The Ordinary Life of a Sidekick

Chapter One: The Day Ron Weasley Died

Ron Weasley was a sidekick. He knew what everyone said, despite many believing him to be stupid. He was Harry Potter's best mate, a part of the supposed Golden Trio. So nothing too bad would happen to him, right, being a sidekick and all? He'd always be there, ready for the next round.

Wrong, he thought miserably as he trudged home in the dark, blood dripping down his sleeve and clothes torn. All he had done was go for a run, a bloody jog around some bloody fields, and he still managed to get into trouble.

Well, that was one excuse never to do it again.

In his spur-of-the-moment effort to keep in shape for the upcoming Quidditch season, Ron had headed out of the house about an hour ago and slowly began making his way around the fields that surrounded his house. There were some tracks set up for eager hikers, muggle and magic alike, so he ran along them, not meeting a single soul along the way.

He had just finished trekking up a large hill, panting and out of breath, when he heard it. It was like a whisper, a disturbance in the wind that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Ron looked around, scanning the surrounding forest warily; his hand moved to clench the wand sticking out of the pocket of his shorts. His eyes found the horizon, gaze locking on the setting sun for a few moments before he shook his head.

Get a grip, Ron, he told himself tersely. You're not back at Hogwarts yet.

It had become a sort of joke that nothing ever seemed to happen during the summer holidays - only during term were their lives endangered. And it was facing that danger at school, where he was supposed to be safe that had given him the instinct to always stick close to his wand. Ron even slept with it under his pillow, warnings from Mad-Eye be damned.

He swallowed hard and carried on, running past prickly shrubs and towering trees. Each one was the same as the last: dark bark and thick, sprawling plants creeping up their trunks, infesting their leaves and roots. It had the same sort of jumbled feel as his home, which Ron rather liked.

Running through the forest where there was nothing to bother him was actually quite calming, if he ignored the pounding in his chest. Here there were no Death Eaters, no Voldemort, just his house and the fields surrounding that he'd known for years.

Suddenly, there was another noise, a sort of swishing sound that made his pulse speed up even further. He edged closer to where it came from, craning his neck round a tree trunk to see someone- no, something, scrabbling around in the dirt. Ron moved closer to get a better look, trainers crunching the undergrowth. The thing seemed to hear it, and paused in its hurried movements to turn. Ron released a shaky breath and blinked a few times, and the last time he reopened his eyes revealed the space completely empty, save for a splatter of blood on a rock.

Whoever they were, they had vanished. Ron shook his head, wondering if there was ever anything there in the first place. Maybe he should start getting to bed sooner. Yeah - it was probably just... lack of sleep making his mind run haywire.

Ron continued on, and for a while there was nothing. No more weird noises, or odd, unexplained movements. Still he sped up, wanting to get home as soon as he could. The light was fading fast, sun sinking lower and lower in the sky and its warmth retracting to be replaced by a cold summer breeze.

There were only a few more weeks before the term began, so Harry should be arriving at the Burrow soon. Ron was glad he could see his best mate again. Although things were only escalating with the war in the world outside, he wanted to make the most of the summer while they had no homework to do and warm afternoons to be spent playing Quidditch and lazing about.

The attention Harry got at Hogwarts would be twice as bad with proof coming out he wasn't a liar. Fudge had been sacked and a fierce man named Rufus Scrimgeour took over; hopefully he wouldn't be as thick as his predecessor. Sirius' name had also been cleared over the summer, so he had died a free man, according to a small notice in the Prophet. They wouldn't have put one at all unless Dumbledore hadn't insisted.

Most of the space was being taken up by warnings about Death Eater activity, and how to protect your home and family from them. Ron had seen his father's face darken when he read the warnings, and Ron pretended to be absorbed in his breakfast when he nudged Molly. They had both exchanged knowing looks, his mother murmuring, "It's just like last time."

Never mind all that - he was almost home. Just this stretch of field to go, then a small clump of forest and up a hill. Ron found himself becoming more and more eager to get home, the sneaking suspicion that there was something behind him growing by the second. He turned his head, to see nothing but softly-swaying dry grass moving in the wind behind him. Ron continued on, shaking his head, trying to convince himself that there was nothing wrong. But it did nothing to settle the rapidly-mounting feeling that something was wrong inside him.

