Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Chapter 4: The Fountain of Fair Fortune

"The first, by name Asha, was sick with a malady no Healer could cure. She hoped the Fountain would banish her symptoms and grant her a long and happy life."

The note had sat, attached to Dumbledore's calendar for two months now, curiosity warring with the large amount of work he was already undertaking. Fudge's foolish ways were beginning to grind on his vast patience. Calling him in on important cases only to ignore his advice once he got there. A devastating failed negotiation with the goblins that would set them back years in their relationship with them. The continued werewolf act that was meant to 'protect' the citizens all while forgetting that werewolves themselves were citizens. An overseas venture that was supposed to be an invitation to the Vampires to talk, a discussion in trade for rare herbs that grew in their territory, that was a trap set up by the Aurors. Blast them. Blast them all.

He'd left the Minister on brittle terms, informing the man that if he should ever use Albus for his own gain again, especially with the intentions of harming creatures, then not even his of so precious political position would protect the man from him. He'd left the weedy man trembling and furious.

Someday the tension in their relationship would come to a head and Albus would take pleasure in tearing the man apart, but he had a school to run and children to think about. He trusted Minerva as his deputy and under normal circumstances there would be no doubt that the woman would take his place should something happen, but he suspected the Ministry would try to step in. Since the end of the war, unsavory men and woman had taken power in the administration, they're eyes lingering on Hogwarts. Soon they would start to make their moves and while Minerva was a brilliant teacher, she was not prone to political messes as he tended to be, as much as he wished he was not.

The summer was over though, his meddling in political nonsense complete for a season, and tasks for the school once more in need of attending. Despite being well into September, he'd been forced to put up with the Ministry's demands to finish up his tasks and felt drained even though it was only Fall. Classes were nearly two months into the semester and both students and teachers were settled in to the routine of the year.

Over the last twenty years he'd been replacing teachers with those loyal to him. Getting rid of Slughorn had been especially difficult because there were few Potion Masters out there capable of teaching children. Severus was… not the best person to be in a position to teach children. But he had two key traits that had persuaded him; Severus hated the children, but he would give his life to protect any of them. The second was that Severus was harsh, even unreasonable, but he was a damn good teacher. None of those children would leave his lessons without knowing a thing or two about potion making.

His remaining staff to be removed was Silvanus Kettleburn and the latest DADA teacher, though he suspected the administration woman wouldn't last more than a year, as no other teacher had since he'd turned down Tom Riddle for the position. Kettleburn was an older man though, set in his ways, and far too of a purist for Albus's liking. The problem though was that there were few magical creature caretakers to begin with. The profession held in much higher regards on the mainland then England. The truth of the matter was that the vast hunting down in the 17th and 18th centuries had caused a great many of the natural bred creatures of the area to flee.

The forest of death, a name Dumbledore despised, but hadn't been able to arrange for a name change with the Ministry yet, was a practical sanctuary for magical creatures. His ban on students entering it was due more for the protection of the creatures than for the students as should an incident occur between student and creature then the creatures would be the ones punished. The protection of Hogwarts over them would be stripped.

Perhaps the worst part of his summer political ventures was just how much work needed to be done when he got back. Things that should have been done before the semester even started. Minerva and Sprout, at least, enjoyed going to the muggleborn families and explaining the situation to the new witches and wizards and their parents. It was a task he'd enjoyed immensely, once upon a time, but with so much to do…

Dumbledore attached more notes to his board. The reminders layering on top of one another in their numbers. So much to do and so little time in which to do them. The quidditch season would be starting and he had yet to replace one of the damaged balls. He'd have to call Hagrid up to go into town for a replacement.

Minerva needed new supplies for their seventh years as well. Their last graduating class had not been the most promising in the field, to put it lightly, and the supplies had been pushed passed its limits to the point that they were unusable. Unfortunately they were hard to find, being NEWT students meant they'd earned them, but darn it all if it wasn't one of the more annoying tasks.

There were times when he felt more schools should be built for magical education. One school in each country for every magical person's child was taxing and limited the choices of the magical community. What if Dumbledore had been a purist? Then every child in the wizarding world of England would be tainted with that biased. What if Dumbledore had chosen a staff who were loyal to the Ministry and cared more for rules than the learning experience? There would be generations of adults raised on the fear exploring the world, who would be raised to never question authority, to stay inside a small box and stick to it.

As it were, Dumbledore tried to keep a policy of open mindedness and the idea that education was not a means to get a job, but a way to educate oneself to make wise decisions and to explore life to the fullest. Perhaps there were better ways out there, but it was the one that he felt gave the children the best chance to fulfill their lives to the fullest.

So much riding on one school. There were times when he thought back to Grindelwald's ideals, as they weren't all terrible, radical and unpolished, extreme and far reaching, but not absolutely wrong. Specifically the ideal that each magical child possessed within them a wall of potential, no matter what their upbringing or family linage.

The idea that there were special children out there, children who had the potential of the four founders of Hogwarts. Who could move mountains, but were too busy being buried under them.

Its why he became a teacher in the first place. To give children the best chance they could have. Yes. But to also make sure those mountain moving children were unearthed from their bounds.

Dumbledore gathered the highest priority notes and tucked them in his pocket. He would come back for the rest at a later date.

Dumbledore reflexively twitched as he listened to Fudge's long winded speech. Christmas break had come much quicker than he ever imagined and a summons by the Minister had come much soon than liked.

It was fortunate, he found, that so many individuals thought him one of the most powerful wizards on the planet. It made things… easier. Garnering funds for his school, moving the right people into the right positions, guiding those great souls who needed advice and the not so great ones. He was able to move about and influence the world as he pleased without, or at least, without too much trouble. He wouldn't necessarily say he detested hard work. But the fact of the matter was this; he was old.

