Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

Chapter 7: The Tale of the Three Brothers

"There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight midnight."

It was so much worse than anything Ron could have imagined.

A Vanguard was a hunter who was chosen by Death itself. Death, like culture, existed separately among each continent and chose its Vanguard from those that sought to break the boundaries between life and death. It was a punishment and warning to those who trifled with matters beyond human understanding.

We are warriors, my brothers and I, and we sought to take down the Blacks once and for all. We sought to rip the souls from ones body, to increase our own magic through the destruction and harvest of others magic. We sought to cause misery upon the home and lives of those who'd caused our own suffering. Drenching them in eternal hell and darkness, taking all that makes them happy, making them live with the knowledge that they would never be happy again.

Instead we summoned the Grim.

Or rather, we captured the Grim, unintentionally, in a set of chains created from our experimentation with dark magic. We knew not what we were doing and foolishly believed we could garner trinkets from the beast. We should have released it and ran for our lives. We should have graveled and pleaded to be spared.

Instead we tried to bargain with a god.

We demanded prizes for our deeds; an unbeatable wand for Thomas, my youngest brother, and a stone for my grieving brother Johannes who'd recently lost his wife. For myself, I sought neither power nor past, but rather, a means to hide from this creature. I knew, even then, what a foolish deed we were performing, but like a coward said nothing. It gave us our prizes and while my brothers lingered, I fled.

The creatures found my brothers first. Shortly after it had freed itself, the Grim lured by brothers into its hands with a congratulations and a promise for more. The creature gave us all that we'd ever wanted in a form we could not have come up with even in our darkest nightmares. The ability to take souls. The ability to darken a person until there is nothing in their lives but their worst memories and fears. The ability to cause misery the like that no human has seen before.

It has been years now and I hear the name my brothers have been given. It is as ominous and horrifying as what they became, for they lack all humanity now. They lack all emotions and love and instead seek only what their abilities can grant them. The dark rotting hearts beating in their chests have manifested on the outside, corpses cloaked in Deaths loving shawl. Those ignorant of their origins call these monsters Dementors.

Gage Weasley had told only part of his story to a man whose surname had been Beedle. The story of the Three Brothers wasn't a story at all and Ron was living in the consequences of actions taken over six hundred years ago.

When I ran- I wore the cloak every day of my life until my eldest child was old enough not to drown in its length. I had been given a reprieve for years and believed that when the Grim came for me, I would simply die at its hands and it would end. My brothers would fade away and time would forget their deserved tragedy.

I was wrong.

When the Grim found me, its rage was staggering, and I could do nothing but quake. Instead of death, I became an apprentice of death- of sorts. A Vanguard. It would have been penance for my crimes and greed and I would have accepted the sentence with open arms except…

As long as the Hallows exist in this world, my family will continue to inherit the position of Vanguard. Our foolish deeds have caused such devastation and grief. I have told my sons to never have children, but my oldest has already disappeared into the world with his mother.

Death, at least, has promised me that this book will always find its way into the hands of her next chosen, so perhaps when I have passed, there might be a chance for the line to end and this nightmare to cease, though I fear for the souls of my brothers and what may become of them if we cannot break it within my lifetime.

Still exhausted from the cold he had, Ron fell asleep with his head resting on Dumbledore's knee, the moonlight their only light within the living room. The special wards had be lowered to allow for strips of it to pull over the pages.

It was not long after that Arthur and the rest of the Weasley clan arrived and found them there.

The book was written in blood. Arthur and Molly had tried to put Ron to bed, but the moment Ron was removed from the vicinity of the book, even in moonlight, the pages faded to blank.

"Why don't you read it first?" Molly urged him. "For a little while at least. He doesn't have a fever, but I don't want to push our luck. He needs to be in bed soon no matter what you read."

Arthur had nodded, tucking Ron against him, his son curled in his lap, head laying on Arthur's chest. Ron didn't stir, and he guessed that all the excitement of the evening had tuckered his sick son out. Ron's magic pulled around them, making him feel uneasy and the beginnings of a dark brooding mood coming on, so unlike himself who tended to prefer things simple. Most things were only complicated if one made them complicated.

The cheer charms were holding off the worst of it though.

He had five or six shoved in his pockets. There had been daydreams and cheer charms and magic sparks being given away and he'd thought… we'll it had worked well enough for this brother, didn't it? If it helped Bilius appear normal then who was to say it wouldn't help Arthur be close to his child?

