Crimson Dawn
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any of the canon Harry Potter characters present in this work.
Owl Post
"Oh Bill: look what ees 'ere! Eet is a letter from your father! How sweet of 'im!"
The eldest Weasley brother was quite sure that nothing his father had to say could be more enchanting than the sight of his recently married wife, striding about their bedroom unclad. Lustrous, long, golden hair wrapping around her body like a silken gown, she was more beautiful to him than any full vela could ever appear. Thinking of his father just did not seem quite appropriate under the circumstances.
"Oh, but we should open eet, no? Zere weell be plenty of time for ze beach later."
In a practiced motion, his wife tore open the letter with the long nail of her index finger. Deftly, she removed the slip of paper inside, beginning to scan its contents.
Neither the beach nor letter was principal in Bill's mind for the moment. Admittedly, he had saved his treasure from his finder's fee for some time to afford, the beautiful, Grecian, coastal inlet upon which he had located a cottage, but, given the choice between Fleur returning to bed, and the two of them frolicking on the beach, he would choose the former with no difficulty. Then again, so long as Fleur did not feel the need to get dressed first, maybe there were a few things they could do in the Medditeranean waters or rolling about on crystal sand. At times like these, he hardly recalled scars or that terrifying duel in Hogwarts' corridors. For hours at a time, his wife made him feel as if he was once more Bill Weasley the rackish adventurer, saving damsels and battling ancient dangers. That thrill was what sent him all the way to Egypt as a curse-breaker. He had feared Greyback might have stolen that from him, but Fleur was gradually teaching him that life could go on. In fact, with her around, living was better than it had ever been before. However, she was being rather quiet at the moment wasn't she? He did not really mind (such choices were her prerogative after all), but such long silences did seem rather out of character for Fleur. She was generally quite forthright to the point of rudeness: one of the many traits he loved about her.
Sparing a half-admiring, half-inquisitive glance for his wife, Bill found that her face had gone entirely pale, and her hand was shaking. That was worrisome.
"Oh Bill, eet ees too 'orrible! No!"
With those words, she flung himself into his arms, which felt really nice. Unfortunately, Fleur was also crying, so he had best try to reassure her. After all, as a husband, he supposed he should try to look after her emotional well-being or whatnot.
Ignoring the part of his body which offered rather ungentlemanly thoughts regarding what to do with the naked woman in his arms, Bill rubbed her back in calming circles, whispering reassurances into her fragrant hair.
"Don't worry, love. It'll be alright. I'll make sure everything's fine."
Simultaneously, he decided to find out what had disturbed his wife so thoroughly. What could his father have possibly written which would cause this reaction?
Picking up the paper with his unoccupied left hand from where it had fallen beside their bed, he read the very first lines:
Dear Bill,
I apologize for interrupting your honeymoon, but something terrible has occurred. Your mother and sister are dead…
The letter continued onwards for some ways, but he could read no further. Was this a joke? The mother who had awoken him from nightmares as an infant and soothed him in sickness could not be dead, and little Gin was only a little girl. He sobbed without any conscious thought.
"Fleur, I think we might have to cut our honeymoon a little bit short. I need to be home right now. I'm sorry."
"Zere is no sorry 'ere. I will come as well. Thees ees," she choked out, "ze worst thing zat could 'ave 'appened."
Once he had returned home, the first thing to do would be to cut off some of his hair. Mum would have wanted that. She always wanted him to look more respectable. Then, maybe, he would make sure his brothers were okay; she would want that too. He should watch for Dad as well; he would probably be really broken up about the deaths. He'd just have to help Mum out a bit now that she would be away for a while. That was what she would have wanted.
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It wasn't meant to be this way.
When Percy had first left the burrow, he had received owls nearly every day from his family. His father asked him to come home for his mother, the twins sent him various, insulting pranks, while his mother requested he return for the sake of the family. He, however, had sacrificed enough for the family. In a sense, his whole childhood was lived for their approval. Now he was an adult; circumstances changed.
After Minister Fudge had admitted to You-Know-Who's return, his aims and rationale were little altered. He had been wrong. However, all adults made errors; his thirst for independence had not slackened in the past year. Moreover, Minister Scrimgeour offered to retain him in The Minister's Office, citing a year of impressive dedication as his reason. He, Percy, could make himself a success.