It was a fact he's hidden gracefully well underneath his stylish robes and his cheery show of hand. The ability to seem much more powerful than he was. Stronger than he was. But deep down, he was ailing. A body ridden with creaks and the random pop. Joints not so willing to move, let alone swiftly, as many situations called upon him to do. He was an old man that the world still expected to move and act as if he were twenty.

So it was most unfortunate too, at times. As every witch and wizard in the country vied for his attention. And while he would prefer to spend his time with more fascinating and odd magical folk, he instead ended up attending a vast number of court rulings, advisory boards, and the high and mighty (and overly bloated, arrogant) individuals of influence.

It was such a matter that brought him here today. Minister of Magic Conrnelius Fudge had been having trouble keeping the Minitaurs at bay and had insisted on a consultation to see how Dumbledore handled his Centaurs. He had explained to Fudge on three separate occasions that one did not handle another race, one negotiated and spoke with another race, the man though, had simply stared blankly at him, features owlish as he tilted his head in confusion.

"I've already tried to reason with them, Albus. They pretend they cannot speak and pelted… things at me," Fudge intoned, as if Dumbledore was rather thick minded, but too influential to state out loud, and that the Minitaurs were too uncivilized to speak at all.

"Demanding they retreat into the forest to make room for a new shopping district for the wizarding community," Dumbledore spoke slowly, "is not, in fact, means for negotiation."

"They have seven hundred miles worth of land. They can stand to lose fifteen."

"And three hundred years ago, they had thousands."

"What does that have to do with anything now?"

Dumbledore peered at the man over his half-moon spectacles, gauging to see if he was joking. The haughty stance, the unhappy set to the man's jaw, the irritation and incomprehension pointing otherwise. Dumbledore sighed. Honestly, he did not understand people. So few had good sense.

At precisely that moment in time Molly Weasley passed them by. She seemed in a hurry, irritation lining her face as she hefted a rather large bag after her. Her twin boys and youngest son on her heels. She paused in her stride, stopping to glance at him.

Delight filled his old heart.

"Mrs. Weasley," Dumbledore greeted giving her a warm smile. Just the woman he wanted to see. Or rather, that made for a very convenient means to excuse oneself from someone he did not want to see. "I must apologize, I'd completely forgotten I was meant to meet you at the Leaky Caldron this morning. Does Charles still need to have his classes adjusted for the spring semester?"

She blinked at him before glancing at Fudge, her irritation warping into a glare.

"Yes, yes you were supposed to meet me, Dumbledore. I waited nearly half an hour for you to arrive. Quite rude, I must say, for you not to show up."

Dumbledore turned apologetic.

"I am terribly sorry, Mrs. Weasley, Cornelius, I must rectify this immediately, another time?"

Without waiting for an answer, he swept his robe up and followed Molly as they dashed away, leaving a gaping Minister in their wake. They slowed down, standing before Florish and Botts, where Dumbledore tipped his hat most deeply at Molly and her three boys.

"Mum," young Ronald called, perplexed, "I thought we were just getting stuff for Charlie, and Perce."

"We are," George told his little brother, "Mum lied."

"Georgie," Molly warned.

"You did?" Ronald asked, eyes wide, "but you said…"

"Never you mind, Ronnie, this was special adult circumstances. You'll understand when you're older."

Dumbledore chuckled at the flustered women, before stooping to kneel in front of young Ronald. Ron's head tilted back to look him in the eyes. Bright blue orbs big as they took in his tall frame.

"Your mother saved me from a dreadful encounter with an unpleasant man," Dumbledore explained. "It's like stranger danger, only sometimes it's the people we know who are the danger."

Ronald nodded solemnly in understanding.

Children were far more perceptive than adults gave them credit for. Sometimes more so, unclouded as they were from the biased opinions of the world.

Dumbledore stood, with every intentions of wishing them well, but stopped at the dark circles under Molly's eyes. The woman had seemed to age a great deal more after the end of the war than during it, if one were to ask him, and during had been quite the trauma on everyone's age.

"I know that you must be quite busy," Dumbledore murmured. "But would you do me the honor of accompanying me to tea?" He gestured to the Yandell tea shop down the way. "A few minutes to catch up and relax?"

"Certainly," Molly acquiesced. "We're not in a hurry at all, and tea sounds lovely, tell me, Headmaster, have you received any word from Alastor?"

Dumbledore blinked in surprise.

"I'm afraid that if I have, I've not been able to see it, the Ministry has been tying up my hands with great gusto of late."

"That is probably our fault then, come along, I'll explain everything once we've gotten tea and the little ones settled."

Concerned now, Dumbledore followed swiftly, the twins watching him in curiosity, young Ronald with trepidation. He supposed that they might be surprised their mother had the ability to order one such as himself around, not knowing the relationship he shared with all family members of the Order. He made sure to keep a close eye on them as they were of his 'concern.'

During the second war Gideon and Fabion had gone on a mission for the Order. It had not been a mission he himself sanctioned, but rather, one of the men he trusted with strategy. Never the less, Dumbledore tried to make sure the well-being of those families of the Order were taken care of. He'd recently secured a job for Remus Lupin, though sadly, could not expect it to last too long. Remus, as much as Dumbledore respected the man, was so guilt ridden about his affliction he gave himself away time and time again. It was becoming more and more difficult to aid the werewolf.

Well aware of his many faults, Dumbledore tried to make up for his various mistakes and fumbles, through aiding those he intentionally and unintentionally put in harm's way. What help he did, he'd found through the years, ranged from helpful to life saving to life damning. James and Lily's son, for instance, was a choice he languished over many a nights. The Dursley's were… less than ideal. While he'd considered a great many options, it was the only one where young Harry remained hidden from the wizarding world so… completely. And at the end of the day that seemed the wisest choice.

