Who Tells Your Story
Let me tell you what I wish I'd known
When I was young and dreamed of glory:
You have no control
Who lives, who dies, who tells your story.
—History Has Its Eyes On You, Hamilton the Musical
Chapter 1: He Beat You
Ron, however, spoke to Black.
"If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill us too!" he said fiercely, though the effort of standing upright was draining him of still more color, and he swayed slightly as he spoke.
—Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, J.K. Rowling
"I can't fucking find him, Hermione!" Ron bellowed as he watched his best friend—his first love, maybe, hopefully, the love of his goddamn life—round the corner of the corridor at a full sprint. Tear tracks streaked her soot-blackened face and her singed curls were even more wild than usual, seeming to spark with unspent magic.
"He wasn't in Dumbledore's office," Hermione spluttered breathlessly as she skidded to a halt in front of him where he stood at the top of the marble staircase. "I thought for sure he'd be there. For the Pensieve. Maybe we missed him—"
Her speech was jerky, and Ron knew from experience that she was on the verge of hyperventilation. He reached out to steady her, grasping her upper arms tightly. The panic coursing through him was reflected equally in her eyes.
Though the two of them often disagreed, they had spent months, years even, completely united in one task—help Harry and keep him safe.
And now they'd bloody lost him?
"Fuck," Ron muttered, scrubbing his hand across his face and wincing as he disturbed a fresh gash on his cheek. "I checked with Ginny, but she hasn't seen—"
"Harry Potter is dead."
Ron's words were drowned out by a very familiar icy voice.
The sheer thunderous power of the sentence seemed to shake the already cracked walls of the ancient castle. Ron ignored Hermione's cry of terror and actually had to stop himself from snorting in disbelief.
Harry Potter?
Dead?
Un-bloody-likely.
Of course he was worried about Harry—but dead? No, Ron was used to Riddle's lies. They had almost destroyed his life.
Ron and Hermione both stood frozen for a moment, staring at one another, before Hermione grabbed his hand and yanked him roughly down the marble staircase. He stumbled over his feet, not yet accustomed to the slightly-too-small boots he had borrowed from Bill—the ones his brother had lent him after Ron had given his only pair of trainers to the elf that had saved them. His family and various members of the DA met them in the wreckage that was once the Entrance Hall.
Not a single word was uttered.
Every witch and wizard was entranced by the words reverberating throughout the room, echoing eerily off the stone walls.
"He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself—"
Impossible, Ron thought angrily as he clenched his fists, leaving crescent-shaped cuts in the palms of his already injured hands. His bastard of a best friend would have to have gotten through him first.
But Ron's face paled at the word killed.
Hermione's hands were in buried in her hair, pulling at the roots in desperation.
Merlin, Harry middle name Danger Potter had one hell of a hero complex. What was it that Hermione had called it?
A saving-people-thing.
Ever since the end of their fifth year, after the debilitating brain-assault and Sirius's death, Ron had known that his job was to be the best goddamn sidekick that had ever existed. It was as if he was made for it. If he was honest with himself, he had known it far earlier than that; he'd just been too stubborn to admit it.
Yeah, he'd fucked up. Royally. But what could he say? He was seventeen and daft and bloody insecure. But, that stormy night—Fuck, that night. The moment he'd taken off the blasted locket and Disapparated from that Welsh riverbank, he'd known without a single doubt what his destiny was meant be—a fucking moment of clarity. It was why he'd tried so desperately to find them after escaping the Snatchers.
Because he knew that even the hero needed someone by his side, steadfast and dependable, prepared to save him if, or more likely, when the time came. Ron knew that he would probably end up leaping in front of Killing Curse for his best mate.
For the Boy Who Lived.
For the Chosen One.
For the Fucking Savior of the Goddamn Wizarding World.
Willingly, and bloody proudly.
Had he failed in his mission? The one thing that he, Ronald Bilius Weasley, the sixth and least remarkable son of Arthur and Molly Weasley, had been made to do?
"While you lay down your lives for him."
'As we would every single goddamn day, you fucking psycho,' thought Ron savagely.
