Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, Season 10, Round 9

Team: Holyhead Harpies

Position: Beater 2

Prompt: Ron Weasley

Optional Prompts: (object) knife, (spell) Aguamenti, (dialogue) "Never in a million years would I touch that!" - "And why's that?"

Word Count: 2503

Warnings: Multiple character deaths via murder, implied torture, mild swearing, obsessive behaviour, mentions of blood

Notes: Set post-war. Ron and Harry are roommates, and Ron and Hermione are not together, so...maybe slight canon deviation?

"Did you see that Umbridge was murdered?" Harry asks one morning as he peruses the newspaper. He doesn't sound sad — how could anyone be sad? — but shocked, more like. "I thought her home was one of the most secure ones in the community."

Ron turns away from the sink, where he's rinsing the breakfast dishes. Wiping a butter knife with a towel, he says, "That must've been some really advanced magic for the murderer."

"I guess." Harry's shock ebbs away, to be replaced by curiosity. "I wonder if Hermione knows anything about that."

Ron fights to keep his voice neutral, even though panic slices through his gut. "She might," he ventures. "I could ask her — I am supposed to meet with her today."

"Nah." Harry yawns, closing the newspaper and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "It's not something I think either of us is interested in knowing about." He shrugs, smirking. "I'm feeling nice today, so I'll spare you from it."

"My saviour," Ron drawls, secretly relieved.

"Hermione?"

"Yeah?"

"I know you're busy right now, but if you wouldn't mind…I have a question about ward magic. For a case I'm assigned to."

Umbridge's killing had been clean. A little too unsatisfying, given what she had done to Harry at Hogwarts, but he had been worried about the wards reactivating — Hermione had warned him that he would only have a little time before the wards would spring back up and sound an alarm.

Of course, this information had been asked for under "scrupulous" circumstances, so hopefully Hermione hadn't made the connection. She could be a little too smart sometimes. But she hadn't given any indication during their lunch a couple of days ago, so Ron figured he's safe. And the chloroform had been something she'd mentioned some time ago, and he'd only had to do a little work to acquire it — being an Auror, he isn't unfamiliar with the black market, even the Muggle one.

And now…

When Ron enters the kitchen three mornings after his lunch with Hermione, he is immediately welcomed by the sound of a butter knife clattering to the floor. "Holy shit," Harry says hoarsely, looking stunned.

"What happened?"

Harry points to a section in the Muggle newspaper. "My…aunt and uncle," he croaks, his voice shaking. "My cousin."

From over Harry's shoulder, Ron peers at the small text in the moderately-sized box. "Family of three murdered in London," he reads aloud and has to take a step back. That's an appropriate reaction, right?

"I…" Harry stands up abruptly, running a hand through his hair — which looks like it has been run through many times already. "I can't believe this. They're…dead?"

Ron murmurs words of sympathy, but strangely, they're emptier than he had thought they would be. Maybe he would feel guiltier if the thought of what they had done to Harry didn't fill him with unbridled fury, just waiting to be unleashed.

In a way, it had been. Looking at Harry's devastated features, though, Ron begins to doubt himself. Should he have…?

They locked him in a cupboard under the stairs like a prisoner, he reminds himself. They starved him, threatened him, and treated him like a servant, among other things…they were cruel people. They were his family…and family doesn't treat you like that.

Exhaling, Ron refocuses on the scene before him. Harry, staring blankly at the paper, trembling like his knees are about to give out. What can Ron say to him?

"I…I think I need some air," Harry says before Ron can say something, his face pale. "I'm going to go for a walk."

"Want me to come with you?" Ron offers.

"No, I'm sorry, I think I need to be alone." Harry smiles thinly. "But thank you."

Ron watches him go, refusing to feel guilty. No. The Dursleys had deserved this. Harry would be free of them. Never again would he have to look them in the eye and be assaulted by the scars of his childhood. Perhaps this is just a shock, and it will wear off soon.

He lets his rage suffuse his body, picturing a thin, underfed little boy with haunted green eyes and a sad smile. The way he had jerked away when touched, or flinched when someone had reached for him. The boy who had not expected kindness and had been surprised when faced with it.

Never. He should never have been alone.

