Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter
A/N: Some of this, you've already read, but I wanted to make sure everything was in chronological order and not missing.
Chapter 21: Rituals and Red Coats
"Ron Weasley may be the most criminally underutilized character in fanfiction. Poor Won-Won, getting sidelined into Hr/R fluff pieces if he's lucky or bash!Weasely fics if he's not. It's almost overlooked these days that, in canon, Ron was the Samwise Gamgee to Harry's Frodo Baggins. Ron was Harry's best mate, not Hermione (as wonderful as she it). Ron was the bloke who happily took in another brother. No bouts of jealousy, big or small, can change that."
-Muffliato
Five Weeks Forgotten Part 3: Escape
Ron woke to screaming. He jerked upward, starling a sleeping Abagail into alertness. Without thinking he rolled to his side, thrusting Abagail behind him and throwing his right arm up to defend against whatever was coming. The screams continued, now a recognizable voice, but nothing came towards him and Abagail. The girl looked up at him, fear in her eyes. He set her down, motioning for silence as he moved towards the bars, positioning himself to see into Mary's cell.
Inside the dingy prison, lying on the floor, clutching desperately at her stomach, was Mary Salen. Ron shuddered. The baby was coming. He could see the movement of her belly, the woman's legs naturally being forced apart as she became dilated.
"Hey!" Ron screamed. "Hey! We need some help down here!"
No one came.
Ron cursed, pacing back and forth in his cell like a wild animal. Abagail had retreated to the corner, pushing the palms of her hands against her head, humming to herself. Ron's long strides took him to her corner, scooping the little girl into his arms in one fell swoop. Abagail latched onto him, seemingly trying to merge herself with his chest. He put a hand on her head, stroking her hair as he leaned as close to the open hallway as possible.
"Bring me to her cell! I'll deliver the fucking baby myself! Just do something!" Ron roared.
No footsteps sounded.
"Ron."
Ron's head jerked in the direction of Mary. She'd stopped screaming. Between contractions probably. She'd someone managed to drag herself to the very edge of her cell, her right arm stretched out across cement and dirt towards him. He understood immediately.
Ron sat on the floor, still holding Abagail in his arm, but reaching out with his long limb to grip Mary's hand. Tears rolled down the woman's face, stark against the grime and dirt smeared from weeks of captivity.
"Ron," Mary whimpered.
Their hands entwined. His large fingers wrapping around her white knuckled, small ones. They squeezed his hand lightly and he squeezed them back. Then the oddest thing happened. Mary sort of melted out of her panic. She relaxed. At a time where panic was the best and most heavily anticipated moment of their imprisoned careers, Mary Salen seemed suddenly the opposite. There was an odd calmness about her as she gritted her teeth, as she jerked and spasmed, as her breathing steadily became more ragged and haggard.
"Baby was due any day," Mary murmured comfortingly. "This was bound to happen."
"What do you want me to do" Ron asked, not nearly so calm.
"Did I ever tell you that my mother owned a café?" Mary asked.
"NO?!" Ron squeaked, thrown off guard by the topic, but going along with it anyways.
"Well, she did. I inherited it last year, but I thought 'why would I want to make coffee when I'm a witch?' Most don't even like coffee." Mary laughed, breathing hard and fast, as she clutched at her stomach. Her stomach that was moving. It was contorting, he could see what looked to be a tiny fist hit her stomach and the sight nearly made him puke. Was this what giving birth meant? He'd been too young to remember Ginny being born.
"Yeah?" Ron gulped, "And now?"
"Now," Mary said a bit too loudly, mirroring his shriek. "Now, I think I want to work in a café. I want to make lattes and cappuccinos and all sorts of other muggle none sense drinks. What do you think?"
"I think that sounds fantastic. This time next year you'll be introducing Diagone Alley to coffee beverages, yeah?" Ron said unsteadily.
"Yes. And I'll teach you how to make all of them. You'll be my head manager. What do you say? We'll move the whole damn shop. We'll serve Pumpkin Spice Lattes and Butter Beer Frappuchinos and all sorts wizard happy drinks for the masses."
Ron would have replied, but a contraction hit. Mary screamed. The sound echoing down the halls of the prison. So he gripped her hand, feeling the circulation cut off. After it finished, Ron took up the subject. Anything and everything to distract her from what was about to happen soon.
When the Death Eaters finally responded, they marched in carrying daggers and wands at the ready. Ron slammed his head against the forehead of one Death Eater. Mary bit and kicked. He shouted for Abagail to run, but the little girl was struck down with a spell before she ever turned.
They lost.
The handle of a dagger struck the back of his head.
Vanilla candles were what he woke to. The smell so strong, he gagged as it forced itself into his mouth, and something else beneath it, something familiar, but that he couldn't place. Bleary eyes opening wide to a room full of tiny flames dancing with malicious intent. Dry sobs heaved from the center of them. Mary, arms stretched and magicked to the floor, like an offering. And on the other side of the ring of fire a tiny figure sat, silent as the grave. Abagail.
Ron groaned as he tried to move his body, limbs stiff as a board, so numb they were no longer even tingling. His right wrist caught in the rope and a shriek of pain and surprise ripped from his throat. He tried to turn his head to see, but it remained fixed ahead, stiff as everything else.
"Wha… the fuc…" his words slurred together and the urge to vomit crawled in his stomach, despite nothing haven't been in it for weeks. His body was too hot, too cold, icy cold, too hot… chills and sweat trailing his skin from spine to toes.
"Well, I certainly didn't expect you to be awake for the ceremony. Didn't expect you to survive your part at all, really, what a pleasant surprise," a familiar voice murmured, humor painting his words on a frame of casualness.
