Disclaimers: I don't own it, don't sue me. Or do because it will irrevocably cost me anything I have worth living for.
Notes: You're going to hate me for this chapter – please feel free. It's irritating, and I wrote the most important scene sitting in a Starbucks – hell, I asked the old lady in line in front of me to beta a paragraph. To those of you that reviewed chapter 9 (Please note that I say this with the deepest irony) thank you so much, you have my undying gratitude. To those of you that didn't – thanks for reading anyway. Onward ho.
Chapter 10: Chess Master
"Shwick, shwick, shwick…" the sound of his wand delicately tracing his toenails, shearing them off at the top. It was a careful little charm, if he wasn't concentrating he could slice the top of his toe off, and while Madam Pomfrey would happily re-grow it for him – again – he preferred not to suffer the embarrassment. Some things were better done the Muggle way.
Toes were such an interesting part of the body, they seemed so useless by comparison to things like the heart, and the liver, even useless by comparison to the fingers, their primary counterpart. But they were a vital part of the foot – the balance of the entire body rested, in large part, with the toes. Sure, the ear kept your equilibrium, kept you steady, enabled you to hear the world around you, but without toes, that world would be very boring, because you'd be hard pressed to walk anywhere new. No one had much of a respect for toes, but Dumbledore did, such a great respect, in fact, that he had a sixth toe on his right foot. In truth, he had a deep respect for everything human.
That's what he understood, he understood people, understood who they were and how they thought, at a glance he understood how best to treat people. He'd made it a life study, watched his classmates as they studied, and charmed the O.W.L proctor half way out of her frock. He passed with 'Outstanding's across the board: it was the dubious benefit of understanding the teacher better than the content.
Albus Dumbledore had never flown by the seat of his pants, he believed in being prepared, for everything and more. There was something to be said for preparing for elephants when one heard horses, but then, there was something to be said for squishing peanut butter between your toes, and something to be said for everything else. One could never know with absolute certainty what was next; it made living so wonderful and difficult, but being prepared never hurt.
The problem, however, was what to be prepared for. He felt utterly out of his depth with this thing, surely he had the support of at least one of the remaining werewolves in Europe, but Albus was hopeless at understanding and otherwise communicating with alternate species'. Human he could comprehend. Centaurs, Merfolk, were-beasts, they were part human, of equivalent mind, even Muggles, they all thought the same way. Muggles were too often the subject of the war, for land, or gold, and while it was strictly about them and their continued existence as free beings; they could have no part in the battles. They would be slaughtered one by one by foes that they could neither see nor defend themselves against; or their nuclear missiles would destroy the entire world to rid it of magic and life would have to begin again from the charred remains of mutant cockroaches and dead-water.
But it was the giants, the vampires, the acromantualas, and the goblins that would define who won this war. Anything with human or near-human intelligence could be asked to participate, because they too knew the consequences of magical war – the endless fields of barren land where snow was acid and patches of earth melted into obsidian under the siege. He had sent Hagrid on one last desperate feilding mission to the giants. Without them all would be lost.
In the war against Grindenwald, the only significant thing that Dumbledore had done was shove a friend out of the way of a killing curse and retaliated, it was war, everyone did it, and the only difference was the importance of his friend; the last surviving member of a truly aristocratic family with lineage dating back to Merlin. He was awarded a shiny First Class Merlin badge and the grateful congratulations of the family and historians – he'd saved a piece of living history nearly as priceless as the Mona Lisa, a piece of history that died four years later of a disease that would come to be known as cancer. During that time, however, Dumbledore had always related war to chess, it was easy to see how tacticians saw it, and how chessmen represented groups of people, but over fifty years later, he had changed his mind. War was not like chess at all. There were two vital differences that glared at him mockingly, just as he was glaring at his own set of wizards' chess. The first, of course, was size, on a chess board, both players are granted sixteen pieces to do with as they please, there are no unfair handicaps; no player beginning with fourteen while the other has eighteen, no, the course of the game was as smooth and easy as set pudding with both sides equal, skill the only determining factor. The other, was variety. Chess pieces could naturally move in varied ways, but there were some purposes for which a chess piece hadn't yet been invented, and some for which the game was a fool's pursuit. The king was exposed and vulnerable from the moment the first piece moved, if any tactician were to make the same mistake, the war would kill them all.
So it was the uncertainty of this, Voldemort's army and his own, that Albus Dumbledore sat contemplating. It was a series of unfathomable decisions that nothing in his past had managed to prepare himself for. And that was another thing about chess—he had yet to choose his king.
