. What an odd word to think.
Ron Weasley sat on a large, oddly shaped rock that was sprinkled with a thick layer of snow. His black robes contrasted sharply, making the shadows under his eyes appear darker and the haunted expression he wore seem natural. Even his curly red hair was a deeper color, like that of dried blood.
This was one of the blessed moments that he could be alone. He had been working hard, straining against the strict bonds that he had been taught at Hogwarts. Don't practice black magic, they had told him. Don't attempt anything that could badly damage another living creature. Don't trust something if you can't see where its brain is.
No, his teachers had not told him that. It had been someone else.someone else.
He would bring his father back, he had sworn to himself. He had been fighting the very same day the rest of his family had been murdered. They had done it to themselves, he knew, but that did not stop the regret he felt at such an occurrence. Had they known, had they suspected? He knew what it was like to expect death, to even want to die.
Oh, how he knew.
These woods brought back distant memories, things that seemed a dream. He had been fed so many tales; so many lies since that night- at times it could be hard to discern them from reality. Lord Ronald, they called him, and yet those very words were enough to make him grimace. How he hated that name, the cruel creature that he had become. Still, he had no other choice.
Fate cares not for the lives that it destroys.
I promised to bring them back. Despicable though I am, all know that Lord Ronald keeps his word, he told himself quietly. His eyes, so dark now, watched as he brushed a gloved finger against the stone. He left a trail through the snow, watching as it melted on the leather and slowly pooled into the palm of his hand. He wore short black gloves that ended at his wrists, which had magical protection tailored into their very essence. They had been a gift, one of the countless, meaningless baubles given to him by the traitorous followers of Voldemort. Ron was their God now, their Savior.
Their Traitor, and the fools did not even know it.
He had helped to kill Voldemort, true- but the Prophecy had promised that he would raise more hell than any before. He had started his reign with the attempted creation of something so terrible, so despicable, that few dared to murmur his name, fearing that he would swoop down upon them like some great creature of the night and wreak his legendary vengeance upon them.
Hypocrites, he told himself, yet knew he was the biggest of them all.
Ron hated himself, more than any of his enemies. He had not come to face Albus Dumbledore yet, but he feared the man. He was disgusted by the fact that the memory of his schoolboy's emotions still swayed him to feel awe whenever he heard the name, and so had ordered that none speak it in his presence. Taking the command as some sort of ceremonial necessity, the clods that followed him accepted this. Oh, how he loathed them; loathed the way they fawned over him, the way the simpered, the gifts they gave.
He remembered that as a boy, he had been jealous of the attention his schoolmates had given his best friend. Harry Potter had been famous, a celebrity, and he still could recall the feeling in his gut each time he heard others whisper wonders about his friend to each other. If only he had known how little Harry had appreciated it, and what an annoyance it must have been.
"I know now, Harry," He whispered to himself, unfurling himself from his seated position and hopping off the rock. He brushed off his dark capes, noted that fresh snow had fastened itself to his boots. He ignored it, instead stomping away from the rock. There were pine needles beneath the snow, so that each step brought an odd crunching noise, like the ghostly noise of snapping necks.
When he finally reached his destination, he collapsed to his knees. It was silent here, completely and utterly. There were no birds in the trees, no wind to stir the branches of the tall, thick pine trees that surrounded him. No snow dropped from one branch to the next: here was perfection, here was bitter serenity. This was where Voldemort's rule had reached its culmination, and Lord Ronald's own death spiral began.
He had toppled over, so that his legs were tucked beneath him, yet his face was pressed against the snow. It was cold here, and his cheeks stung; yet he could not pull himself away. Here was where his friends had deserted him, where they had taken the simple path of death and left him behind to be cursed and hated in the households where he had always been loved.
Sometimes he longed to die, to end the cruel pattern that his life had fallen in to. Today he had managed to escape their lies, their whispers, their praises, insisting that he was going on a Muggle killing spree. He had told them that he needed to go- alone. After embellishing this with some mystical shit about fate's calling, they had lapped up his lies like the dogs that they were. They had watched him leave with tears on their cheeks and joy in their eyes.
How he hated them.
They were overjoyed when speaking of death, laughed when they talked of how many they had killed over the course of the week. Life was nothing to them, and he knew it would be even less in their eyes once he finally managed to fulfill his promise.
He would snatch his two best friends from the dead and bring them back to the land of the living.