Westerfield walked into his line of vision. He tried jerking his head up, to glare the man down, but his sight stayed fixed straight ahead, Salen's tear streaked cheeks and trembling lips centered perfectly before him. Abagail's rocking body just at the edge, strands of magic keeping her in place. His blurry vision sharpened for the briefest of moments then, spotting Dolohov, Press, and Wormtail in the background of the…
Of the ritual circle. Dozens of candles connecting an intricate diagram of red. That's when the smell beneath the vanilla hit him. Iron. Blood. That was blood on the floor. He squinted against the candlelight, trying to figure out where all the blood had come from. Then his wrists caught again and he hissed.
Slick. Both his wrists felt as if they'd been torn apart. Wetness making the ropes slide and rub into the wounds. He felt blood trailing out of him, draining him, to slide down his arms and onto the floor. Him. All that blood had come from him.
Westerfield's green eyes came into view and for the briefest of moments his mind went to Harry. But these eyes were not filled with kindest, they did not hold any amusement in them, not even betrayed fury like the last time he'd met Harry's eyes. They held mirth. An intent to cut into him until there was nothing left. A desire to etch his hatred into Ron one final time before this was all over. For good.
Those eyes walked in front of Mary, blocking the woman's body from sight, and now Ron could see a dagger, dripping wet with blood. It hung from the man's fingers like a pendulum.
"You should feel proud of yourself, Ronald," Westerfield told him. "Before we got ahold on you, we were quite stumped how to get our hands on three pints of pure blood. Plenty of mudblood to go around. Lots of half-bloods mucking about. But purebloods? Well, most of those are our own kind."
He felt his hand twitch, but Ron didn't know whether he managed to flick the man off or not. His words were on the tip of his tongue, a solemn 'fuck you,' but they rolled around like a pair of dice, never landing where he wanted them to.
"We were thinking we'd need to ask Snape a favor, ask him to sneak out one of them bloodtraitors he's got causing him havoc in Hogwarts. I'm sure you know the ones…" Westerfield told him, his lips widening until sharp teeth glittered at him.
"We were thinking of that feisty little wench you've got for a sister, Ginerva, isn't it?" Dolohov questioned, pushing off from the wall. "Cooped up as we are, might have been fun to play around a little bit before doing the job."
Dolohov winked at him and he lost it.
Ron yanked against his bounds, howling in rage. He felt the magic slam him back, felt his whole body jerk and stiffen. He threw himself against it, felt the wounds on his wrist stretching out wider as he bared his teeth at the men. His throat raggedly fought with the air, wrestling to get any in, but he hardly noticed, hardly cared.
"Animaux barbares," Press's deep French accent filtered through the air in disgust.
Westerfield turned, a manic grin spreading across his face.
"Is our dear Ambassador uncomfortable at the big boy's table?" Westerfield purred in delight. "However will you stand beside our Lord if you cannot even stand mere taunting?"
Press's tall, lean figure straightened, eyes glittering in anger as he moved forward, but Wormtail put his arm out, silver fingers splayed for all to see. The fat, little man's eyes cast furtively about the room.
"Is… is this really the ti-time for such thi-ings?" The man stuttered. Wormtail's eyes met his own in that moment. Ron pushed every drop of hatred, every loathing corner of his mind, every scant bit of energy he had left into his next words. Slow, ragged, but filled with brittle, seething rage.
"Harry's the one who will find you first, Wormtail."
The man shrunk back as if he'd been physically struck. His entire body flinching. Because they both knew that when Harry found out about Ron's death, the boy who lived would make sure to survive the war long enough to rip Wormtail apart piece by piece. It did not matter how terrible the argument he'd had with Harry was or the circumstances of Ron's capture. None of it mattered, because at the end of the day…
Harry was his best friend.
They never spoke it out loud, of course, guys didn't say things like that to each other, but Ron loved Harry with every inch of his being and he knew Harry felt the same way. More important than that though… Wormtail knew. The traitor had witnessed first-hand how far they would go for each other, knew the depths of their friendship. So while the other Death Eater's in the room scoffed, laughed, silently disregarded, Wormtail coward beneath the threat.
"It's been three weeks, mate," Westerfield reminded him. "And we haven't heard so much as a rumor of Potter breaking wind, much less searching for his right hand man. You've been abandoned. Not even your oh so precious bloodtraitor family has come looking for you."
At that moment a contraction hit Mary. The woman screamed, fingers dragging across the dirt spewed floor as her body arched.
'Help her!' His mind roared. 'Help her you bloody fucking monsters!'
The words though they tried to be voiced, came out as little more than a small wisp of hot breath. Heard by no one. Mary jerked, her legs spreading out involuntarily.
"Let's get on with it already," Dolohov groaned. "Before the bitch births her monstrosity and ruins everything." Dolohov lifted a dagger from its sheath. It glittered black, as if made from onyx rather than metal. Wormtail and Press moved to opposite sides of the Ritual circle, their feet touching the edges of Ron's blood.
"No, no, noooooooo," Mary moaned. Her fever soaked brow turned from side to side, hands weakly lifting off the ground as far as the magic would allow her to go.
Westerfield chuckled at the woman, standing directly behind Abagail, the child uncharacteristically still. The magic holding Ron back wove around his hands with the strength of steel. A hot/cold sensation ran down along his skin, one Ron recognized as blood loss. His shoulder ached in remembrance, the chunks of flesh missing from the arm some months ago still fresh in his mind.
He was dying.
Westerfield and Dolohov began to chant. The blood, his blood, began to rise from the ground, before attaching itself to Press and Wormtail. Wormtail squealed, but didn't move. Press, stoic and unimpressed simply opened his arms to the dark magic. Like a second skin the blood moved over them, until the two figures could no longer be seen. Blood statues.