Then his mother and sister died.
He had initially contemplated not even opening his father's letter. Since Christmas, all save his mother's pleading post had ceased to reach him. Nonetheless, more from curiosity than any other consideration, Percy tapped the envelope with his wand, undoing the sticking charm. Another immaculate tap then levitated the letter's contents before his eyes. The greeting was warmer than he might have anticipated; an apology for the interruption was even forthcoming; there was no request to return home; there was no home; mother was deceased; perhaps, there could never be a home again.
Percy would have to think carefully on these matters. He was not one for hasty actions, or ill-thought proceedings, but this had changed matters in a few fundamental respects. The war no longer seemed to bear on matters of good government, or combating prejudice, and the opportunities for advancement the combat heralded felt strangely hollow. People were dying, and not merely those important to the world, but also the few he personally held dear were in mortal peril. Could he live if his entire family was lost to the war? The answer was certainly a resounding affirmative. Did he want to live under those circumstances?
He had to see Penelope.
His entire world had been thrown upside down, but she was still here. She was warm, and stable, and there; Percy needed that comfort desperately. No: he would not act rashly. Her shift at St. Mungo's should be over, so he could likely find her at her flat. Work could wait. He needed thought, but, even more, the estranged Weasley needed to feel. Work could wait.
Not even bothering to organize his desk before he left, Percy Weasley decidedly strode straight out of his office and The Ministry of Magic.
"97 Haldane Road."
Work would have to wait.
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"Good morning, Dudders." Ron inclined his head in mock politeness. "Mr. Dullesly, it is wonderful to see you as well."
Vernon visibly bristled, as Dudley flinched backwards. For a moment Hermione almost thought Harry's uncle would make a grab for the cheerily whistling red-head, but a jaunty tap of Ron's wand proved more than sufficient deterrence.
"And these eggs, you know Mrs. Dullesly, for someone who forced her orphaned nephew to do all the cooking for eons, you're almost half-decent."
Ron had been positively terrible to the Dursley family since the first morning of their arrival at Number Four Privet Drive. She, Harry and Ron had needed to practically threaten Harry's uncle into providing them with room and board for the month. Even then, they were all sharing Harry's room, both she and Ron paying a hefty fee for the accommodations. Vernon had, in fact, seemed rather impressed with himself for getting away with that coup, until he visited their shared living quarters; Hermione was not the favourite student of both Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick for nothing.
By the time the two wizards and witch had drifted off, Harry's quarters had been expanded to a virtual replica of The Gryffindor Common Room, save for a dividing wall, which separated her from the boys. Ron had managed to transfigure an old chair and desk into decent beds, while Harry's old bed had seen some enhancements. All in all, despite Vernon's machinations, they were quite comfortable. The difficulties between Ron and the Dursleys began, not over rooms, but over their treatment of Harry. He, of course, would not hex them, or do any real damage, but, ever since he had sat through a morning of the family's none too subtle insults and demeaning implications, the threat had always been there. Complimenting his subtle intimidation was a jovial, boisterous attitude, which seemed custom-designed to infuriate the strict, well-ordered family of Number Four. As usual, the chess master had well designed his stratagem. That did not mean Hermione was impressed.
"Honestly, Ron, we're guests," she whispered chidingly. "You could at least say their names correctly."
The youngest Weasley's face took on a frustrated aspect, as he replied at an equally soft volume: "Honestly your own bloody self. Have you seen how they act towards Harry? He's had to deal with this for seventeen bloody years."
"Ron, stop swearing. It's rude."
By this point, Petunia had begun to lean in towards the two teenagers, hoping to catch something juicy. Deciding to simply ignore Hermione for the moment, Ron turned to a far easier target.
Giving the middle-aged woman a hearty back slap, which nearly sent her tumbling to the floor, he stated, grinning all the while, "Best not to lean in like that, Petunia. You might get caught in the field of our magic, while were incanting. Professor Flitwick always talks about Barrufio, who was turned into a buffalo, and-"
By this time, the horse-faced woman had virtually leapt away, barely fighting the urge to leave the room.
"No, no," she interrupted. "That's enough. I was just leaving anyway."
With that, Petunia Dursley fled the kitchen.