He dragged his fingers through Ron's hair, listening to his child's breath hitch from congestion in the lungs, dark circles under his eyes from the nightmares and night owl routine, small fingers clutching subconsciously at his chest.

"It's going to be okay," Arthur whispered, kissing Ron on the forehead.

He looked down at the book and with a heavy sigh, started forward.

Flipping through the pages from back to front, he felt his heart sink as a pattern emerged in the light of the moon. Dark red letters spelling out a tale that grew steadily more hopeless and horrifying with the end of each person's life. Beginning with his own brother, with his own father… and spreading backwards in time.

Billius Weasley- 1958 to 1986

Septimus Weasley- 1936 to 1983

Sophie Weasley- 1881 to 1936

Cane Weasley- 1863 to 1880

Brenard Weasley- 1841-1862

Rose Weasley- 1828-1839

Back and back it went until Arthur found himself on the first page. Here it was different though. On the first page there was no writing except for three names in a row and the description besides these men was different from all those that came before.

Gage Weasley- Born 1341, condemned 1383

Johannas Weasley- Born 1345, condemned 1383

Thomas Weasley- Born 1355, the first Vanguard 1383

With shaking fingers, Arthur turned to the first page. Despite the age, the pages and writing were still fresh. A blood quill had obviously been used and Arthur frowned at the evidence of dark magic his ancestors demonstrated. He'd known, of course, everything about this curse wreaked of dark magic, but he'd hoped…

Gage Weasley, summer of 1383

Whatever time you may come across this, if these notes are being read, then know this: We have condemned you to a fate worse than death. I do not ask your forgiveness. We do not deserve it.

Arthur glanced at his sleeping son in his lap. His eight-year-old boy was curled up, face flushed with fever, fingers touching the page so that Arthur could read this book. Ron trusted him fully. He brushed Ron's hair out of his face, thumbing the dark bruises under his eyes from nightmares and sleep deprivation.

For Ron.

My brothers and I sought to experiment with death and so death came for us instead. It is with a heavy heart that I relate all that has conspired in these last few years. I will not leave anything out for to do so would be a further betrayal, not only to our family who we have condemned, but to any in the future who would seek to play with forces beyond their power. Our motivations, while wrong- filled with greed and lust and weakness, are as full of foully as any young individual with dreams.

Our sister is with child and already I know the poor soul carries within it our curse, for it is not passed down through blood. It is a touch from Death itself who chooses with knowledge we cannot comprehend. Death, who is not a concept or an end, but a presence that makes up the fabric of this world. Death exists in every individual and yet is its own sort of… no, Death walks among us just as you or I would, able to gift the past and the present, able to create objects in the human plain, with the ease of a god.

Death is a presence that experiences anger and pleasure and which holds grudges and takes vengeance in the same manner humans do. It represents all of our darkest emotions just as Life, I presume in arrogance, holds all of our dearest and most treasured emotions. I realize I am rambling and making little sense to you… it would be best to start from the beginning rather than deliver this diatribe of manic grief and terror upon you.

It all began when my brother's wife was murdered by Charlotte Black. We started to experiment with dark magic, intending to reverse the effects of death itself… and to gain revenge for the horrors we believed had been done upon us.

Arthur read long into the night with an ever-growing weight settling on his heart. When he noticed the moon in its last moments of the night, he skipped to the later entries, finding Bilius's work easily. Out of all the accounts of the dozens within the bound book, Billius's was the shortest, spanning only a few pages in the book. It was a simple letter addressed to Ron.

Ronnie

I hoped I would never have to write in this bloody book, but the final gift is coming upon me fast and I fear that time is quickly fleeing. I'm so sorry for all the misunderstandings and the hurt I've caused you. I tried to break the curse during the war, but I failed. I hoped that Arthur, your father, would succeed where I could not. He was marrying a Prewett, you see, and we all believed the Prewett's were the key…

His dad wouldn't look at him. The book's pages were blank now that the moon had set and the sun had risen and Ron was reeling from the few truths he'd been given. And his dad wouldn't look at him. Ron had started out asking questions in curiosity, but his words started to take on a panicked tone the longer his dad kept quiet. And his dad wouldn't look at him.

Ron traced the frightening looking spine fingers and the twitching hand that kept the book together with a bright blue magical set of stitching along the opposite side. Threads that only appeared in the moonlight but which Ron could feel now, invisible to the eye. The book that opened backwards and could only be read in the light of the moon was pretty wicked cool, not that he would say as much to his family who seemed to look at it as if the thing was going to spontaneous explode and kill them all.