Mary screamed, another contraction, and then Dolohov was kneeling, still chanting, but kneeling. The knife in his hands poised over her stomach. Ron jerked, pulling and tugging at his bindings, wrenching both his magic and body against the holds.
"Stop it! Don't you fucking dare!"
The words echoed in the room. Dolohov glanced up at him, green glittering eyes manic in glee. Then he plunged the dagger into Mary's side. The sound was horrific, a long winding trail of rage, horror and agony. It wouldn't be until later that Ron would realize it was because Mary, Ron and Abagail had all screamed at once, their voices one.
Dolohov dragged the dagger along the side of her moving stomach, opening her up as if he were skinning a rabbit. Blood poured out over the circle, an organ slipped out to lie on the side of her body, still attached. Mary convulsed.
Blood soaked dagger in one hand, wand in the other, Dolohov let the wand glide through the air along Mary's body and suddenly long strands from her body began to pull from her stomach. The sound of tearing filled the air, mixed with a squelching.
The chanting paused.
"Blood of the pure blood. Muscle of the Muggleborn," Dolohov said lightly, watching in fascination as Mary began to gurgle and choke on her own blood. "Organ of a squib. Breath of a new born half-blood."
The muscle moved through the air, wrapping around the blood statues of Press and wormtail. The bodies of the two men began to contort, a sickening, grisly display of blood and muscle. Press's blood statue began to shorten and widen. Wormtail's began to lengthen and thin out.
"A permanent polyjuice," Westerfield said, still standing behind Abagail.
Polyjuice.
They were taking each other's place. Becoming each other permanently. The muscle was beginning to sink in, a black magic warping and aiding it. Then Westerfield pointed his wand at Abagail. Dolohov and Westerfield began to chant.
'Organ of the squib.'
"Nooooooooooo!" Ron blacked out.
And then it stirred. Silent for the last several weeks, the shadow woke. His scars ached with the motion. The creature moving just under his skin, dragging itself through his silver, magic infested scars.
There was no mirror, but Ron could see him, it, both.
It was the old man and his shadow. Standing in front of him. Old wrinkled fingers cupped his cheeks, the kindest yet wisest eyes he'd ever seen looked right into his own. Behind him, the shadow, hosting empty sockets and a black, oozing body stood waiting.
'I can help you, but it will come at a price.' The old man's voice was like flowing quicksilver. 'If you accept my help, you also accept his possession. He will sink into your bones. It will give you the strength to fight, to leave, but it will also kill you down the road.'
"But I could save them?" Ron's voice rolled off his tongue like fire and passion. It struck the darkness with a definitive, defiant clang. The darkness seemed to split with his voice. The old man's eyes were approving in their stare.
'You can save her,' the old man corrected.
Right. Mary was… the thought rang out in the darkness, in pain and horror, it was consumed by the darkness. Ron realized that this place, wherever they were, reacted to the people who inhabited it. Reacted to their thoughts, their words, their feelings.
He could save Abagail. The thought was like warmth and fondness and hope.
"Yes, do it," Ron thought and said at once. Harry and Hermione would take care of her after he died. He knew they would. As long as Abagail lived then… it was worth it. Ron had accomplished nothing. He had let them down. He had walked out on him. If he could do this, if he could save this child, then he could die feeling worth something.
Ron was dying when he woke up. Yet he never felt more powerful. The binds snapped free. His legs gave out, dropping him to the floor, he felt more than saw the black threads around his body. A swirling black mass of magic.
Then his eyes snapped open.
The ritual circle was a whirl of magic. Wormtail stood on one side, where Press had been, no, it was Press. The other side still stood a blood statue, looking more like Press than Wormtail. Dolohov stood, a wailing baby covered in gore, being held upside down with one hand. The Death Eater gripped the babe by her foot, staring down at it as if it were a monstrosity.
And Abagail. She lay on the ground, her chest open, one of her lungs missing.
Fury and hatred consumed him. He opened his mouth and rage poured out, a scream that broke his throat. The shadow reacted, black threads and darkness darting forward. Dolohov never stood a chance.
It struck him, the black thread slamming into his mouth and coming out the other end. Ron was on his feet, grabbing at the baby even as Dolohov's body crumbled. The baby wailed in his arms, Mary's blood slipping off the babe and soaking onto the front of his shirt. He cradled her, holding her head even as Westerfield raised his wand.
The Death Eater couldn't move fast enough though. The black threads of the shadow had him by the throat and arms, clamping onto him, bones cracked and flesh tore. One moment the man was whole, the beginnings of the Avada curse on his lips, the next he was in three pieces, head rolling away, arm detached from his body.
Ron glanced at the blood statue, the second portion of lung still in the process of sinking into the body. The shadow seemed to know, instinctively, what he wanted. It struck, tossing the blood statue against the wall. Blood and muscle fell away, leaving the real Wormtail to crash against the floor. The piece of lung though, it was embraced in darkness, hovering in the air.
Ron reached out, making sure not to jostle Rose, and found the organ in his hand. As gentle as possible, he placed it on top of her chest. He was no healer though. He needed a spell to put it back into place, to attach it to her lungs.
Ron picked up Westerfield's wand, pulling the other wands off the ground and shoving them into his back pocket.
"Duo in carne una polmonem. Curare. Curare. Simul," Ron spoke, magic weaving from his wand around Abagail. He tried to steady his voice, but it leaped and wavered in his mouth, coming out in uneven noise that only somewhat resembled what they were supposed to be. But still, the lung fell into her body, attaching itself to the branch of lung exposed.
