The Evangelist: Chapter One
A Spell in the Night
Rating: R (For intense thematic material, explicit scenes, etc). If R ratings offend you, just a reminder: I'm playing it safe here. Perhaps a PG-13 will do nicely for this, but it shall be an overall R.
Genre: Angst/Drama/Supernatural. A long history that revolves mainly around Ronald Weasley and one Dark Lord named Voldemort, bound by chance and Fate. No slash.
Disclaimer: I don't own a single hair off the head of any of these characters. They are property of Joanne Kathleen Rowling, creator of Hogwarts School and Co. I'm not profiting off this either, so don't file a lawsuit against me.
A/N: This is my first Harry Potter fic on FF.Net, but I'm not telling you this so that I'd receive special treatment of any kind. Read, review and flame at your whim. Constructive criticism is always welcome. Be free to suggest any plot bunnies and ideas. I haven't seen many fics that deal with the Dark Lord as one of the main, main characters, so, I thought, what the hell...
And, note on the title: what I mean here by "Evangelist" is totally, wholly unrelated to Christianity or any kind of religion. The alternate meaning of evangelist (and the meaning in this context) is a person who is zealous and determined to correct the wrongs and evils of the world - like a redeemer or purifier.
So, here we go. Let the madness commence.
A Spell in the Night
Ron Weasley sighed in frustration and tossed his Divination homework, a jumbled mess of hodgepodge figures and cross-outs, to one side. It was all useless. His brother Percy and his father had already been away for three weeks, and still no letter - not even a note, nothing - had come from them. Just exactly how long would it possibly take them to fly to Romania? And they had given him their word that they'd contact him, and also his twin elder siblings Fred and George and the young Ginny, the moment they touched down.
And so what if Charlie had disappeared? Stuff like that happened to him on a frequent basis. At first Ron thought he had gone on another dragon-hunting rampage, and he had simply gotten carried away, tracking some particularly devious monster into far-off territory. The news of his disappearance had reached him and his family in mid-July. As disappearances of this sort were common in the magical world (especially among dragon hunters), and as Charlie was not some high-ranking official of the Ministry of Magic, the incident was not of public knowledge. But then, as July turned into August, still no trace of him showed up, and the Daily Prophet let the matter go unreported, for some bizarre reason. The theory was that the movements of You-Know-Who were already on nigh, and officials wished not to conjure panic out of something most likely unrelated - even though You-Know-Who was rumored to have been spotted around the same areas Charlie had allegedly disappeared in. Within the Ministry, though, search warrants materialized and went out, and the entire Weasley household was upside-down. August had then run into September, and four of the seven Weasleys were already two weeks into the new fall term at Hogwarts. September 12th officially marked the second month of Charlie's disappearance. One week before the start of term, Arthur Weasley had assessed that the situation was much worse than they had originally believed - so he, and the third eldest Percy, both Ministry officials, asked for leave and decided to go to Romania to have a look around themselves.
"It's all useless," Ron repeated sourly, under his breath. He was wholly against his father and Percy jumping into the search. Not because he had no feelings for Charlie, even though they were separated by eight and some years, and barely saw each other - but how would two people be able to find somebody in the middle of totally wild, uncharted, unfamiliar land? And Romania was home to much more than just dragons - Professor Lupin had taught him enough in his third year to supply him a good night's worth of nightmares. What was even better, even with elite Ministry detectives working away on the case, there had been no whatsoever leads found, no tracks, no signs, not anything. The only hard evidence that Charlie had disappeared was that his colleagues no longer saw him. It was folly, Ron thought, to attempt something like this, and his other siblings had wholeheartedly agreed with him. Besides, his father was an office worker, and Percy was a diplomat. Not some smart-alec forensic scientist, a stiff, stuck-up, pompous diplomat. If there was anybody in his family who qualified to taking up the case into their own hands, it was most certainly Ron himself. And no, he had rights to brag. At least every year he had solved some giant mystery - first it was the Sorceror's Stone, then it was the Basilisk and the Chamber of Secrets, followed by Sirius Black, You-Know-Who's serial murderer right-hand man. Well, alright, he admitted, he did do it by following the intuition of a certain famous acquaintance of his, and also the observance of a know-it-all sidekick; but the experience was his on this matter. And in Charlie's case, he thought a quick answer was to be a long shot.