Placing Harry in any home in the wizarding world, void of his mother's protection, would not only put Harry himself at risk, but also whatever family took him in. Dumbledore forcefully pulled himself from his dark thoughts, shaking his head hard, wondering what had dragged him into such dark thoughts so quickly. This was not the time nor the place for questioning his decisions. The cold feeling down his spine dissipated when he put up his occlumency shields, organizing his mind in the same moment.

Sitting down at the tea shop, Dumbledore watched as Molly fussed with Frederick's shirt, before instructing Ronald to pull his sleeves up. The boy reluctantly did so. Blue eyes peered up at him and Dumbledore found himself startled by their knowing nature. There was something… off about this young child. Not in the unpleasant foreboding he'd felt with young Riddle or the weariness and hope he felt with young Potter… something strangely in between.

"Pandora is watching Ginny, bless her heart," Molly rambled, straightening her shopping bags. "An odd woman, but so good hearted she probably cries sugar."

Dumbledore chuckled lightly.

"She has a daughter Ginevra's age, does she not?" Dumbledore asked. He made a point of reading the quibbler when he had the time. Xenophilius truly came up with the most unusual theories. He did not want to miss it if the man hit on something important. It always paid off to keep tabs on those who were otherwise dismissed. Slughorn could learn a lesson or two from that.

"Luna is very bright," Molly nodded, "She'll make Ravenclaw for sure. I honestly thought Percy might be a Ravenclaw. I must admit I was relieved he wasn't. My boy already ostracizes himself enough without being in a separate house."

"Yes, the sorting hat is well aware of such things when he chooses a house for a student, sometimes the best place for the mind isn't necessarily the best place for the heart," Dumbledore agreed. Wasn't there something Minerva had mentioned to him about the Weasley's? Dumbledore had been planning on seeing them before this… but for what? Age did weary the mind most unpleasantly.

One of the children, wasn't it?

He glanced at the twins, they would be entering Hogwarts next year, wouldn't they? Dumbledore glanced at Ronald. That strange aura around him. Ronald had taken the seat as far from the window as possible.

"…expect he'll be a prefect like Bill and Charlie. I'm so proud of all of my boys," Molly was saying.

"As you should be. There is much to be proud of," Dumbledore nodded. "Is this young man your youngest son?"

Ronald glanced up at him, hands in his lap and the tea untouched. He looked as if this was the last place on earth he wanted to be and as if Dumbledore was the last person he wanted to talk to. It was then that he noticed the twins chairs were positioned as far from Ronald's as the they could get. Molly herself seemed to be struggling with some sort magnetic problem. Moving a little closer, then further away, and closer again. At the mention of his name, she peered down at Ronald, it looked for a moment, as if she wanted to reach out to him, but refrained.

"Yes, he's my youngest boy," Molly said fondly. She glanced around the shop. "This isn't the best place for such discussions. Fudge has eyes on my boy, Dumbledore, Ron has an ability he would like to get his hands on. We were hoping you would consider helping him?"

Though worded as a request, there was a steel in Molly Weasley's eyes and he doubted very much that should he say no they would simply be on their way. Not that he ever would. As old as he was, his curiosity was still as young as ever, and those words lit aflame his desire to know much the same as a child.

"Well then," Dumbledore announced, "how about I come to the Burrow tonight then? Dropping by unannounced has never been the best of ideas with your family, if I remember correctly, your wards are an impressive feat by any standards. The best I've seen, in fact, outside of my own."

Molly blushed in pride.

"Yes, they are."

They finished their tea and departed. He left feeling oddly perplexed. As an empath there was hardly a magic he failed to identify. He'd watched as one Prewitt child after another came through Hogwarts and had always been impressed by the resilient magic the family possessed. Fabien and Gideon both showed an especially rambunctious magic that was hard to come by as Molly's twins did when they showed up.

Ronald completely lacked any Prewitt light though.

He was as dark and imposing a magical signature as late Bilius had been.

Curious. So very curious.

He had made a grievous error in judgement. Upon entering the home of the Weasley's and being informed of the situation, it was clear a devastating series of events had led to this point. He regretted allowing the Ministry to keep him busy and felt it was a grave error on his part to not have investigated Bilius Weasley's death further than the cursory glance he'd taken.

He had assumed Bilius had suffered far more damage from the war than he'd originally thought and while saddened that he hadn't taken notice soon enough to help, had acknowledged that there was little he could do after the fact. Another hard lesson.

Only this was certainly no war created problem.

Lowering himself down to the floor, Dumbledore watched as Ronald fiddled with his chess pieces, the boy glancing at Dumbledore wearily as they pulled themselves together for another game. How could such a small child carry within him such horrifying power?

"I know they told you," Ronald mumbled.

"Indeed, they did," Dumbledore admitted freely. "They trust me to help you."

"How are you going to do that?"

"I'm not entirely sure… yet, but like all complicated problems, it probably has a very simple solution."

"I really doubt that," Ron muttered, setting his King upright on the board, the little piece saluted him with his crown before bellowing out 'It's in the spine.'

"Dear me," Dumbledore chuckled, reaching forward to help fix the board, "what was that about, I wonder?"

Ron shrugged.

"They do it all the time."

"Do you know what it means?" Dumbledore asked curiously, spying the King eyeing him with distrust, trying to indicate to the boy not to say anything, but Ronald was distracted.

"That its Monday."

Dumbledore turned the words over in his head, but they made little sense and related in no way that he could see to the first and most dreaded day of the week. In fact, the only person he'd ever known to enjoy Mondays was Alastor Moody and that in and of itself explained the entire thing.

"How do you know that its Monday?"

"Because it's the King. He always starts and ends the week."

"How so?"

Ronald gestured towards the board in an 'isn't it obvious?' sort of way.

"The board is a riddle," Ronald told him, giving him a look. Dumbledore chuckled as he realized he was being scrutinized by an eight-year-old for a suspected lack of intelligence. "It wants me to open the box."