He knew, without having to be told, that it was done wrong. The lung needed to be attached on a micro level. He didn't have the skills to do so. But maybe this was good enough to get her to a hospital. Ron pressed the tip of his wand to her chest, thinking back to the few emergency spells he knew.
"Vivifcabit," Ron chanted, over and over again.
Preserve. It was meant to temporarily 'pause' the person. To make a single breath last ten breaths. To make a single heart beat last for a hundred heart beats. It was supposed to give a witch or wizard time to get the injured to the hospital with the least amount of damage.
When Ron looked up it was to see that Press was gone. He wasn't sure what the man looked like now, if the spell had completed for him and he was now Wormtail permanently, or if the French ambassador still looked like himself. But the spellwork hadn't finished for Wormtail. That was sure to put a wrench in their plans.
Beside him, Mary's body was cooling. She stared up at the ceiling with no sight, a large chunk of her insides all over the floor. Westerfield and Dolohov were dead. Wormtail dead or unconscious. Ron didn't bother to check on the last one. He could care less.
Rose was still crying. They needed to get out of there. It would be freezing outside though. He needed… Mary was still wearing his red hoodie. With a cringe and a desperate look around, he realized it was the only thing he could use to wrap the baby in. Gently, he used magic to remove the jacket, wrapping Rose in it as carefully as possible.
Then he turned to Abagail. So still she looked like Death. Every minute or so though, a breath would come. Ron carefully pulled her into his other arm, dragging them outside of the ritual room.
Blood pumped, sliding down both sides of Abagail's chest. He needed to close her up. Ron sent puffs of air into her lungs, gently trying to close the skin together. Trying to give Abagail every advantage to survive. Abagail turned her head to him, her mouth moved, revealing teeth stained with blood.
"I got ya," Ron muttered. As much to himself as to her. "You're fine. You're fine. It's almost closed."
A large chunk of flesh moved across her chest to stitch itself back together.
"R-ron," Abagail whispered.
"Shhhh, Abby, don't try to talk. It's okay. I got you, Abagail."
Ron worked until the sound of clapping distracted him. His head shot up to see Spinsor. Ron placed his body in front of Rose, positioning himself over Abagail to give them the best protection he could.
He felt the shadow move again. He let it out. Let all the magic and rage out, concentrating on the worst spells he knew. They came out, pouring from him without a word. Spinsor dived, pulling out his wand, aiming at him. Ron moved forward though, drawing the fire away from the kids.
They exchanged fire, cracks and whistles filling the air as they dueled. All the while the invisible clock over Abagail's head ticked away. Ron growled, throwing his most powerful spells outward. He needed to end this, needed to get them away.
"She's dead," Spinsor growled. "Don't matter what happens to her now."
Ron glanced back at Abagail, spotting a line of blood seeping from her mouth. Was she choking on her own blood?
"God damn it." Ron swore, he slashed out his wand, sending a Sectumsempra Spinsor's way. It slammed into the man's barrier, cracking it. "She isn't going to die. I'm going to save her. I'll I need to do is KILL YOU!"
"She's as good as dead," Spinsor told him. "Look at her chest. Look at yourself! You're a walking corpse. You'll be dead too, soon enough, whether I kill you or your wounds do."
It was true. He could feel himself weakening. His knees buckling under him. But the shadow wasn't finished with him yet. It wasn't willing to give and neither was he.
"Mummy, I'm scared," the blood choked voice of Abagail said.
"Mummy's not here, Abby," Ron said softly. He crawled backwards, peering down at her, turning her head so that the blood ran out rather than back down her throat. "Ron's here though, I'm gonna get you out. Just look at me. Don't look down. Think of Alfred or the Fair. Anything. Just…" Ron wasn't sure what else to say. "Just keep your eyes on me and stay awake."
"Don't leave me. Don't leave me, daddy!" Abagail croaked. Ron wasn't sure if she was talking to him or her real father, but either way, the answer was the same.
"Never."
Ron thought fast, casting a shield in front of them to buy them some time.
"Do you remember the thing Mary taught us? Repeat it in your head."
"It hurts!"
Ron shot more air into her lungs, trying to stitch it up as spells hit his shield.
"I know. I know it hurts, but I need you to keep yourself awake. Think of what Mary taught us."
"I can't."
Ron tore Abagail's shoe off, beginning to cast spells. He pictured the clock in his head. Ticking off the time and picturing the spot far out in the woods, the place he could see from where he was. He didn't trust himself to be able to get them farther. He wove and painted and jerked his hand this way and that.
It was as the last of the magic sank into the shoe that their world exploded The barrier fell. Spinsor charging like a bull. Ron began to cast a barrier, Spinsor was faster though, too fast for Ron to pull it up. So he did the next best thing, heaving his feet under him, Ron rushed forward, meeting Spinsor with his own body, using the have formed shield as a battering ram.
They both crashed to the ground. Ron reached for the power of the shadow, it eagerly agreed, stretching out from his person. The dark magic took ahold of Spinsor, the half breed troll screamed as the magic burned him. He watched without care as the threads began to dig into his flesh, began to tear him apart just as easily as the other Death Eaters.
And then the deluminator hit the ground.
Ron was startled, the Death Eater falling to the floor in a heap. Harry. Hermione. He turned to the kids. Abagail. Rose. Ron leaned forward and snatched the deluminator, shoving it into his pocket and rushing towards the children. He cradled Rose in his arms and gently grabbed ahold of Abagail. Then, with the last of his strength, he dragged the dark magic back and grabbed ahold of the shoe.
The blood red foot prints in the snow must have been from Press. When he found them after port keying, he knew that they would lead him to the apparition point off the land. The problem was the tracer on them. When they first arrived at the prison, they had placed dementor tracers on him, Abagail and Mary. He needed a means to get rid of it or wherever he went could be traced.
