Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N:I want to thank my betas Minerva Solo and Lisa, any remaining mistakes are my own.
William Rosier was in his mid-twenties and made his living working in different fast food shops and restaurants. People assumed he was a foreigner; it wasn't true, but he might as well have been so he didn't deny it. People also thought he was a bit retarded; he wasn't exactly pleased with that particular assumption, but he grinned stupidly and pretended he didn't hear what they said about him behind his back. They would get what was coming to them eventually.
The café where he worked at the moment wasn't very fancy, most of the tenants were senior citizens and students without much money. They seemed to employ anyone who was prepared to work hard and learn their way in the kitchen, but most important of all, they didn't seem to look up the backgrounds of the people they employed. It suited him perfectly considering the circumstances.
A nasty outbreak of food poisoning had been traced back to the restaurant where he had worked before he got the job at the Watership Café. Normally the restaurant might have been able to recover from the blow, but a small baby died, and he soon found himself without a job when public opinion forced his workplace to shut down.
"Hey, Will," one of his work-mates called, "help me with the soup will ya? We have to get ready for lunch and it's too heavy for me."
He nodded and got the dirty potholders from their shelf. The box-like metallic container was filled to the brim with "Seafood Soup" and it smelled like a whole fishing fleet. He had learned that "Seafood" meant some kind of fish was involved and that a few shrimps might be floating on the surface. The girl called Gina turned around the corner with an armful of cutlery. He put the soup-container back on the workbench and pretended to rest before carrying it from the kitchen; it wasn't entirely an act, the damned thing made his arms feel like lead. He made sure no one looked and withdrew a vial from his pocket. The liquid inside was purple but odourless and he quickly dumped it in the soup. No change of colour, the soup still smelled like fish. Perfect. He smiled and carried his deadly load to the table where they served the two different dishes for lunch. He hoped the soup would be as popular as it used to be.
Ron sighed and tried to throw yet another paper-dragon in the dustbin. No customers had wandered into the shop the past hour, not even one of the annoying ones that wanted to look at and poke everything but never bought a thing. In short: he didn't want to be there. His copy of the Daily Prophet missed several pages: most of them were folded into dragons, and five of them were in the bin, three on the floor. He had to clean that up eventually.
Sometimes he felt so very lonely. He liked the Muggle world, and he had some Muggle friends; he talked to people, so it wasn't that. He enjoyed the company of his friends, but there was so much they wouldn't understand, things he could never tell them. He saw wizards when working, naturally, but he couldn't exactly talk to them, he had to stay unnoticed. That could be the reason he had made it part of his daily routine to check on the homeless man, he had been the first wizard he had met out here he didn't had to hide from. Nowadays he always watched from a distance since his presence was so clearly unwanted. He laughed mirthlessly. "If you don't have a life you can always spy on someone else's." Luckily he had a life, he told himself, and the homeless wizard was simply a hobby. Yes, a twisted little hobby.
A customer made him perk up and quickly shove the slaughtered paper behind the counter. The man was dressed in a brightly coloured Hawaii shirt and eyed Ron with suspicion. He turned out to be one of those customers so Ron had to lock the door and fetch the special herbs from the secret storeroom. The man didn't buy anything illegal but Ron would still report the visit. He had some other unsent owl-post, and Pig would be happy for the flight.
"You really need a haircut," the mirror in the hall declared as soon as he shut the door behind him. He ignored it. It always had some remark or another, and to criticise his hairstyle seemed to be one of the mirrors personal favourites lately.
"It's supposed to be long." Ron explained to the piece of charmed glass, but it only made a disapproving sound, like glass braking. "Just my luck to get a mirror with an attitude," he growled and studied his tangled hair. The mirror actually had a point, he admitted reluctantly, his hair had been long for more than three months and it was time for a change. There was the possibility to simply change colour and keep it long, but Ron had never felt comfortable in anything other than bright red. He remembered the Black Fiasco and the Icky Brown colour, and don't forget the Maroon Disaster. A haircut seemed like the only option unless he wanted to do a nose-job. He happened to like his nose as it was, but unfortunately he was supposed to change his appearances now and then. Sometimes he thought his other employer was even crazier than Mrs. Murphy. A haircut was no big deal comparing to some things his boss had suggested in his (or her) owls.
