Spitting out mouthfuls of blood, Ron groaned and tried to shake the grogginess out of his system. He had been hanging there, shackled to the wall for almost two hours. He could feel the blood from his arms draining. His muscles felt uncomfortably tight and fatigued. His head was still throbbing as if his heart had somehow reached his brain. The blood from his head was still dripping down from his head to his cheek to the floor where it stained the carpet. With the amount of blood that he was losing, Ron knew that he didn't have much time left.
Hell, nor did anyone.
With the conversation of himself and Harry ringing through his head like funeral bells, he was almost tempted to just give in. In a way, Voldemort had won. If even Harry, who, in Ron's opinion, was the most stubborn person alive, had perished, what chance did the rest of them stand against someone so powerful and as clever as Voldemort? Was it better perhaps that they all died together? Was it better that they left Harry's good side to fight Voldemort, and even the dark part of himself, alone?
But then an image of his family flashed into his mind – of his parents, of Hermione, Rosè, and Hugo. He couldn't let them die in vain. He owed them his life. He didn't want to fail them like he had failed Harry or Neville. He should at least die trying. After all, there was still hope. As long as it wasn't midnight yet. That was what Harry had warned him. He could be lying, of course. But Ron didn't want to risk that thought. No. He had no time for doubts. He needed to get out of here . . .
But how?
He scanned the room, trying to think of something that would help him . . . But besides the chairs, sofas, and armchairs, there was nothing really useful. But then a thought crossed his head.
Maybe if he could bring something towards him . . .
His face crunched in concentration, he closed his eyes and tried to will the one object that would get him out of here.
'Accio wand!'
But nothing came to him.
Shit.
Groaning, he pointedly glared at the chains that he was attached to. He knew that they were enchanted to prevent him from using any spell. Funny . . . They were almost similar to the enchanted objects that the Aurors used. But he didn't have time to dwell on that.
Think, he thought firmly.
At the thought, he glanced to his left, his mind racing. He had to get out of here. There was a small, aloft window that Harry had been standing beside just moments ago. Ron looked outside. Through the thick mist ahead, he could see the faint blur of the moon above. That meant that he had about half an hour to save the Order. But how could he warn the Order in this state? He didn't have a wand. Nor did he have any means to unchain himself. He looked to his right and found Neville's lifeless body lying spread-eagled on the floor.
Feeling a jolt of pain, he quickly glanced away. But as he did, a thought occurred to him. Why the hell was he still alive? Why hadn't Harry killed him? Did he really think that they were friends? Did he somehow remember Ron? But he couldn't have. He had given such a distrustful look before he had left. He hadn't recognized Ron. Even when he had reverted back to his own self. Even when his eyes were green again.
Then it dawned him.
Harry hadn't kept him alive out of an act of mercy. It was just that Voldemort hadn't commanded him to kill Ron. But why . . .? It must've been because of Ron's blood status, right? Ron remembered that Harry had invited him to join the Death Eaters. Of course, since being pureblood was a rare status nowadays. They didn't want to lose the most prominent pureblood family. They must be wanting him to join along. And Neville, of course, being the half-blood, had taken the bait basically. God, Neville . . . What were they going to tell Hannah? But almost as if a Hermione was ringing in his head, he redirected his attention on the task at hand.
That's it! he thought with fervor.
He was rather impressed with himself by the deduction. He knew what he needed to do. But it was so dangerous. He might even have to risk a few lives to achieve it. But there were so many lives at stake: the Order, the villagers, and even his own dad! He vaguely recalled Harry's warning about his dad. Even though, his conversation with Harry felt like a dream – a nightmare. Had his dad really been captured? Had the Death Eaters hurt him? Had Harry hurt him? Or Harry lied about it? With all these questions racing in his head, he could almost hear Hermione's emphatic tone.
'Think!' demanded the voice.
He groaned. Harry and Hermione had always been the best at getting out of difficult situation. He had never been good at it. But what was his strength? What was something that he had always been better at . . . Far more than the other two?
That's it!
Chess.
Strategy. Thinking ahead. Planning. Manipulating the board, so to speak. Figuring out the positions of the chess pieces.
All right. Let's do this.
Time to have a date with destiny.
There was only one way to fix this. No, scratch that. Well . . . two, really. First, he needed access to a wand. Second, he needed Harry's help above all else. He had to bank on the fact that Harry was no longer under the influence of Voldemort. A large part of Ron, however, refused to get help from Neville's murderer. But Dumbledore's words resounded in his head above all other doubts. It was true . . . they were not Harry's victims.
They were Voldemort's.
No, he needed Harry's help. The real Harry.
It was either they all died together, or he would die trying to save them. He needed the Order to be here. To help the villagers. But to do that, he needed inside access through the Death Eaters. He needed his wand. He needed to save his dad. Hell, he even needed to save Harry. Harry needed healing. He needed to get away from Voldemort's influence. He deserved a second chance . . . Right?
"Oi!" Ron barked loudly. "I know you're out there, you filthy rats! I've got something to say."
It was strange. He found that thinking ahead actually alleviated the fear. Well . . . a bit. But everything was resting on the player's move. On the player's fastidious eye movements, critical thinking skills, judgments, and prior experience. Every game was a different result. A different plan. A different strategy. He just needed to predict the outcomes per se. And like every chess player, it was best to start with the pawns first. He knew what he needed to do.
He needed to surround their king. But to do that, he needed to move up in rank: first the pawns, then the knight, then the king.
Of course.
He looked at the sound of footsteps. Through the dim light of the floating candles, he watched as two hooded figures approached, their thin frames curtained by their dark cloaks. As they approached, however, they slowly lowered their hood. Ron nearly blanched at the sight. They were familiar to him. How many times had he sent them to Askaban only for them to break out every single time? Regardless, he just hoped that they wouldn't cause too much trouble. But then, a flicker of doubt appeared at the back of his mind. They looked mildly annoyed for the commotion that he was causing. But then, an image of his family flashed into his mind. He didn't need to doubt himself . . .
He was in control of the board this time.
"Well . . .?" said the shortest Death Eater – Avery, if Ron wasn't mistaken. He regarded Ron with an indifferent raised brow. "Spit it out, Weasley."
"If this is some idea of a joke . . ." threatened the other Death Eater, a fist raised. Ron recognized the man as Rodolphus Lestrange.
"It's not, you skiving, thieving button-burster," said Ron, his temper flaring. "Listen here. I've got a few words with your Master, hear?"
But the two Death Eaters froze, a hint of suspicion and wariness on their faces. They glanced at each other with raised eyebrows. It was almost as if they needed confirmation on what they were hearing was right.
Then, Avery smirked.
"Change of heart, Weasley?"
"Well, you see . . ." said Ron, feigning a thoughtful expression. "Chucking Death Eaters in Askaban didn't seem to be the best way to spend a man's pastime, did it?"
Avery's stilled; he looked mildly annoyed. "I suppose not," he bit out with a pointed glare.
Lestrange, however, shot him a distrustful look. "You would leave your family and come along with us?"
Ron froze. He hoped that the Death Eaters wouldn't notice his hesitation. But the idea of dishonoring his family hurt him more than ever. But he had to do it. To save them. Wasn't it all about intentions, anyway?
Ron gritted his teeth. "They're blood-traitors," Ron bit out, looking at Lestrange dead in the eyes. "Tell your Master I want nothing to do with them."
But Lestrange narrowed his eyes. It was clear that he still wasn't convinced.
"This hasn't got something to do with Potter, has it?"
"You were here, you butter-fingered dunderhead," snapped Ron, fighting the ripple of annoyance at Lestrange's suspicion. "You heard everything."
Lestrange sneered.
"Unfortunately, Weasley –"
"With the Chosen One gone," Ron cut him off quickly, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "what chance does the rest of us have?"