His dad had read what was inside.

Now he went about the house, helping their mum tidy, picking up his random muggle tools and his head jerking in another direction every time he accidentally turned in Ron's direction. His dad looked like the muggle scarecrow he'd had an obsession with a few Halloweens ago. Stitched together and limbs moving only when the wind blew too hard.

Vanguard.

Ron liked that he had a name for it now. Not even a very scary name. It sounded sort of like a knight or a protector of some kind. It meant neither, obviously, but it felt nice. Nothing like Dementor- Ron shuddered. His dad wasn't too keen to talk about any of it though and even though mum had asked a dozen times, voice turning angry late this afternoon, Arthur had still refused to speak about it.

'Shock,' was the word Bill used.

And Percy, being far more familiar with complicated words and more willing to use them, had coined a different word entirely.

'Devastated.'

It sounded far more accurate to Ron who decided that his chair in the living room was far too close to people for him to be using at the moment. He'd scurried upstairs and looking once more at his dad who refused to look at him, disappeared into his room.

A sniffled enough that Ron though he'd burst into tears, but he kept it at bay by pulling out his story books and reading The Fountain of Fair Fortune out loud to Asha. Her wing was still broken and his words were wobbly, but between the two of them, they turned away all topics of bother and darkness to only good things.

He told Asha how the scary book was an over glorified diary and about the gift from Grim, making sure to stay as far away from the bad stuff as possible. Mainly the threat on Dumbledore's life and the story of what his ancestors had become.

He had yet to show his family the quill Grim had given him, made from its own bones. Dumbledore had called it a blood quill and had seemed shaken when it had appeared. Ron wasn't entirely sure why though. She'd laid bare her own arm against his arm for a moment. The touch like frost. Then her bone had come out, so close to his skin he could feel it. As the tar sunk into his skin and dug into his flesh he could sense his blood coming loose from his veins. Slipping from his pours and sliding into place inside of the bone. The black mark of Grim forming where his blood had entered the quill.

It would be best if Ron kept that to himself though.

"Do you think that dad hates me now?" Ron asked.

Asha made a noise that was disapproving.

"There's no need to jump to conclusions, dearie," Asha chirped. "Perhaps you're not looking your best, but that no reason for your father to hate you."

Ron rubbed at his nose, feeling overly hot and sticky, but managing to roll his eyes anyways.

"I don't think he hates me for how I look. We're all pasty red heads and that's normal for us." Ron paused, pressing his hand against his heart. He wondered if they opened his chest up if it would be red or black. What if his heart was as rotten and useless as the wizard that tried to play with dark magic to stop himself from feeling love? Ron still loved though. Would it look like the Grim's tar like stuff instead?

Ron nestled against his pillows. A Vanguard was a hunter, but what did it mean to hunt those who ran from Death? That didn't sound pleasant all. Would ever time feel like this one? Holding Dumbledore's life in his hands as the Grim used him?

Could Ron make a deal with Grim to only hunt bad people? Then again, Ron really hadn't liked killing Peter Pettigrew and that man was as bad as they got. Hopefully. He couldn't imagine worse people than a man like Peter. Betraying his friends like he had. Working as a Death Eater. Then there was that awful thing Peter had talked to.

Voldemort.

He really, really, really hoped that he never had to hunt that thing. The red eyes boring into him had left a lasting impression that what this thing used to be might have been human, but what it was now was only a monster.

"He doesn't hate you in any way," Asha chirped. Ron blinked at her, having forgot in his moment of silence that they'd been talking at all. "Good grief in a handbasket… its clear to anyone with eyes that he adores you to bits, pumpkin."

Ron touched his red hair, scowling at the bird.

"Not that nickname then? Oh well, I'll find something suitable."

"There's no need for a nickname at all."

"Well, you're not fond of me when I call you Ronald, which is your name, and I always want you to be fond of me," Asha rattled off. "But Ron is far too… I do not like it. You require something more… more."

"Well, pumpkin is too much wrong in one word," Ron muttered, fighting sleep. He felt heavy and was very glad he'd used the bathroom beforehand because if he'd only just thought of it, he might not have been capable of getting up to… erm, attend to important matters.

"Ohhhh, what about Sir Luckless?"

"How about no?" Ron groaned.

"You are a knight though," Asha protested. "It is befitting that you should be the knight from the very story you chose my name!"

"I'm not a knight," Ron said, strangely flattered.

"The kindest knight I know," Asha told him.