"Hey Hermione! Look at this!" Ron's call came from outside Honeydukes as he peered through the window at their all-new merchandise. Hogsmeade visits were scheduled with the interest of all parties in mind. The teachers got a monthly reprieve from their older students, the students got a chance to enjoy the town and its freedoms, and storeowners got a chance to display their finest wares to an audience with limited options, it was very economically sound for the little village; possibly their only means of survival.
Tiny little winged hearts and sparkles of red confetti struggled madly to stay afloat as they were buffeted by the freezing February gale. Most couples were curled around each other, sharing latte's in Madam Puddifoot's, or in the Three Broomsticks, sipping warm butter beers and munching on soda bread; cheerfully ignorant of the whipping wind and icy frost that crept up on every window in town. Ron, however, was not so fortunate as his scarf threatened to strangle him and the hood of his cloak kept coming up to smack him in the face. Hermione looked no better, her bushy hair was whipping around her head like a cyclone, occasionally hitting her in the eye, and her skirt kept threatening to rise; not that Ron was complaining. Marjorie, however, was complaining, bitterly and loudly, her hands were wrapped protectively around her abdomen, protecting her growing child from the permeating cold. She was shivering violently under four layers of wool. "I don't care what they're selling," she managed through chattering teeth, "can we just go inside?"
Which is how they'd found themselves inside Honeydukes as Hermione rubbed Marjorie's back briskly, trying to warm her while Ron marveled over their new stock. He felt a bit of a hanger-on, watching as Marge and Hermione giggled over the string mints: now in three flavors, including mint-chocolate. This wasn't his intention, of course. In fact, one cozy night in the Gryffindor common room where everyone was minding their own business, particularly Harry who'd become all-too-adept at minding his own business, he'd leaned over her and muttered into her Arithmancy text, "Hey Hermione… do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me this Valentines?" and that was that. Whether she had missunderstood him, or liked him too well to let him down but not well enough to be his official date was still a deeply confusing matter in Ron's mind, though he fervently hoped it was the former because she said, "That would be fantastic, do you mind if we bring Marge, she'll be all alone this Valentines."
It was a question posed in a way that made all arguments moot, because not only was it pointedly not a question, but it would make him an insensitive ass to refuse her. He'd considered very carefully sending her a Valentine, but this was Hermione, his best friend and the woman he sat next to every morning at breakfast and had for the last five years – he didn't think he could stand the look that would come over her face; first quizzical, then her eyebrows would draw together and she would sigh, and explain to him in no uncertain terms that she was unavailable and he not good enough. So here they were while Marjorie and Hermione kept their confidences and Ron ran his fingers through the cockroach-clusters. It was like this at home too, Ginny, being a girl and worse his sister was completely unfathomable as a human being, but his nearest age mates had a world their own and were completely absorbed in it, and each other; only stopping to regard him when they needed someone to eat something that was potentially detrimental to his health. Ron learned how to get along alone until he met Harry and Hermione; if he was a little jealous now it was no surprise, his best friends were wandering in opposite directions while he remained stagnant: he was lonely.
"Eww." He heard Hermione say, and turned to see that the expression on her face was one of abject disgust. "How could you be craving pickled marshmallows? I've never even heard of it."
"It's not!" Marjorie's defense fell a little flat, because she thought it was disgusting too, but it's what she wanted. "I just want something that's sweet and sour and salty at the same time… that's not so unusual."
"Ugh, try an acid pop." Ron handed her the radio-active green lolli from a spinning rack in a corner of the store and made a grimace that Hermione shared with him. At least they still shared similar tastes. "So… I was thinking that we should get something for Harry, then all go get cocoa." He tried casually, poor Harry was locked away in the castle after that stunt that Malfoy pulled in potions, his Hogsmeade rights revoked for the remainder of the year as punishment. Ron thought it was cruel and unusual, Hermione gave him a lecture on how she could see why Professor Snape insisted on it because detentions had utterly failed with them.
"That's a wonderful idea! Do you have anything in mind?" Hermione laughed as Marjorie sucked on the acid pop for the whole of three seconds before the fizzling bitter taste hit her like a rock and she spat it into the trash can, paying the owner the three knuts anyway.
"Well, I have an idea… come see." Ron led her to a column of two-foot-long, caramel colored, rope-like candies in individual wrappers that were next to the storage room door. "They're Bertie Botts Surprise Strings – all the flavors in a pack of the beans, in one fun string," he quoted, "The color is supposed to be misleading."
