Hello there, again!
As a historian myself, I am a man who feels proud of his vast knowledge of our world. Now, as a wiseman, I feel stupid think so of me. I have lived a long life. I have questioned people much older than I, and much wiser. I have read the works of those wisemen before me and my time. I could recall the story of our world even with a few glasses of whiskey on me; and I would not find it more troublesome than tying my shoelaces.
Yet such a skill does not speak well of me, but of all those who lived before our time.
I find in peace the keeper of stories. And we have lived a long one since the Ancient Age came to an end. Surely, a few dark lords had risen and seized power for themselves. But there was always a hero to stop them; their names well written into the history of our world.
But war, oh, war is a tumour to history. It erases it all, both the written and the spoken. That which lies in a book and that which runs from father to son. Heroic deeds and evil doings. That which is already known and which is yet to be known. Like an empty hole in our memories. I find that sensation a most unpleasant one.
But then I cast aside that wiseman side of me, and I became a man once more; with his feelings and thinkings. That's when I close my book and set my quill aside. Because even I, an utter fool, know there are things which are better left forgotten. There was a reason why the wizarding kind was almost wiped out centuries ago. I would rather have it an unknown reason still.
Lawrence the Third, in 'History of the Wizarding World', chapter 2.
Chapter 53 - Children playing war
Ron drew in a deep breath, trying to pour as much air as possible into his exhausted lungs. It hurt so much he almost gave up on the task, each breath carrying the foul, steely, taste of blood. Yet he stood up once more, his mind too stubborn a wall for pain and fatigue to crumble.
"Again," he just said, coughing out a mix of spit and blood.
The man in front of him just gave the boy a curt nod. Tall and lanky, he was, but of strong muscles and quick of hands and feet, of few words and even less gestures. A squib, he had been told, but also a very proud member of Nurgon. This weekend Ron had been told to leave his wand behind, as he would focus on another aspect of the game: hand to hand combat. Though full of doubts about its use and need, he had accepted without a word of complaint.
Obviously, it had not been a pleasant experience so far.
Ron had been hit in every part of his body. And some had been so punished, such as thighs, face or guts, he was far past the point of feeling anything but numbness. He could count with the fingers of one hand the number of blows he had dealt on his rival; if such a hand was that of a maimed man, of course. At least there was no sand to swallow in this pit, nor cold stone to feel its rough caress. The mat had a soft touch in each kiss.
Still he pushed through it all and circled his opponent, who just mirrored him. Their eyes met in a silent duel. And Ron lunged at his legs. It took the man little effort to punish his audacity. He withstood the assault, and somehow turned the tables around in the blink of an eye. Now it was Ron who found himself on the ground yet again, with a forearm of steel on his gullet. He could but tap defeat after a few seconds of resistance, and so he was granted a new breath.
"Halt!" Jakob shouted from atop of the platform. He then made his way down, sparing a subtle nod to the fighter before he took his leave. "It wasn't so bad for a beginner," the pureblood said as he pulled Ron back on his feet. "I've seen way worse, trust me."
"Ain't this a pretty sight, to see your face without a mocking smirk?" Ron grunted.
At last the smirk appeared, as mocking as ever. "Been there, done that. My face has also been used as a punching bag plenty of times. You ain't so special, Ronald. Now, follow me. My father wants a word with you."
It took Ron a while to be ready to take another step forward, and the short stroll to where the lord oversaw his students felt endless and of utmost hardship. It was now when the pain he'd been able to suppress came back at him; and it did so with a furious roar. But at last they made it to the stairs of the platform, and there he could but groan and take them up.
Lord Covan did not turn back to greet them, "Rough morning, I take it."
"Rough weekend," Ron observed curtly, to which Jakob grinned. "But I told you that I would never complain and do whatever you asked of me, my Lord. And the word of Weasley is a sacred thing to us. For the better and the worse."
"The Open of Berlin has finished," the lord continued. "As we expected, Ousmane Diop was crowned victorious, therefore he won his way into the Major. Theodore Nott came second, though victory was never in his reach. Ume Sang-hyeok took the bronze medal. They all will be your rivals in the Major."
"Did Nott defeated her?" the redhead asked.
"No, it was Diop's work. She fell on the hardest end of the bracket, that girl. But let us not waste our precious time on them. Say, how do you feel, Ronald? The tournament is almost upon us, and you need to be ready to stand in front of such a crowd. To fulfil the expectations. To prove Nurgon we did not make a mistake with you."