They were pawns to him. And he was the player – the competitor. He could do this. He just needed to concentrate. He just needed to stay calm. To not panic. To play it cool – the way that Harry did it. What was to be was to be. The result didn't matter. Only the path to the result mattered. Whatever happens has to happen. At least he had tried.
Avery smirked. "Well, well, well," he said, a smug look on the face that, in Ron's opinion, should be illegal. "It seems that Potter has proven to be a most effective ally over the years. Convincing one of the most prominent blood-traitor families . . . Now that's talent."
Ron shot him a serious look.
"Take me to him."
But Lestrange leaned forward. "Any hint of treason, Weasley," he warned, almost nose-to-nose with Ron. "any at all . . ."
"My head," muttered Ron, disgruntled. "I know."
But suddenly Avery interjected. "Would you consent to Vertiserium?" he asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Ron felt his heart racing.
"Have you got any to spare?" he asked suspiciously, trying to stall long enough. But Lestrange threw an irritated look at Avery. It was clear that he wasn't pleased with the question.
"Well," said Avery dully, unfazed by Lestrange's irritation. "Not exactly. Just seemed like a good threat."
But suddenly inspiration dawned Ron.
"Right," scoffed Ron. "And you mock the Aurors for coming up unprepared."
"Which Aurors?" smirked Lestrange. "Ours or yours?"
Ron tried to repress the feeling of unease by raising a brow. He tried to look unfazed by the comment.
"There's a difference?"
Lestrange waved a hand. "That is beside the matter," he said sternly. "What is it you want from the Dark Lord, Weasley?"
"To punch his nose out."
The two Death Eaters jolted in surprise.
"Wha – ?"
"Oh, hang on," continued Ron, feigning a thoughtful look. He was unfazed by their growing irritation. "He hasn't got one, has he?"
"Fool!" shouted Avery, drawing his wand.
"– I'll ring that bastard's neck!" threatened Ron loudly, wrestling wildly against the chains. But his plans finally worked.
They had enough.
"Crucio!"
Ron instantly regretted his decision. He had wanted an excuse to draw the attention of anyone but Voldemort by making up an excuse to shout really loudly. But as he felt the prick of a million needles and his muscles contracting tightly, he elicited a long, drawn out scream that almost pierced his eardrum. He didn't even notice the door bursting open and a long, tall shadow drape across the torn rug on the floor. He just continued to scream and scream. But finally, the curse was lifted. He was left panting like a thirsty mutt, trying to get his brain to function again.
But then, a familiar voice filled his ears. And Ron had never felt more grateful to hear it.
"What's going on here?" demanded a voice. Groggily, Ron looked up and caught sight of a thin, dark-clothed figure.
It was Harry.
He looked annoyed by the ruckus. He stood in the center of the room, his wand drawn, glaring at the Death Eaters. In the dim light, his haggard appearance stood out more than ever. Ron had never noticed how utterly pale and weary Harry looked until now. It was probably born from sleepless night and from being locked up in a prison for nearly ten years. He almost looked like his godfather with his wan countenance and haunted eyes. But despite his clear exhaustion, his green eyes were sharp and alert. His glasses reflected the flames of the candles.
It was strange . . .
A murderer never did look a murderer.
"Potter!"
Harry glowered. Then, his gaze shifted to Ron. He gave him a long, hard stare. He looked almost suspicious. Ron wanted to tell him that he needed his help. That he needed a wand. That he needed to save the Order. He wished that Harry was a Legilimens, but Harry had always been rubbish at anything that dealt with the mind. But Ron couldn't speak. He couldn't do it in front of the Death Eaters. He met Harry's gaze and gave a short, subtle nod towards the Death Eaters. But Ron couldn't tell if he had understood.
Harry turned to the Death Eaters. "The Dark Lord's sent for you both," said Harry stiffly, barely looking at them.
"Now?" asked Avery sharply.
But Ron startled when Harry suddenly pointed his wand in their direction. It was clear that he was impatient with them.
"Get moving," demanded Harry.
Annoyed, they glared at him and straightened their robes stiffly before they began walking to the door.
"Let us depart, Avery," said Lestrange stiffly. "The Dark Lord awaits."
But as they walked to the door, something strange happened. All Ron knew was that there was a burst of light and they slumped down to the ground with a loud thump. Ron blinked. Harry was standing over them, his wand aloft in front of him. He stepped past them to lock the door before he turned to Ron.
"Harry?"
Harry shot him a furtive glance before he drew his wand again.
"Muffilato," he muttered. He then stepped past the bodies to stand in front of Ron. "What are you doing?"
Ron raised a brow.
"Speak for yourself," he retorted, looking at the still bodies of the Death Eaters. They were still breathing . . . unlike Neville.
Harry narrowed his eyes. "You're trying to save the Order, aren't you?"
"Isn't that obvious?" replied Ron, trying to suppress the feeling of unease in his stomach.
Somehow, it was hard to look at Harry. The features that once reminded him of his long, lost friend seemed somehow unfamiliar. As if a mask had been placed over his face. He couldn't look at Harry without thinking of the face that had just mercilessly killed Neville. Gritting his teeth, he averted his eyes. But Harry seemed to notice where his gaze had drifted.
"We've got about half an hour until midnight," he said, almost cautiously. But Ron snapped his head back to him with a jolt.
"You're going to help me?"
"Isn't that obvious?"
Ron narrowed his eyes. "But I thought nothing's worth saving," he said dryly, trying to prod something out of him.
Harry looked taken-aback.
"Weasley –"
"It's Ron to you, thanks."
Harry looked irritated. But instead of retorting, he sighed and shook his head.
"We haven't got time for this."
Ron gritted his teeth. Harry still hadn't denied it, and there wasn't a hint of possession in his eyes or his tone. No. It was himself. He, himself, really believed that. That life was nothing. It was meaningless. But if life was meaningless, why did he try so hard to save people? Surely he recognized those actions? The prisoners, the Order, the villagers. All those lives that he strove to save . . . were all meaningless? Then, why bother? Then Ron looked at him. With so many sleepless nights and little to no comforting thoughts, well, how could he not think negatively?
Ron glared at the torn rug on the floor. "We never gave up on you," he muttered, his teeth clenched. "Even, you know . . . back in the Ministry."
Harry averted his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he muttered.
"You shouldn't be," said Ron bitterly. "It's Voldemort that should be sorry. I don't know how he managed to get to you, Harry. But we'll beat him in the end, won't we?"
Harry looked mildly startled by Ron's determined look. But after a long moment, he gave a cautious nod.
"Right."
Ron stiffened when Harry suddenly pointed his wand at him. He couldn't help but flinch when Harry used his wand. He couldn't even deny that a part of him actually feared him. Feared that part that was almost as ruthless as Voldemort. But then he exhaled in relief when the thick shackles around his wrists burst open. He felt a floating sensation from Harry's Levitating Charm before he was carefully lowered to the ground. But he hardly had time to be grateful.
Bugger.
He ached. He ached all over. His limbs felt stiff and ancient. He was only twenty-six for bloody's sake, he thought grimly. He didn't need an early preview on how it felt like to be old. Groaning, he rotated both his shoulders and winced when his joints give out a loud snap. His head was still throbbing, though the blood down his cheek was thick and dry. With a grimace, he looked at his throbbing, broken wrist. There were fragments of broken bones, and he knew that it was useless.
He wondered how he was saving anyone in this state.
As if reading his thoughts, Harry said hurriedly. "Take a Thestral and get out of here."
"No!" cried Ron indignantly. "I'm not running off like a bloody coward."
"I never said you were."
Ron shook his head. Determined to prove Harry wrong, he placed his good palm on the floor and heaved himself. Blinking away dark patches from his eyes, he wobbled on his feet, waving away Harry's attempt to help him.