"Box?"

Ronald tapped the chess board itself, absentmindedly.

"It wants me to put the chess pieces in a certain order. That's why theirs clues, but there are thousands of ways to set the board up." Ronald tapped the head of the Castle chess pieces. "There's ten keys," Ronald mumbled.

"How do you know it's a puzzle?" Dumbledore asked, intrigued.

Ronald looked up at him blankly as if he didn't understand how Dumbledore could not see what he saw.

"What else would it be?"

"Fair enough," Dumbledore decided to drop the subject, despite his keen interest. "Shall we discuss your light problem then?"

Ronald glanced up at him, squirming under his gaze before putting the final chess piece down. The pieces booed Dumbledore, eliciting a small smile from the tiny Weasley.

"Mum and dad told you about it already, right?" Ronald mumbled.

"They did, but I have often found that everyone views things differently and that the slight change in perspective can lend great insight into a situation."

"I'm just a kid though," with no chess pieces to hold, Ronald began fidgeting about, his knee bouncing up and down from where he sat, his fingers tapping his leg. "I don't really see how I would know more than the Healer."

"I think you know more than anyone else," Dumbledore told him firmly. "This ability you have, it does not need to define who you are, my boy, nor do you have to fear it. Understanding how it works in all its intricacies is the first step to handling and harnessing it to yours and others benefits. This does not need to be a curse, Ronald, you do not need to hide in the shadows for fear of what you might do. You have been very brave thus far, facing many terrible things all alone, but I need you to be a little braver tonight. I need you to trust me and I need you to trust not just your family, but also yourself."

Dumbledore held out his hand, but Ronald did not take it.

"I don't know you."

The distrust this child had was strong and ingrained in his very core. It was odd to see someone from the Prewitt line so dark in nature, so closed off from the world. The mischievous nature was lacking, though he could see the cogs and gears working just as well and oiled as any other member of his family. He lacked Arthur's cheerful nature so well known to the Weasleys. He recognized other traits though, the cunning that had shined so brilliantly in Septimus Weasley and the dogged resilience Bilius had practically buzzed with when the man had belonged to the Order. And Sophie.

Sophie Weasley who had been his classmate. An enigma to him in school. A hard woman who always seemed to know things she shouldn't. She had always appeared as a wounded animal to him, prideful and stubborn and always ready to fight. As if she expected the world to hate her simply for existing. Fierce. There hadn't been a humorous bone in her body. She had been broken by this terrible power her family hid from the world and at a very young age.

And each generation after had suffered the same fate.

Septimus.

Bilius.

Ronald.

But Ronald was still so young. He could be saved yet. He was not quite so hardened or hurt that Dumbledore couldn't push passed his shields at the heart beneath. The boy before him pushed strands of red hair out of his face in annoyance, watching him wearily as Dumbledore remained silent in his contemplations. If he wanted to save this little boy then he would have to start things out slowly.

"You're right, of course, I do not know you," Dumbledore pulled the chess board between them. "So why don't we have a game, you and I? We'll get to know one another. I'll tell you a little about myself and you do the same and eventually we might call one another more than mere acquaintances. How does that sound?"

Ronald glanced at the kitchen where his parents were no doubt avidly awaiting Dumbledore's prognosis.

"Do not worry about them, Ronald, they don't want to push you into anything anymore than I do. We are here to help you, not to force anything upon you or make this some terrible experience, we can go as slow as you need us to."

"You're Albus Dumbledore though," Ronald said slowly, "don't you have more important things to do than to help some defective kid?"

Dumbledore tapped the bridge of his nose.

"I have a grave secret of my own," he spoke conspiratorially, "Adults are terribly boring people. It's why I wanted to become a teacher in the first place, for the excitement of youth and discovery."

What most people tended to forget about Dumbledore was that he was an educator. His power and prestige sometimes overshadowed his job description, but at the end of the day Albus Dumbledore was the head of a 'school;' he was a teacher.

He preferred the open flexible minds to children to the narrow thoughts of adults. It was so much more intriguing to listen to children speak than to be forced to converse with the rigidity of adults. To watch your words and your hearts and to keep a distance between all and you always and forever. Children… kept him on his toes, forced him to re-evaluate his ideas every day. It was liberating and reminded him of his own humility where he often feared he might forget it in his arrogance.

"I don't think adults are boring," Ronald argued. "Their emotions are really complicated and hard to figure out. Kids are easy. They have like…" He made a small ball with his hand. "They only have a few strands of things they feel that are easy to feel out, but adults have dozens and dozens of different ones that I can't even name."

So the boy was an empath of some sort, as Moody had suspected. A very powerful one at that. Dumbledore himself could vaguely sense the presence of a person and if he was really concentrating then he could feel out the mood of a person, but the boy had the ability to not only sense dozens of different emotions inside of another person, but also distinguish between them. He was not old enough to recognize the more complex emotions of a person, but he knew they were there.

Dumbledore made sure to nod casually, as if the boy hadn't slipped up.

"But children are more flexible in their thoughts," he pointed out. "Perhaps they have less complicated emotions, but they are learning them and experiencing what the world has to offer with new eyes and perspectives. Adults tend to lose the ability to accept new ides once they reach a certain age."

"So you like watching the new threads appear then?" Ronald asked, voice dripping in curiosity. "Percy's kind of like a mini adult. He tends to always feel the same. He feels strong stuff, you know, he's super complex, more than Charlie, but he doesn't really ever change like Charlie does so I guess Charlie's more like a kid than Percy even though Perce is only eleven and Charlie is old."

"Charles is only seventeen," Dumbledore reminded, thoroughly amused.

"He's almost a decade older than me," Ronald pointed out, then, as if he wasn't sure Dumbledore had heard him, he repeated. "A decade."

