IWSC Round 6
Hogwarts Year 5
[Theme]
Write about a character that must trust their enemy (that enemy can be a person, an object, a mindset, etc.).
[Prompts]
1— [Dialogue] "I cannot begin to express the extent of my disapproval."
2— [Word] Hopeless
[Word Count] — 2148
[Notes] — This is a Deathly Hallows AU where Ron brings the locket with him when he leaves the Horcrux hunt.
An Unwelcome Connection
The rain pounds against the tent canvas, as aggressive as a steady stream of hexes. It bounces off the weakening fabric and pummels to the forest floor, and the splatter is amplified by a carpet of lifeless leaves, twigs, and branches. The sound is almost loud enough to mask the sobs reverberating from the bedroom. Almost.
I know I should stay put — she doesn't want my comfort; that's why she waited until my watch to finally cry. But I can't help myself. Her distress cuts through me like a dagger, and knowing that I caused it… I might as well have stabbed myself in the heart.
Deciding the tent can be left without a guard, at least momentarily, I rise to my feet and glide, almost ghost-like, toward the sound of her cries. She's sitting on her bed with her back to me, unprotected. Overridden by grief, her self-preservation instincts resemble those of an unconscious Quidditch keeper, crumpled limply on the ground below three defenseless rings. She should never turn her back to the door, but that's unimportant right now.
I reach for her heaving shoulder, which jolts in shock at the unexpected contact. In a moment of panicked silence, I find my voice. "Hermione?"
It sounds odd — familiar, but not familiar enough, as if it doesn't belong to me.
"Harry?" asks Hermione between breaths. She turns around, and I can finally see her puffy eyes and tear-soaked cheeks. Guilt claws at my stomach and I'm suddenly nauseous and heavy. It feels like I've swallowed a pocketful of rocks, and I know I only have myself to blame. I caused this.
I'm not expecting her face to fall when she sees me, so it only hurts more when it does. Her sudden disappointment twists the dagger in my chest, the one that I put there when I left her and made her cry.
"You're not Harry," she says, shuffling away from my extended hand in disgust. "You're… Ron."
Her voice curves venomously over my name, weaponizing it with her tone of repulsion. I shudder as her face contorts into a taunting smirk. She looks inhuman, snake-like even, and it makes her both more beautiful and more terrifying. I can't explain it. I was hoping to put things right between us, but that possibility suddenly seems out of reach.
I don't get any time to make sense of it before my surroundings disappear, and everything fades into darkness.
x
Ron wakes up in a cold sweat. He scans his surroundings, half-expecting to see messy bunk beds stacked against a tent canvas, but instead, he's in a single bed below a window overlooking the sea. The smell of bacon is wafting into the room from the kitchen below, and he can hear the cheerful voices of his brother and sister-in-law.
In typical circumstances, Ron would consider this a nice view. He'd feel welcomed by the conversation and comforted by the aroma, but right now, he would prefer the scent of a mildewy tent canvas, stubborn silences, and tasteless mushrooms for a meal.
He turns in his bed and sees it — the locket hanging on his bedpost. It seems to stare right into his soul, something an inanimate object shouldn't be able to do. He should have left it in the tent when he Disapparated. Why did he take it with him?
Why did he leave?
He can hardly remember, but he has no one to blame but himself and that locket, and it's becoming difficult to differentiate between the two.
Tearing his attention away from the chain on his bedpost, he rises to his unsteady feet. It's time to face Bill again, and the thought makes him shiver with dread.
Bill was horrified with him when he arrived the night prior. His words — 'I can't even begin to express the extent of my disapproval' — felt too formal for a brother to say. His professor-like disappointment suggested that Bill wanted to distance himself from his sibling. Leaving his friends was cowardly and not what a Weasley would do.
Ron takes a deep breath and continues down the hall, letting go of any hope that Bill will make him feel better.
x
Moving inside a human body requires a lot of extra thought. There are so many limbs and so much necessary coordination. I don't like it one bit.
I'm relieved when I don't have to do it anymore. I could exit through the mouth, a pre-existing hole, but decide to burst through the neck instead. It's more satisfying that way, and I crave the opportunity to assert my strength. I plunge through the skin, and the pungent, rotting corpse I have been inhabiting collapses to the floor like a flimsy puppet. The look of terror on their faces makes it all the more worth it.
No. Please don't.
I take advantage of their shock and strike when they're immobilized by fear. I miss the girl by a hair, which angers me. She draws her wand, which releases a jet of light, and it grazes my writhing body. It slows me down to the point where another strike would be useless, so instead, I wrap myself around the boy's neck and squeeze, ignoring the frantic chain of hexes flying from the girl's wand.
They're my friends. I can't hurt them.
The unwelcome thought causes me to loosen my grip in a moment of hesitation, and that's when the boy escapes. There's an assault of curses in the air — they rebound off the walls and mirrors and disorient me. My master will be here soon, and I know I need to delay their escape, but I can no longer see them anywhere. My hope for success is fading.
Let them go.
I focus my gaze on the two figures escaping out the window when the door behind me bursts open. I feel the presence of my master, but it's not comforting as it should be. He's angry, and he's wondering why I hesitated.
He can't hurt me without hurting himself, but I know he wants to. When he turns to me, his cold, high voice hits me like a curse. His forced Parseltongue and gritted disappointment is painful to hear. "I cannot begin to express the extent of my disapproval."