Bright green hair or a beard might have sounded like a good idea only a few years ago. Ron couldn't quite point out the exact time when he had quit trying so hard to be unique. He was Ron, a haircut wouldn't change that, he had five older brothers and whatever he did there was a big chance that they had done it before him. It was nothing more to it than that. Prefect? Congratulations, we've seen it before. Made it to the Quidditch team? How nice, just like your brothers. Ponytail? How cute, just like Bill.
He still was Ron, and he was unique in his own way. That acceptance had given him some welcomed peace of mind. He hadn't stopped trying, but he had managed to gain a more laid-back point of view most of the time. There where still times when he slid back in his old bad self-confidence, but he knew intellectually that he didn't need to prove anything to the people that mattered. He remembered a conversation with his friends sometime during his school years; he had been a bit down over the fact that whatever he did, someone else in his family had probably done it too.
"You could push Snape up against a wall and snog him senseless." Hermione suggested cheerfully, "I bet no one in your family has ever done that."
"Argh!" Harry yelled, "BAD mental place! I didn't need that image in my head."
Ron stared at Hermione for a long time. "I doubt that anyone has ever done that to Snape."
She grinned wickedly. "You never know..." she said and winked.
He was pretty sure Harry had successfully repressed everything about snogging Snape in that conversation, but Ron never got any chance to forget, as soon as he looked gloomy without reason Hermione whispered "Thinking about doing Sssnaaaaaaaaaaaape?" or something similar in his ear. Ginny had started doing it too, and it was more than a little bit annoying.
He had never fancied Snape in any way, but when he was about fifteen years old he had had a period when he was questioning his sexuality. Most of the time he blamed it all on Hermione. Some of her books could have made a nail question if it was straight, but Ron didn't really think that he was a homosexual. He liked girls after all. His reaction to Veela had to prove that beyond all doubt, right?
It didn't really matter, he didn't have a special witch or wizard in his life right now, and he had a sneaky suspicion that if he ever got himself a boyfriend someone in his family would step out of the closet with a bang the next day. They were after all seven siblings, he didn't exactly know the odds for things like that, but he guessed there was a fair enough chance that one of them batted for the other team. Probably Fred or George, he thought, but they would be prepared to date guys simply to shock people anyway.
He shook all thoughts of haircuts and siblings from his head and tuned in on the WWN for a while. It was relaxing to listen to music while cooking. With windows and doors closed and silencing charms everywhere he could allow himself that luxury.
A familiar song played and his foot started to sway in tune. It wasn't quite like he remembered it - a kazoo-solo seemed to have replaced the bagpipe one. What was it with popular music and kazoos these days? The singer was unfamiliar too, he remembered the deep smoky voices of Vanilla Witches and this wasn't like quite them. He couldn't remember the songs' name though. The last few accords ended and a witch that sounded eerily familiar announced:
"This was 'Spell my heart' by 'Gilderoy Lockhart and The Mirrors'."
Ron groaned. The accident with his wand (well, Charlie's wand) had left Lockhart without much sense left, and that man couldn't have had much in his head for starters, but apparently brains were optional for pop-singers. All it took was a charming smile, a few voice-altering spells and a good stylist. He wondered who had been stupid enough let Lockhart out from St. Mungos. The joined-up writing Gilderoy had learned might be useful after all, but Ron doubted he could survive in an environment where he couldn't write autographs. Life as a pop star must be the perfect carrier for a narcissist like him.
"Some people shouldn't be allowed to make covers." he murmured and silenced the WWN with a flick of his wand.
He tried to braid his hair the next morning to see if he could change his looks without chopping off the hair. The result was frightening, and the mirrors violent laughing-fit helped him make up his mind. Haircut, as soon as possible. He collected his hair in a ponytail and went to work.
Mrs Murphy called around noon, and she was surprisingly encouraging when he mentioned he might need a few hours off sometime this week in order to get a haircut.