"A decade is a very long time," he conceded in amusement, at the back of his mind he felt his mental shields beginning to bend under the strain of Ronald's magic. The dark tendrils effects were harder to push against at this close range. It was no wonder the Weasley's looked so worn down this evening when he came and when he ran into Molly in Diagone Alley. He could feel his shields being steadily worn away through the sheer force of it all.

An empath with the unfortunate uncontrollable ability to darken the emotions around him. It would cause a vicious cycle then. Ronald's magic would cause the emotions in the room to darken in scope, becoming negative thoughts and actions, threads of unpleasant emotions. Ronald would then only be able to feel those dark emotions in people. Creating a world of shadows and hurt and pain for the boy.

He wondered if Ronald had ever felt a happy emotion from another person. If he had ever felt joy or excitement or fondness. He wanted to ask, to plea with the child to tell him he knew more than the terrible depths of the human soul. Arthur Weasley had told him all about how Ronald had believed he was a monster though and Dumbledore figured that was answer enough.

"Don't pity me." Dumbledore felt startled as he looked up into sharp blue eyes. "I know you can't help but feel sad," Ronald continued, "but don't pity me. It's a nasty emotion and I don't want it."

"I apologize, shall we?"

The boy gave a sharp nod, moving forward a white knight. Sitting directly behind the white knight was the boy's white King, the chess piece coming to attention and declaring again; 'It's in the spine.' Dumbledore eyed the piece as a thought struck him. The chess set was a gift from the boy's grandfather- Septimus Weasley. One of the afflicted. He said nothing of this though, instead, he moved one of his ponds forward.

The game had begun.

Everything happened so quickly that winter night. He couldn't remember anything spectacular about that day, only that in the beginning of it, there had been the Grim and that the Grim's chosen form had been a raven. It would be a few years before he recognized the significance of the form. Before he would know with a glance that the Grim was expecting something and wanted the best view for coming events.

That night though… well Ron had only thought about how irritating it was to have to see the creature every time he passed by the living room's window. Didn't it have better things to do than stalk him? He kept his eyes downcast though, keeping in mind his Uncle's warnings. Never look it in the eye. Don't pay it any attention. Don't talk to it when it speaks to you. All those things only encouraged the creature, made everything worse.

It watched him from a moonless sky, pitch black, but somehow, completely visible to Ron. He knew it wasn't a real bird. Not with the way it's eyes trailed him or the intelligent look about it. Ron wasn't sure how he always recognized the Grim, but he wished he couldn't. For once he'd like to be able to walk by the window and be able to assume the creatures in the night were just that. Creatures.

The thought reminded him of Scabbers.

The rat had done nothing out of the ordinary since it had arrived back at the Burrow. It didn't even show signs of being smarter than an average rat. It was rather unordinary, actually, just lounging around at various places of the house. Sleeping for the most part. If it felt especially adventurous it would find its way onto Percy's lap.

Perce had left Scabbers rat treats on the table again. His big brother would be going back to Hogwarts soon, so he should really remember not to leave things about like that. Otherwise Scabbers would be killed by the first girl who came upon him eating food on the table top.

Ron looked around, spotting the rat asleep, its body curled up in one of his dad's shoes, its head snoozing on a black lace. Ron snickered, imagining his dad putting his shoes on, only to land in rat droppings. He couldn't believe he'd thought the rat had nefarious plans or ill intentions. It truly was just a stupid, fat rat.

He placed the small container of treats beside the creature in the shoe by the door and went to turn when he hesitated. The creepy staring beast knew something was off with Ron. Which probably made it the best pet in the house, if he were honest with himself.

But what if something was off about it?

Ron had to make sure that the rat wouldn't hurt Percy.

Which meant that Ron had to touch it.

Such a strange thing. Ron had never purposefully tried to use his ability on anyone before. Normally he tried everything to not see the bad memories or feel the emotions. Yet here he was, trying to figure out if a rat had nefarious plans. He really was one step away from joining his Uncle Bilius on the 'family to go to a nut house' list.

He reached out to pet the rat, his fingers meeting fur, but the soft emotions of an animal didn't come to him. Not even the 'smarter than a normal animal, but still animal thoughts' like before. Not at all.

There were dark things in his head. Ron dropped to the floor, pulling at his hair as the dark memories assaulted him. His heart hurt and he felt awful, but not like when his mum had lost her brothers or when his dad had seen Bilius taken away. It hurt in a different sort of way. One he'd never felt before.

It was a consistent throb. It was who he was. Ron grabbed for his heart, it raced too fast, made his breathing difficult. His dad was leaving them. He wasn't coming back. His fingers were scrambling to grasp hold but…

'You're nothing special boy. Those friends you brag about… not once did I ever hear what you've done, what you've accomplished, it's always been them. They'll go far in this world and you'll feed on their leftovers, just like your mother.'

And then his dad was gone.

It wasn't true. It wasn't true. But it was.

He was back at school and it was everywhere. In every gesture and in every lack of action. Peter was never asked to help out with the planning of the pranks, only the execution. Mindless things that could be done by anyone. Peter was never included in talks unless he inserted himself. He was invisible unless he forced himself on others. No one sought him out. He was… he was the spare, the extra hand, the fourth wheel… unnecessary.

No one needed him.

No Sirius or Remus or James. They were all so… special. They needed each other and thrived on each other's personalities, but not him. No, Peter wasn't like the others. He wasn't special in any sort of way.

The darkness was thick and all consuming. He needed to be special. He needed to be important. He had to find his place. No one was going to stop him. No one.

The desperation caused Ron to jerk in shock. He didn't like this. He didn't want this Peter near him. He couldn't take it. This wasn't one dark thought. This was the person's life. A miserable life of greed, of wanting more, of needing to be in the center of everything going on. He felt Peter's growing anxiety as he failed again and again to prove to himself that he was someone worthy.