He ran even faster, paranoia creeping into his brain. He grit his teeth angrily at the sick feeling. There's nothing wrong-

A large snap drew him out of his thoughts. Ron whipped around, wand outstretched and adrenaline spiking. Again, there was nothing. Grass swayed in silence. But what had made that noise? Ron's sweeping gaze dropped down to the floor where it caught on a broken twing.

A stick. That was what had scared the hell out of him? He had faced Death Eaters (albeit untalented ones), and it was a twig that had him afraid he would be attacked again? He shook his head irritably and marched on. Ron let a slight smirk cross his face. It had been nothing after all. But being afraid of a broken twig... now, that was some sidekick behaviour. If the papers knew they'd have a field day; in the last article that was what they genuinely called him: Harry Potter's sidekick.

Harry had given Ron a tense look, unsure of how he would react, but Ron snorted before he could say anything. The Prophet was run by a load of gossiping trouts who'd never met him in their lives, what could they say?

Ron thought as he walked, small smile on his face, remembering the last few days of school after they'd been discharged from St Mungo's. It had been good.

But one thought stopped him in his tracks. What had broken the twig? He had been too far ahead to have been the one that stepped on it, which meant...

Ron wasn't alone. He might be making a big deal out of a few unexplained noises, but the feeling that something wasn't right was too persistent to be brushed away. At times like these feelings like that couldn't be ignored.

Ron turned again, wand held steady and this time checking in all directions rather than the one behind him. He had reached the edge of the small forest, trees and shrubs dominating the ground and leaving little room for the path that trickled through it and backed up against a thick tree trunk, figuring he would be able to see where the sound was coming from better.

There was a good minute where it was just the wind swirling past him, nipping at his face. And then he heard it - footsteps, again behind him, but much clearer, much louder, and obviously heading for him. Ron was frozen, pinned to that tree like he had been glued to it. He was too afraid to move.

Snap out of it, you need to get moving! A voice in his head told him urgently, and he made a break for it, tearing off down a side path largely unknown - unless you'd spent your childhood running around here. His gut told him whatever thing was following him wasn't friendly, and that he really, really needed to get home.

Ron didn't know how long he ran for, only that he was so unbelievably thankful to glimpse the faded lights of the Burrow he almost whooped for joy. He just had to get up the hill, across a path and he was home safe. His legs were moving faster than they ever had done before and there was a roaring in his ears. Ron sped through the fields, feeling like nothing could stop him... until he tripped.

His body had barely hit the ground before he felt something dragging him, grabbing his arm and twisting it ruthlessly so he swore loudly in pain. He was pulled impatiently across the ground, back into the shade of the trees. Ron felt the strong grip on his arm releasing, and he twisted around to get a look at his assailant.

They were tall and lean, body almost shapeless beneath clothes ripped, faded and encrusted with grime going right down to their filthy fingernails, Ron tried to look at the stranger's face and saw dark locks masking it so they looked practically faceless.

They stepped closer, and Ron scrabbled at the ground to try and push himself away. "Get away from me, you fucking freak! I don't know what you want with me, but I swear, I haven't done anything, I don't know you-" Ron's snarls were cut off by the stranger bending down and pressing a hand to his mouth, effectively smothering Ron and his hair parting to reveal a pair of blood-red eyes.

Their eyes twinkled with hunger when Ron's widened in fear. He made vibrant noises of protest that were smothered by his hand as the stranger bent in closer, and Ron tried to prepare himself for what was coming, whatever it was.

To his surprise, they went straight for his neck. The stranger widened his jaw, a gleaming pair of elongated canines coming into view before they clamped down onto his skin and latched on. The skin broke almost immediately, and Ron could feel blood being drained from above his shoulder, eagerly being swalllowed by the stranger. A scream tore through him, shaking him to his very core as he could feel the life force being sucked out of him.

Ron tried to escape, he did - but the vice-like, freezing cold grip on his mouth and throat was excruciatingly painful, and coupled with the bite on his neck he felt more like passing out than trying to run away.

The stranger unclenched their mouth from his neck and turned to face him, eyes still glittering madly like rubies and droplets of blood leaking from his mouth.

