Disclaimer: Don't own. Sorry. But I do love to play.
Notes: This started out as a drabble for hp100 (LJ), but Ron talked to me more, as well, as the Trio, and even Malfoy. I had to continue it out. It wouldn't leave me be without it. I had this idea after reading "The Price" by Anne Bishop. She writes of Warlord Princes that can rise to the killing edge quickly and precisely. It was in my mind that perhaps Ron would be that.
Breathe. It was all he could think about, to focus on something mechanical that it would abate the edge cutting into him, bleeding from the inside out. He could feel the blade, slicing against his ribs, demanding to be let out.
Push, push, push. Following the beating of his racing heart. Almost doubling over in pain, a physical need for violence raging along his blood.
He still saw the scene in his mind. A puddle of blood, red hair fanned around like a halo on the stone floor, chocolate-colored eyes staring vacantly at the world she no longer lived in. Gone. Dead by the hands of a scoundrel, who was glowing after the kill with a certainty that he would never be convicted. After all, he had been killing and torturing Order members for quite some time. She wasn't his first victim, but the one that demanded retribution in Ron's eyes.
"Ah, Weasel. It seems you've arrived too late. Poor thing, she really put up a fight too." Drawl and smirk in place, he looked like the devil himself.
"You thoroughly despicable ferret. You'll pay for that. For everything you've done, but especially this." Ron raised his wand, ready for the fight. Dueling had never been his strong suit, but his sister's death demanded it. Something, anything would do; killing curses ready on a waiting breath. But then, he thought, maybe a more Muggle way of fighting was called for. No, that was unpredictable. Harry hadn't taught him enough of those bocing moves yet. No, wands were dependable.
With a flick of wood, the blonde was tossed against the opposite wall. Blood seeped against his pale cheek, where stone had scraped. He went to wipe it away, and felt his hand flung back.
"No. Blood is on your hands already. You'll not mix Weasley and Malfoy blood." Blue eyes flashed in anger, in pain. The scariest people were those in a frozen anger, in the ability to kill without remorse. Ron was in that state now.
That was how Harry and Hermione came in, how they found him -- wand ready to kill. Hermione's hand on his right shoulder helped ease the pain, fractionally at least. But in his throat, tears were lodged, waiting to be shed. They would have to wait though.
First, Malfoy would be made to pay.
Harry stood, wand ready along with Hermione. Should the twitchy ferret try and get away or pull a trick, they would be ready. The two held him there as well, letting reason work its way inside Ron. Instinctively they knew it was his decision, his sibling. No matter how close they had been to the girl, they weren't blood.
An internal struggle warred inside the gangly redheaded man. He wanted – no deserved the right – to payback his sister's death with bloodshed, but then he wondered if she would enjoy that. Part of him screamed that she would, but the other – who sounded remarkably like Hermione – said that Ginny would say too much blood had been shed in this war, too many people have died for either cause. He would honor her; in whatever way she would want. If that meant no bloodshed, then so be it.
Malfoy would pay by law.
It was correct that way, no matter how hard. Sometimes doing the right thing wasn't easy, it led to a less satisfying end result. But that would be okay with him, because as long as she was honored, he would do whatever was needed. Family always came first. And vengeance would be had later, but not on Christmas Day.