Ron was dangerously close to accomplishing this goal. Every day brought him a step closer. As he parted his lips to breathe in, he felt the cold snow against his teeth and tasted its emptiness. It, too, knew the futility of attempting to exist when all was pitched against it. There was little of his former self within him; though on the outside he still looked like a grim Ronald Weasley, his mind had been corrupted. Others had tried to mould him, to convince him, to introduce him to their ways, but he clung onto the last scraps of himself as though they were the only things with the ability to keep him sane.
"If I can just bring them back." The words were dark, and he hated the hopelessness that he heard beneath them. Angrily he yanked himself away from the snow, back into his kneeling position. He took up a fistful of the snow, feeling the cold bite through his gloves.
"I hate you! I hate you!" He cried, not knowing who he addressed, slamming his hand against the ground. He released the snow, then stood sharply and hit a tree as hard as he could, punctuating each loathing shriek with a punch. Soon snow was raining down on him, but he didn't care. He was screaming the words, wailing them, unconscious of all that surrounded him. Nothing mattered anymore; nothing penetrated the black pit that he had plunged himself into. Soon he was blasting things left and right with his wand, seeing nothing but a hateful red. He killed trees that had stood tall and mighty for hundreds of years with a single word, scowling and gnashing his teeth like some sort of madman. There had been several stumps remaining from a previous battle, but soon those were destroyed, leaving black scorch marks across the pine needles that peeked through the snow. Soon he Apparated, off on some insane killing spree.
This was the Lord Ronald that his followers both feared and loved. Later he would sob quietly to himself where no one could see, mourning those he had killed. There would be blood on his hands, his face, his entire body, and he would feel no joy once the task was accomplished. With each death he grew stronger, another step closer to bringing his friends back to life. Still, he knew that he stood on the edge of a black abyss, hating himself and his followers, Harry and Hermoine, every creature dead or alive that had ever walked the face of the earth.
They did not know that their Lord longed to throw himself in the bottomless pit of despair. It was Fate, however, that he hated most of all, and Fate that kept him from taking the one thing that he wanted.
His life.
It was not quite so dark, nor so cold, but I do recall the gritty snow softening each object that it covered. It used to be so clean, but now.now I hardly know what to think. Have I visited this place in a dream since that day? Beauty means so little to me now, but with the memory of this place comes something that I have almost forgotten. Comradeship, fighting for something that I believed in. This place is so tranquil now, so peaceful.
Peaceful. What an odd word to think.
Ron Weasley sat on a large, oddly shaped rock that was sprinkled with a thick layer of snow. His black robes contrasted sharply, making the shadows under his eyes appear darker and the haunted expression he wore seem natural. Even his curly red hair was a deeper color, like that of dried blood.
This was one of the blessed moments that he could be alone. He had been working hard, straining against the strict bonds that he had been taught at Hogwarts. Don't practice black magic, they had told him. Don't attempt anything that could badly damage another living creature. Don't trust something if you can't see where its brain is.
No, his teachers had not told him that. It had been someone else.someone else.
He would bring his father back, he had sworn to himself. He had been fighting the very same day the rest of his family had been murdered. They had done it to themselves, he knew, but that did not stop the regret he felt at such an occurrence. Had they known, had they suspected? He knew what it was like to expect death, to even want to die.
Oh, how he knew.
These woods brought back distant memories, things that seemed a dream. He had been fed so many tales; so many lies since that night- at times it could be hard to discern them from reality. Lord Ronald, they called him, and yet those very words were enough to make him grimace. How he hated that name, the cruel creature that he had become. Still, he had no other choice.
Fate cares not for the lives that it destroys.
I promised to bring them back. Despicable though I am, all know that Lord Ronald keeps his word, he told himself quietly. His eyes, so dark now, watched as he brushed a gloved finger against the stone. He left a trail through the snow, watching as it melted on the leather and slowly pooled into the palm of his hand. He wore short black gloves that ended at his wrists, which had magical protection tailored into their very essence. They had been a gift, one of the countless, meaningless baubles given to him by the traitorous followers of Voldemort. Ron was their God now, their Savior.
Their Traitor, and the fools did not even know it.
He had helped to kill Voldemort, true- but the Prophecy had promised that he would raise more hell than any before. He had started his reign with the attempted creation of something so terrible, so despicable, that few dared to murmur his name, fearing that he would swoop down upon them like some great creature of the night and wreak his legendary vengeance upon them.