Ron followed the foot prints to a bridge, watching as they disappeared into the river.
Ron had a pocket full of wands, a child under one arm, a baby in the other, and two sliced open wrists still bleeding, making him wonder how he wasn't dead yet. A dozen or so Dementors on his arse and more than a few Death Eaters hastened his steps only so much. Ron was sure he should have gotten them killed at least twice. As it was, if none of them were on his tail, he was pretty sure he'd still be royally fucked.
He ducked under a bridge. Feet sliding down rock and a collection of jagged, broken tree branches. Within minutes he had the two kids on the ground, wand out, protection barriers going up one after another. All accompanied by the plop, plop, plop of dark matter sliding from the gaping wounds on his arms, down his back and gliding along the curve of his cheeks. The shadow chortled in the back of his mind and Ron knew he'd damned himself to something horrible by taking its hand.
Couldn't think about that now.
The babe was wailing. Abagail wasn't moving. The dementor's were coming. The shadow inside of him was the only thing keeping him on his feet (most likely the only reason he hadn't dropped dead yet too). There was no regret. He just had to keep moving. Keep standing until… just, he had to stay standing. That was that.
A bare heart beat under his fingers. Coming to a spot more defendable than any he'd crossed in the past mile, Ron set the babe down, then dropped to his knees, watching helplessly as Abagail jerked, convulsing as the open chest gapped at him. He whipped one of the stolen wands into his hand, concentrating on stitching skin. His black magic glowed around the little girl, keeping the organs pumping past their expiration date. Expanding the lungs in a jagged bid for air. Ron urged the skin to pull tight, but there was too much missing. A portion of the lung was gone and Ron had no potions or time to create anything remotely close to what she needed.
'You could use your own though.'
Ron blinked at the thought, looking down at his own chest. Was he skilled enough for that? Abagail looked up at nothing. Chest heaving in quick short intakes, blood coming out in globs.
Ron closed his eyes. Hermione would know a spell. She would know how to do this. He tried to think. Tried to remember anything to do with healing the body. With transferring living material into another human being. All he could think of were healing charms though. Cuts. Slices. Gauges. Bruises.
He had nothing.
He wasn't a healer.
No. Don't think like that.
Ron scrambled for the deluminator, holding it above Abagail, trying not to think about what was coming. When he was little and fell out of the tree, Ron had broken his leg and fixed it, right? What had he done? He'd wanted it. He'd wanted all the pain to go away. He'd wanted his hurt to be gone.
Well, Ron wanted this hurt to go away, more than anything he'd ever wanted.
Concentrate.
The deluminator in one hand and his wand in the other, he put both across the open chest of Abagail. Ron let the light of the deluminator shine over them, willing the light to swirl around Abagail, to do what he needed it to do. He willed all of his magic into his hands. He felt them heat up, felt his whole body itch with magic. He felt his wrists stitching back together. Felt Abagail's frame pulling itself into one whole being.
Heal.
He urged. Give her mine. Give her strength. Ron concentrated, letting his love, his life, his magic, his everything… shoving it all into his hands and into her. And then he felt it.
Its arms were around him. Its embrace against his back and along his arms. A darkness that shadowed the light. Ron tugged away from it, willing the light in his hands to expand, to push it out and to continue healing. It lashed out.
The pain Ron had felt building in the past year or so exploded inside his body. Ron screamed, his cry joining the wailing babe as his body felt as if he were being ripped apart from the inside out. The light around his hands dimmed.
The healing ceased, leaving the very center of the wound unhealed, a set of lungs moving tiredly up and down before shuddering and stilling.
No.
Ron reached his arm out, trying to touch her, but his body was aflame. His skin stretched too tightly against his muscles, a spasm attacking them as his fingers twitched to reach. A gurgling mess of words half words sputtered out as he pulled himself forward.
Abagail didn't move though. She was staring at the ceiling of the bridge with glazed over eyes. Tears drying on either side of her cheek. Her ruined blue hoodie covered in matted flesh and muscle.
No. No. No.
"Abagail?" Ron rasped.
It was as he touched her cooling body that Ron saw his hands were black. His arms were wrapped in black thread. His scars… they were throbbing with dark matter. Baby Rose sobbed her little heart out, feet away.
His forehead scraped against rock as he tried to will light back into his hands. Tried to force back the shadow bent on consuming him. Patronus. He needed his patronus. Light thoughts. The best thoughts. He closed his eyes as the shadow wrapped around his heart.
He thought of Hermione, soaking wet with sweat, emerging from the depths of the library. A triumphant, annoyingly smug look on her face.
He thought of Harry, coming off the pitch, dirty, but grinning, the snitch compliant in his hands.
The snitch.
Harry's first snitch.
A clue they couldn't figure out.
The Hocruxes.
Leaving.
His hold on the good thoughts cracked. He felt the shadow's greedy fingers tighten. Its eager form pulling at Ron's light, devouring it. Everything was shutting down. He felt it. An icy thread making its way through his body.
Abagail's corpse only an inch from his hold.
Failure.
Hermione's face came to mind. Her tears. Her scream for him to come back.
Harry's anger slammed into his with fresh accusations. The argument they'd had. Throwing the locket at them. Out of his mind with the voices and the darkness, crowding in on him, but most of all, the look of betrayal on Harry's face.
Ron wasn't strong enough.
Not to withstand the shadow.
Not to protect Hermione.
Not to stand by Harry's side.
Not to save Mary.
Not to save Abagail.
Not to save…
Ron's breathing hitched as the sound of a baby's wail continued to fill the air. An air much colder than before. Devoid of happiness and light. Dementor's were here. They were ignoring him, but they were sniffing out Rose.
