3.
(divergence from canon is intentional; please don't PM me about my 'mistakes'.)
Ron's fairly certain no one at all ever found out about the third time.
The strategy of the Order had really just been, 'Cut off the head.'
Which Harry did, with all the quiet bravery and dignity and sacrifice that one requires of a hero.
But Voldemort had never been the only head of the Death Eaters.
There was Lucius Malfoy, the financier, finely honed and polished and elegant.
There was Bellatrix Lestrange, the whip, she of death and insanity and cruel laughter.
There was Evan Rosier, the deviant, the rapist, the madman even Fenrir Greyback and his ilk would follow.
When Voldemort fell, he screamed, he whom they called the first blade of the Inner Circle, and he turned on the Hero, the man even Death would not touch.
But before Malfoy could cast his curse, before his lips could form the words, Ron was gripping a shaking wand, the body of his dead mother burning in his mind, the image of Lestrange's drunken cackles as she gloated over Molly Weasley's unmoving form taking on a strange crimson hue behind his eyes.
So Ron Weasley looked at Bellatrix Lestrange, the first daughter of the House of Black, and whispered, "Imperio." and such was his will, such was the steadiness of his hand, that when he said to her, murmuring in her mind, 'Bella, sweet Bella, turn your wand on Malfoy, turn it on him, kill him, if you will, dear, dear Bella…'
And Bellatrix Lestrange tilted her head, like a connoisseur of fine art regarding a painting, and sang, "Avada Kedavra. Bye-bye birdie." There was a flash of green and the light was snuffed out of Malfoy's eyes.
And he felt the connection waver and begin to snap, like the fraying of a rope stretched too far, and he yelled, just as he lost her, 'Your turn!'
But she turned to him, eyes burning and savage, coming out of the Imperio's trance. She shook her head and snarled, like a feral, wild dog, hackles raised and spittle gathering on her lower lip. "Is the widdle Wheezy boy trying on big boy spells? Hmm?" She smiled, eerie and disjointed, at once both lax muscles, and coiled like she was waiting to strike. "Mummy's dead, widdle boy, hmm? Does the ickle baby boy-"
But then her expression froze, her body locked up and she fell, her head hitting the marble with an echoing thud, and behind her stood Narcissa Malfoy, the third daughter of the House of Black, wand upraised and trembling in a white-knuckled grip, her grey eyes blank and blown wide.
"Not my husband, Bella. You gave me your word."
She stared for a long moment at her dead sister's eyes.
She turned to the young man, then, who stared mutely at the woman who'd quite possibly saved his life.
"I'm so sorry for your mother, Mr. Weasley," she murmured, before she turned around and walked away, finally kneeling by the body of her husband, a feeble, lonesome shell of a woman. Of course she felt sorry for Ron, of course; they were all victims of Bella's madness, weren't they? (They weren't, Ron wanted to say. It was me, me, not your sister.I had to, don't you see? He would've killed my best friend.) He said nothing.
And someone, Shacklebolt maybe, had cast a Reducto at Evan Rosier, and his innards had exploded over the shattered Hufflepuff hourglass in a fantastic profusion of rich, scarlet blood.
And Ron shook and shook, and retched, and when Hermione asked, he held her and held her closer and tried not to lose himself.
In his dreams, they called him a murderer.
In his dreams, he said he did it for Harry Potter.
a/n:
christ. every single time i decide i'll make it grey-dark and badass - not this soul-angst crap and every. single. time. i end up writing wrenching soul angst. who needs a boyfriend? me, that's who.
r&r, please, and thanks for wading through the emotional stewpit that is my fanfiction.