"You take the rest of the afternoon off dear," she said. Ron thanked her as she kept on chattering. "And try to find someone who can get you a decent haircut. It did look a bit girlish last time I saw you." Ron suppressed a laugh. So that was why she was so supportive, girlish haircut? He suddenly remembered the braids and didn't comment. Mrs Murphy gave him some tasks to do before he closed up the store and made him promise to take a night shift in the store next month. Important customers apparently.
To save time he wiped the counter and unpacked some of the new supplies at the same time as he tried to phone a hairdresser. The second one he tried answered, and the third one could squeeze him in this afternoon. He put the new supplies in their ceramic jars under the counter and swept the floor before leaving.
He had some time before his appointment at the hairdresser and he decided to treat himself to lunch somewhere on the way. A small café caught his attention; he had noticed it before and now seemed to be a time as good as any to try it out. The food seemed to be affordable and the smoky anonymous interior suited him perfectly.
He felt like eating soup today. The surly woman behind the counter took the money, and gave him a bowl. When he looked a bit lost she pointed at the food on the nearest table as if to say: 'Help yourself, I've done what I'm supposed to do.' He shrugged and filled his bowl with steaming hot soup before settling at a small table near the back.
As he waited for the soup to cool down a bit he studied the other people in the café. A man, who might be in his late twenties or early thirties, appeared behind the counter and refilled the coffee-pots. Ron recognised him as one of his unusual customers and scribbled a quick note on a napkin. When the man came closer, wiping tables as he went, Ron looked for a nametag. Unfortunately the employees at the café didn't wear anything of the sort, but Ron thought he had heard someone call him Bill. Some days he felt like a secret agent.
Another familiar face made him sink lower in his seat. It was one of his customers, the little lady who liked to stay and talk as long as possible and always, always wanted to smell every tea-blend on the top shelf. He had tried to rearrange the boxes so that the ones she usually asked for stood on the lover shelves, but she still asked about the topmost ones. Luckily she seemed busy chatting with the woman behind the counter and choosing a nice sandwich and didn't notice him. She was apparently less ambivalent about sandwiches and left ten minutes later with a cheese one. Ron finished his soup, it was very good, and hurried to make sure he didn't miss his appointment. Mrs. Murphy didn't give him the afternoon off every day.
According to the hairdressers nametag her name was Diana. She fussed over split ends he didn't know he had and asked several times if he really wanted to cut his hair that short. He sighed and nodded.
"Kill your darlings," he murmured. She looked quizzically at him.
"Yes," he said, louder this time, "Chop it off, I trust you to make a decent haircut out of it."
She ran her fingers through his hair several times before bringing out the scissors. Ron was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable about all the attention, but luckily she soon got to work.
The result was shorter. Much, much shorter. His neck felt uncomfortably cold, but he liked the way his hair looked. It was longer in the front than in the back and she had parted his hair so that the fringe fell down over his right eye. She held a mirror behind his head so he could inspect the neck to and then showed him a few different hairstyles he could do on his own. Nice. Ron ran his fingers through his fringe and smiled. He paid Diana what he owed and went out on the street again. The light felt unnaturally bright, but the breeze around his neck felt nice.
Small hairs have a nasty habit of getting everywhere after a haircut. Ron considered banishing them like his mother used to do, but he wasn't sure how to do it without ending up bald. He scratched his neck absently; it wouldn't be so bad if the little buggers didn't itch like that. He walked the same way back and didn't really expect to see anyone he knew on the way, so it surprised him when the homeless man stepped out from the same café where he had eaten and hurried away. It wasn't his intention to follow him at first, it simply happened that they was going in the same direction. With the advantage of longer legs he had no problem keeping the man in sight.
They say that curiosity killed the cat. He was curious by nature, and when he saw the now so familiar man turn around a corner and disappear into a dark, abandoned alley he decided to follow. In hindsight that was probably a stupid idea. Walking into very dark alleyways was seldom a Good Thing To Do. He got no warning before the attack.
Next chapter: Dracos past, Rons mother, and some blood for good measure.