They were getting closer and closer.
If Ron couldn't save her by beating the darkness then… Ron would invite it in.
Fully.
The Dementor's cam in one large pack. They swarmed like locus. Shadowlike robes trailed the barrier he'd hastily thrown up, the creatures fanged face peeking under the bridge. Their heads tilted as they seemingly listened to the sounds of a baby's wail and a screaming teen.
The shadow grinned. Ron felt it sink into his bones. Knew the moment it began to spread along the entirety of his body. Before it had ravaged against his body's magic, but now… Now it ravaged against his physical body.
It felt as if the Shadow was peeling his skin back, like it was growing thick roots around every joint and muscle, expanding there until it fit into the nooks and cranies of his being. There was a noise now, louder than the baby's wail. Ron was startled to find it was him. His voice had cracked and he was screaming. It sounded horrific. Like a dying animal.
There was one good thing though.
Out of his peripheral Ron could see the dementors had stopped their approach. The louder he screamed the more they seemed hesitant to come anywhere near him… them. His chin on the ground, arms underneath him, Ron reached for the pit of darkness and took hold of it. He felt more than saw the throbbing scars on his arms twist, threads of darkness lifting up just enough to in case him in a protective layer. Instead of memories of light, Ron took all of the pain in his heart, all the images and memories of hurt.
His mum… the way she looked passed him.
Fred and George, who chose to share their secrets with Harry instead of him.
Ginny, who hadn't looked at him with anything but contempt since the Department of Mysteries.
The teachers who saw nothing in him worth note.
His classmates, those fucking questions in their eyes when they saw him next to Harry.
The argument.
The way Harry's eyes lit up in anger at him.
The resentment he'd seen in Hermione's eyes as he forced her to choose.
The hatred Ron felt certain they must feel for him.
Mary's death.
Abagail…
All the failures up until now.
And then he released it. Black magic spanned out from his body. The dementors fled. Ron wasn't sure what to think of that. If the Shadow was just that frightening or if it was something else. Perhaps if the dementor's sucked out light then a place where there was the opposite took something from them?
He didn't know and he didn't care.
The shadow, spent of its energy, retracted back into his skin. Ron felt relief, but knew that now that he'd finally given it, that things were only going to get worse. He could only hope to get Rose as far away from him as possible and then…
Then what? Whatever he'd done with the shadow, whatever he'd agreed to or accepted, could he really bring that sort of trouble to Harry and Hermione? Besides that… would they even except him back if he apologized?
No, he couldn't imagine them forgiving him.
But maybe if he told them everything, maybe if he came clean about what was happening to him and why it was that he left… then what? Ron looked over at Abagail, the little girl's body causing Ron to flinch. He was too drained to cry. Too exhausted to feel empty. Too hurt to let it truly hurt him.
Touching the wand hurt.
His magic felt torn and useless. He knew, without trying, that his magic wouldn't work for him. In a daze, he peered at the baby, who'd finally stopped crying. Funnily enough. Apparently being manhandled by a Death Eater from her mother's womb, escaping a castle of murderous wizards, being on the run through a swamp like forest, and going head to head with a group of Dementors was enough to tire the babe out.
And then a thought struck him.
Half numb, Ron stumbled to his feet, scooping the baby up in barely functioning arms. The baby breathed peacefully, wrapped in his torn maroon jacket, dried blood and gore stuck to her skin. Alive.
For one fearful moment Ron thought he killed the baby.
He dragged himself to her, pulling her to him like a lifeline, cradling her head in his weak arms. She blinked up at him tiredly. Ron felt warm tears of relief slide down his face as she grasped onto his thumb.
Then he looked towards Abagail.
What was he supposed to do? He couldn't leave he…
The sound of charging feet announced the deafening encroachment of Death Eaters and Snatchers. He still wasn't far enough away from the castle and its enchantments. He wasn't far enough to disapparate. With a heart breaking glance at Abagail, Ron staggered through water, holding the baby above the slow paced, but icy depths. Dragging himself out on the other side, he felt the pull at his magic stop. He was out of the anti-appartion field, on a small crooked little path just under the bridge.
Shouts dogged him from all around. Ron hugged Rose to him, picturing the small muggle train station Hermione had shown him once while they'd been staking out the Ministry. He pictured the bench they'd sat at, holding a newspaper between them so as to remain hidden. Her warm brown eyes nervously checking the entranceway.
As he turned, he saw four or so Death Eaters pointing wands at him, all standing in front of Abagail. As if she were nothing. A pure sort of hatred clutched his heart. He felt the Shadow latch onto as he and Rose disappeared. He'd kill them. He'd kill every last one of them. His eyes met Spinsor's own. A foul kind of awe on the half troll's face.
Even as the tug of apparition took him, Ron knew the Death Eaters trace was on his skin. They could track him no matter where he went. And where should he end up but in a small muggle location outside of Manchester?
A bathroom in the Manchester Train station.
One had to wonder why the most phenomenal things happened in bathrooms. He and Harry had saved Hermione from a Troll in a bathroom and in doing so created the best bloody thing to happen in his life. A bathroom was also where he nearly lost his little sister Ginny and his two best friends (one to the reflected eyes of the snake and one to the snake itself). The Chamber of secrets having resided in one such bathroom. And then, of course, the delightful taking down of one's enemies in bathrooms. Harry may argue with him on this point, but Ron was thoroughly convinced that Malfoy being slashed up was pretty damn wicked and Ron, for one, would happily repeat the performance. Amateur
And here he was again in a bathroom.