"I know I'm not in any state to fight," said Ron through gritted teeth, breathing heavily. "But I've got to try."
But Harry didn't look surprised, nor did he make any attempts to stop him. It was almost as if he had been expecting this.
"You're going in there?"
"You said my dad sent you here?" asked Ron, his eyes narrowed. He turned to lean back against the wall, pointedly avoiding to look at Neville's still body.
"He's with Voldemort," Harry said quickly. "He was caught the night Voldemort broke into the Ministry."
But Ron suddenly felt like he had been drenched in ice. His heart started racing. His lips felt dry.
His dad? His dad was in trouble? Since when? How? He had never left the house for anything but the Ministry. And with the recent 'bladder problem' that he had developed, he was rarely outside except in the most secured places. Was Harry perhaps lying to him?
"What?" breathed Ron, horrified.
"That man you've been living with," said Harry hastily. "He's an imposter."
"Imposter?"
A dim feeling in the back of Ron's mind suspected Harry that was lying. That he couldn't possibly be telling the truth. Hadn't he seen his dad just moments ago before he had left the Ministry? And Harry had accompanied him, disguised as Barty. Did he somehow get a hold of him? Could he really trust the person who had just killed Neville? Who was the reason why Voldemort was here in the first place? But then, he looked at Harry's ashen face. He thought, what could Harry possibly gain from lying to him? He had released him from his chains, hadn't he? He had confronted Ron in order to save the Order?
But the thought that they had been living with an imposter disgusted him beyond measure. While his dad was probably lying in a prison somewhere, possibly being tortured by Death Eaters or even Voldemort, that bloody bastard had laid on his bed, drank from his mug, and even lounged along with his children and grandchildren.
Then, it dawned him . . .
Hadn't Mad Eye suspected him? And Ron had even caught Dumbledore throwing him wary glances at times. That 'bladder problem' was never really a problem at all. It was a trick all along! It was a bloody tri . . .
"That bloody bastard," spat Ron, his eyes gleaming from under his bloody fringe. "He's been – what? In our house for . . . two weeks? With . . ." he swallowed. "Mum . . ." he clenched his teeth at the thought of his mother being in the same bed as an imposter. He could've very well killed her. "That bastard."
But Harry broke his trance. "He's been using Polyjuice Potion to spy on the Order."
Ron snapped his head up.
"You haven't got anything to do with this, have you?"
"No," he said, almost defensively. He looked miffed by the accusation. "Of course not."
He knew that he shouldn't be blaming Harry. Not after he had helped him. But he wanted to punch at something so badly. He wanted to hurt someone – anyone that was in front of him. And Harry just happened to be in the way.
Ron swallowed, his fists clenched at his side. "Where's my dad, Harry?" he inquired, almost pleading. "What happened to him? Is he all right?"
Ron's heart sank when Harry's eyes darkened. He looked hesitant. Ron knew that look. He recognized it. He didn't even need confirmation to tell him that his dad was anything but all right. Something had happened to him.
Something bad. And the hatred that Ron felt to the imposter intensified ten folds.
"Harry?"
"Well," began Harry tentatively, as if treading on needles. "If anything . . . you should know that he's still alive."
Ron's breath hitched. That didn't sound any better.
"That's reassuring," he swallowed, almost absently. But suddenly, Harry straightened and met his eyes with a hard stare.
"Will it help to know?"
Ron hesitated. He wanted to know. But as his gaze drifted along the room and outside the window, he looked at the even brighter looking moon. He realised that they were losing time by the seconds now. They needed to hurry and help the Order. They had no time to think about anything else.
No. He needed to concentrate. The best players chess players were the ones that kept their eyes fixed on the board.
"I suppose not," said Ron finally, after a long pause. But Harry was right. He needed to stay cool. He didn't need a distraction. "Not now, anyway. We've got to save the villagers."
"And the Order?" inquired Harry. "Isn't there an way to contact them from here?"
"An owl?"
"Not likely."
Ron grimaced. Most living creatures were likely dead or asleep here. But then his gaze strayed to Neville's body. As if treading on needles, he moved towards it, his eyes stinging with tears. But he forced them away. Neville's body was littered with broken bones and large, blotchy bruises. He was almost unrecognizable. Ron couldn't do it. He looked away again, his breathing heavier than usual. Instead, he wandlessly summoned the coin and turned away from Neville's lifeless blue eyes.
"Can the charm be removed?" asked Ron hoarsely. He subtly wiped his face against his sleeve, trying to compose himself.
Harry shook his head. "I don't think so," he said, stepping beside Ron. "Knowing the Death Eaters, it's most likely irreversible."
Ron growled in frustration and tossed it aside.
"There must be another way," he said furiously, kicking at a small wooden table near the wall. He gave a loud yelp at the violent contact. But as if broken toes were a sign from heaven, an idea suddenly struck him like lightening. "Hang on. There is!"
Harry frowned from his position at the wall.
"What?"
"Patronus Charms," said Ron hastily, patting his robes for his wand. But then, he realized with a sudden dread in his heart that it was missing.
'Of course it is, you dolt,' grumbled his inner Hermione. 'Look where you are. You're the enemy, remember?'
Oh, right. He was still held captive by the Death Eaters. And that meant that they had probably taken his wand.
Shit.
Hermione had become a bad influence on him.
"But . . ." finished Ron absently, his voice trailing off. "I've lost my wand – "
But as if hearing his thoughts, the object in question suddenly crossed his vision. Ron looked up and saw that Harry standing with his own wand outstretched, the hinge pointing towards Ron.
Feeling a rush of gratitude, Ron muttered. "Thanks."
But as he searched his mind for a happy memory, he realised that that the effort actually proved difficult. Especially with Neville's lifeless body so close to him. Especially with the stark reminder of the crimes that Harry – his once brother in all but blood had committed. He couldn't believe that Harry had such cruelty in him. He was usually polite, pleasant, and humble to be around. But if he didn't recognise Harry's other side, his good and noble side, didn't that mean that he had let Voldemort win? Wasn't that Dumbledore had warned them? That Voldemort wanted to isolate Harry from them? From his friends. From his family. From humanity. To kill Harry's spirit. To kill Harry's true self.
Determined, Ron shut his eyes. He tried to imagine all those times that he had lounged beside Harry and Hermione by the lake. Their studying together. Their adventures. Their jokes. And even recklessness. And the Terrier emerged from his wand, it trotted a full circle around Ron before it hopped out the window.
As soon as he was finished, he stilled. Harry's wand clenched in his hand. He couldn't ignore his conversation with Harry just hours ago. His looks, his tone, his words all echoed in his mind.
"How many lives are at stake here?" said Ron, his voice distant. "The villagers, the Order, my dad . . ." he directed his eyes to Harry. "And even you. I can't imagine what would happen if . . ."
But his voice trailed off. But a voice in his head was deafening. How can nothing be worth it anymore? Surely a life was worth everything, even if it was just one's own. Even without a family. Even without friends. One's own was enough.
Ron narrowed his eyes at Harry.
"You don't see it, do you?"
Harry startled.
"See what?"
Rom gritted his teeth. He had to prove Harry wrong. He had to prove to Harry that there was a part of himself that didn't believe that.
"You'd let them all die?"
Harry looked taken-aback. "Are you – ?" he stumbled back, his eyebrows creased in bewilderment. "What are you –?"
"Answer the question!" snapped Ron.
The fact that Harry was unnerved by the question confirmed everything that Ron had doubted during Harry's possession. It wasn't that Harry believed it to be true – that life was meaningless. It was just that he was unaware that he was proving himself wrong. Like Ron had once been. During his Hogwarts years, he had blindly followed Harry without real considering why he was doing it. Why, for instance, they had saved Hermione from the troll. Or why they had saved Ginny from the chamber. It was mostly instinct that had kept them going. Ron knew it . . .