"You only know, like… ten people."

"And you are the best out of ten!"

Ron laughed, but the sound wheezed a bit coming out.

"And you are the most beautiful mirror bird I have ever seen," Ron told her.

Asha clucked, preening her one good wing up from her now permanent shelf by his bed.

"You bet my feathered booty I am. Where would you be without me?"

"Somewhere very lonely," Ron said thoughtfully, finally giving into sleep.

The Prewetts had a special kind of light to them. Billius knew this because just being in their presence hurt. He wasn't sure what the power was or where it came from, but it filled him with hope. Maybe, just maybe, the Prewtt blood would be able to neutralize the curse residing in the Weasley blood. So they theorized.

As Bilius was the brother to inherit the Weasley curse, he'd long ago resigned himself to never having children and certainly never marrying. His father was a fool for doing so, as was his father's mother and his great grandmother and… we'll, the point was gotten, wasn't it? The Weasley's should have ended their blood line the moment they'd been foolish enough to create the curse in the first place.

Hot blooded fools.

He and his father had high hopes for Arthur. The man was… bright. Capable of performing the patronus, a feet no Weasley had been able to do in generations. Maybe the blood had thinned over time. Maybe the curse wasn't able to be passed down through him. Still… As he and Molly continued to pop out one kid after another, Billius cringed.

Talk about tempting the fates.

He tried to talk to Arthur about it, to discourage him, but the whole of the wizarding world was trying to do the same. Not for the same reasons. They ridiculed Arthur for having more kids than he could take care of. They whispered in the hallways of the Ministry. Dark talk, rumors, whispering behind their backs. His brother, with his upbeat attitude and big heart and stubbornness, carried on. He had a lot of love to go around and seemed intent on making use of every drop of it.

It didn't help that the Prewett twins seemed bound and determined to be free babysitters, overjoyed to have their nephews with them. They were truly incorrigible. Spoiling the kids, telling them stories, winding them up and tuckering them out.

It was all one big happy family.

Ignore the terrible curse hanging over our heads!

It wasn't Arthur's fault though. Bilius and his father had done everything in their power to make sure Arthur wasn't aware of the family curse. Mother had disagreed with their decision. She'd said Arthur needed to know. It was his right.

To resign himself to misery though? Especially with such high hopes riding on his little brother's shoulders? Curse breaker, they called him, end of the line, they whispered. Their brother Phillip had been born a squib. Aunt Riley had never had children. Uncle Richard had a muggle son, an accountant now?

Bilius was the deadly child. He was the carrier. The one who would never be capable of performing a patronus. The one who could never bear children for fear of passing it down. There was no reason for Arthur to be burdened with either Bilius dark curse or the expectations heaped upon his unknowing shoulders.

Bright Arthur would light the way to a glorious future.

When father… died, or rather, as close to died as he could, they had burned his body and hunted the rest until there was no trace of his existence. It was the least they could do. Binding and burning his soul was the most merciful act they could perform and the best means of destroying the creatures known as dementors. He'd told Arthur that their dad had killed himself. It was easier to explain than the mad screaming of the Grim coming for him as Septimus fell into madness. Of his descent into becoming it.

The final gift of the Grim indeed.

It was how more than one Weasley had gone down the dark path. Trying to evade their own death, ignoring the contracts demands in order to pursue their own need to survive. Always realizing too late that trying to use the vision of their own death to save themselves always ended by them walking straight into it.

It was the most horrific experience of his life.

He was sixteen when he'd witnessed his first death. He'd escorted their grandfather to St. Mungo's for an annual check up when one of the ancient witches sitting next to them had fallen to the floor. A seizure. The old woman had cracked her head, flopped around on the floor of all of ten seconds, and was gone.

Too fast for him or any of the Healers to do a damn thing about it.

He and his grandfather had both left shaken and sick, but it was only Bilius that had left changed. He came into the full extent of the curse and by the end of the week had received his gift. His father had been furious, ranting and raving at the Grim that Bilius was too young, accusing the creature of purposefully killing the witch before it was her rightful time.

The Grim had been unapologetic.

"War is coming," Grim had stated casually, "you are aging, and your death is near."

His father had gone quiet at that.

Bilius had been too overwhelmed by it all. Seeing his own death in the asylum. How young he was and that it was the Grim itself killing him so directly in her fury. He was determined to prove to her that he would not disobey. He would not look to change his future. He would accept it. He would try to break the curse, but he would do every job she asked without question.

And he did.