Now that his relatives were gone, Harry chimed in to help Ron out from across the breakfast table: "Don't worry about it, Hermione. They probably deserve it. I mean, I suppose I am used to it, but there's nothing wrong with having someone keep them in line."
Hermione huffed dramatically, folding her arms, muttering something to the effect of "We are guests, you know."
"S'pose you could call us that, but, considering we had to practically curse them to share Harry's room, and with the ridiculous rent we're paying for the month, I just don't feel too grateful to that lot."
This time Hermione merely curled her lip in an indignant manner quite reminiscent of Professor McGonagall. Before the bushy-haired girl could begin her tirade, however, Harry preemptively cut her off, hoping to avoid a row between his best friends.
"So, Hermione, did that book on the Founders say anything useful?"
Her shoulders slumped in response to the query.
"No. As far as I can tell, aside from the sword Gryffindor left no artifacts, nor did Rowena Ravenclaw. Then again, considering that records of Ravenclaw's line are so muddled, you or Ron could be her descendants. To be perfectly frank, I'm starting to wonder whether there is anything to find at all; it has been a millennium since their deaths after all."
"Of course there's something to find," Harry replied easily. "Dumbledore wouldn't have suggested looking for founder artifacts if there wasn't."
"Dumbledore could be wrong you know, Harry."
"Yeah, but d'you have any better ideas?"
Hermione's shoulders drooped even further at this second question.
"No. That is why I am doing this research after all."
"What? You don't want to do research? Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione?"
Acknowledging Ron's grin, the discouraged witch gave an appreciative chuckle at her friend's jest before settling into a properly offended position, nose upturned haughtily.
"I do more than research, you know."
"Yeah, I reckon so, but N.E.W.T.s are a bit far away for even your crazy study schedules."
Hermione's huff was belied by the slight quirk of her lips, which only grew as Harry joined into the light-hearted teasing. Their bespectacled friend had been far too serious since Dumbledore's death.
"I don't know, Ron. I figure Hermione's probably been studying since at least fifth year."
Ron narrowed his eyes in mock concentration.
"I don't know, Harry. I figured she wouldn't start until September."
"Well, what about the protean charm she did for the D.A.? It was N.E.W.T. standard you know."
"A good point, mate. I suppose all this research on founders might be interrupting her revision for exams almost a year away."
"Oh, you two are just horrible!" Hermione interrupted, but she was smiling.
A non-descript, dull brown owl swished through the open living room window, dropping a letter in Ron's lap, and was gone just as swiftly. The red-head picked the folded parchment up, quirking an eyebrow in confusion. His face brightened as he unfolded the message.
"Hey! It's from dad! He says he's sorry to interrupt our quest and mum and Ginny are… are… are…"
He continued to stutter as blue eyes bugged out, freckles standing out even more prominently as his face turned stark white.
"Are… are…"
Hermione grabbed the letter out of Ron's hands, quite concerned by this point with her best friend's behaviour. Two sentences into the communiqué she understood Ron's reaction.
"Th-They're dead," she managed to stutter out. It seemed impossible, nonetheless. Dumbledore's death had shaken her confidence in the coming war's outcome, heralding a host of new terrors, but this was an entirely different matter. She had slept in the same room with Ginny for two summers now; Mrs. Weasley was almost a second mother.
"Who is it?" Harry asked, voice tinged with a worsening panic. "Who's dead?"
"It's the burrow. Ginny and Mrs. Weasley couldn't escape. They-they-"
The rest of her words were swallowed in a flood of tears and sobs.
"But they can't. They were safe. She was supposed to be safe."
Suddenly, Ron was above Harry, no longer stuttering. In fact, he looked angry: very angry.
"Safe? That's what you call it. Fat lot of good sending Ginny off in tears did. Probably, all you did was make her miserable for the last weeks of her life."
The boy who lived recoiled as if struck. Even in fourth year, Ron had never said anything so purposefully hurtful. They were supposed to be best mates! He stood as well, taking advantage of the growth spurt which left his eyes only a few inches below Ron's frigid orbs. Emerald met cobalt.
"Don't get shirty with me Ron. This hurts me just as much as it does you; after all, it's my fault."
Ron snorted condescendingly.