Because he had once done it.
With a hint of annoyance, Harry pursed his lips.
"Of course not."
"Why not?"
Harry paused. His gaze drifted along the room, as if trying to find an answer beneath the disheveled setting.
"I-I don't know."
Ron clenched his teeth.
"You know why I became an Auror, Harry?" he replied stubbornly, glaring at a torn portrait on the wall. "I wanted to prove my worth. I wanted to prove I didn't need help from others. I thought I could manage my own, you know. I didn't want anyone to think I needed anyone else. I didn't want to fail myself. And I did it. I finally had something going for me. I had myself, and that's all that mattered."
Harry stood silently, his eyebrows furrowed, struggling to understand what Ron had meant. Shaking his head in frustration, Ron wobbled to his feet. He slowly walked up to Harry, his wrist clutched in his other hand.
"You don't have to dig hard to find meaning, Harry," said Ron in a solemn tone. Without hesitance, he took his bloodied good hand and placed it on Harry's shoulders.
But Harry didn't answer. Nor did he meet his eyes. His eyes were hardened, and Ron knew that it was going to take months – years, in fact – to repair the damage. If even there was repairing.
Ron sighed.
But as soon as he had turned around to walk back to the wall, Harry's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Listen," said Harry, his jaw clenched. "I'm sorry about Neville –"
"Don't," interjected Ron, a pained look on his face. "I just . . . I can't think about that right now."
"I know," he replied in a solemn tone. "But in case anything happens . . ."
"It's like Dumbledore said, isn't it?" replied Ron, rubbing at his bruised wrists. "They're Voldemort victims."
Harry's expression became guarded, and he looked away. Even in the dim light, Ron could see how far Harry had been affected by Voldemort's possession. He probably blamed himself every moment, every second for all that he had done. He would continue as long as he lived. The same way that Ron had felt when he had figured out that Harry had disappeared ten years ago. But wasn't ten years in imprisonment punishment in itself? And who knew what Voldemort did to him? He probably tortured him, or even given him the worst treatment knowing that Harry was the one destined to kill him.
Ron wondered who was more hurt, the families of the victims or the suspect himself?
"I've got to get in there," Ron declared finally, breaking the tense silence. Harry shot him a wary glance.
"You're sure about this?"
"It's like chess, isn't it?" said Ron, ignoring the puzzled look on Harry's face. "Surround their king, and it's checkmate."
Harry gave a brief nod. He drew his wand from under his cloak and walked to the fallen Death Eaters, his wand hovering above them.
"Ready?" inquired Harry, a brow raised at Ron. But Ron felt a nauseous susurrus in his insides.
"No."
"You'll be fine," said Harry, almost absently.
Ron nodded. He watched as Harry knelt down, pointed his wand at both the Death Eaters, and muttered a spell before rising to his feet. The first one to rise was Lestrange. He rubbed at his head groggily before he whipped around to stare at Harry and Ron.
"What the bloody –?" he sputtered.
"Whazzgoinon?" grumbled Avery, likewise rubbing his head.
But suddenly, their eyes went glassy for a moment. Ron looked back and saw Harry pointing his wand at both of them again. It was clear that he was erasing their memories. Finally, when satisfied, he tucked his wand in his pocket, stepped back, and glared at them.
"Tell the Dark Lord that he'll expecting Ron Weasley soon," said Harry, a bite in his tone.
But it seems that the order was enough for the two. Without a word, they nodded, though they still looked slightly irritated, and whisked away. But not without a backwards glare at Harry.
"You're a right git, you know that?" swallowed Ron after the Death Eaters had left. If he was honest with himself . . . Harry did scare him sometimes.
But then, the git in question turned to him with an expected look.
"Good luck."
"Same."
Harry nodded. He turned on his heels and exited the room, closing the door behind him. Ron watched his retreating back. He felt nauseous. He felt sick. The gravity of the situation finally hit him. There were so many lives at stake today. Even himself. One wrong move, and it was game over. But no. Harry was right. He would be fine. He just had to learn to trust himself. To trust his judgements. To play the game with Destiny. To emerge victorious. And like that . . . he heard it. It was too good to be true. On either side of the chess board, the thunderous chants of the audience was cheering him on . . .
Weasley is our king.
Right. It was black versus white. Ron versus Destiny. But he couldn't be beaten. Not if he manipulated the board right. Not if he knew his opponent well enough. Not if he could see his opponent's move before it was made.
Harry was the noble warrior. Hermione was the information hoarder. But chess was his strength – his forte.
He could do it.
He was the knight.
He closed his eyes and sank against the wall. His head was still throbbing. His torso and right cheek smeared with dried blood. But then he thought of his family – of Hermione, of Rosè, little Hugo, and his parents, and his brothers.
He couldn't risk it.
"I'll come back for you, Neville," he muttered under his breath. He promised that he would. He wouldn't let Neville die here alone.
Then, he heard the door slam open. But he didn't open his eyes. He felt strong arms grab him roughly under the armpits. He felt himself floating. Be taken away. To their king, perhaps. And one word rang in his ear like wedding bells.
Checkmate.
. . . . . . . . .
With the conversation with Weasley ringing through his head, Harry treaded down the hall towards a large room that looked almost like a guest room. He lingered near the doorway and looked in. Inside, he found various dark-clothed figures, almost a dozen of them. Some standing near the walls. Some sitting on the couches. Some even were toying with a seemingly dead body, ripping apart limbs and flesh for fun. Harry felt repulsed at the sight. He couldn't tell if the man was dead or asleep. But the sharp sting in his head interrupted his thoughts.
Disgusted, he shifted his attention to the tall, dark-clothed figure in the center. Voldemort stood, his head bowed, his hood shadowed his face, his bony fingers twirling his wand silently.
Harry stepped in, his robes fluttering near his feet.
Voldemort lifted his head. "Well done, Harry," he smirked, his red eyes gleaming. "I dare say, I have acquired more benefit than harm by keeping you alive . . ."
"Which part," said Harry darkly. "my life or yours?"
Voldemort waved a hand. "Is there a difference?"
Harry bristled. He clenched his fists, struggling to keep his temper at bay. The Death Eaters around them were staring at both of them with wary glances.
"I am nothing like you," said Harry loudly, his eyes narrowed into slits.
Voldemort's lip curled. "Still stubborn, I see . . ." he said lazily. He promptly turned to the left of the room and stood, looking outside the window. "When will you learn, Harry?"
"I've had enough of your tricks, Riddle."
But Voldemort ignored him. "Time is against you, Harry," he said icily. "There shall come a time when the last light of moon will dissipate. When the shadows shall trounce the light. And only then shall you realise just how relentless – just how similar we can be."
Harry clenched his fists. He met him dead in the eyes.
"I'll hold you to that."
Voldemort smirked. He turned from the window and moved to stand before Harry. There was commotion at the door, but neither of them turned nor did they avert their eyes.
"Until the end . . ." hissed Voldemort in Parseltongue.
Harry stiffened. He suddenly felt like he had been drenched in ice. With a vague sense of reality, he watched as Voldemort took a step back. He was still smirking. It was almost as if he knew that he had won the argument. But Harry hardly registered Weasley being dragged roughly into the center in front of Voldemort. His scar pricked like thorns on his head. What was it that Voldemort had meant by that statement? Was there really an end to Harry? If Voldemort refused to kill him, did that mean that he was going to become Voldemort's permanent servant? Was he really going to let Voldemort have his way with him? After all the bodies already . . .
Then irresistibly, the words of the ghostly man that he had met in the shop near Grimmauld's Place echoed in his mind.