Bilius was her perfect soldier.

He hunted down all those who used dark magic to avoid death. The Grim was its own force of nature. It easily killed all those on its list as if checking off boxes. Bilius never had to deal with killing the innocent. It was only those who tried to destroy the natural order of things, who sought to twist nature to their control, who Bilius took down.

That was the worst part.

Bilius had to take human light in order to survive. The Weasley's were killers by nature. Only marginally better than the monsters they became when one of the cursed displeased Grim. His father had acted as a guard in Azkaban, watching over their cursed family members, but also takin the lives of prisoners when he needed to.

Grandma Sophie had been an Auror back in the day when it was more acceptable to simply kill criminals that ran rather than bring them in for a trial. No one ever questioned her. The farther back it went, the more devious his little pureblood family had been.

Arthur would be different though.

Bilius could feel it in his bones.

Arthur had given them all a good scare, announcing at the tender age of nineteen the impending arrival of his first son. The family had been in a tizzy, whispering and muttering and hoping and dreading the child's arrival.

It was decided that Billius would be the tester. As a curse holder, he would know instantly if the child carried the Weasley curse or if he possessed the Prewett light. It had set his nerves on edge, enough that he'd been sick the last two weeks of Molly's pregnancy. Lost ten pounds off his frame like it was nothing.

He'd stalled in the delivery wing. He let Fabien and Gideon cuddle and coo at the baby for nearly an hour, not offering once to hold the babe. Then, finally, it was time. Baby William looked up at him with such bright eyes, flaming red hair already a mop atop his tiny little head, a gummy smile on his lips.

Bilius had taken him into his arms… and it had hurt. Such light! Such wonderful, magical light! Definitely a Prewitt. Bilius grinned, staring down proudly at his nephew. Beautiful, healthy, not cursed baby William. He spun the babe around, bobbing him up and down, the feel burning at his skin just the smallest bit.

And it was delightful.

"Helloooooooooo," Bilius cooed. "Welcome. Welcome."

Arthur beamed at him, his little brother practically falling to pieces in relief as he stood over his sleeping wife. His little shit of a brother did it. He broke the curse. He ended the Weasley misfortune.

Then Arthur just kept on going…

Charlie frowned at him. Puckered lips and watering eyes every time Billius so much as glanced in the babe's direction. But he burned him too. Another Prewitt legacy.

Percy looked more like a prune than a new born. Content to hold Bilius's finger and keep it near his little chest. Prewitt.

The twins had been nerve wracking. A difficult birth. Rare in the magical world to even exist. They had made him especially nervous, because wasn't it just like twins for one to go one way and the other another? But no. They were identical not just in looks, but also in magic. Prewitts, the both of them, lovely light burning away.

As toddlers the two twins light seemed to bounce off of one another, growing into something magnificent. He loved it. They would be powerful wizards, there was no doubt about it, capable of performing whatever magic their little hearts desired. Barely a year old and they'd already performed their first accidental magic.

And then Ron had come.

He'd been a fool to think it had ended. That there was no chance of the curse existing as long as Bilius refrained from having children. He'd become complacent in his love for his brother's children. He'd so happily taken Ronald into his arms.

And felt nothing.

No pain, no hurt, no light.

Ronald looked up at him, big blue eyes blinking slowly, his little fist stretching out and tiny fingers reaching for him. No light. Not a flicker of the burn he always felt with the other children. Ronald's tiny fingers touched him and he felt it. The familiar thing inside. The creature of his nightmares. The bane of his existence.

Ronald was cursed.

Ronald was just like him.

No, no, no. Not this little babe. Not this innocent little face. Not these big blue eyes.

"What's wrong?" Arthur demanded, frightened. He found baby Ronald taken from him, Arthur checking the baby over. His little brother glanced up at him in expectation, fear lining his features, questions in his eyes.

Staring at the babe, Bilius knew that he would have to tell Arthur now, he would have to burden his little brother with the terrible Weasley secret. Because Arthur wasn't the curse breaker they'd made him out to be. Arthur still carried the curse, even if he didn't have it himself.

But he couldn't do it tonight. Couldn't face his brother on the night of his child's birth to tell him that Ronald would die young. That his child would cause misery wherever he went. That Ronald would soon never be able to touch another person without causing them harm.

"Nothing's wrong Arthur, just thinking about something dad said once," Bilius said shakily. He couldn't look his brother in the eye. Instead of spilling everything. Instead of ruining this otherwise wonderful night. Bilius lied. "I've been here too long. I think it's time I head out. Paperwork won't fill itself out."