Ron jerked, seizing as his head exploded, and then, very suddenly, Ron felt himself standing somewhere else.

He was standing in front of HIM. The dark lord. His mask was firmly in place, a vivid blue with black streaks moving from the mouth to the eyes. There was throb of power in the air, alluring, caressing his skin.

The group of Death Eaters stood as one. He was one of them. One invited to the table of power. It made his skin crawl with pleasure. No longer would he be looked down upon. He would not be the forth wheel, the useless one. Here he had a place. He was protected!

HE called for attention. Red eyes scanning over them before landing on Peter. With a wave of his hand all the others began to leave. Peter stayed. Could feel the burn in his left arm demanding he do so. The dark lord's face turned towards Peters and a thrill ran down his spine. He stood straighter, though the action only made his stomach more prominent.

"Yes, my lord?" Peter asked.

"Severus has given me urgent news," his lord murmured. "He has given me a prophecy. One involved with children in the Order."

"Children, my lord?" Peter questioned. His stomach felt queasy at the thought, but he forced it down.

"Two who fit," he whispered, the words rolling off his tongue like a snakes. "One of which is the son of James Potter."

Ah. So that was it. Harry. But why?

"It is not your business to know why, Wormtail."

Legilimancy.

"Yeessssss," the dark lord hissed and then in delight added. "And you are his Secret Keeper."

So that was it. Peter preened under the attention and he supplied the images of the place with ease, without a single thought. He presented the road and the name and the door. He presented the image of James and Lily and the baby.

This would earn the dark lords trust.

This would earn him power.

"Indeed it will, Wormtail," his lord sighed. Cold fingers traced the underside of his mask, where porcelain turned into his considerable chin.

And then pain! Terrible, horrible pain! He didn't understand! What had he done? Why was Master hurting him? He was loyal and brave and was working for him, only for him!

"You will be rewarded," his lord sighed, "but only when I am assured of your loyalty. This… is just a taste of what failure will mean."

The dark lord left.

Wormtail was left seething, whining as he turned over and tried to make the pain go away. James would never have hurt him like that. Sirius might joke, but he wouldn't have ever actually have done anything like that. Remus… would be horrified. He turned that over in his head. For the first time wondering if he'd done the right thing.

It was too late anyways.

He was a traitor and soon enough all would realize. The thought was painful. Maybe the most painful thing he'd ever felt. A gaping hole in his heart was opening up and he realized with growing dread that he would have power, but he would also have pain.

Ron flinched back. His fingers burned. He hit the frame to the kitchen's door. Blood hit his teeth, spilling over his lips, dribbling down. He'd bitten the tip of his tongue. Ron scrambled to get to his feet. His eyes wildly looking around for Peter. Wormtail. The dark lord's servant. His eyes landed on Scabbers. Sleeping.

Terror filled his heart.

It was… he was… the rat was… Ron stumbled back. He needed to tell his dad. He needed to tell mum. He needed to… needed to… Ron stopped, realization hitting him. The Animagus was asleep. The Death Eater was unaware of what Ron had seen.

If he alerted everyone though…

Ron shivered. What would the Death Eater do when it knew it was caught?

Attack. Kill. Hurt. Torture. A hundred thoughts passed through his mind as he turned to look at the creature laying harmlessly near the door. It wasn't harmless though. Ron knew. He'd seen. It had followed Voldemort. It had betrayed people to Voldemort. It had been happy to sign his friend's death warrants.

Tulip.

Kettleburn had given Charlie a Clabbert to take care of named Tulip. A Clabbert inside a magical cage designed to prevent escape of magical beings. Glancing once more at the rat, Ron took off for Charlie's room, stumbling up the stairs before thinking it best to keep silent rather than wake up the whole house.

Charlie had never learned to be a light sleeper. He'd been away from Hogwarts long before the twins were old enough to pull 'good' pranks. Ron snuck in easily, it was removing the Clabbert that was the true trick. It's red pulsate glowed in the darkness and Ron wondered if it was warning of Peter Pettigrew… or Ron himself.

Carefully, Ron laid out a handful of the creatures favorite spiral flies, backing away from the treat before opening the cage. The Clabbert was harmless to wizards, though Charlie would probably wake up with a number of 'gifts' left behind in or under his bed. Ron sent a silent apology to his brother before snatching the cage up when the creature ran after the treats.

Sneaking back into the hallway, Ron was relieved to see the rat still asleep. Dread snaked into his fingers causing them to tremble as he lifted his dad's shoe, rat and all, and gently placed it inside the cage. Clicking the lock shut, there was a feeling of relief.

Until it struck Ron that a Death Eater had been in their home for years.

What was the man doing here? Why their family? They were bloodtraitors. Was he planning something with them? Did the Death Eaters or pure bloods have plans for them? Ron shuddered. What if one of them had been imperiused? What if Peter had somehow cast spells on his family while they were sleeping?

They needed Moody. The Auror would know what to do. How to handle this thing. He would be able to check the family for bad magic. He would know if anything had been done. Moody would be able to tell them what the Death Eater wanted with them.

Then all of Ron's plans went out the window.

Peter had woken up.

The rat watched Ron with those eyes. The ones that Ron hadn't understood before. The ones that sent a shiver down his spine. He recognized the emotion now; suspicion. The rat knew something about Ron, enough to be weary of him.

Peter's mouth moved upwards in a snarl. Ron jerked back at the hissing and the arched back. Its eyes were angry now. Could he break the cage? Ron looked upstairs where all of his family was sleeping. Unaware. Peter could kill them in their sleep if he escaped. He needed to… Ron glanced outside, spotting something in the distance that made him pause.