"I feel better than ever," Ron said bluntly. "I feel strong. I feel quick, both mentally and physically. I feel confident. And most importantly, I know the effort I have put into this. I know better than to underestimate any opponent. I will compete feeling inferior to no one, my Lord, just as I will disrespect no one. And whatever happens, so be it. I will give my best regardless of who stands in front of me. That is all I know."
At last did Lord Covan turn, and his face seemed set on stone when he glanced at his pupil's face. "You speak no lies, I see," he observed. "If so, let it be known a new wizard will represent Nurgon. I will meet you in San Francisco. You are free to bring any companion of your choice. I will also take charge of their stay and expenses, of course."
For a moment Ron considered the choice, though briefly. It would be better to go alone, he reckoned. Fewer distractions and headaches. It felt bad to think so of his family, but this was a world they did not belong to. And that thought amused him in a dark way. To think he had ended up so deep into the pureblood world he once despised so much!
He went back to Hogwarts through portkey when the sun hid under the endless plains of Nurgon. Umbridge wasn't there to greet him, as per usual. The castle was silent and cold, though yet to be swallowed by the night's darkness. A few times Ron glanced back to see if someone was following him, just as he expanded his aura as much as his exhaustion allowed him. There was no one in his tail. He hesitated, then, about to take up a staircase and quest to the Room of Requirement, where a lesson of Defence was being held now.
His legs did not allow him so, and started the way down by themselves. He'd already eaten in Nurgon, so he just strode through the common room, ignoring what little glances were sent in his direction, and stormed into his dormitory.
Just to almost crash into Theodore Nott.
The lanky boy sent Ron a cold glare, but one devoid of his usual contempt. His eyes were heavy, half-lidded, but there were no black spots around them this time. "Already back from Nurgon?" he just asked. Ron was left speechless, then. "Oh, come on, don't be so oblivious. Did you really think you'd become an apprentice to Lord Redfield and I would not hear word of it? Please, wake the hell up, Weasley."
Ron scowled as he walked past Nott, dropping his heavy bag onto his bed. There he emptied it; smelly, worn robes went into his vault, whereas the thin book about martial arts he'd been given was stored into the nightstand. "I heard you finished second," the redhead said while at it. "Defeated by that African lad, Diop."
"He's good, that mudblood." A cold smile was drawn in Ron's face after hearing such venom in Nott's voice. Defeat served him well. "He's a year older than us. And his wandless magic is simply astonishing. But he has many flaws to his game. Flaws that I will exploit in San Francisco."
The way he allowed those words to hang into the air told Ron he also knew of his participation. "Anyhow, I can't complain much about the weekend. It was much better practice than that you gave me," Nott went on. "I just cannot wait for the day to come, you know. To finally measure myself on the big stage. To make my lord father and my House proud."
"Well, you do that," Ron snorted as he closed the curtains around his bed. "Good night, Nott."
No other sound was heard until Blaise came into the room late into the night. Ron could but roll onto his left side as the door closed behind him. He could not sleep for much he tried. His eyes felt heavy as rocks, exhaustion too heavy an embrace to even open them. And still did sleep avoid him.
At last he plunged into the strange world dreams were. And it took him little time to realise something was off. Nothing happened, but still did Ron feel himself amiss in so black a void. Time stilled and he found no need to breathe. He felt as if he could move his fingers if he tried, or even his limbs, but there was nothing to move as there was no need to breathe.
Then a bunch of sensations clashed against him.
Anxiousness reigned over them all, like a beacon of light piercing through an overcast sky. Yet it was the kind of anxiousness which put one on the edge, which raised one's spirits, like the thrive of a hunt. Those other emotions, though present, he could not identify them. None but one. It was sorrow, so deep it hurt to even glance into it, so heavy it could take one down into its dark pit. And worst of all, he knew to whom it belonged.
"Gerd." Ron woke up with a gasp, his heart about to leap out of his body. He glanced around, to find himself behind the safety of some green curtains. It took him almost a minute to calm down, which he spent still as a dead man, eyes set on the silver covers atop his bed. He then bolted up and got dressed in the blink of an eye. No matter how many layers of cloth he wore, Ron still felt cold.
There were few people in the common room, so early into the morning. They all kept their heads down and their voices low, books and essays covering the tables' each and every inch. It resembled a frenzied choir from outside. Ron just slithered past them, like those snakes depicted on the carpet he walked over. Once outside, he just closed his eyes and focused on his Link.
It told him all he needed to know.