"We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone."
Ron choked on his own spit.
His body?
He vaguely registered Ginny's strangled sob.
"The battle is won—"
'The battle won't be over until you are!' Ron yelled—or at least, he'd meant to. His lips moved, but his rebuttal was lost in his throat, horror finally washing over him.
"The Boy Who Lived is finished."
It had taken them too long to notice that Harry was missing.
Ron cursed his carelessness.
"Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven—"
He'd been so caught up with Fred, with holding his mother as she wept onto his shoulder, with George's lifeless stare, as if the light had gone out in him along with his twin, with grasping Hermione's hand like a lifeline as he tried to remain stoic while unshed tears scorched his raw throat…
"And you will join me in the new world we shall build together."
The enormity of it all crashed down onto Ron.
Had they… lost?
McGonagall and Kingsley had elbowed their way to the front of the crowd, and Ron watched them share a look of resigned defeat. He wanted to shout at them to not give up, that it wasn't over yet. Kingsley placed a hand on the Transfiguration professor's shoulder, and she nodded back at him, tears cascading down her cheeks beneath her spectacles, before they both pushed open the oaken front doors of the castle. Light from the Entrance Hall illuminated the ravaged grounds as witches and wizards spilled down the steps of Hogwarts in a somber but oddly frantic mob.
The brief moment of silence chilled him to his bones.
But not nearly as much as the sound that broke it.
"NO!"
Ron had watched the group of black-robed Death Eaters spread out into a line facing the castle, but his mind refused to register the significance of it, nor the identity of the bundle in Hagrid's arms, even though he would recognize that shock of jet black hair anywhere. It wasn't until he heard the Scotswoman's wail that he truly understood what he was seeing.
His stomach gave a nauseated roll as he realized the heinous task Voldemort had forced upon Hagrid—to carry the body of a friend.
To carry the… corpse.
Hagrid had held Harry like that before: when Harry was only a year old, the day after the murder of his parents. Ron vividly remembered Hagrid recounting the tale as they drank massive mugs of tea together at the scrubbed wooden table in his hut. It had been part of Hagrid's strategy to make Ron forgive Harry after the Goblet of Fire fiasco—
Merlin, he'd been such a rubbish best mate.
His throat burned, but his eyes were strangely dry as his shout of protest followed McGonagall's, with Hermione's and Ginny's joining almost immediately. Ginny's shrill, grief-stricken screams of "Harry, HARRY!" shook him to his very core.
The crowd behind them followed suit, until only seconds later—
"SILENCE!"
Ron's mouth continued to move, but no sound came out.
"It is over!"
Never.
"Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!"
The feet of Lord-fucking-Voldemort?
Unacceptable.
'You hear that, Harry?' Ron thought desperately. 'I can say the bloody name! I can say it now!'
"You see? Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him."
Relied on others?
Fuck. No.
Harry would have sacrificed himself thrice over to ensure the safety of every single person fighting that night.
His best friend was dead. The person Ron was meant to protect.
But the war wasn't over yet.
Rage bubbled up inside him, like a volcano erupting, spilling out—
"He beat you!" Ron roared, unable to stop himself.
And the charm broke.
(A/N): So, this a new little project of mine! It's not a ~song-fic~, but the lyrics included at the start of this chapter just seemed so poignant to the Harry Potter series that I decided run with it. If you haven't listened to the Hamilton soundtrack yet, GO NOW. Youtube it. Lin-Manuel Miranda a goddamn gift to all mankind.
Yes, a lot of it is going to be centered around death, especially exploring how different characters deal with death, trauma, and their own mortality. But it's also going to focus on the people that were left standing at the end and how they tell the story of those that weren't. It's not going to be chronological nor from the same point of view. Also, I promise I'm not abandoning GTTN! I've just been itching to try my hand at some fully canon-compliant stuff, particularly moments that the reader doesn't get to see in the books.
All direct quotes in this chapter are from DH Ch. 36: "A Flaw in the Plan".
Please let me know what you think in a review!
:)
liz