He turns the brunt of his fury upon the man, revelling in his pleas. This man — Vernon Dursley, had been the cruellest to Harry physically. This man had thought himself truly innocent, reasoning that he'd needed to beat the magic out of Harry — quite literally.

"Aguamenti," he says quietly, watching and basking as Vernon's pleas are replaced by frantic splutters as water fills him from his lungs to his throat, spilling out of his lips. Soon, Vernon Dursley, who had picked on someone who had never been his own size, is no more.

He turns to the woman next. Petunia. She had never played fair either, picking favourites, depriving Harry of physical and emotional necessities. Harry had told him how he'd called her his mum once, and she'd savagely ripped into him.

That is enough.

"Aguamenti," he says without a hint of remorse. She doesn't fight as much, and it's not long before he turns to the last one.

Dudley.

This one…he has to search a little harder. But why should he even look for a reason? This boy is exactly like his father. A bully. He had hurt Harry too.

Bullies do not deserve mercy.

"Aguamenti."

And so he joins his parents.

Ron watches the last of the blood from his hands swirl down the drain as Harry comes into the kitchen. He hadn't slept at all last night, predictably, because he'd been busy executing his most recent mission.

"Morning," Harry says, yawning. "I woke up in the middle of the night, and you were gone. Again."

"I took a walk. Again." Ron's tone remains calm, even. He'd gotten past his instinctive panic a long time ago — all that he feels now is…well, actually, it's nothing. He doesn't feel anything anymore. He knows Harry doesn't suspect anything.

"You should be more careful, especially with a serial killer on the loose," Harry warns, grabbing a plate from the cabinet and heading for the pantry.

"Don't worry, I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," Harry says. "But please, just be careful."

Ron nods, busying himself with washing his breakfast plate.

(This is how he knows Harry doesn't suspect anything.)

Blood. So much blood.

He gazes down at Draco's body, and his bloody fingers tighten around his wand. So ironic — Harry had accidentally used this spell against Draco during their sixth year, but Snape had saved him then. But now there's no one to save him. No one to perform the countercurse. No one to stop the blood flowing out from his many wounds.

Which makes it all the sweeter. Maybe Draco had turned over a new leaf, but that wouldn't excuse his past. How much he had harassed Harry.

He'd deserved to die.

(Harry. This is all for Harry.)

Ron's knee brushes against Harry's as they tuck into their respective lunches with Hermione sitting across from them. All is quiet as they eat, and then —

"I'm worried," says Hermione, her knife clanking against her plate as she sets it down. "I think I've noticed a pattern among the murders, and I don't like what it means. They're definitely not random murders."

"Yeah?" says Ron casually, even as his heart leaps into his throat. This is the one person he is afraid of. She's far too clever.

"All of them are connected to Harry somehow," she says, steel in her voice as she looks at Harry — who has stopped chewing. "Umbridge, his aunt and uncle and cousin, Draco. Whoever killed them is…clearly seeking revenge on his behalf. Someone who admires Harry and wants to hurt those who hurt him."

This. This is why he had been worried.

"I reckon you're right," says Ron, pausing and setting down his knife too. "Do you have any idea who it might be?"

"Someone close to Harry, perhaps," she says, looking at him directly. "Someone who hates his enemies as much as he did."

Oh, fuck.

Harry speaks up for the first time. "Whoever it is, I hope we're able to catch them soon. The sooner, the better."

Verbally, Ron agrees, but —

No, the sooner, the worse for me.

He had to get her off of his trail. She's too close. He needs to misdirect.

And what better than…

Pansy screams, her face bloodless. Her hands and feet are bound, her wand snapped in half and tossed aside, and she's helpless before him. Awaiting his judgement. How fitting, considering how she'd looked down her nose at others, deeming them unworthy because of their lineage.

(Hermione — she'd bullied Hermione, nearly sold out Harry, had made Hermione miserable, she had hurt them both.)

Should he punish her like he'd done the Dursleys? Or perhaps how he'd killed Draco, or even Umbridge? Or something else?

Pansy cries out again, begging, her eyes burning with fear, and his wand snaps out. She needs to be quiet —

"Aguamenti!" he shouts, and her eyes bug out. Water pours into her mouth, dribbling down the sides of her face, and she gurgles, writhing, spitting, fighting —

He steps back, doing nothing as she drowns.