Thirty minutes later, the redhead found himself on his way up to the Astronomy Tower. The spiral staircase was dark and steeped, and it felt endless thanks to the anxiety he felt. But once the doors opened and the cold breeze welcomed him outside, into the fiery picture of dawn, all was forgotten. There stood Gerd, sat atop of the handrail which ran through the whole Tower, knees clutched to her chest.
Ron could count with the fingers of one hand the few times she had shown such weakness in front of him. And although their Link often screamed those emotions they so tried to conceal, the fact she'd chosen not to hide them from him spoke lengths of the situation. He just made his way over to her.
They found a good companion in silence for a while.
"You have felt it, too," the Essentia said, eyes set on the endless Forest. "For weeks, I have tried to suppress such distress. Perhaps I was at fault this time. A slight dent in my will and focus. Yet I doubt so. It was not my walls which weakened, but the ram battering against them which grew powerful enough."
"What does this mean, Gerd?" Ron sighed, his voice carrying a touch of defeat and resignation he could not conceive. Or one he did not bother to conceive, perhaps.
"It means that a long forgotten threat is awakening," Gerd mused. "I can feel it, how such fear runs through me; just as blood runs through your veins. A sombre omen, carried by the cold winds of winter. Carried by the birds, which are but forced to begin their migration so early into the year. The earth rumbles, too, and such lament echoes through the trees' roots…"
"Yet I, too, stand powerless," she finished grimly. "Trapped here, unable to do a thing but watching from afar as how the events carry out. If only I had not failed when I yet lived, if only I had not allowed Herpo to fulfil his destiny… No, it matters not. I must trust the Future. I must trust fate, that put me into this age. Come the time, we will be ready."
Ron did not feel strong enough to ask her about it. Just as she did not feel strong enough to speak any further word. Instead they both took in silence's embrace, knowing it was the coward's way. But, oh, it felt welcoming enough to ignore such detail. And the sun made its way up meanwhile, its warm rays shedding light upon the castle. And the clouds paled until they turned white, their fiery touch carried away by the morning's soft, cool breeze.
The last week of February went by in the blink of an eye, though at times it did not feel so.
Throughout its first day, which Ron spent it so sheltered in his mind he could but not care about those worried glances Tracey sent at him, he learned many things about the weekend. For starters, Gryffindor had dealt such a stomp over Ravenclaw folk still talked about the game as the days passed. Harry had put on a stellar performance, as per usual, but the whole team had played as if touched by the Gods of Quidditch themselves. The champion would be decided at the end of the year, it seemed. A game between Slytherin and Gryffindor. That part of him which still loved the game could but grow excited to such thought.
He'd also come to learn new members had been accepted into their group of misfits. A bunch of Hufflepuffs, led by Susan Bones and Ernie MacMillan, from what little he'd been told. Though what surprised him the most was the fact Hermione had been the one to invite them; her decision, of course, had been previously approved by the rest of the members. Lee Jordan, the twins' best friend, was also a new member.
It was on Wednesday when he saw it, how Hogwarts took the fight back to them.
He'd wandered through the deserted hallways for almost an hour, trying to kill what little spare time he had between lunch and Charms. Gerd had glided by his side, in silence, as they had found a way to share some peaceful time with one another in such quiet strolls. Then the voices came to them.
It was Marcus Flint who spoke louder, his voice so deep and heavy it seemed a growl from a beast. "I know it was you, bunch of brats. Don't try to deny it. Just be quiet and accept the punishment."
The voice which answered him was one he knew, too. "We did nothing! You are accusing us for the sake of it! Once again!" Such courage Brandon tried to give his words, yet failed quite miserably as it was shadowed by the way they stuttered out.
Ron was about to meddle in wand in hand, partly because he wanted to do the right thing, but mainly because he owed it to those children he once set up so cruelly. But someone else stormed into the scene when he was about to leap from the corner. A strange and varied bunch, they were. Susan Bones led them, auburn hair flapping freely to her quick stride. Neville followed her, wand already in hand, and behind came Hannah Abbot, Ernie MacMillan and Dean Thomas.
He could but lean his head out and observe the confrontation from afar.
"Leave them alone!" Susan demanded firmly.
And she did not hesitate to throw herself in front of the four first-graders. Brandon could but step aside as she stormed past him. The blond girl was also there, Sophie Dorian; as proud and snooty as always, even in the face of danger. So was Darren Davis and the tall, black boy whose name he had yet to know.
"Don't you lot feel embarrassed? To persecute boys half as tall and thick as you?" Dean cut in. It was then when Ron noticed the two boys who stood behind Flint. It did not surprise him to find Crabbe and Goyle there.