The rat stepped out of the shoe, making its way to the latch. It knew! It knew! He wasn't a Clabbert, he was a person. Ron was so stupid. Of course it… he knew how to get out. He was a person. A Death Eater. Ron lunged for the cage, tilting it so that the rat hit the opposing side of the metal. He grabbed the cage and threw open the back door, running full throttle away from the Burrow.

Ron stumbled in the snow, making sure the rat couldn't get near the latch. In the distance the pond grew bigger and bigger. Peter was shrieking in anger, but did he know? Was he aware? He forced his legs to move faster, crossing the large field in their backyard, avoiding gnomes where they snored. Ice covered dead grass gave way to the muddy banks of the ponds edge.

Ron stopped in his tracks. The pond was frozen over. He hadn't even considered this. Hadn't been thinking. Ron dropped the cage, Scabbers… No. No. No. Wormtail. The Death Eater. The Monster. Shrieked in surprised indignation. He didn't know. Wormtail hadn't realized yet what was going on.

Ron ran back into the forested area, eyes frantically searching for something… anything! He needed to… there! Ron scooped up the rock. Feet pounding the forested floor as he headed back. His heart hurt. It was trying to kill him, trying to burst from his chest. He couldn't think about what he was doing, could only act.

He threw the large rock into the lake as hard as he could. The ice shattered. Without breaking stride, he hauled the large cage over to the edge. The rat shrieked in realization, beginning to change into the Death Eater Ron knew it was.

Then it happened.

Ron had grabbed the cage because of its magical barrier, meant to keep venomous creatures in, but he hadn't thought… hadn't considered…. Ron vomited across the deck. It was screaming in pain. It was contorting. Muscles and bones and flesh. It wasn't succeeding. He wasn't succeeding. The man couldn't change. It screamed and clawed. Rat and man. Furred arms, too long, tail lengthening and shortening, face half human, jaw rounding out then stretching into a rat.

Ron gagged. Spit. Crawled back. Stared.

Every inch of the cage was taken up by the mutilated creature. Part human and part rat. It shuddered as it tried to shrink back down, but couldn't. A wheezing, squealing noise filled the air. Ron twitched, hand reaching to help, but…

It was a Death Eater.

He'd come here to stop it. To save his family from the monster hiding in the shadows. Swallowing the bile in his mouth, Ron reared back and kicked the cage. It titled towards the edge, then fell in. But not before the deformed, furred arm of bone had taken hold of Ron's ankle.

Ron was dragged in after the cage.

He only had time to take a breath. Hitting the water, he stiffened up, the ice tensing his whole body until his arms felt like he were dragging them through mud instead of water. Ron bulked, prying at the fingers digging into his ankle. Four feet down. Six feet down. Eight feet down.

His body jolted as they hit bottom. His clothes tangled his limbs, his boots acting like anchors. He couldn't move! Ron yanked off his jacket, letting it sink. His hat was lost in the struggle, his scarf like fighting a snake bound and determined to strangle him.

Ron kicked out. The bone fingers lost their grip. Ron struggled to reach the surface, but his shoes wouldn't… the sturdy snow boots tore his body downwards again. He ripped them off, coughing and breathing in water, flaying away and up… up… UP!

Ron hit the surface. Hand's grasping for purchase, but his fingers felt only ice. Spitting up water Ron tried to drag himself up when… bubbles. Bubbles were coming up. Ron glanced down at the water around him.

The Death Eater, Peter, he was drowning.

Ron was killing him.

Ron glanced at the deck, it was only a foot in front of him, all he had to do was grab it. This was what he'd come out here for. To protect his family. A small bubble of air touched his foot. It slid up his body and Ron watched as it hit the surface.

Was he a killer?

Was he a monster?

Ron reached for the deck with both hands. He used the wood to push off, back beneath the ponds surface. He struggled through the black water, back down into the small pounds depths. The cold stabbed at him. His lungs ached. His fingers fumbled through the slimy kelp and sand until they hit metal. His fingers tightened around the bars of the cage. Ron tugged it up, but it was too heavy. His feet stuck in the sand and Ron tried one more time to heave…

Then it shot out from the cage.

Half formed bones gripped his jaw. Short fingers squeezed and all the air exploded outwards, bubbles floating away from him. Ron yanked away, but it held firm. An iron like grip held his face as Ron struggled for it to let go. Eyes, yellow and white pleaded with him from a half formed human face even as rat like teeth snapped at him, stopping only at the rustic metal.

It was choking.

Peter was choking.

Ron moved forward, yanking hard at the metal and unclenching it from the wet sand. Ron pushed off, pulling the heavy container with him. The thing's arm still tightly gripping his face. The hold was starting to slacken though.

Teeth cut into his fingers, Ron felt his grip loosen, felt the cage start to drag him down. It was too much, he couldn't… Ron reached up, his fingers slipped through the surface, touching air. Ron kicked again, his fingers touching the surface, but the cage… the cage was too much. He couldn't get it any higher. He couldn't breathe. He needed to let go.

He met Peters eyes, the only visible thing in the black abyss. They were scared. The bone like hand let go of his jaw. Released, Ron tried to lift it up, his head able to move, he managed a few inches closer, struggling to reach the surface, but he couldn't… he…

The cage slipped.

Ron panicked, trying to grab hold, but it sunk like a rock. Ron kicked upwards, head breaking surface, gasping for air. He sucked in, trying to fill his lungs as quickly as possible. Ron dove back down.

This time, the creature didn't react, didn't grab onto him as he grasped the cage's bars. Ron bent his knees and using all of his strength, ripped it from the sand. He fought upwards, breaking the surface in seconds this time. Reaching the deck was harder, he could hear it gurgling behind him, didn't dare look back.

Ron pulled himself up first, dragging the heavy cage out of the water and across the deck. The creature jerked and wheezed inside the magical cage. Ron flinched back, fingers bloody and shaky as he opened up the door, but Peter didn't move.