That was his blood. Ron's blood, that was no doubt oozing from the wound on his neck. His vision was beginning to fade, the forest and the mad stranger swimming before him. He closed them, barely registering when they mumbled, "Now, it's your turn."

Before he could process what it meant the man was unleashing his fangs again and tearing them across his own wrist, until rivulets of scarlet dribbled from his grimy skin. Ron was now mumbling incoherent phrases, which ceased once the stranger grabbed his face roughly and forced his mouth open. He dangled his palm over Ron's mouth, watching as blood dripped down and disappeared down his throat. Just a little more... and then he was done.

The stranger stood up drunkenly, wiping the blood from his lips and devouring it from his fingertips, humming contentedly. He disappeared, and whether he apparated or ran Ron didn't know. Didn't care. He lay there weakly in the dirt, feeling the blood working its way down his throat and into his system. There was a dull thudding in his head that made it impossible for him to move, and he felt like his insides had vanished. He was doomed.

Ron's fate had been sealed before the madman had even levered himself off the ground away from the weak form of the boy on the floor, his blood polluting Ron's mouth.

He didn't know how long he had lain there, but the words 'too late, too late, too late' wouldn't stop blundering through his brain, too loud.

Ron knew what that thing was. But- but they were suposed to be monitored by the Ministry, or locked up. Not prowling around Ottery St Catchpole looking for their next meal. Ron had been bitten by a vampire. And then drank its blood. By... by law, he was now technically a-

No. He wasn't. It didn't matter what the stupid law said, Ron was no vampire. He was a human, a wizard, set to go back for his sixth year at Hogwarts in just a few weeks. One of Harry Potter's nifty sidekicks that helped him out whenever evil called. He couldn't be a vampire, the evil itself. Ron laughed, the feeble sound echoing around the darkened forest. Yeah, whatever that weirdo had done to him... he was going to be all right.

Ron heaved himself off the ground, wiping the tears from his cheeks and retrieving his wand from where it had rolled away from him. Maybe if he'd had it on hand things would have gone differently. His head swam, making Ron groan and clutch his forehead. Blimey, that hurt.

He tried to sort out his feet, tell them to go one after the other in a straight line, but they wouldn't. All he wanted to do was curl up on the floor and sleep - but then, it might come back.

Actually, why would it? That thing thought it had succeeded in turning him into whatever bloody beast they were, so would stay away. Hopefully. Please, stay away.

There was almost nothing worse Ron could think of happening, but he should still get home. Before a werewolfturned up and took a chunk out of him, or a hungarian horntail flew over and tore his head off. That would just make his night. Because apparently, these things just happened, now.

Ron stumbled home, neck still twinging painfully. He tried to counter it by pressing his hand to the inury, but it did little to help. His shirt was torn and blood-soaked, pulse painfully slow, each space between each beat dragging on for eternity.

Ron wondered how he was supposed to get past his parents. He didn't want to tell them. Ron hadn't quite figured out all the reasons yet, but he didn't want them to know. Anyone to know. Even just a rumour of you being one was enough to have you locked up.

But how was he supposed to get to his room, which thankfully had a bathroom right beside it? It was too early for anyone to be asleep yet, but maybe they would be in their rooms already?

He was bloody well hoping so, because he was quite frankly screwed. He had been attacked by a vampire, had its blood poured down his throat and then left to make his way home. Or maybe they left him to die.

Ron swallowed, and tried to ignore the dread that weighed him down as he walked back up to the Burrow.

His head was absolutely killing him, the pain forcing his eyes shut again; he hoped that would sleep came to take him away again, but he was offered no such luxury. The burning went on and on, scorching from his brain to his neck to his stomach and then to his toes, chasing away the dregs of fatigue and only leaving more pain behind.

Somehow he had gotten up to his bedroom without seeing another soul. Ron had heard voices in the living room, but ignored them and continued up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister and pulling himself up, inch by inch to the level that his room was on and crashed onto his bed, slamming the door shut behind him. He fell into a state somewhere between asleep and awake, lethargic but in too much pain (and too freaked out) to sleep all night. Every time he closed his eyes he was back under the night sky, that vampire tearing open his neck and drinking from it.