Sink water rinsed off bits of flesh and away. Big blue eyes blinked up at him, a small yawn as she grabbed ahold of his thumb. She tried to put it in her mouth, but Ron gently tugged it away. Far too dirty.
They needed clothes, supplies, a place to go. Green eyes and bushy hair swam into focus in his mind, but Ron shook himself of it. It had been so long since his capture. Harry and Hermione were long gone and Ron wouldn't be able to find them. At least, they better not be so obvious that Ron could find them. He'd lecture them into the ground if he found them easily.
When he'd worked through the strategy of breaking into the Ministry to get the locket, Ron had warned them over and over again about what to do if they got separated. No obvious places, think remote, think muggle. The worse it was for Ron to find them the more difficult it would be for other pure blood wizarding families to find them.
The disaster that was Hogemeade was proof enough of that.
Ron tucked Rose deeper into his maroon coat, Mary's blood looking no more sinister than water. Ron knew though, felt the stickiness along his fingers. The Death Eaters would be looking for him and the Dementors would find him soon.
The trace was new. Something he'd overheard Winchester talking about. They would be here soon enough. Unfortunately. Ron stared at the baby, a strategy forming in his head. You weren't supposed to put port key markers on people. It was illegal. An invasion of privacy and rights and had the potential of splinching if you weren't careful.
Ron was out of options though.
There was a type of port key marker though, one that would allow only one person to use the port key, that would let Ron get back to Rose no matter where she was. It had been created with horrible intentions. An abusive wizard who beat his wife. The man had developed the port key so that he would never lose track of his wife. Mary had told him about it. She'd intended to place one on Ron and herself, because Mary wouldn't be able to run with the baby. It would mean that as long as Ron got away, Mary could port herself to his location.
It had all been part of a strategy that had failed terribly.
Ron let the wands drop out of his bloody fingers, the digits like ice, but despite the raging water, Rose was dry. Thank goodness. He locked the doors, carefully waving the wand he'd chosen (Press's wand) about the air, testing it out. When he thought that he had the magic under control, he began.
He wasn't good enough to lay the spell work onto himself, so he chose the red jacket. Slowly, he crafted spell after spell, walking in a clockwork motion, counting the minutes and seconds to match the clock on the wall. Measuring his steps and picturing the diagrams as he worked.
Bangs came on the door, but he ignored it.
Concentrating harder on this than anything else in his life. He could not let Rose down. He couldn't let the deaths of Abagail and Mary to have no reason. If he could get Rose to a safe place, if he could ensure her safety then at least something good could come of all of this.
Slowly the magic settled on his chosen key ports. All it needed was the smallest smear of his blood on both. Ron leaned forward, noting the accuracy of the small tattoo now lying on Rose's upper arm. He put his wrist to her, the blood turning a bright blue before sinking in. He did the same with the coat, watching it sink in.
Ron scooped the baby into his arms. She peered up at him unhappily, grumpy and tired and altogether put off by the giant dragging her about to such loud and unpleasant places. Ron peered into her big brown eyes, the pouting nearly crying baby girl in his arms, at his goddaughter, and knew he was in love.
She was his. His baby girl. His Rose.
And he would murder anyone who so much as thought about touching her. Ron hugged her to him and thought hard. She couldn't come with him. The Dementors were tracking him even as Ron spoke. He needed to get rid of the trace and he needed to get her to safety.
Ron stepped out of the bathroom.
All stations, King's Cross and all those around Great Britain, had anti-apparition wards around them. Back in the first war against Voldemort, his followers had a thing for attacking muggleborns, escaping the country via muggle transportation, stations also tended to be places of mass gatherings for both wizards and muggles alike, so after the war, the Ministry had simply decided against taking down the anti-apparition wards. It was why Ron chose a station to escape to. Hermione had told him about this one.
When they had been researching the Ministry, she'd brought him to this place so that he would be capable of apparating to the closest spot if they were caught. Of course, that hand't happened. There plans never seemed to ever work out. Not once.
They'd probably laugh about that someday, but right now it sucked.
When Ron stepped out of the bathroom, he suddenly became exceedingly aware that he looked quite demented, covered from head to toe in blood, slashed up, with a baby in his arms. The entire station was staring at him. Ron tugged subconsciously at his ragged clothes, his butchered fingers causing gasps to escape the crowd around him. His cut open, sluggishly bleeding wrists scrambling the crowd. He stumbled back, clutching Rose closer to him. How stupid. How bleeding, fucking stupid could he be to apparate to a public, muggle place. But they wouldn't expect it. They wouldn't think to search for him here. It would give him time. Time he desperately needed.
The words 'Rose' and 'safety' sprang to the forefront of his mind. The gore covered, newborn in his arms, wrapped up in what remained of his red jacket. The exhausted little girl slumbered on, unaware she was an orphan. With wild, manic eyes Ron looked around, searching for an idea. His eyes caught on a small travel store. Clean towels, clothes, and food lining the shelves. He reached for his pocket, searching for cash, before a near hysterical laugh escaped his lips.
Right.
Old habits die hard.
War prisoners didn't have money. Escaped prisoners running from Death Eaters and Voldemort didn't need money. Ron walked forward, grabbing a travel bag and filling it with all the things he needed. The clerk started walking towards him, but with an almost absentmindedness, he pulled out his wand, imperiusing him before he made it more than a couple feet.
When his eyes landed on a bottle of water, the bag dropped, the cap was popped open and the lid off, the cusps of the bottle at his mouth before he even knew what was happening. The liquid felt like blissful ice to his starched throat. Then the whole thing was empty, plastic crinkling in his hand.
