Inside Your Velvet Bones

Chapter 2 – Memory

One week later...

Ron Weasley sat at the bar, surrounded by a multitude of sounds from the world around him - the ambience of the late night bar and the city of London beyond the stained glass, pouring rain, blaring taxis. Underneath his tapping fingers, right next to the glass of scotch, an article was getting soaked without his notice, paper worn as though it was pulled from an old archive, and not barely a week old. He had read it and reread it far too many times now.

It travelled with him across the ocean, all the way back here, where his life had once begun and ended, where he had lost a lot of what had ever mattered to him – his sanity, his best friends, and most irrevocably, his sister.

He was scrolling through his phone, searching for a bus connection to Ottery the next day. His old home, the small plot in the local graveyard - all this was barely a blur in his memory, but he knew they were still standing there, in his family's name.

He shut off the screen, unable to see all the familiar names of streets and bus stops popping up. He glanced back at the article and hissed as he noticed the moisture from his glass was rippling the pages, which were now drinking in some of the ink, smearing the message: Young teacher murdered at private school, is no place safe anymore?

There was a picture of the crime scene, without the body, but he didn't need the newspaper to see what the body had looked like. Heavy in his pocket even though it was just a piece of paper was a polaroid photograph of the victim mentioned in the article. He had received it in the mail more than a week ago, along with a couple of torn pages bearing a text in verse, a cruel joke of fate, a riddle.

As he had been staring at the contents of the envelope that had somehow found him out there in the world, years later, something inside him, dormant for such a long time, snapped. Next thing, he found himself on a plane bound for London. The words from the crumpled piece of paper hidden in his pocket rang loud and clear in his mind now.

Its slick and false

something you both gain and lose

I gave it to you and took it away,

here's a morsel, little hint,

I killed her for her red hair.

That last line...and the photograph as attachment was nearly enough to send him over the brink of madness once more. The fact that he had somehow guessed the riddle was of secondary importance to him.

Memory. Something you gain and lose, something he had been given and than had taken away. It was his memory of the whole incident, of finding his sister murdered in cold blood and then being nearly murdered himself. The killer had made it happen, therefore he had given it to him, and then later, when Ron fell into darkness it would take him years to crawl out of, he could barely remember anything.

Over the years and thanks to extensive therapy, some of his memory started coming back to him. Mostly about his life from around that time, his mind being kind enough to sequester the more terrible memories in the dark corners of his mind. For a while he had thought he could finally move on, fight for a peaceful life, until that cursed envelope arrived and changed everything.

The Riddle Killer, as his sister's murderer had been dubbed because he always left riddles at his crime scenes, hadn't been caught that night. It was only later, tangled up in another case, matched through DNA, dead at the scene, killed by the Police. But that version never sat right with Ron. And here it was, a message, a taunt.

He may still be out there, back to finish the job. Either that, or someone was very recklessly messing with him.

A movement in his periphery startled him and in haste he put the news article away. He looked sideways at a woman with dark hair, tired eyes but a pretty face. While she waited for her drink, he cracked a smile, one she gave back. Emboldened by it, but not wanting to presume too much, he lifted his glass her way. After the bartender had served her her glass of wine, she returned the gesture. Before he could ask her anything, she moved closer to sit down next to him.

"Hey, what brings you here to this dingy pub at this late hour?" She swivelled on her chair to turn to face him, dark hair cascading over her shoulder.

She had a pleasant voice, one that put him at ease, though it felt to him immediately that that was its exact purpose, as if her tone was well rehearsed.

"Sleeplessness, jetlag."

"Ah, a traveller. Exciting." Her sudden easy smile broke through his tired wariness, his ego momentarily inflated by her interest.

"You?"

"I could sleep, god I could definitely sleep, but I'm so tired I worry I'd never wake up, so...I'm avoiding sleep, if that makes sense."

He grinned into his drink and took a sip. "It doesn't, but whatever works for you." There was a time when sleeplessness was his constant, never-ending companion, so he didn't want to judge anyone for their strange sleeping habits.

"You look lonely."

"Hm, I guess I am. New to the city. Or old? I've been here before a couple of times, and then moved countries."

"What brings you back then?"

Clearing his throat, Ron hesitated for a moment what to say. "Digging."

She perked an eyebrow at that, interest piqued even more. "For what? Gold! Ancient artefacts?" She was joking, but then, as if her keen eyes had the ability to see through him, she narrowed her gaze upon him and smiled slyly. "Or some dirt."

Her eyes flashed excitedly and her direct brisk questioning, mixed with the drink, made it easy to talk to her.

"Sure. Maybe I am a journalist, ready for a scoop."

She looked him up and down and laughed.

"Not a journalist," she said with determination, slapping her palm atop the counter.

"How would you know?"

"You're too...together."

"I don't think I've ever been called that before."

"Even though you claim you just got off the plain, your clothes and hair are not nearly as chaotic as most journalists are, and most of all, you lack a certain hunger in your eyes. Nope," she took a long sip of the wine, "not a journalist. But I see a different kind of spark." She moved her chair closer, staring into his eyes for a long while. "Ah, vengeance."

"Maybe we should first exchange names before we get to reveal our darkest secrets and motivations," he said after a moment of silence. The woman leaned back, wearing a satisfied smirk, but she didn't push him further.

"Astoria Greengrass," she said, extending her hand. "You'll have to excuse my nosiness, it comes with the job. You see, if you had noticed at all what a mess I am," she said with amusement, motioning around herself, pointing out her crumpled suit and messy hair, "you'd notice that I was the journalist here."

"Huh, that makes a lot of sense actually."

"I can't guess your name, though."

"It's Ron," he said, deliberately omitting his last name. They kept looking at each other for a while in silence, him wondering about this journalist, and whether she could offer any insights into the current case that had most of the public and tabloids in an uproar. She, in the meantime, seemed to consider something. He was worried for a moment that even his first name would give him away.

But then the moment of tension passed and they both resumed a conversation that was more light-hearted than their introduction. It felt good to talk to a stranger about simple stuff and banalities like the English weather and quality of drinks this late at night.

As the bar began to close, he let himself be taken to her home, let himself be kissed in the lift, both of them smelling of rain and cheap alcohol. He let himself be taken to her bed, let himself forget for a while. She had been right, after all. He was terribly lonely, and perhaps so was she.

Whatever to clear the gathering darkness in his soul. Whatever to take his mind off of what lay ahead of him.