And to top the fudge sundae with a cherry, Percy and Arthur had basically disappeared themselves. Three weeks and no whatsoever mail contact. Given even Ron's limited knowledge of Muggle gadgets, he faintly wished they had employed cellular fellytones instead of the traditional owl post. At least they could transmit messages instantaneously.
"Are you alright, Ron?" asked a voice from his left. Ron looked up and saw Hermione Granger, the very same aforementioned know-it-all sidekick, his best friend. Predictably, she clutched a mountain-load of heavy books, and gave him the same quizzical look as when she was dealt with a particularly nasty Potions assignment. "What is troubling you? You haven't been looking yourself at all, ever since the start of this year."
Ron sighed and shook his head. "It's nothing," he lied, and it had been the twentieth time he had employed that excuse. "Mood-swings of a volatile 15-year-old. Stress, if you'll follow me."
Hermione lifted an eyebrow. "Oh really? What is there to be stressed about?"
"You wouldn't know," Ron muttered back evasively.
Hermione snorted and tossed her head back indignantly. "Really though! It's been a week and a half and you're already starting to look like this from stress? How are you to cope when the O.W.L.S. come by?"
"And I notice you're not the only one who's off-whack," came another voice, and Harry Potter sauntered over and flopped down next to Ron on the couch. "Fred and George have been behaving good this year. Why, they don't even smile anymore! Remarkable, indeed."
"And Ginny, the poor thing, she's been gloomier all the more as well," chimed Hermione. "Not even talking anymore."
"I would loathe to see Fred and George morph into two more Percys - no offence there, Ron - but them, acting proper and polite around company?" Harry mused. "And withdrawn, too?...A freak phenomenon, no doubt -"
"Would you two just...kindly...leave me alone?" Ron heaved out, almost against his volition, and not even waiting for a response from either two he jumped up and took off for the upstairs dormitory. Harry and Hermione stared after him, properly shocked.
"I've never seen Ron like this before," Hermione whispered, eyes wide. Harry simply fell back down on the couch and closed his eyes, the leaden feeling in his chest threatening to overpower him. Something was very wrong with the Weasleys.
Ron skidded into the dark room and shut the door, collapsing against the wall. He clutched the stitch he had from taking the staircase three at a time, and panted. He had never brushed off his friends before like that, ever. And that was not considering the brief interlude of hostility the previous school year. However, he couldn't blame his friends for their bombarding him with questions - this was the only time he had not told them anything at all. They knew nothing of the situation, and Ron was sure nobody else knew either, because the other Weasleys had kept their mouths shut. And of course, for anybody as jovial, sarcastic, and vivacious as Ron - this sudden change of character was sure to be perceived as highly abnormal. But at least he wasn't Fred or George; their Gryffindor pals had come to believe that they were afflicted with some illness.
"Blast this, bloody hell," Ron swore, and flopped down onto his four-poster bed. If it were within his power, he would not have disclosed his feelings like this - but Ron always had a record of trouble for putting emotions into check, and he always ended up being blatant, some way or another. To put it frankly, he was frightened. Of course, he had reason enough to be frightened for a family member who was missing for 8 weeks and was turning on the ninth. But it was the rumors that really unhinged him. You-Know-Who had been prowling around the Balkans, the tabloids said, and even before Charlie's disappearance he had half a mind to request his father to pull his brother out of country, for a leave, anything - because he was simply scared for his safety. But of course the tabloids were only the tabloids; gossip, rumors, this and that muck, and Arthur disregarded Ron's concerns for paranoia. At that point, nobody else in the family shared his concern - but once something did happen, everybody sided with him immediately on the issue. Still, rumors failed to shake Arthur and Percy Weasley, the stubborn, not-even-afraid-of-death ones, and they went themselves to search. And now they had gone missing as well - no doubt last seen around the same places as Charlie had been. They had sent themselves headfirst into trouble, serious trouble. So then, the situation, if possible, had gotten even more screwed. Everything was just peachy.