He pushed himself up onto his pillows and found that some of the pain had subsided, allowing him to open his eyes and look around his room properly. By Merlin... why was it so bright? He could see what people meant now when they said his vibrant orange room (thanks to the Cannons posters) was a little too bright. He was blinded by it.

Ron shut his eyes figuring he'd get used to it again soon and yawned, reaching up a hand to scratch the back of his neck. His hand touched something wet... and warm.

For the millionth time the previous night - the forest, the stranger and what they did to him - slammed down on him again. Ron got up, ignoring the dizziness and snuck next door to the bathroom. He locked the door. Then he strode over to the mirror, pulling off his shirt to examine the mark.

Two puncture wounds on his neck, still fresh and bleeding. He grabbed a towel to staunch the bleeding, hissing when the rough fibres bristled over the wound. He glanced into the mirror to see himself pale and drawn-looking, blue eyes wide and fearful. Would they soon turn red?

No! Why the fuck would he think that?!

Ron shut his eyes, head swimming again and leaned against the sink. Somehow it was morning already, milky blue sky too raw and birds chirruping loudly. They squeaked and squawked, and Ron turned on the tap just to cover the noise. He must've turned the tap too far, though, because the top came away under his hands.

Ron could feel his vision blurring, and cold sweat gathering at the base of his neck. He wanted to sink to the floor and never get up again - everything was so wrong, everything was too loud and it felt like someone was hitting him repeatedly over the head with a bludger's bat. He was so tired.

What happened last night had been no accident, he suddenly knew. Ron groaned into the cold air of the early morning, birds still right in his ear. Ron knew it: Merlin, the stranger had even mumbled, "It's your turn now," right before forcing its blood down his throat.

He stood up straight again, angrily stomping back into his room to tug on a t-shirt. Then, he paused. He'd gotten blood everywhere in the bathroom and all over a towel or two (or three). So Ron sighed, and went back to vanish it all with a few discreet scourgifys.

In the moment it still hadn't occurred to him to go to his parents with his injuries. But Ron had been very tired and besides, it had stopped bleeding. He put a finger over the neck wound and felt the skin, scabbed over.

"There," he said, to no one in particular, smiling in triumph.

Merlin, he was so tired. How about he put all this vampire rubbish to bed, and just... go to bed? It was still early, he would get a few more hours in and then decide what the hell to do about everything. There was probably nothing wrong with him, anyway. He'd just had a bad experience, and although he was shaken nothing would come of it. Ron was sure of that.

He repaired the knob of the tap, reparo'ing what he'd broken and screwing it back in before he went back to his room.

Ron sighed and slumped back onto his bed, rubbing his face tiredly. He was still absolutely exhausted, his muscles aching and eyes closing shut of their own accord.

Hey, maybe this was just a cold. Maybe he could sleep it off and be fine, and then nobody would ever have to know how close he had come to dying and coming back as a beast.

He lay back, thoughts buzzing. But- but if he was one of them... what the hell was he going to do? He couldn't spend his entire life in the shadows, sleeping during the day and feasting on humans at night. He had heard all sorts of stories from dad about how they dealt with them at the Ministry. And what about school? Would he have to disappear, quit Hogwarts early and... well, what would he do then? Muck about on the streets? He had no cash to do that with, apart from a measly few galleons he had saved up over the summer.

And what about his family? What would they think if he was one of them? Vampires were known supporters of You-Know-Who, the Prophet along with everyone else always said. Would anyone trust him?

No, no, he was thinking too far ahead. This wasn't definite. He couldn't be a vampire. He just couldn't. It was insane to even consider.

Hopefully, this was all some dream. He just needed to stop thinking and sleep. Ron didn't want to do anything rash (because he was trying not to that now, he was; Hermione had lectured him enough- oh Merlin, Hermione, what would she think?) like jumping to the conclusion that he was vampire. Because he wasn't, he just wasn't.

Ron Weasley was not a vampire.

Not yet, at least.

Now, I will say that my representation of vampires may differ (as all of them do) but will probably be some mess of random wikipedia threads cobbled together to make some kind of vampire, as well as pinched ideas from shows/books.

Thanks for reading!

-Tea33.

Re-edited 16/5/21. Grammar fixes, mostly.