Marjorie joined them, this time munching on some lemon rind brittle, for which she'd paid another ten knuts. "Poor Harry is probably bored silly… I think he'd like it." She said around a sticky mouthful.
Ron grinned, "Nah, he's writing his history essay for Monday."
"Ron! That was due three days ago!"
"Whoops… I guess someone should have told Harry that." He was utterly unrepentant, at least Harry would get some credit for the essay, but he was so absent-minded these days it was easy to take advantage of him, and Ron was a little sulky – though it had been an accident. "But really 'Mione, what do you think?"
"Do you think Harry'll like it?"
"Yeah! Of course he will, surprise, adventure, a few disgusting bits of gooey candy… what's not to love?" Marjorie blanched: another happy accident.
"Ron, I don't mean to insult you," no sentence that started with that disclaimer could possibly be a good thing, "but I wonder, are you giving Harry things that Harry wants, or are you giving things that you want Harry to have?"
Ron shrugged, "A little of both I suppose, what's the difference?"
"Well… do you remember his birthday when you gave him the Chudley Cannons – Everything You Could Ever Want to Know and More?"
Okay, she had a point, Ron's wince proved it, even he realized that it wasn't the ideal birthday gift for someone in Harry's state, but he was trying so desperately to be normal about the whole thing that he didn't know what to do. Last year's little endeavor had left scars that he couldn't bear thinking about… those brains… those slimy, hideous, cold, violating brains… "Well… that's true but it—" And all hell fell into his lap with a POP!
Ron's heart froze. The storage door was nothing more than a few beads tied onto strings, which was fortunate because he shoved Marjorie through it and whispered "Trap door." to Hermione before shoving her through too.
Hermione's gasp was the second to last sound he ever heard, the very last being "Avada ke—" from the Death Eater that barged into the room a split second before. The masked man didn't even notice the girls' disappearance because Ron was falling backwards through the beaded curtain in wide-eyed death, disguising the rattle of frantic beads.
There was a small marble ball on the headmaster's bureau where there hadn't been before. Or had been before, he just hadn't noticed it – it was a solid grey. The tapestries fluttered with the blinds, Fawkes was no where to be seen, metallic gadgets and knickknacks spun and whirled on individual stands that shone in the afternoon light like little spots of affection. Thick grey marble.
Harry found himself a statue in the Headmaster's office as a torrential rain of emotions not his own pounded down on him. Ginny was clutching at his right arm, molding the flesh to fit her helpless firm grip, and soaking through his flannel where her face was buried in his chest. Marjorie was on his other side, gripping him with half the strength and crying twice as hard; until now her desperate bouts of sobbing had been unwarranted – that girl's skirt was unmistakably the wrong color, it clashed viciously with her green top and she couldn't stand it! Today, however, her deep and silent tears were entirely justified; Harry wished that he could share in them but his tear ducts seemed broken.
Hermione, pale-faced and violently flushed in the same moment, had drawn her knees in; her shoulders were hunched over her body in wretched anguish: she was silently wailing into her hands. She flinched away when Harry set his hand on her shoulder. Before it was stolen by Marjorie. Ron used to help him with these things, he used to be there when Hermione needed a good cry over Viktor, or when Harry was being an absolute ass to them both, but he wasn't here this time around: that was rather the point wasn't it?
Mrs. Weasley would be arriving soon, he could almost feel the look on her face; the grief was tangible, like he could reach out and wrestle it away if either of his arms were free. When she arrived, he would hug her: at the very least he intended to, whether or not he would, or she would let him, was a matter of yet to be determined by consequence. Harry imagined her sitting in the cluttered and cramped living room, carefully knitting or darning a pair of socks when the clock on the wall chimed – would she have looked up, or would she assume it was Arthur, coming home early from work, Bill leaving the museum to head to a dig, Percy leaving his desk to snag a bite of lunch, or the twins, testing a new prank in the apothecary of Knockturn alley, was it one of her many family members in transit? Would she have seen Ron's hand moving suddenly from "Hogsmeade" to "Mortal Danger!" or would she ignore it to finish her delicate weaving? Did she miss seeing her son die on that clock, or had she witnessed it helplessly?
Harry thought it was rather ridiculous to have a clock that said "mortal danger" on it, if there was nothing he could do, he would rather not know – it saved a lot of speculation and heartache. "If I had had been there, if I had been more protective…."