Even though Hogwarts dormitories had well-regulated temperatures, Ron shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. That was why he was so stressed. Now he no longer had to deal with just a simple case of vanishing; there were far more possibilities on the list. No, he thought, Percy and Father can't have been so stupid. They can't have walked nose-on into some vicious trap. And even despite their career, cooped up in offices all day, they were pretty physical fighters if it ever came to it. Still, their survival in certain hairy situations depended on how good the plotters on the other side planned their ambushes.
Ron struck himself on his head with a fist. Stop thinking that, he retaliated. Who would want to ambush two red-haired Weasleys, anyway? They weren't spies, or top-seeded officials, or anything...Percy had been ex-assistant to Bartemius Crouch, the former Head of the Internation Magical Cooperation Department, but as Crouch had been dead for quite some time Percy was sure not to have been so saucy about his current standing in the Ministry. Then what? Had they gotten caught in an avalanche, or stolen away by the wild hippogriffs that lived in the mountain caves, or wrung up by some vampire? Whatever way it really was, nothing sounded good. That was the only thing that was absolutely sure, guaranteed.
Flinging himself off the bed, Ron stormed across the room to the full-length mirror on the far wall. Thinking about this was driving him crazy, making rational actions or schoolwork an impossible issue. Try as he might, it was the only thing his mind could focus on, or was willing to focus on; if he was forced to preoccupy himself with something else, he either found his head slowly wandering back to where it started out, or he would blank out completely. Blatantly speaking - Ron Weasley was going mad. He didn't know how others in his family were handling this, for none of them even made an attempt with civil conversation at all - but he could simply tell by observing any of their shadowy faces that they were all going through hell, just like he was. Perhaps this was the worst-yet phase of his damned life. And, who knew? Worse was probably to come, if things didn't improve at once.
Ron no longer looked like the fresh young boy he was in previous years. Of course he had gotten taller and more mature - that was inevitable - but there were other things that he never thought he'd acquire in his life. The boy that eyed him back malevolently from the dim mirror was pretty much unrecognizable. Ron used to be a nagger on cleanliness, ever since he had been beleaguered by various people for dirt spots here and there on his face, but he had all but given up that pursuit, a long time ago. Now his flame tresses, uncut and uncombed for days, had begun to rival Harry's in its untidiness. And indeed, if possible, his hair had become even redder. So red, it was no longer flame, it looked the exact same hue as freshly pricked blood - at best, stark and unnatural, and several people (stinking Slytherins, no doubt) had taken to spreading rumors that Ron Weasley had dyed it to give it an extra zing. However, nobody was able to explain how the same phenomenon had happened to his eyebrows and his eyelashes. They were so prominent they framed his large, honey eyes as dramatically as if they had been painted (and the illusion was so real that girls had both loved him and envied him for it, and others considered the ugly possibility of Ron having artificially enhanced them as well). What made him look completely unnatural, though, was the sickly pallor his complexion had acquired - the color had even gone out of his lips, leaving them as white as his skin. But his eyes had changed the most - although Ron never cried, they now swum in water, glistening, making them look as large and bright as two gems. His entire countenance had acquired a deep, underlying sort of sadness to it - a listlessness - and coped with the fact that he had thinned much in the last few weeks and looked like a floating, living wraith, he seemed as delicate as a porcelain statue, one that would be blown away by the wind or shattered into a thousand pieces if pushed to the ground. Indeed, if Ron hadn't been drifting in his own world all the time, he would've taken note of how many new admirers (and new haters) he had already acquired this school term.