Ron paces the length of his and Harry's sitting room, his mind whirling. Hermione is on to him. He knows it, he'd seen that look in her eyes the other day. Maybe murdering Pansy had thrown her off temporarily, but in the grand scheme of things, what difference had it made? She would make the connection soon enough.

It's no longer a matter of getting rid of Harry's enemies. It is about throwing Hermione off of his scent for good. He's in too deep.

Should he permanently silence Hermione? As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he shakes it away. How could he do that? She is a respected figure in society, and if a famous war hero is murdered, then — well, that would just attract more attention Ron's way. Which is the last thing he needs. He'd been relying on his status as a war hero himself, he couldn't arouse any suspicion of any sort.

And — Ron realises with a start — she is his best friend. But it's not really about friendship anymore. It's a game of cat and mouse.

He…he needs time to think.

There is no going back now. This is his last option.

He'd immobilised Greyback — not without a bit of trouble, because his werewolf body had made him harder to subdue — and now the once-ferocious creature is now at his mercy, staring up with frozen, hateful eyes.

He takes his time in dealing with this one. A knife is a Muggle way of murder, but still, quite effective. When he is finished, he stands up, hands slick with blood, and observes. Greyback is his masterpiece, and even better, no one would suspect his hand in Greyback's death. Greyback had harmed so many people, not just Harry and Hermione.

Perhaps it would not be easy to connect his death with the deaths of the others. He'd waited more time between his last kill and this one as compared to his other previous kills. Long enough for it to be considered an isolated incident — he hopes.

But he hadn't accounted for the door creaking open behind him, and he whips around, glimpsing the shocked face of —

"Hermione?" Ron's grip slackens around the knife, feeling all of the blood drain from his face. "How —?"

"You're good," she says, remaining in the doorway with her wand pointed at him. The shock on her face ebbs, replaced by something more inscrutable. "Better than I thought. You're a great actor."

Ron doesn't draw his own wand, partly because he's afraid of what Hermione might do to him if he does. She isn't an inherently evil person, but she isn't scared of confrontation — and doing what is necessary to stop any kind of wrongdoing, even if she cares about the person.

There's no use in denial.

"How did you figure it out?" he says, trying — and failing — to hide the tremor in his voice.

"You know how," Hermione says, her voice flinty. "I told you how I figured it out right in front of you. Changing targets didn't help. It always, always leads back to you. You weren't as clean as you thought you were."

"But how did you figure out I would be here tonight?"

"I didn't," she says. "I put a tracking spell on you and followed you here."

…Oh, damn it, he's an idiot. How'd she manage to place a tracking spell on him so…discreetly? He'd been so careful to cover his tracks.

But…no use dwelling on that now. He still has one card left up his sleeve. Risky, but viable.

"Well done," he says, spreading out his arms. He feels no remorse whatsoever. Every one of those people had deserved to die — after all, they had felt no remorse about hurting those he cares about. Why should he feel guilty?

"Let me ask you this, though." He pins her with a stare, searching for some kind of sign. Any indication that she'd be amenable to considering his words. "Haven't you ever thought about seeking revenge on those who have hurt you and your loved ones? Think, Hermione. You know how easy it would be. You would feel so much better."

He extends the knife. Hermione flinches, but he doesn't feel bad about it. He's way beyond that. "Take the knife, Hermione. See how much better it feels."

"Never in a million years would I touch that!" Hermione steps back, visibly repulsed. But her hand is shaking.

"And why's that?" Ron enquires, matching her with a step forward. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong," she says instantly. "This isn't right, Ron. I know you're better than this. You…you need help. Just come with me, please."

"Join me, Hermione," Ron appeals, something dark unfurling in his stomach — an incessant need to make her join him, or…

"No. I'm not taking that knife, Ron. I don't want to join you, nor do I want to force you to come with me." Using her free hand, she reaches for Ron. "But I can't let you keep you doing what you're doing. Please, please, come with me."

Ron shakes his head. "You know I can't do that." Any chance of becoming the old Ron — or even repenting for his recent ways — had been eliminated long ago. And now, he's out of options, all except for the one he'd been trying to avoid — or, the tiny part of him who cares about Hermione had forced him to avoid it until now. He has to stop her at any cost.

So, he lunges for Hermione.