Panicked, Ron looked for more, grabbing onto the next one only to have a hand on his arm, stopping him. Ron jerked out of the hold, cradling Rose close to him, eyes shooting up. His feet took him several feet backwards, until his back hit glass, cold walls. A muggle man was staring at him, compassion and concern shining bright and real in his eyes. The sight, after so long, was unreal.
"I didn't mean to startle you, young man," the muggle man started, "I can see you've suffered something truly terrible. You need to take it slow, drinking water, I mean. You can hurt yourself if you drink too much, too soon."
Ron stared blankly, nodding slowly. That made sense. He'd only had a few sips of dirty water the last few weeks. That made total sense. It was probably why it was so hard to think. Everything felt hazy. Then again, Ron was pretty sure he had a concussion.
"Thanks," Ron slurred.
What to do. What to do. What to do. What was his next move? Ron looked around. The bag on the floor. Right. Supplies. Run. Where? Safety. No. No. He needed to get to Hermione and Harry and that was definitely not safe. But the baby… he needed to get the baby somewhere safe. Safety. Safe House. Bill's House. Shell Cottage. He needed to get to Shell Cottage. Bag. Bill. Baby. Then danger. Then Harry and Hermione. He needed to fix things.
"…name?"
Ron blinked. The muggle man was talking to him.
Questions. No more questions. He couldn't answer questions.
Ron shook his head.
"You don't know it or you don't want to tell me it?" The muggle man asked, gently.
"Tell you," Ron slurred, "I can't tell you."
"I won't let them get you."
Ron's eyes widened, he reexamined the muggle man. Not muggle?
"You know who they are?" Ron blurted.
"Well," the muggle man said slowly, "No, but I can see someone's hurt you in a bad way. I can see you're disorientated and that you're running from something. I can see you're not gonna let anyone hurt that baby, which means someone's trying to. The police are on their way though, they're going to protect you, so if its family that's been hurting you or if a stranger got ahold of you, let me assure you that they won't be able to get to you now. You escaped. You are safe."
Po-lice? They were like muggle Aurors, right?
His dad had to deal with them all the time at his job. They came in and tried to fix the problems caused by magic, but didn't know how to fix it. His dad pretended to be 'specialists' all the time when they went in to handle things for them.
He really didn't want to deal with muggle Aurors.
"I'm fine," Ron lied, "I need to get out of here."
"There's no need to run," the muggle man said.
"I have a safe place to go. I don't need the… police," Ron tried to move forward, but the man put his hand, gentle yet firm, on his chest. Ron flinched as several layers of bruises were touched.
"How old are you, young man," the muggle man asked.
Questions. No more questions. He shouldn't answer questions.
The muggle man's eyes were shifting between him and outside the muggle travel shop. A distraction. The man was distracting him, giving these police muggle Aurors time to get there. Ron mentally cursed. He bent down and scooped up the bag, but the movement woke Rose. Tears welling up until the newborn began to cry.
"Shhhhhh, Rosie, it's okay, we're okay now. Ron's gonna make it all better," Ron muttered, moving the baby up and down.
"So, your name is Ron?" the muggle man jumped to ask.
The cursing in his head intensified.
He glanced at the muggle man uneasily. Eyes darting to the exit. The man saw, holding his hands up in surrender to show he was trying to be harmless. He needed to get out of here. Ron limped out of the store, people backtracking as he moved forward.
The muggle man was still following him though.
And then Ron knew what he was going to do. Harry might just hate him for this but… Ron pulled out his wand, pointing it directly at the kind hearted muggle man.
"Listen carefully," Ron started, slowly removing Rose from his jacket. "This baby is very precious, her name is Rose, say hello to her please."
"Hello Rose," the muggle man said.
"Good. Now, I need you to take Rose to an orphanage. Don't tell me which one. I can't know. I need you to take her to a nice one. One that will make sure she gets a family if I don't come back for her. I want you to tell them her name, say that you found her on the streets."
Ron handed the baby to the muggle man, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head. Then, he pulled the red jacket to himself, glancing at the still glowing symbol on its sleeve to reassure himself that it was still there.
"I want you to protect her. Get her to the orphanage safely and make sure that they'll take good care of her."
Ron stepped back, the aching in his wrists like a second heart beat now, his strength seeming to flee, as if Rose were taking it all from him.
'Keep it.' Ron thought. 'Stay strong.'
"Go!" Ron commanded, before he could change his mind.
The muggle man turned, cradling Rose to him as if she were the most precious thing in the world. Taking her to an orphanage. Away from Ron. He shivered. If Ron didn't survive, he was dooming a child to grow up alone. But if he took her with him, while the dementor's tracer was still on him, then she would die.
Which was worse?
He hoped he never had to tell Harry what he'd done. Hopefully he could get rid of it and port to her within a few days. But if he couldn't… He thought of Mary. Of what the woman would think of this decision.
Without the baby in his arms, he was suddenly aware of how very alone he was. The loss of Abagail and Mary… of Harry and Hermione surrounding him like the hold of the brains had back in fifth year.
And he still didn't know if his family was safe.
He turned to leave, to go somewhere less public, with less people. He thought of all the places he could go to get the tracer off: Bill was the first thought, a curse breaker, but also a husband. Bill could take it off, but how could he talk to his brother without leading half of Voldeort's followers to his doorstep?
The train station shook. Lights flickered. Suddenly, the black shadow like figures of Death came crawling through doors and out from the trains passage. Wizards and witches wearing tormented masks on their faces, black cloaks over their shoulders.
Death Eaters.
Muggles screamed. There was a stampede as people rushed to get to the exits. Green light flooded the place, bodies dropping at a terrifying speed. And in the center of it all, Ron stood. Wand raised, tracer on his skin, a shadow waiting to be unleashed.
'Time to see what your worth.'
The Battle began.