Slender fingers raked themselves vigorously through the hair, but it did nothing to avail the migraine Ron had been cursed with. Stress, indeed, or it might've been the air in the room - hot, and stuffy, pressing in on him from all sides. It was the air. Ron clutched his throat and staggered over the row of windows, flinging the nearest one open. A draft blew in immediately, lifting the drapes and sending several pieces of loose parchment fluttering. Ron gulped the fresh night oxygen. The coldness was cutting, biting, but he wanted it. To hell if he went down with something, standing in the wind without any sort of protective clothing - the sheer cold served to make his mind clearer. But still, drafts wouldn't chase his thoughts away.
Blast it, then. Ron set his mouth in a line, and moving over to the wardrobe, he yanked out his cloak and a thick, cashmere scarf. Who would give a damn if they saw him? If he was going to be a good boy and stay inside, it would not have taken Ron Weasley long to disintegrate from mad to insane.
"I need a walk," Ron muttered to himself, out loud. "Outside, in the wind, by the lake. Damn it all, I'll swim in the lake for all I care. And I won't give a crud to anybody who tries to stop me. I need to be outside."
Even though Ron was fueled by the insatiable will of a deranged 15-year-old, he still wasn't desperate enough to break school rules in plain sight of others. Nor did he own an Invisibility Cloak, like Harry Potter, and he did not have the heart to bother asking for a loan. So, he simply lay fully dressed, shoes and all, on his bed; and when the others were sure to have been asleep, he crept out as stealthily as a cat and descended into the dimly-lit common room. It was devoid of a soul and the grandfather clock in the corner read half past twelve in the morning.
Due to his smaller girth, he was able to slip through a tiny gap past the portrait hole without even waking the Fat Lady. Luck had it his way tonight, too, for throughout his lengthy trek from the seventh story Gryffindor tower berth to the Entrance Hall, he didn't encounter any other living thing. He almost laughed out loud when the great oak doors swung open with a single thrust - the school did not even bother to lock itself up after hours? Then again, he probably needed to educate himself with Hogwarts, a History - perhaps all the doors leading to the castle were designed to open only from the inside.
Ron froze in his tracks. That most certainly meant that if he went out, he wouldn't be able to get back in. Muttering profanities under his breath, he held the door open and shuffled meekly back inside. Then, a sneer formed at his lips. So what if he would be locked outside? That meant that he'd have all the time to take his walk. After all, the doors would be opened promptly at 6:30 the next morning, for the start of school hours, and he would just dash back in then, before anybody realized he was gone. After all, he had all but lost his want for sleep, and the boys in his dorm never got up that early.
And even if somebody noticed he was missing - Ron snorted. Let them fret over him. Why would he be obliged to give a care? It was no business of theirs; he was the only one who should've had any control over his life, period. Smirking faintly, he stepped out and let the door go, relishing in the creak and slam as it closed - he didn't care about making noises.
Outside turned out to be just as good as he had imagined from the window - better, even. It was as cold as a September night could get in northern Scotland, and the chill crept past his layers of flowing black garments, making Ron tremble. Judging from the penetration abilities of the weather, it was most certainly a subzero thermometer reading - extremely unseasonable, but whatever. He loved the feel of the air gnawing at his cheeks and his nose. Even better, the dragonhide gloves failed to guard his fingers against the harsh air, and they stung for a bit, before finally going numb. The same was happening to his toes, as he trudged past the thick turf of the vast front lawn of Hogwarts. It was so cold, the pearly dew on the grass was beginning to crystallize, and Ron saw glimpses of their glitter as they were swept away into the night by a whispering wind. The breeze ruffled his hair, set his scarf and cloak fluttering, and the trees of the nearby Forbidden Forest gave a faint, silvery rustle. The night sky was brilliant with thousands of jewels, pinpoints of light, backdropped against a heaven colored sapphire, indigo and violet with wisps of emerald - almost as if in a masterpiece presentation of the aurora borealis. Nearby the lake lay smooth as a mirror, and the skies were reflected in its serene watery surface, so flawlessly that the lake seemed to have its own constellations and watercolors that shined out from within its depths. And to Ron, he was the only person who could see this, the only person standing in this nocturnal paradise - the only person in the entire world. And he absolutely adored this feeling.