"Never did get over thinking the world revolves around you, eh Harry?" He was suddenly furious again. "It's my mum and sister who died, Harry. This is my bloody tragedy, so you can just butt out!"
Hermione looked between her friends in horror. How could she hope to fix this? Everything was unraveling.
"Sod it, Ron! She was the closest thing I had to a mother!"
"She was my bloody mother, you selfish prat!"
"Ron, I-" Harry began, but never was allowed to finish.
"Don't bother, Harry. Just keep looking for your horcruxes. After all, gotta save the world, don't you? I wouldn't want to distract you from what's important."
Before either Harry or Hermione could stop him, Ron was out of the living room. A moment later, the sound of a door slamming resounded throughout Number Four Privet Drive.
"What's that racket?" Uncle Vernon yelled from upstairs.
"Just leaving, Uncle," Harry replied, waving his withdrawn wand in a complicated combination of charms. The front door slammed again as a trunk full of all Harry Potter's worldly possessions crashed through. July 30th: it was close enough. Ministry be damned: the Weasleys were dying; it was time to grow up.
"You coming, Hermione?"
The most brilliant witch in Hogwarts' recent history nodded dumbly. She simply could not process what she had seen and heard. "Just give me a minute, Harry. I should probably get Ron's things as well. He might need them." Ron had not just left them, had he? Of course, not: he just needed to clear his head, and then they could go back to searching and laughing together. Tears soaked her cheeks. He had to come back, and Ginny as well, along with Mrs. Weasley. How could she live in a world without their cheer?
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In the wilds of Romania, a well-muscled, red-haired, young man was standing in front of a Norwegian Ridgeback who brought back more pleasant memories. He was a reminder of mischief, friendship, and family: relics of a kinder age.
For the first time, Charlie Weasley was realizing facts which he had set aside for years. Dragons were titanic, deadly, man-eating beasts with breath hot enough to melt anything in his experience.
"Jordan, do you mind if I handle the dragons from here?"
"Sure, I'll take a break when I can get one. Mum's been bugging me to sneak a quick portkey home anyway."
Charlie's smile was sickly at the reminder of his mum, who had often urged the same action: not that he ever listened: not that he would ever listen to her voice again. As soon as Jordan was out of hearing range, Charlie turned back to the Norwegian Ridgeback with a smile which did not quite reach his eyes.
"Norbert, I think we should take a short trip. How would you like to see good old England again?"
The dragon roared, sending a fireball rocketing into the air.
That was close enough to approval for Charlie.
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George minded the counter with half a mind, while Fred stood solitary in the darkness. At one time, the twins had put a set of ever-luminous lamps into their basement storage room for the not yet ready for sale, but a simple nox dispatched the troubling brightness.
The burrow had gone up in flames. His mother had returned to ashes, along with little Gin – the tiny infant he had once snuck a toy broom. Even his own hair, the trademark shock of Weasley fire, did not reassure him now. His enemies had fire as well: strength enough to choke his home in sooty cloud.
He needed to escape. The dark and light seemed to oppress in turn. Grasping without purpose, Fred's hands found a not yet honed invention from a few weeks earlier.
Trying to compete in the firework market was hard. Wet-starts were already cornered by Zonko's shop, so they needed a new angle on the product. Fowl Fire was a long shot, but, taking inspiration from howlers, the twins saw some potential in letters which spelt out their messages in dramatic fireworks. Unfortunately, about a third of their testers were scorched by early detonation, as the charm was proving incredibly difficult to time delay once the recipient retrieved his or her letter. What a useless piece of rubbish: just like everything else in the shop.
Barely resisting the urge to hurl the enchanted parchment from fear that the WWW product would go up in flames on impact, Fred carefully placed the product on a desk, using his other hand to punch the wall. The impact hurt, but he would live. What good was anything in the shop? The galleons they made had not saved their mother or sister; more likely, their sales helped to start the blaze. Fred blinked in darkness: an epiphany. He and George had made some pretty dangerous stuff over the years. Although they never marketed the failed projects, most of the ever-leaking lollies and whipping wigs were still around the basement somewhere, along with numerous other items. He should talk to George first, but maybe they could arrange a few accidents. The live of a death eater was fraught with peril after all. Those death eaters deserved some bloody peril after what they did to his mum.