It was a poor excuse. He knew. Fabien scowled at him, the normally cheerful man giving him the once over.

"Don't be a git," Fabien snapped at him. Gesturing to baby Ronald, cooing up at them from Arthur's arms. "The babes just popped out, sorry Molls, wrong term." He apologized to his sleeping sister. "Besides, you promised you'd help watch the kids these next few days."

They were all with Aunt Muriel at the moment. Poor souls.

Bilius struggled to say something. His mind full of the sight of his father, black bones contorting as his soul slithered around them, consumed, changing from the light blue tinged black soul to full black.

If Arthur and Molly had just stopped having so many kids… if they'd stopped tempting fate…

"Well then, perhaps they should have figured out that five kids is more than plenty to take care of," Bilius muttered.

He regretted it instantly. It was his fault for not telling Arthur. For putting so much hope in the fact that Arthur might break the curse. That the children were safe from it.

"What did you say?" Gideon growled at him, eyes blazing.

"I think leaving would be a good idea," Arthur cut in. His little brother was pleading with him, silently, asking him what was wrong with only the sheer force of his eyes. His arms were cradled around Ron, protectively. "Come back when you've got your head on straight."

"Haven't had my head on straight since I was sixteen," Bilius tried to joke. But no one was part of the inside joke. Only his father and his Aunt and his Uncle. Dead. Dead. Backstabber. There was no one left to talk to, no one left to debate how to break the curse and no one left to confide in when it all got too much. "But I know what you mean. It's for the best. I'll talk to you later, Arthur."

He left them there, not looking back.

Outside of St. Mungo's there were a line of flowers. He sat among them. Drinking in the light. Not caring as they began to wilt. This was all so messed up. They'd been so close. And why? Why had the curse not attached itself to any of the other children?

It had to be the burning light they had. The Prewett light. It reminded him of a patronus, actually, if he were honest. Why hadn't the light been strong enough in the boy though? Why had he gotten the curse when five older brothers had been spared?

What was different about Ronald?

He thought of Molly. How happy she'd been through her pregnancies. Then a thought struck him. That wasn't 100% true though, was it? Ronald was different in that sense. They'd been told by the Healer that Ronald was going to be a girl. Molly had been so happy those first few months and then… then they'd been told that was a mistake. That Ronald would be a boy. Molly had spent weeks depressed after that. There had been days, Arthur told him, when Molly had been hard pressed to get out of bed.

Was that it?

Was a few moments of weakness, of sadness, all that was needed for the curse to take hold in the womb? It made sense. His own mother had been the happiest in her life during Arthur's pregnancy. She'd just gotten a promotion at her job at the Daily Prophet and had been spending months away from her husband to ensure nothing bad happened to the baby on accident. They'd made that mistake with Bilius after all, one day when dad had been going through withdrawals of light and had gotten too close to mum. He'd taken light from her and she'd suffered for weeks afterward because of it.

That surely had been the moment the curse had taken hold on himself.

It couldn't only be decided by Grim. He'd read the book a thousand times and knew the other cursed believed it to be true. Believed Grim to be some higher power god, but even the creatures had to have some rules it followed. Otherwise why were they fighting this at all? Why had so many of them searched for a cure if the Grim was so beyond reach in power? There had to be a way other than the Hallows. Those cursed objects they'd spent over six hundred years searching for to destroy.

Maybe that was the trick to breaking it. Maybe that was why Molly and Arthur had so many curse free children, because they were so full of light and happiness. Now though… Ronald had been born without the Prewett light.

Ronald Bilius Weasley.

The child given his namesake.

Was that a mere coincidence? He didn't believe in coincidences, but… He shook himself, hard. Just because the kid had his name… and his curse… did not make this his fault. It was just as likely that the Grim might have picked Ron simply because she was amused that Ronald was Bilius namesake. Bilius considered his options. There weren't many.

He had to tell Arthur.

He had to, but could he?

He'd spent so long keeping it a secret. Hours as a child wondering if Arthur would hate him for what he was. If his classmates would hate him for it. If the world would. He knew, now, as an adult, that Arthur could never hate him. It was against the very fabric of his little brother's genes to hate him.

But now his little one, his baby boy would have the curse.

Could he tell Arthur that?

The answer was surely no.

He couldn't tell Arthur that the Weasley's had experimented with resurrecting the dead, prolonging life, trying in any way possible to beat Death at its own game.