Such a beautiful night.
Working his way down the gentle incline of the dewy grasses, Ron came at length to the edge of the lake. He stopped six yards away from its banks, for it felt almost like a crime, to violate the stillness and peace of the water. But he so wanted to touch that water, liquid ice it was sure to be, and see if the reflected stars were really diamonds that he could pluck from the depths and hold in his palm. After all, they seemed so real to him...almost mocking him in their beauty.
Stars didn't have to worry about this and that. Stars didn't go crazy when other stars blew themselves up into a cloud or were spirited away. Good God, stars did not have feelings at all. Ron crinkled his nose up, and, without any explanation, he groped in his robe pocket. His fingers wrapped around a rock cake that Hagrid had given to him a few days ago, and he flung it with all his might, sending it soaring swift in a high arc. It plopped faintly into some distant expanse of water, momentarily distorting the sight, hidering the beauty, marring the perfection.
A groan escaped from Ron's white lips, and he put a hand up to his brow, as if in apology. "Forgive me," he croaked, and slowly, dejectedly, he shuffled down towards the not-so-smooth mirror. He had already killed the serenity, so, perhaps, it wouldn't hurt to damage it just a bit more.
He didn't know how long he spent thus, sitting cross-legged on a patch of overhanging turf, dragging his fingertips back and forth across in the water. It was simply pure bliss, the feeling of that coldness racking his hand - it seemed so natural, so understandable. And for that time being, for once, Ron Weasley forgot about his troubles. It was a moonlesss night, so he had no whatsoever track of time, for the stars and the night sky never changed from the way he first saw them - but as everything went he didn't care about time anymore. He wished that all the clocks in the world would somehow spontaneously self-destruct, so that this bliss would never have to end. He just continued sitting there; the world perfectly silent, the lake nearly perfectly still, and the heavens, perfect as they always would be - unchanged and unchanging. This seemed like what the real Heaven up above was like - what nirvana must have felt like. And for a moment, Ron wondered abstractly, whether the all-knowing spirit they called God, who sat upon his lofty throne in a kingdom called Utopia beyond the far, empty ends of the Universe, was awarding, for his torment on Earth, a little taste, a tiny glimpse of what it would be like to live in Paradise.
An ever-so-slight rustle drifted over to his ears, and Ron looked up from the lake. It was perfectly still - there was not a breath of wind. Perhaps an animal, then, Ron thought. An owl who was so absolutely zonked, he fell out of his tree. Or it's simply something who's watching the sky as well...like me. Somebody who's as sad as I am, and seeks solace in the stars like I'm doing...
He heard the rustle again, and this time he squinted a bit harder. Only dark shapes and outlines were visible under starlight, no matter how brilliant it was. Ron saw the huge black thing behind him, which was the castle under a total lights-out - and, in the far distance, he could faintly make out a fringe darker than what surrounded it, which he took to be the Forbidden Forest. He thought the sound came from that direction. Oh well, then it was perhaps less meaning for scrutiny...many things lived amongst those tall, dark trees...
The rustle reached its ears yet again, and this time it was more obvious. Closer, in other words. At this Ron stood up and shoved his gloves back on, stuck his hands in his robes and gazed with both eyes on alert. Still he was no owl or cat, and he couldn't perceive any movement at all. The bottom line given, Ron thought, I'm armed. A hand fumbled around for his girdle and gripped the wooden handle of his wand, somewhat tightly, for Ron could not entirely deny that he was somewhat perturbed. Everything had been so quiet, before...