His fingers were tingling, surely there were holes in his flannel where Ginny's Quidditch-hardened fingers were crushing it. Harry hadn't reacted yet, he was sure. This was nothing like Cho's death, this was close, this was personal, this was the murder of his best friend, the first peer he'd ever liked, and the first that liked him. Not some abstract crush that was dismissed over the course of a day, this was Ron.
At three o'clock that afternoon, the headmaster sent Dobby to collect Harry and send him to the all-too-familiar office. Ginny had thrown herself at him, and he reflexively placed a hand on her hair. "Harry… I have bad news." This office never held good news. It varied in degrees, not everything in life could be tragic, but the news from this office was never good. "There was a Death Eater attack on Hogsmeade today, five people were killed…" he was stalling, Harry didn't appreciate it, he wanted the facts, and if the girls weren't in hysterics, he would have asked for it, "Ron… was…"
The girls knew. He hadn't needed to tell them. Surely Hermione had seen Ron die, he didn't begrudge her the death, there was nothing she could do, but she had seen it. A bitter wave of psychological acid washed over him, did she really want to see the thestrals now? Or was she cursing their existence like everyone else that could see them, like everyone else that had seen someone close to them die; a painful reminder of everything they had lost. He was sure it was Marjorie that told Ginny, Hermione hadn't said a word, hadn't looked up from the purple woven carpet, hadn't opened her mouth but to scream a few times into her bruising hands. He could hear it the second she got to the office, at least ten minutes before him, "Oh Ginny! I'm so sorry… Ron's dead!"
"Killed?" Harry finished for him, was it right for his personal loss to overshadow the others? Ron was killed, four other people were killed… other people: Ron, what was the ratio of their suffering to his? Ginny let out a small moan of anguish, she was the only Weasley left in Hogwarts now. When Mrs. Weasley got here, his burden would be halved by Ginny's absence, her mother would wrap her in an embrace and they would hold each other so tightly their joints would pop and their breathing would be tight, he could see it – Mrs. Weasley's fierce protection of her youngest child. When she arrived, she and Dumbledore would begin discussing funeral arrangements and memorial services, "I will help you in any way I can" because the death of a child was never anticipated. There would be a multiple-party death celebration, the whole school, mothers, fathers, siblings, and reporters would gather in Hogwarts to witness their passing, remember them as they were, and hanging together etcetera etcetera. He could taste the meaningless supplications like bile rising towards his tongue.
The Muggle families would be stunned, amazed by the moving stair cases and sympathetic portraits, even the ghosts would be in attendance, this great joint-memorial that was bound to occur. Half of the wizards in Great Britain would be there, and a few scattered Muggles that desperately needed to understand why their children had to die for a war they did not yet understand. Hanging on the largest wall of the Great Hall would be personal tributes to each student that had died in the past year. Cedric, Cho, Roger, and Professor Trelawney would be shunted into a corner in light of this new tragedy. A young Hufflepuff couple, only fifteen years old both of them, a lone third-year Slytherin boy, the proprietor of Honey Dukes, and Ron had all fallen victim to the Death Eater's wand before anyone could think to draw theirs. It was a brutal reinforcement of Mad-Eye Moody's favorite dogma "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"
Lupin was back. It was the first thing every student noticed in the Great Hall at dinner, a whisper rose from the high end of the Hufflepuff table, the table nearest the desolate werewolf's seat, and carried all the way through to Slytherin in a subtle crescendo that no one missed. He was devastation in a man, the very personification of an empty ruin; like a sunken shipwreck left to rot in salt water for centuries, the substance remained, but the structure and soul, the very being was gone with the tides. There had been four.
He was blank. Not an empty canvas, but one too covered in paint to read – mud. Mud, all of him mud, his hair turned the muddy brown of early onset graying, his eyes, once amber, were like silt. No one could meet them; everyone looked away from him eventually, this wasted carcass of a man, whose eyes hurt to see.
Lupin stared dejectedly into his meal, a human meal with human silverware, and humans all around him. Terrifying familiar humans, because he was a human, and it had taken him four months to draw himself back into a semblance of humanity – whatever that was. He looked up when someone spilled a goblet, not with a jerk of his head but the faint interest of someone deeply preoccupied, having to tear themselves away from the source of their concentration. He nodded once at Harry – Harry nodded back.
Told you so. Now please, if you hate me, if you love the angst and can't wait to find out what happens next, or if you want to tell me I'm a whore that's going to burn in hell for all eternity, the Review button is but a click away.