'Mark my words, Potter,' he had warned Harry. 'Seek Dumbledore's guidance before it is too late.'
But was it too late? Was Harry's fate sealed with Voldemort?
At the sound of rustling, Harry abruptly snapped out of his thoughts. Damn him, he thought furiously. Voldemort had messed with him again. But he had to focus. He didn't need a distraction. Voldemort moved to stand in front of Ron. Harry stood behind him, his hood drawn, his head bowed. He didn't want Ron to glance at him. Nor even acknowledge him.
Voldemort began.
"You are a member of the Order, Ron Weasley?"
"Former."
"Empty your pockets," commanded Voldemort. "Remove the coin from your possession."
Ron complied without a word. Harry was quite impressed by his performance. He shot Voldemort a furtive glance but wisely decided to stay silent.
"You wish to become a Death Eater?" inquired Voldemort. His tone didn't reveal his mood. But Harry knew, without confirmation, that he was suspicious.
"Yes."
"State your reason."
"Well, it's like Harry said, isn't it?" said Ron in a matter-of-fact tone, but he didn't glance at Harry. "What's left in the world besides blood and smoke?"
"You are willing to denounce your old ways?"
"Yes."
"Even if, perhaps," began Voldemort almost mockingly. "Your entire family would be killed a quarter of an hour before midnight."
Ron paused. Harry quickly glanced at Voldemort. He knew that the latter had caught his the slip, but he didn't intervene. It was clear that Voldemort was testing him.
"Yes."
But Harry suddenly found himself under the incendiary red gaze of Voldemort, and he hurried to collect himself. He met the man's gaze without a single hint of hesitance. He knew that Voldemort was trying to dig through his mind. He suspected Harry. But Harry didn't flinch nor did he avert his eyes. He let Voldemort sift through. Their eyes remained locked for a long moment. The tension of the room grew thick.
But he had nothing to hide.
"You kept your word," hissed Voldemort in Parseltongue. His eyes burned into Harry's, as if trying to sear into his soul. Harry briefly recalled the conversation they had, about not fraternizing with Weasley.
Harry boldly met his eyes.
"I always do."
Voldemort's lip curled. "With your wavering loyalties . . ." he replied lazily, turning to direct his gaze onto Ron. "Is it therefore the less wrong to doubt . . .?"
Harry pursed his lips. He refrained himself from retorting. He could feel his anger on the surface – bubbling, boiling, unfurling. Like the roar of the waves as they crashed in the ocean. But as always in Voldemort's presence, he bit his tongue and stayed silent.
"Very well, Ron Weasley," proclaimed Voldemort, his red eyes gleaming. "You were taught how to duel, yes?"
"Yes."
Voldemort stared at him for a long moment, his lips curled in faint amusement. The other Death Eaters likewise cackled. Harry felt almost like he had missed an inside joke. But as Voldemort elaborated, he suddenly felt a sting of anger at the implication.
"But of course, as an Auror . . ." he said lazily. "How foolish of me to forget. You will find, Ron Weasley, that it was woefully unnecessary to convert to my side. You were always in my servitude, you see, what with the turbulent state of the Ministry these days," Voldemort smirked. "Ingenious, is it not?"
Behind Voldemort, Harry was boiling with fury. So it was true? Voldemort had the entire Ministry on his side. That's why he appeared that night in the Ministry. That's why he knew that Harry would break into the Ministry to find Ron. That's why . . . Harry swallowed. That's why . . . his victims . . . almost all of them worked for the Ministry. They set him up. They set him up to kill. They made sure that he wouldn't caught by the Aurors. They were the reason why he was caught in the first place. The reason why his aunt and uncle were dead. They sold him out.
Traitors.
"Prepare the others," hissed Voldemort. He turned to direct his gaze at the rest of the Death Eaters. "At this height, the world will see what desolation awaits the ones that dare to challenge Lord Voldemort."
At the command, the Death Eaters immediately stepped out, leaving Voldemort inside of the room. Harry shot a quick look at Ron. The house elves were fussing over his wounds. With a wary glance at Voldemort, Harry turned on his heels and accompanied the Death Eaters out of the house. But as soon as he stepped out, he grimaced against the strong, foul smell of the village. He descended the three steps down and glanced around for any nearby Death Eaters. When he was sure that they had their backs to him, he turned into a small, dark corner near the house and stood there waiting behind a pillar underneath the shadows.
He lurked under a pillar, his head bowed under his hood, looking around for nearby Death Eaters. He felt a shiver run up his spine at the billowing cold winds, his breath swirling out into the mist. And finally, he heard it. The thud of footsteps on hollow wood. He adjusted himself and peeked out. Sure enough, it was Weasley. Quickly, Harry's hand shot up to fist into Ron's robes. Ignoring the latter's cries of protest, he dragged him into an isolated corner between two houses before he released him. He lowered his hood and glared at him, the firelight of the lanterns reflecting off of his glasses.
Harry hissed. "What are you doing?"
Rom flinched.
"What do you mean?" demanded Ron, bewildered.
"You're trying to save the Order, aren't you?"
Ron looked, if possible, even more gobsmacked. He opened his mouth, then closed it, looking almost like a fish as he did.
"I already told you that," said Ron slowly.
"What?"
"You asked me," said Ron, almost suspiciously. "Before the Death Eaters barged in. You don't remember?"
Harry stared. He couldn't help the feeling of unease in his stomach. His lips suddenly felt dry, and he stepped back in astonishment.
"What?" he breathed. He almost opened his mouth to inquire but shut it instantly. He realised why he was confused, but he didn't tell Ron. "Wait, no," he shook his head, straining to collect his wits. "Nevermind," he turned to Ron. "Let's just get out of here."
But Ron didn't move. He narrowed his eyes, looking quite suspicious. "We are saving the villagers, aren't we?"
"Of course," replied Harry absently. He turned to stare at the rotten cabbage garden behind the house, his face paler than before.
But Ron stepped up to him, looking quite concerned.
"You all right, Harry?"
"I'm fine," replied Harry, snapping out of his daze. "Let's go."
Together, they treaded down the trail. The moon glaring at them from above. Their hoods were drawn, their heads bowed, their wands aloft under their dark cloaks. The rotten stench of the village almost choked them. But everything seemed deathly still, almost like they were attending a funeral or something. But before they turned the corner to travel left, they stopped near a pillar and leaned behind it, trying not to look suspicious. They ducked near the darkest corners, their eyes peeking out. They scanned the cobblestone trail, trying to deduce how many Death Eaters were around the area.
"What's the plan?" Ron whispered from the corner of his lips, his eyes fixed on the moving shadows of the Death Eaters ahead.
Harry stared.
"What plan?"
"What are we going to do?" hissed Ron, sounding strangely unsettled.
Harry shot him a strange side glance. "Improvise," he whispered back, hastening down the trail without a backwards glance. "Come on."
As Harry rushed down the path, he heard Ron groan and mutter behind him. "Where's Hermione when you need her?"
Together, they continued, glancing to and fro, their eyes swinging like pendulums, their gazes sharp as a hawk, looking for nearby Death Eaters. But Harry's eyes suddenly widened. Without thinking, he shoved Ron into a dark corner and carefully peeked out of the corner. He met Ron's eyes and jerked a thumb down the trail. Far ahead, there was a large shop – no, a pub – slightly illuminated. It seemed like the Death Eaters were standing there, toying with the sleeping bodies, and drinking merrily on the job. Harry grimaced at the sight.
"How many are there?" whispered Ron.
Harry tried to squint through the darkness, but the effort was futile. He could hardly see anything. All that had everything to do with thick mist and nothing to do with his weak eyesight.
"Dunno."
"How are we going to stop them?" Ron hissed. "There's no time."