Peter didn't shrink.

Peter didn't change.

The creature's yellow white eye stared at him accusingly. The half formed human face trying to form words, but the jaw snapped instead. It's bone like fingers twitched and made grabbing motions, fur spreading out from a too thin human arm that lay limply on the wood.

"No, no, no," Ron whispered, he tugged at the bars trying to break them, but they remained as steadfast and glowing as they had when Peter Pettigrew tried to break it by transforming. "No!"

Ron whirled around.

"HELP! PLEASE! MUM! DAD! SOMEONE! CHARLIE!" Ron bent down and tugged harder. He didn't mean it. He hadn't wanted to hurt someone like this. He didn't want to hurt anyone. The rusty cage began to cut into Ron's hands, but he hardly noticed. "SOMEONE HELP ME!" Ron bellowed.

But no one came.

No one could hear him.

"I'm sorry," Ron wailed, "I didn't mean it. I just wanted to protect my family."

Bone like fingers grabbed onto his wrist. Ron jerked, looking up into the pleading yellow white eyes, it was then that Ron noticed something else. The half-transfigured creature… person… he was leaking blood. It slipped from the torn muscles and flesh and bone, and Ron realized belatedly that it covered his hands and clothes. The rat like mouth opened its maw, showing sharp teeth and a tongue that was too long to be human but tried to move like one anyways.

"...kIlL mE."

The wheezing noise came out guttural.

"Dad can fix this," Ron stood, backing away from its pained eyes. "He works for the Ministry. He can fix this."

"…tOo LatE."

"No, no…" Ron trembled, fighting back the bile in his throat. "I didn't mean… I wasn't thinking…"

"pLeaSeeee."

Ron hiccupped. He knees brought him to the deck. Ron closed his eyes, reaching instinctively out with his hands. He wanted to make the hurt go away. He wanted to make sure this person wasn't in pain. He didn't know how though. He didn't know what to. He needed dad. He needed his dad to tell him what to do.

Ron felt something warm.

He opened his eyes.

Light. It throbbed in front of him. A tiny ball of light. Ron pulled at it gently. Freeing it from the harsh prison of flesh. It came to him easily. It was so sad and miserable, so frightened and in pain… but there was no more pain. Ron could feel it the moment he tugged it free. It was so lonely. It throbbed with a need to prove itself, with a bitterness and hatred that caused Ron's breath to catch. It was greedy and all-consuming in its need to be important, yet its loneliness trumped all of that. It was why it chose such a big family to hide within. It had wanted that. It had needed that. It didn't deserve that. It was better than this.

Ron looked passed the light.

Peter Pettigrew's half transfigured body stared back blankly. He was dead. Ron screamed, feeling the light in his hands bob up and down as he realized what he was holding. Ron screamed louder.

Ron tried to put the soul back into the body, but it resisted, instead heading towards Ron. He threw himself backwards, legs scrambling as it tried to enter into him. He batted it away, but it simply hovered on the tips of his fingers, forcing all those terrible, complicated human feelings upon him.

"Don't be afraid, little one."

Ron whirled, but far from being comforted by the figure come to his rescue, he felt a thrill of terror. Despite the inky blackness of the night, no moon, and stars hidden beneath a layer of dark clouds, the Grim appeared as clear to him as someone basking in the sun. Her beauty unmatched and unquestionable, even as her smile seemed to want to devour him.

"Put it back!" Ron demanded, frantic as the small light continued to assault him with intense emotions. The greed and selfishness and bitterness and hatred and need and loneliness clawed at him, made him cringe and wilt all at the same time. It was cold and harsh and he hated it. Hated this person.

"It is not I who did this," the Grim shrugged, then, as if there was not a half transfigured mutilated body beside them with its soul floating in Ron's hands, she gracefully sat beside him. Seeming to flow there rather than bending any bones.

"Please," Ron begged, "please put it back!"

"He is dead. Even if you had not removed his soul, he would have died. It would have been much slower though. Much more painful. I could force it back in, if you'd like, and you can watch him bleed out and try to morph back into a rat over and over again in agony."

Ron felt dread fill him to bursting as he looked at the body and back at the soul. Sniffling, he cupped it and tried to stop his trembling.

"What… what do I do with this?"

Grim smiled, one of her rare, kind ones that always threw Ron off guard. Then, she held out her hands, gesturing for him to hand it over. Ron hesitated, the thought of handing it over to Death herself an unwelcome knowledge, but what other choice was there?

Gently, he handed it over.

Black fingernails plucked it out of his hands. Ron almost grabbed for it, looking back at the body it belonged to and shuddering, but when he looked back, it was gone.

"Where…" Ron trailed off.

Grim reached forward, gently cupping his chin.

"There are some things that even you are not privileged to know." Her fingers trailed down to his chest, pressing the tips there and suddenly Ron found himself screaming, clutching at his chest, dragging nails across the searing pain. It disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving him breathless and curled in on himself.

"What did you…"

"It has begun," Grim told him, "Only the Vanguard and those who hide from me will be able to see the sign on your chest. All who see it will tremble and know that you are mine and that they will soon fall. Wear it well."

Then she turned and started to leave.

"Wait!" Ron had never willingly touched the Grim, but now his hands balled into the creature's dress in a blind panic, the cloth moving beneath his fingers more like skin. "What about… I don't know what to… you can't leave him!"

The Grim looked passed him at the corpse before glancing back at Ron.

"That is hardly my mess to clean up, little Vanguard."

"I don't understand… why are you doing this?"

But the Grim, for once, was ignoring him. Vanishing into the depths of the night like she owned it. Maybe she did. And Ron was left there in that dark, the smell of burned flesh in the air, a mutilated corpse behind him, and the remains of all his hopes of being normal sitting at the bottom of a nearly frozen over pond.