Chapter 3
Mania: Excessive excitement or enthusiasm; craze. Sometimes used to refer to irrational behaviour.
Ron was familiar with the phenomenon.
He had in fact encountered it several times during his years in the field.
Generally, it was in the context of rapid spell work and loud exclamations of "What the bloody hell are they thinking? Fucking moron!"
This tended to be followed by a violent altercation and an arrest, although there were those times when it ended more unfortunately.
Regardless, the pattern was rather straightforward and easy to see. A person or group of people experienced extreme stress, emotions or vulnerability – sometimes all three at once; or over an extended period of time – leading to a lapse of some kind; causing them to behave erratically and sometimes dangerously. Sadly most victims tended to behave in ways that were dangerous to themselves as well as those around them. Often force had to be used to restrain or stop them as they never seemed to perceive the world around them or their situation accurately. Ron's team had been called to confront and apprehend the more violent ones often enough that he knew reasoning seldom worked.
Given his own experience Ron could now say with utter certainty that mania was what he had been experiencing when he chose that ridiculous course of action. Months of depression and emotional strain coupled with obsession, erratic emotions and repeated failures culminating in a feeling of absolute helplessness and a total loss of control or rational behaviour. He had clearly been living out a recipe for disaster. Truthfully, he was a little disappointed that he nor any of his family or friends had identified that that was he had been dealing with in those final weeks. Surely they were all knowledgeable enough to have at least identified it correctly.
It had to have been mania.
What else could have caused him to use such an ill-thought out method?
Ron was by no means an advocate for suicide – and yes he could admit that that had been his intention – but he had always been partial to efficiency. Scouring his entire collection for a solution without rest for days on end was not efficient. Then responding to the expected failure by boiling up all the most dangerous and volatile ingredients he could lay his hands on. It simply did not meet his personal standards. In fact, it was so far from those standards that he would be doing his damndest to ensure that no one ever found out about it.
All of that was good and well to decide or ponder, but it did not address his current issue.
How exactly had a hastily brewed, intentionally fatal potion landed him back in time as his teenage self?
Wizardkind as a whole did not give much thought to the afterlife. Although many had some kind of faith, most people worked on the same principle regarding death: That this was the life they were in and when they died they either became a ghost or moved on to whatever came next.
Such a universal agreement allowed for more cooperation across their respective populations. Pragmatic in a way that wizards seldom were they left all arguments of faith and religion aside as an optional pastime, and focused instead on the three general activities: business, politics and crafting. They would know who was right when they died anyway, so it didn't really matter.
Ronald Weasley had shared this general attitude. Although Fred's death and the war had led him to favour the idea that each person would go to a personal heaven where they would be happy. Idealistic but ultimately comforting.
To be honest that had been his first thought; that he had woken to a place where his greatest desire was fulfilled. He had spent so many years longing to return to a time where he could openly and proudly live as a wizard. That idea had been quickly abandoned. None of those dreams had even begun with washing his face in the shared bathroom of the old Burrow, and they definitely had never been of him as a child.
Staring and the grim face in the mirror he knew he could be nothing but a child. A young clean face stared back at him through the glass, devoid of the scars and wrinkles, freckles and marks that age had left on him.
He was short. Able to comfortably stand straight before the mirror rather than stooping as he had had to since he was fifteen, nor did he have to stretch up as he had until he was ten.
The features of his face seemed to be off somehow. Not out of proportion but simply in odd proportion. His eyes, cheeks and mouth seemed to take up so much more of his face than it should. Correct and incorrect all at once. Had he really looked like this?
He stared dumbly at his reflection for another moment, tugging gently at his too long hair and watching the child in the glass do the same.
His sleeve drew his attention from his face, and instead to his clothes and body. Marvelling for a moment at how huge his feet seemed and how tiny his legs were, he moved on to his clothes. He was wearing an oversized nightshirt, at least two sizes too big for his current form. The long off white garment hung skew on his shoulders and went all the way down to his calves. Ron remembered this nightshirt, with it's long blue stripes and missing buttons, his mother had given it to him after his third year when he had once again outgrown his pyjamas.
He had thrown a fit when it was arranged for Harry to come visit until he had been given a pair of shrunken hand-me-downs; it was one of the biggest tantrums he had ever thrown actually. He had been too concerned of being embarrassed by wearing something like that when he knew that the other boys always wore full pyjamas to sleep. This nightshirt however, had been one of the most comfortable things he had ever slept in and he had quietly kept it as well; wearing it whenever he didn't have to share his sleeping quarters. He had kept this shirt until it fell apart and no longer fit. His mother never mentioned it, but she had replaced it when he had moved out. It was one of those little things that they never talked about, but they both knew he had loved it.
A search of the pockets revealed a blue handkerchief and his beloved unicorn hair wand. The wood of his wand felt smooth and comfortable in his hand, but it warmed slightly too much when he carefully cast a locking charm on the door. That was interesting. It meant that his adult magic core was now housed in this teenage body, making his limbs buzz and tingle as he cast. He would have to be very careful for a while then.
Having secured a little privacy he first cast tempus, finding that it was two-thirty in the morning, his younger self must have been having nightmares then. It also explained the darkness outside the window. Luckily no one would be looking for him anytime soon then. That was good; Ron had too many questions running through his brain to be having any kind of conversation.
The first thing he did was to pull off his nightshirt. He needed to know when he was before he encountered anyone. Most of his things had been hand-me-downs throughout his youth. Remembering his fondness for this particular shirt was sweet, but it wouldn't help him narrow down the year. The bathroom and visible garden were not helpful either. He could only see so much by moonlight alone, and neither had changed much until the war. Fortunately, from a certain point of view, Ron had spent most of his life collecting scars all over his body and he knew each and every one. All he had to do was look for which scars he had and he would have a general timeframe, possibly even the year.
"This really isn't the time boy." Piped the mirror is a gravely voice.
Ron jumped in fright and hit his elbow on the basin. "Shut up!" He hissed, he had forgotten to check if it was a talking mirror.
"No need for such language young man! Now go to bed before I report to your mother."
"Hush." Ron quickly grabbed his wand and cast a freezing charm at the glass. He hand burn from over charging the wood, but at least the damn thing was quiet now.
Creak
A door opened somewhere above him and Ron froze, listening intently but he didn't hear any more movement.
He put his wand back down on the shirt and began his inspection.
His hands were small, soft and only had two scars; one from a bread knife and a small burn on his pinkie. No Umbridge yet then.
His chest bore the scar from McGonagal's chess set in first year. So at least eleven.
No, at least twelve. The marks from Lockhart's pixies were just barely visible on his shoulders and right forearm.
A large angry bite bloomed on his leg. That was Sirius's bite from the end of his third year. He poked at it lightly. Still tender and lightly swollen; so not long after the end of his third year then. Probably the beginning of summer.
Having confirmed that Ron quickly threw on his nightshirt and shoved his wand into his pocket. He opened the tap and rinsed his face.
That creak had definitely been a door opening, which meant that someone else was awake. He knew better than to think that just because he didn't hear them that no one was about. With any luck he could make it back to his bedroom without being noticed. This was all too surreal to be facing just yet.
He pulled open the door…