Harry stared. His eyes skittered across the village, deep in thought. How exactly were they going to light up the whole village? Wouldn't it be with a spell? And wouldn't the caster have to be near the house to light it up. But there weren't enough Death Eaters or Aurors around to light up almost a hundred houses. That meant that they have to be close. That meant that they didn't need to be far from here because . . .
"These are wooden houses," said Harry, his eyes fixed on the houses.
"So?"
"They don't need to spread out to start a fire," he explained, speaking out of the corner of his lips. "They only need to light a few."
"You reckon they're close?"
"Probably around here somewhere."
Straight ahead, the Death Eaters slammed their glasses on the floor beside the bodies, stepped on them, and exited the pub. Harry and Ron watched them depart, slowly inching out of their hiding area.
"Right," said Ron firmly, his wand drawn. "Quick and stealthy does it, then."
"Come on."
On steady feet, they tagged the Death Eaters. There were about four of them. But they were wasted from all the whiskey that they had consumed. With their heads bowed, Harry and Ron accompanied them until the four split up into twos. One pair went left while the other went right. Harry gave Ron a subtle nudge in the left direction. Ron took the hint and followed. Harry, on the other hand, traveled right. Hastening his pace, he neared close behind the Death Eaters. When he was close enough, he reached up to muffle the man's mouth, jabbed his wand in the man's back, and felt the man go limp in his arms. Carefully, he lowered the man to the floor. But the other Death Eater never noticed the absence of his companion. In fact, he only continued down the path, wobbling helplessly on his feet.
Standing up, a brow raised, Harry pointed his wand and sent him crashing to the floor. At the sound of footsteps, however, Harry quickly turned to direct his wand at the source. But the person simply startled and held up his hands.
"Oi," said Ron, annoyed. "It's me. It's Ron, you dolt."
Harry lowered his wand. "Sorry."
"You took them out, then?" said Ron, breathing heavily.
He moved to stand over the Death Eater near Harry. But Harry didn't answer. So engrossed in his thoughts, he inquired. "How are you going to get to the Order?"
Ron stood up from kneeled position.
"What do you mean?" said Ron, frowning. "I already told them."
Harry flinched in surprise.
"What?"
Ron stepped in front of him, his eyes narrowed. "You saw me, didn't you? You were there in the room with me - with the rest of the Death Eaters."
Harry stepped back.
"Yeah," said Harry, his voice distant. He couldn't help but feel slightly nauseous and unsettled. "I was."
"You didn't see the Patronus?" inquired Ron, his frown deepening.
"What Patronus?"
Ron leaned forward and waved a hand in front of his face, looking quite mind-boggled. "Did Voldemort mess with your head again, mate?"
Harry scowled. "I didn't see anything, Weasley."
"You're taking the mickey out of me, aren't you?"
"I'm not."
"What are you on about?" said Ron indignantly. "You were there in the room with me. You watched me cast the spell, didn't you?"
"I didn't," insisted Harry, annoyed. But then a thought crossed him. Hadn't this happened to him before? His eyes wide behind his glasses, he breathed. "I must have forgotten it."
Ron looked suspicious. He didn't look convinced, much to Harry's irritation.
"What's the shape of my Patronus?"
Harry glared.
"What Patronus?" he insisted, frustrated.
"You've lost your marbles," cried Ron, his arms flailing out. "It's a bloody Ter –" he paused, his blue eyes wide. "You erased your memories?" he breathed, horrified.
Harry shot him a wary look.
"Parts of it."
He was getting a bit uncomfortable about the topic. He turned to stare out into the black mist ahead, trying hard to ignore Ron's stunned stare. Instead, he squinted into the distance, his eyes scanning for any motion, his ears alert for any sound or footsteps. Unnerved by the stare, his hand tightened around his wand. But try as he may to ignore Ron, the other man seemed quite insistent.
"Why?" breathed Ron in disbelief.
But Harry waved him off, his eyes fixed ahead, his tone impatient. "It must've been something important."
"And you thought up the brilliant plan to erase it?"
Harry whipped around. "Don't act like I've committed a crime, Weasley," he said loudly, his face drawn in a scowl. "Voldemort can read my thoughts. He'll know what you're planning."
"All right, all right," grumbled Ron, holding his hands on the air. "I was only curious. Just quit biting my head off, will you?"
"Who's biting?"
Harry missed Ron's lips twitching into a grin.
Before Ron could respond, a slight commotion was heard from the house next to them. They jolted and hurried to draw their wands. Glancing at each other, they slowly moved towards the doorway. There was a faint sound of shattering glass from inside. Harry moved quickly to open the door, knowing that the sound would muffle their entrance. Tentatively, they entered, the floorboards under their feet creaking slightly. Then, Harry grimaced when he felt the crack of glass beneath his feet. He looked down and found a pool of broken glass on the floor, with the splash of blood mingling along with it. He looked up and found one of the villagers, a man, to be exact, banging his head hard on a mirror on the hall. Before the man registered his guest, Harry quickly stunned him for good measure.
"Blimey," breathed Ron.
"I know," replied Harry, grimacing.
But before Harry could move to check the house, Ron reached out to grasp Harry's shoulder. "Wait, then . . ." he began, his eyebrows creased in astonishment. "The escaped prisoners? Harry, do you know Darcey Weatherborn?"
Harry shot him a strange look.
"No."
"Muggle-born," suggested Ron, a brow raised. "Hogwarts?"
Harry let his gaze drift in thought. His eyes stilled on a stone statue near the corner of the wall. His scar prickled like thousands of needles on his forehead. His memories looked foggy and blurry. Almost like a veil of fog concealing everything that was behind it.
"No."
But then, a slight ruckus emerged from the doorway. Harry and Ron shot each other quick glances before they hid away; Ron hid behind a curtain near the window sill; Harry hid behind the wall facing the kitchen. They heard loud footsteps thunder across the hollow floorboards, stopping somewhere near the hallway. Harry carefully peeked from behind the wall. He glanced around the room. His eyes stilled on a large metal plate perched on top of the fireplace that reflected the doorway near the hallway. It showed about three dark-clothed figures. Harry met Ron's gaze and silently held up three fingers to Ron.
Ron nodded.
He watched as Ron pointed his wand at the floating candles and the fireplace to extinguish the lights. Harry turned away and faced the kitchen, his eyes skittering, trying to find something that would trap the Death Eaters. His eyes lingered on the fridge near the pastry. Glancing back, he could hear the muttering of the Death Eaters. They were still in the hallway. It didn't seem that they had noticed anything amiss.
Carefully, Harry reached down and cast a Silencing Charm on his shoes before he rushed to the fridge. He likewise cast a Silencing Charm on it before moving behind it to unplug the extensions. Then, cursing his thin frame, he conjured all of his strength to push it out to reach the cords. As soon as they were pulled out, he levitated it back into the living room but kept it near the ceiling. Taking the clue, Ron cast a blasting charm on a vase near the fireplace.
"What the bloody–?" sputtered a male's voice loudly.
There was a rush of footsteps. They heard a stampede of footsteps as the Death Eaters rushed into the living room. But as soon as they stepped inside and tried to illuminate their wands, Harry send the fridge pounding into them hard. Two of them collapsed under it, but one was not so lucky.
"Get back here, you cowardly rat," Ron barked.
With the skill of an Auror, he aimed his wand at the third Death Eaters and trapped him with ropes, sending the Death Eater toppling to the ground. With the lights back on, Harry and Ron glanced at each other quickly before Ron stunned him for good measure.
"Let's check the rest of the house," said Harry, meeting Ron's eyes. The latter nodded.