A dead silence elapsed, for perhaps a minute or something, and Ron slowly let the hand on his wand relax. Paranoia, he told himself sternly. Dumbledore's been scaring you, gullible child, with scary tales of those woods. God's nose, I've been in there before. I know what it is like to be scared, and telling you what...I don't have to be scared at all now...
A sound of movement suddenly was heard. Ron jumped up and stiffened, and his hand clenched the wand tightly again. What was that? Did that sound like...footsteps?
It was perhaps a good idea to make for the castle. Squaring his shoulders, Ron turned around, tearing his eyes from the still beautiful sight of the lake and the night sky; and after a few strides he broke into a run. And then stopped.
Just a miniscule split second after he stopped, he heard the same sound again, coming from a closer proximity - and before he could register whether it was an illusion or not it ceased. Frowning, Ron slowly turned, 360 degrees, on the spot he stood at. Exactly what was that?
Then he remembered something, all of a sudden. He was still locked outside of the castle.
"God damnit!!" Ron cried, flinging his arms in frustration. And as soon as the curse had been uttered he clapped a hand to his mouth in panic - the words had already escaped his lips. He then silently cursed himself once more. How could he have been so stupid? Then, in that moment, it came to him how truly cold it was outside. The hand withdrew from his mouth and the arms folded across his chest, protectively. Now he was totally at loss for what to do.
The footsteps started again. Ron was too taken by surprise to move himself; he only stood, and heard, as the rustling became closer, and closer, and closer...and in a fit of terror, he heard more footsteps, some behind him, some in front of him, some at his two sides - all coming towards him in a circle.
Ron didn't move at all. He didn't dare. Moving was perhaps the last thing to do, because he had to find out what this entire ridiculous play meant. But, he stared harder than ever, and he fancied he managed to make out faint contours of things around. They were tall - and they had something that looked like a head, and shoulders, and limbs...
Oh, God. Now the truth hit upon him. The things that made the noises were people, and they were approaching him, in all directions, surrounding him. They were going to ambush him.
Instincts took over common sense and Ron, without further ado, jumped and ran. Just after running a few yards his left shoulder rammed hard into something - one of his stalkers. Ron frantically scooped up his cape so that whoever he had run into would have no chance of snagging him - and he practically took off for dear life, streaking in the direction of the Forbidden Forest, running as if his death were the one pursuing him. The only thing alluding to the notion that he was chased were the multitudinous footfalls of his stalkers; they had given no other sounds at all. Ron gasped as a pain came up in his throat from breathing the harsh air - but he didn't care. This was all too strange, too frightening, too sudden. All that he knew was that he was being pursued, and he thought that if he lost the chase, there were serious consequences involved. For his stalkers were most definitely not Hogwarts faculty.
He was too frenzied and desperate for escape to cast as much as a glance back behind him. For then, just as he was nearing the very outskirts of the Forbidden Forest and the tall trees loomed dark ahead, he heard a shout, a cried incantation. And he didn't even have time to turn around and see the ghastly streak of scarlet that illuminated the black settings. All he felt was a great rushing of something behind him; a whistling, a roaring, and the spell hit him with full might. He was pitched forward with unthinkable violence; and last thing he perceived, before the inevitable, was an overwhelming burst of fatigue, totally consuming him from fingertips to toes; and stars winked in his choppy vision. Then Ron fell entirely under the dominion of the red magic; and as his knees gave way, he uttered one last anguished cry, which echoed to a lucid death in the dim boughs - and the darkness fell complete in front of his glistening eyes.
A/N: Thanks to all who have read this first chapter. I am scrambling on the next installment and I hope to post Chapter Two within four days. There is another fic in the works, Expurgation, and it shall debut within a few days. Thank you again, and until later, Kudos! ~ Verok