Hypocrites, he told himself, yet knew he was the biggest of them all.
Ron hated himself, more than any of his enemies. He had not come to face Albus Dumbledore yet, but he feared the man. He was disgusted by the fact that the memory of his schoolboy's emotions still swayed him to feel awe whenever he heard the name, and so had ordered that none speak it in his presence. Taking the command as some sort of ceremonial necessity, the clods that followed him accepted this. Oh, how he loathed them; loathed the way they fawned over him, the way the simpered, the gifts they gave.
He remembered that as a boy, he had been jealous of the attention his schoolmates had given his best friend. Harry Potter had been famous, a celebrity, and he still could recall the feeling in his gut each time he heard others whisper wonders about his friend to each other. If only he had known how little Harry had appreciated it, and what an annoyance it must have been.
"I know now, Harry," He whispered to himself, unfurling himself from his seated position and hopping off the rock. He brushed off his dark capes, noted that fresh snow had fastened itself to his boots. He ignored it, instead stomping away from the rock. There were pine needles beneath the snow, so that each step brought an odd crunching noise, like the ghostly noise of snapping necks.
When he finally reached his destination, he collapsed to his knees. It was silent here, completely and utterly. There were no birds in the trees, no wind to stir the branches of the tall, thick pine trees that surrounded him. No snow dropped from one branch to the next: here was perfection, here was bitter serenity. This was where Voldemort's rule had reached its culmination, and Lord Ronald's own death spiral began.
He had toppled over, so that his legs were tucked beneath him, yet his face was pressed against the snow. It was cold here, and his cheeks stung; yet he could not pull himself away. Here was where his friends had deserted him, where they had taken the simple path of death and left him behind to be cursed and hated in the households where he had always been loved.
Sometimes he longed to die, to end the cruel pattern that his life had fallen in to. Today he had managed to escape their lies, their whispers, their praises, insisting that he was going on a Muggle killing spree. He had told them that he needed to go- alone. After embellishing this with some mystical shit about fate's calling, they had lapped up his lies like the dogs that they were. They had watched him leave with tears on their cheeks and joy in their eyes.
How he hated them.
They were overjoyed when speaking of death, laughed when they talked of how many they had killed over the course of the week. Life was nothing to them, and he knew it would be even less in their eyes once he finally managed to fulfill his promise.
He would snatch his two best friends from the dead and bring them back to the land of the living.
Ron was dangerously close to accomplishing this goal. Every day brought him a step closer. As he parted his lips to breathe in, he felt the cold snow against his teeth and tasted its emptiness. It, too, knew the futility of attempting to exist when all was pitched against it. There was little of his former self within him; though on the outside he still looked like a grim Ronald Weasley, his mind had been corrupted. Others had tried to mould him, to convince him, to introduce him to their ways, but he clung onto the last scraps of himself as though they were the only things with the ability to keep him sane.
"If I can just bring them back." The words were dark, and he hated the hopelessness that he heard beneath them. Angrily he yanked himself away from the snow, back into his kneeling position. He took up a fistful of the snow, feeling the cold bite through his gloves.
"I hate you! I hate you!" He cried, not knowing who he addressed, slamming his hand against the ground. He released the snow, then stood sharply and hit a tree as hard as he could, punctuating each loathing shriek with a punch. Soon snow was raining down on him, but he didn't care. He was screaming the words, wailing them, unconscious of all that surrounded him. Nothing mattered anymore; nothing penetrated the black pit that he had plunged himself into. Soon he was blasting things left and right with his wand, seeing nothing but a hateful red. He killed trees that had stood tall and mighty for hundreds of years with a single word, scowling and gnashing his teeth like some sort of madman. There had been several stumps remaining from a previous battle, but soon those were destroyed, leaving black scorch marks across the pine needles that peeked through the snow. Soon he Apparated, off on some insane killing spree.
This was the Lord Ronald that his followers both feared and loved. Later he would sob quietly to himself where no one could see, mourning those he had killed. There would be blood on his hands, his face, his entire body, and he would feel no joy once the task was accomplished. With each death he grew stronger, another step closer to bringing his friends back to life. Still, he knew that he stood on the edge of a black abyss, hating himself and his followers, Harry and Hermoine, every creature dead or alive that had ever walked the face of the earth.
They did not know that their Lord longed to throw himself in the bottomless pit of despair. It was Fate, however, that he hated most of all, and Fate that kept him from taking the one thing that he wanted.
His life.