Harry turned to travel up the stairs, his wand aloft at his side. He kicked doors open, treaded over fallen items, and dug through cabinets and drawers. Rugs were torn and dusty. Portraits broken and lopsided. Furniture thick with dust. Harry even found large patches of mold on the walls and termites feeding on the wood. Maggots feeding off of rotten food. There was lots of dust, almost enough to choke him. The books that he found were rusty and ancient. Clothes looked worn and out of date, some of which didn't even look like anyone had touched them at all. All of which gave him the hint that this village had been asleep for a while – perhaps even ten years or so.
But as soon as he reached the end of the hallway, he noticed that the last door at the end was hung ajar. There was a light inside.
He peered inside carefully and sighed in relief.
It was just Ron.
The latter was standing with his back to Harry, looking forward. Harry followed his gaze and startled. Impervious to the brawls downstairs, there were two young children that looked about five years on their beds, sound asleep. The girl, he noticed, even had her stuffed bear tucked near her chest. Both of them were still breathing, but they didn't stir.
"Is this a habit of yours?"
Harry stiffened. He turned to Ron with a questioning look, but Ron didn't look at him. He had his eyes fixed on the sleeping villagers.
"What?"
"Erasing your memories?" stressed Ron, running a hand through his hair. "That's why Voldemort never caught you releasing the prisoners, isn't it?"
Harry's eyes darkened.
"He did."
Ron's eyes widened. He turned to look at Harry in shock.
"He did?"
"Only recently," said Harry brusquely. "The Order knew about it."
"They ranted on you?"
"Your dad's imposter. He told Voldemort."
"But you sent Darcey Weatherborn to us," said Ron quickly. "How long have you been doing this?"
"Seven years."
"But you've only just been caught," said Ron, a thoughtful look on his face. "Do you remember sending one of the prisoners to Shreveport Alley?"
Harry stared at him. His gaze drifted across the sleeping bodies on the bunk beds in thought. He did, in fact, remember sending someone off to Dumbledore. But all he could see in his mind was a massive blur in the shape of the figure. He couldn't see the face. He couldn't even tell its age.
"Vaguely," he replied absently.
"You sent her off to Dumbledore," added Ron, his blue eyes narrowed. "Why?"
Harry hesitated. "I . . . wanted to speak to him," he muttered, his eyes fixed on a moving picture of a family near to him. "I thought he'd get my message . . ."
"What message?"
"That I was alive," replied Harry, slowly growing irritated. He almost felt like he was being interrogated. "That I was with Voldemort."
"You could've sent an owl," pressed Ron. "Or a Patronus. Why didn't you tell us? We could've helped you."
"I can't cast a Patronus," he said, stifling his annoyance. He reckoned that it was because that Ron was acting very Auror-ish right now.
"What?" breathed Ron in disbelief. "But . . . you learned it when you were thirteen. You were the best at it."
"I find that hard to believe," muttered Harry.
"It's true," insisted Ron. "You were the best at Defense Against the Dark Arts. Remus taugh –" he stopped, a look of regret his eyes. "Oh," he said lamely. "Right." His voice trailed off.
Harry raised a brow. "Anything else?" he said irritably. "Or do you want to know the colour of my socks?"
Ron winced, but he didn't say anything. Instead, they hurried down the stairs, out of the house, and further down the trail. But when they reached the end near where the Thunderbird was, Harry quickly caught Ron by the scruff of the neck and dragged him behind a stack of barrels. From their positions, they could hear the Thunderbird screeching and wrestling against its chains. But Harry touched a finger to his lip and jerked his thumb left. Ron followed his thumb and stilled at the sight. A row of Lethifolds were slinking away, their cloak-like figures drifting like a bat as they passed.
As they passed, however, Harry suddenly stiffened. There, above a bridge connecting the platform near the Thunderbird and the lookout of the village were almost five Death Eaters. At the sound of cackling, he looked left and caught sight of about three other Death Eaters lingering in the garden of one of the houses.
Harry touched a hand to Ron's fore-arm and tilted his head up.
"There's Death Eaters," whispered Harry through the corner of his lips. "Up there. On the bridge."
From his peripheral vision, Harry watched Ron look up and pale at the sight. "There's too many of them. And we can't let Voldemort know what we're doing."
Harry stared. He scanned the whole length of the bridge, trying to think of something. But then, his eyes lingered at the ropes that held the wooden platforms together. And his lips began moving without his consent.
"We can bring the bridge down," suggested Harry absently. Ron turned to him with a frown.
"How?"
But Harry already started maneuvering around the barrels. "You get the ones near the garden," he whispered to Ron. "I'll get the ones on the bridge."
Ron nodded. "Right."
They parted ways. Ron travelling left while Harry continued to move forward, his wand aloft at his side. His dark robes made it easier to keep him concealed. He moved with the shade, pointedly avoiding the incendiary glare of the moon. From his position, he could hear the faint screeches of the Thunderbird. Carefully, he approached the underway of the bridge and looked up. He could see about five pair of feet. He looked down again and ducked behind a large stack of crates below, trying to come up with an idea. He didn't want them to know which direction the spell would come from. He looked down the trail but there was nothing there that could cause a distraction.
Damn it.
There must be something, he thought. He looked down at the crates in front of him, then scanned the village again. His eyes stilled at the wooden houses. Then, an idea struck him.
His hand moved. His wand pointed down at the trail at one of the windows of the houses on the far end of the trail. Then, in a quiet voice, he muttered:
"Confringo."
The window shattered. From above him, Harry saw the Death Eaters startle, heard their scurried footsteps as they moved to point their wand in the direction of the sound. Seizing the chance, Harry quickly moved to point his wand up at the ropes binding the bridge together.
"Diffindo."
He heard the bridge collapse and quickly ducked behind the crates again. With loud shouts, the Death Eaters collapsed in heaps, limbs piled on limbs, cursing profusely out loud. Some of them had even received broken bones. Still concealed, Harry used the ropes of the bridge to bind them all together into a net. He made sure that their hands were tangled in the ropes to ensure that they wouldn't get their hands on a wand before he turned on his heel and fled the crime scene. He sprinted past the now broken bridge, down the trail, and turned left. He hoped that Ron was all right. And as soon as the thought crossed him, he nearly ran right into the subject in question.
"You all right?" inquired Harry, a hint of concern in his voice.
"Yeah," panted Ron, his face shining with sweat. "Just peachy."
Stepping back, he saw that Ron had made it through with just a blue bruise on the side of his head. But like Harry, he was breathing heavily. He turned to lean on the wall of the house next to them, hands on his knees, but somehow grinning.
"I was thinking . . . just in case you were a Death Eater and all," panted Ron, wiping sweat from his face. "What is the colour of your socks?"
Harry's lip twitched.
"Red."
But suddenly, Harry recoiled, drawing a sharp intake of breath, both hands clutching his forehead. Blinded by the pain, he sank to his knees. He didn't even notice Ron shouting his name. All he could see was the roaring flames in front of him, the fire snaking and snapping at every inch of wood it could grasp. It was alive. It was furious.
In front of him, he saw the sleeping bodies of the villagers stacked up one on top of each other. Limbs upon limbs. The live tangled with the dead. A circle of Lethifolds were around them. Dozens and dozens of them slinking on top of their prey, draping around them like a comforter into an embrace that would never be broken. But he didn't feel disgusted. Nor empathetic. No, he felt elated. He felt victorious. He could feel the laughter bubbling in his chest. Feel the mad cackle escape his lips.
And he laughed. And laughed.
"Harry!" shouted a distant voice. He felt himself being shaken but he didn't know why. "Harry! You all right?"
Harry snapped his eyes open. Breathing heavily, his face drenched in sweat, he dazedly looked up. But for a moment, he didn't recognize the figure hovering above him. He jerked his arm from beneath his grip before everything started to come back to him.
He shakily stood up.
"I'm fine," he said shakily, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Fine."