I slither in shame back to his feet, and the world goes dark.
x
Ron wakes in a panic. His heart is bursting through his chest, and he immediately checks his body to make sure it's human, breathing a sigh of relief to see all four of his limbs.
Why was he a snake?
The memory of tearing through the neck of a corpse still haunts him, but not as much as the vicious attack on his two best friends. For some reason, he just couldn't stop himself from trying to kill them.
He can almost hear the jeering locket on his bedpost, and when he turns to glare at it, it seems as if it's shifted closer to him.
It's absurd, but he still jumps out of bed and puts as much distance between himself and the locket as possible. He's not wearing it, so it shouldn't affect him. It shouldn't be causing these dreams.
He plummets through the hallway, down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where his brother is alone, sipping tea and reading a book.
"Ron?"
Sensing the disappointment in his tone, he takes a step back. "Sorry to bother you."
"Are you okay?" asks Bill, concern flashing across his face.
"I had a dream. I tried to kill Harry and Hermione at Godric's Hollow."
Bill's eyes widen, and he sets down his book.
"I should go there, right?"
"No," says Bill in horror. "It's a trick, Ron."
"I know that's where they are—"
"Look," Bill says softly. "I wouldn't trust any dreams you have; they might be traps."
"You don't think there's any truth to them?"
"No, I don't."
Ron breathes a sigh of relief. "Okay."
'Ron," says Bill, just as Ron's about to turn away.
"What?"
"I'm happy you're here."
Ron turns to look at his brother. For some reason, he's expecting a smirk or a sneer, but he sees nothing but sincerity in his expression. "That's not what you said yesterday."
Bill looks confused. "What did I say yesterday?"
"That you were disappointed in me."
Bill leans back in his chair, studying Ron curiously. "I never said that."
"Yes, you did."
Shaking his head, Bill picks up his book. "You're hearing things."
x
Ice cracks beneath my feet as I meander across the frozen pond. I'm cold and exhausted, yet hopeful and excited. It's an unusual combination. I'm not used to it, but I don't have the energy or resources to understand it. Everything is hazy, and I'm focused on a shimmering light underneath the ice. I will do anything to get to the light.
I carry on until I'm standing directly above the glint of silver nestled into the depths below. It's the Sword of Gryffindor — I can tell by its ruby hilt — and I want it more than anything. Stripping off my clothing, I begin by taking off my shoes. The ice meets my feet with a paralyzing grip, but I ignore it. My trousers come off, and the wind sucks the heat from my body. I pull off my shirt, and the frigid air constricts my chest, reminding me of a snake closing in and squeezing the life from me. It takes a moment to remember how to breathe.
Don't do it alone.
I know I should just jump in and get it over with.
No, you idiot, wake Hermione first!
It won't take long, and then I'll have the sword. I should let Hermione sleep.
No!
I puncture a hole through the ice with my wand, and the sword is clearer than ever. It's within reach. I should just jump in.
Get Hermione first!
I dive into the abyss. The cold water pierces through me like needles, and I can hardly stay afloat. It takes all my focus, and I can no longer see the sword.
I flail wildly, and my attempts at resurfacing are panicked, jerky, and, more importantly, unsuccessful. My anxiety peaks when I give in to my pesky desire to inhale, and instead of a nourishing breath of air, I get a deadly lungful of ice-cold water.
Then I'm at peace.
It only lasts for a moment because soon enough, I'm dragged out of the calm by Hermione's shrill voice.
"Ron, come back!"
"No," I grumble. "I want to leave. Let me go."
I just want the peace back.
"Please don't go," she pleads.
"Don't be mad," is the last thing I say to her.
"I cannot begin to express the extent of my disapproval," she responds coldly, but the phrase sounds odd and unfitting for my deathbed. Disappointment isn't the confession I'm hoping for.
I replay her words in my mind, and each repetition transforms my peace into heartbreak. The last thing I feel is hopelessness before everything fades away.
x
Ron opens his eyes to a dark room. The heat from the blankets is soft against his chilled skin, a stark juxtaposition from the abrasive cold of the lake from his dream.
It seemed so real.
He wants to Apparate to it, just to check, but the memory of Bill's words sparks doubt.
'You're hearing things.'
'Don't trust it.'
'It's a trap.'
Bill's probably right. He usually is — it's one of the perks of being an older, wiser brother.
Yet there's something else, something in his gut that tells him he should trust it. That bloody locket has made him see things before, but only things that were already there.
His insecurities. His doubts. His fear of disapproval.
The locket intensifies what already exists.
He rises to his feet and glances at the locket, which teases him from the bedpost.
"You're telling me the truth, aren't you?"
The locket, of course, doesn't answer, leaving him with only one way to find out.
He never truly unpacked, which makes for an easy escape. Bill will understand, he reminds himself as he gathers his minimal belongings into his rucksack. The locket stares menacingly at him from its position against the bed's frame. He reaches for it with a trembling hand, and its contact reminds him of his hatred for the object. Simply touching it fills him with hopelessness, but there's a part of him that knows it won't be for long.
"I hope you're right," he says to the locket before closing his eyes and imagining the icy cold lake and a ruby-encrusted sword shimmering in the moonlight. He places his unearned trust in the very object that's been terrorizing him for months, and with a snap of his fingers, a familiar tug behind his navel pulls him into darkness.
Thanks for reading! I hope you like this story. Mega thanks to my betas: adenei, smjl, and butterflies765!