And Death… what could Bilius tell Arthur about the Grim?

He couldn't tell him that each generation there was a least one child born part dementor as punishment for the three brothers deeds. That Ronald was part dark creature, part monster, part soul sucking dementor. That the curse grew worse with age. Starting with the ability to suck the air around them of all happy thoughts. Ronald would then start to see dark memories, unwillingly bringing them to the surface, then craving it. Ronald wouldn't just be able to view or sense any dark memories attached to an object or person, rather, he would be plagued by them, unable to stop himself from feeling it. And should Ronald ever come into contact with death then the curse would fully take hold.

For Bilius it had been terrible even with his father covering for him and a tendency towards books? It had been easy to dawn the night owl persona. Easy to pretend that his friends begging him to hang out and being forced to turn them down wasn't hard. Almost second nature to push away the desire to belong to the world of the light.

So when Bilius wanted to spend the evening at a café in town?

It wasn't so much as blinked at. His father had given him heavy warnings to be careful, but the man knew more than anyone what it was like to feel trapped inside the small barriered walls of their home. Septimus Weasley tried everything in his power to make Bilius feel as if he were free despite knowing full well that they were as trapped as the prisoners of Azkaban prison, as trapped as the Dementors were inside their own skin.

Bilius remembered reading how the shops in Diagone Ally had been vandalized, but to see it? It had been completely different to be in the middle of the war when it broke out. That day he'd seen a shop owner, a muggle born, dragged out of his home and hacked to death with a dark spell that, even to this day, he didn't recognize. He'd stepped out and… well the murderer had dropped dead soon after, soul hovering in the air and the light seeping into his skin even as the Grim gently folded the soul away for the other world.

It was as if he'd been living in a frozen tundra and then suddenly dropped onto a tropical beach. Warm. As if the sun were blazing along his skin and giving it gentle kisses until he felt a pure happiness welling inside his chest. To feel the soul of the person, the unpleasant nature of the murderous beast, pull away from the world, never to return.

That was what it was like to pull a soul from a human.

Bilius often wondered if it was because the cursed lacked souls themselves.

When the curse took hold, fully, Bilius had been forced to stuff his pockets full of cheering charms just to counteract the misery he exuded. It was one thing for people to become miserable when he walked into a room and another level when they started slumping against walls and curling into trembling balls of bad memories.

He had taken to wearing gloves as well. As his fingers would steel random strangers light without even direct contact. Luckily he had to concentrate to pull out their soul, but just touching them was good enough to have someone depressed for days afterwards.

He found though, that he needed light to live now. Once the curse took hold, he needed to steel light, pure light from people, in order to prolong the turn. The longer he went without, the more sick he felt. The closest condition he could compare it too was a vampire refusing to drink blood or a werewolf a few days from the full moon.

Taking the light from living plants equated to a few drops of water in a summer heat. It did practically nothing. Taking it from an animal was like eating bad meat. He'd tried taking light from the air itself, the sunshine and moonlight, but it wasn't possible and had actually caused him to burn terribly for the attempt.

No, he could only take light from people.

He would never admit it to anyone, but this war was the best thing that had ever happened to him. It was easy to walk into the Ministry, to the closest traitor strutting around for the dark lord, and slip his hand on their skin. It was easy to, across from them in battle, raise his hand and rip their soul from their body. He could take three souls at a time.

He would do anything to take away those feelings, anything to stop the terrifying instincts that destroyed his world again and again and again even if, in the moment, he felt warm inside from the light.

He was loyal to the Order, to the side of good, the side of light, but that didn't mean he himself was any of those things. He knew what he was, what he'd done and what he would probably do again. Bilius would fight and die for the cause. If given the opportunity, then he would kill Voldemort himself. The purists were crazy monsters and he would fight in the Order as long as they let him.

But.

What about when the war ended? It was a terrible thought to have, dreading the end of a war. But when the war ended, his source of life would end as well. For six years he'd fought on the front lines and used the terrible position he was in to hide the body count he left behind.

He'd thought about what his father had done and what Great Grandma Sophie had done. Things weren't the same as they'd been back then though. They were on the cusps of the twenty first century. The Modern Age. There was regulation and rules and expectation. They were no longer in the dark ages and that was reflected in the requirements to be a guard or an Auror.

Werewovles couldn't get jobs, couldn't rent apartments or buy homes, they were practically illegal citizens. So where did that leave him? What the bloody hell would they say about a dementor? Would he be treated like the werewolves? Worse? Because at least their furry little problem only lasted one night out of the month. And worse yet, what would happen to his brother and his family once news of what he was and what they carried meant?