Ron puffed out a breath. "Gave me a right scare, you did," he muttered, but Harry was too busy collecting his thoughts to hear him. "For a moment, I thought you were . . ." His voice trailed off.
But Harry caught the slip.
Pursing his lips, he said. "Come on."
But before he could leave, he felt a hand shot out to grasp his shoulder. Harry glanced back and shot Ron a questioning look.
"Listen, Harry –" Ron began.
"Drop it."
"You should know –"
Harry shook his head. "I don't want to hear it," he said firmly. Ignoring Ron's regretful look, he beckoned him onward. "Come on."
Ron looked disgruntled but nodded. Harry knew that he wanted to apologise. That he wanted to confess his guilt. But Harry didn't blame him for what had happened to him – nor anyone, in fact. He didn't need his apologies. Except for the Ministry and the Death Eaters, that is. They scurried off, their cloaks billowing behind them. In the back, the Thunderbird screeched behind them, though it sounded more and more distant as they moved. They stopped near a large, dry stone wall fountain in the center and glanced around for any nearby Death Eaters. The fountain was actually in the shape of a Thunderbird, its wings outstretched, its mouth agape. Harry supposed that it was intended to spit water, but it looked to be dry now.
"Wish we could use them as pawns," Ron muttered under his breath. But Harry looked up at him.
"The Death Eaters?"
"Yeah," suggested Ron. "like . . . Death Eaters against Death Eaters . . ."
"What do you mean?" asked Harry curiously, a brow raised. "Use them against each other?"
"Yeah, sort of like that."
Harry frowned, his eyes fixed ahead.
"I don't think they'll be convinced."
"I know," he replied hastily. "Stupid plan."
But Harry's gaze stilled at a green signpost near the door. And like a gift from Heaven, he suddenly had an idea. "Wait, no," said Harry slowly, his eyes wide. "That's-that's brilliant."
Ron startled.
"What?"
"The Imperius Curse," said Harry hastily. "They can't throw it off."
"And risk a life sentence in Askaban?" demanded Ron, his eyes as wide as a pocket watch. "Are you mad?"
Harry grimaced. "I've already got my spot reserved, thanks."
Ron winced at the dry comment.
But after a moment of deliberation, he nodded. "I suppose," shrugged Ron. "Guess if the Ministry's after my head anyway, it's worth a shot, right?"
Consequently, they retraced their steps. They returned back to the places where they had taken down the Death Eaters, awakened them, and cast the Imperius Curse. But the effort near where Harry had taken down the five Death Eaters near the bridge actually proved difficult. They had to stun them first. But as they tried to detangle them from the ropes, they accidentally cut some flesh from the Death Eaters while using the Severing Charm. But all in all, they were minor injuries. Though Harry would admit, he didn't care an iota what happened to them. But soon, they Imperiused them and sent them off.
When they were finished, Ron actually looked pleased with himself.
"Well, that really lifts a man's spirit, doesn't it?" he remarked, watching the last Death Eater limp away. Harry absentmindedly rubbed at his head.
"I suppose."
Ron looked back at him, concerned.
"You all right, Harry?"
His head was searing with pain. He turned away from Ron to lean his forehead against the stone wall of the bridge behind him. He could see it again.
The fire. The smoke. The ruins.
He shot a furtive glance at Ron before he looked around. The blinding light of the waning moon teased him from above. The rotten stench of the village a foul reminder of what was to happen. He could smell the smoke – the fire from down the trail. But the village was deathly quiet, impervious to the turmoil and the chaos. Dimly, he could hear the screeches of the Thunderbird from afar. He looked around hastily, trying to find something – anything, that would give him a higher elevation.
And he found it.
A Watchtower! Without thought, he ignored Ron's shouts and bolted to his left. He leapt over overturned shop stations, over the sprawled bodies of the sleeping villagers, and down the trail. His mind was numb. He felt sick. He felt dirty. He felt nauseous. He sprinted down and climbed the steps of the Watchtower two steps at a time. As he neared the edge, he stilled in horror.
His heart surged to his throat at the burning red smoke near the edge of the village. He could even see the sleeping bodies of the villagers piled up one on top of each other in the dead center, Voldemort hovering over them. He could see almost a dozen Lethifolds consuming them, digesting them until they were nothing more than a memory. He could smell their burnt flesh, the burnt wood of the houses, and . . . death. Combined with the already rotten smell, the place reeked with death.
They were too late.
Harry blanched. His gaze fixed numbly on the daunting figure of Lord Voldemort. The latter stood, his wand outstretched, ready to cast the spell that would leave the whole place smothered with the ashes. He looked down the trail. He could see the ominous cloud of the smoke far across. It was familiar. Of course it was. It was a cold reminder of that night. The night that he had told Ron about. This village would perish just like his victims if Voldemort implemented his plans. And no one would even notice that its gone. These people would just be a memory. Forgotten. Meaningless.
Harry couldn't let that happen. He had brought Voldemort here.
And he would be responsible for taking him out.
As if reading his thoughts, a hand shot out to clutch at his shoulder. Funny, it was almost if he had known what Harry was planning.
"Harry –" Ron started.
Harry stepped back and let the hand fall for his shoulder. He turned to face Weas – Ron – with both determination and ambivalence on his face.
"You've got to listen to me."
"Like hell I'll listen to you!" said Ron angrily.
Frustrated, Harry shook his head. He grabbed Ron's upper arm and tried to push him to leave.
"You've got to get the villagers out of here."
Ron jerked his arm back. "You're going in there?" demanded Ron, rattled. "You're going to get yourself killed."
"I'm the reason why he's here in the first place," Harry snapped impatiently, his wand clutched tightly in his hand. "It's got to be like this."
Ron clenched his jaw. But Harry kept his defiant look. He couldn't understand why Ron looked so hesitant. After all that Harry had done to him, to others, to Neville, did he really care what Harry's fate was? But even then, Harry could see that a part of him was slowly coming to accept Harry's decision.
Finally, Ron stepped back. He lowered himself two steps below on the stairs.
"I'll try to get the Order here," he said, a hint of reluctance in his tone. "You think you can stay alive until then?"
"I'll try," said Harry quickly, drawing the hood of his cloak up. "Stay with the Death Eaters. You've got to find your dad."
"Where is he?"
"One of the cells in Riddle Manor," he replied quickly, already hastening down the steps. "Under the Invisibility Cloak."
"Harry, I –"
"Go," he demanded from his shoulder, halting in the middle of the steps. "I'll hold him off. You get the villagers."
"Wait –"
"Go!" bellowed Harry.
Pursing his lips, Ron nodded. Harry watched him turn on his heels and down the steps. All the while, he tried to calm his own racing heart. Taking a deep breath, Harry forced aside any unnecessary thoughts and bolted down the stairs of the Watchtower towards his so-called Master. He needed to save the villagers. He couldn't let them die the way each one of his victims had. Almost a thousand people . . . Harry would never forgive himself for letting this happen to them. He didn't even care that they couldn't feel it. He didn't even care that they were asleep.
No.
It was time to part ways with Voldemort. It was time that he showed Voldemort where his real loyalties lied.
A/N: I know, it's late. But it's not because I've abandoned it. I've been working ahead. I actually had to split this chapter because it was getting too long. I'm already halfway finished with the next, so hold your breath (seriously).
I got a lot of feedback last chapter, so thanks for that. I really did appreciate all the reviews. And I'm glad you all enjoyed the Harry/Ron interactions. I really like their friendship in the books. I feel like it's very underrated for Hermione's sake. People often underestimate Ron. I like how, whenever Harry suggests something, Ron is quick to jump in, even if he's scared or unsure. That's character strength. Sure, he has flaws, but who doesn't?
Yes, I did bump it up to M-rating. It was getting too dark.
R&R!