Too dangerous.

After the war he would have to find a new source, for both himself and Ron. He would have to tell Arthur… eventually. He would have to teach Ron everything about how to keep himself hidden. If the Ministry ever found out what they were, he wouldn't be surprised if they found themselves locked up inside the Department of Mysteries.

It would be him and Ron against the world.

As long as Bilius could keep his shit together.

Bilius closed the book on his letter to Ron. Hopefully he would never have to give it to him. It could lie here and collect dust with the rest of the stories no one should ever read. Alone in Phillips house where no one would remember it.

The Grim sat on Ron's windowsill. Ron tried to ignore her, to wait her out like Babbitty Rabbitty had the King and his men, but the Grim always seemed to have all the time in the world. The longer she stayed, the colder it got, first his breath spreading out in front of him as if it were alive and then the air itself. Contorting and twisting until the blankets around him felt frozen.

She was doing this on purpose. The creature was trying to manipulate him and Ron was tired and sick and in a bad mood. He didn't want to talk to the creature or do any more of her bidding. He just wanted to stay here and pretend like she didn't exist for just one night.

Pretend like he didn't know why his dad wouldn't look at him.

Pretend that he was normal.

Pretend that Asha wasn't his only friend and the only person… thing in the world he could touch without affecting her negatively. Ron lay silently, watching the water cup beside his bed slowly freeze over, the glass fogging up.

When midnight struck, she moved to the end of his bed, though when it sat down no indentation occurred. As if the creature weren't there at all. Pitch black eyes watched him, the whites nonexistent, making her as invisible against the wall as a shadow. When she touched his cheek, Ron jerked back until he hit the headboard, forced to glance her way in order to distance himself.

"I don't want to go with you."

She smiled and it was daringly beautiful, like tragedy and triumph intermingled. Ron squirmed as her cold, burning fingers pushed a strand of his hair out of the way.

"My little Vanguard, it isn't what you want to do, but what you are," Grim breathed. "Your Uncle fought his position too, but he couldn't fight what he was, no more than you."

"What evil thing do you want your evil minion to do tonight?" Ron sighed wearily.

"Nothing at all. In fact, tonight is a celebration of your new position by my side. I want to give you a gift."

Ron frowned, glancing over at the blood quill.

"A final gift," Grim amended, the creature's lips twitching in amusement.

"Oh, yeah, no thanks," Ron said hurriedly, holding up his hands to ward her off. "That sounds entirely too ominous and horrible for my taste."

"I'm afraid that you can not refuse my final gift as it is part of the curse I laid out in the original blood between Gabe and I."

"That the one who screwed the pooch, right?" Ron asked.

"He is."

"And what is this final gift?"

The creature stood, holding out her hand to him, black claw like fingers expectant and warm against the chill of the room Grim had created. He would be forced to go with her either way. Whether Ron took it or not. In the same way she had controlled his body and ability back in front of Dumbledore, she surely would here too. Ron slowly put his hand in hers. The grip tight around his wrist, its skin, as always, unexpectedly soft.

"Your death."

A/N: The Grim only ever talks about Voldemort by the name Riddle. She doesn't respect or care about his silly created name at all, so while Ron has heard reference to Tom Riddle on more than one occasion during this story, he hasn't heard the Grim say Voldemort so he hasn't made a connection between the two names yet though Dumbledore, of course, knows who she speaks of.

Also note: There's only one chapter and the epilogue left for Vanguard. This chapter was a whole LOT of explanations so if there was anything that seemed unclear please tell me so that I can clarify in the final chapter. I just had so much and really wanted it to both explain everything & be interesting. I tried writing Bilius part in the form of an actual letter, but it just read so flat. I really wanted this to feel as if it was Bilius story and feel like I succeeded, but that I also really threw the reader by going back to Bilius being alive there. It felt very random, but all of my 'fixes' felt forced. So I sort of was, you know what? Fuck it. It's interesting to read even if its not presented in the most reasonable manner. It really needs to be in this part of the story because it talks about the Final Gift, which is the last chapter. At first I had this as the epilogue, but it really just doesn't do the right job and I felt like without this, there's really no explanation for the Final Gift, which I had planned to introduce from the very beginning.

Anyways, enjoy and review, I always listen to reviews.

And Notsing, I think you will be surprised by where I take the story. While Choices did inspire me, there's so many other possibilities open to exploration. [(;]