"Shut up!" Flint grunted, taking a step forward. His action was followed by a more drastic one, as five pairs of wands rose to the challenge. He halted, more surprised than doubtful or scared. "You dare to raise your wands at me, a most honourable member of the Party?"
"Honourable? You and such a word wouldn't fit together in a hundred lives, Flint!" Dean bit back. "Besides, your dear Party doesn't care about you anymore. They've cast you aside, like a used toy! You brought shame upon them, and here you are yet again!"
"Don't stick your nose in other people's business, mudblood." Such venom came from Goyle. And it was followed by Crabbe's thunderous guffaw. "And this goes for many of you. The smell here is rather foul. Must be the company."
The tension rose so much it seemed to be palpable as silence took over the argument. They all stilled, wands held with such a tight grip all knuckles went white.
"Should you not intercede?" Gerdnyaram asked him, voice full of curiosity. "They may have the advantage in numbers, but I favour those three."
"No," Ron replied. "Not yet. Let's wait and see how this goes."
It was Hannah who tried to calm things down and acted as the voice of reason, "What have they done?"
"Here, take a look at it yourself." Flint pulled something out of his pockets. It was such a small thing Ron needed to squint his eyes. But when he saw it, it took him a mighty effort to not laugh aloud. In Flint's hand lay a sticker, which pictured Umbridge in a not so good light. A caricature, actually, but one so well done anyone would recognise the woman-toad drawn on it. "They are everywhere! Even near her office!"
"And it was us who put them there, right?" Sophie Dorian asked coldly. There was a shadow of fear so well conceived in her words none but Ron seemed to detect. It only pained him to catch sight of such a well hidden scar.
"It was you. Just as it was you who tried to make a mockery of me and my friends!" Flint seemed to growl as he took another step forward. But no one moved away, and that seemed to surprise him greatly. In the blink of an eye the three Slytherins drew out their wands. "We can do this the ugly way," he went on, "and I can drag you all to the Headmistress' office by the ears. Or you can step back and let me punish these brats as they deserve."
If anything, those words seemed to fill Susan and the rest with even more resolve as they held their ground in front of the Party. "Turn back and walk away, Flint," she hissed. Brandon and his friends also drew out their wands, and five became nine.
Whether it was their numbers or their courage, one of them seemed to deeply stun Flint. His eye twitched as he bit his lip in such a way blood poured from the wound instantly. Still he stepped back, which seemed to shock him as much as it did to Goyle and Crabbe. "You'll pay for this," he threatened in a whisper. "All of you. I know your faces and your names. You'd do well not to walk alone anymore."
That said, he stormed away. And his two lackeys followed him with no hint of hesitation yet full of doubts. Luck had it that they took the hallway in which Ron awaited. Flint walked past him, so deep into his rage he seemed to not care about anything else. Unlike Goyle and Crabbe, to whom Ron smiled darkly as their eyes fell upon him.
"Look at that," he snickered grimly as the Slytherins stormed past him. "How the mighty fall! It serves them well, bunch of cowards." Still he did not store his wand back into his robes, as an idea popped into his mind. "Well, let's give this a try. It ain't bad to try new spells in such a peaceful way." He pointed his wand and himself, and thought of himself as invisible.
With no hint of doubt he stepped out of the corner and made his way over to Susan and the rest. Their rushed whispers finally reached his ears as they seemed to not sight him.
"Thank you all, really," Sophie Dorian said shyly. "That witless brute really hates us, you know? He's tried to punish us for whatever reason for a long while. Oftenly, we are walked to the lectures by a Prefect. That tall, redhead Gryffindor. Percy, I believe his name is. But today… Well, today we could not reach him."
"You were so brave!" Darren cut in, way more effusively. "It was so badass the way you stood up to those bullies!"
"Brave?" Susan repeated, as if in disbelief. "I was so scared I almost ran away when that brute took the first step forward!"
"Don't say it!" Dean groaned. "We looked so cool! There was no reason to ruin our moment."
"But I was scared!"
"And so was I! But I said nothing and enjoyed the moment!"
It was so surreal an argument laughs filled the hallway in no time at all; more so given the circumstances. Ron joined them in his own way, with a silent smile. He walked around them again and again, being very careful to not alert them through the noise of his footsteps. Nothing happened. He got closer, to a point in which Susan's perfume poured through his nostrils in a sudden wave. She smelled of coconut.
Cool. It seems the work I put up in Nurgon late at night was of use. He'd suffered from a lack of sleep, of course. But there was so little time and so many things to do that something needed to be sacrificed.
"Professor Gourcuff was right," Neville grinned. "All we needed to do was to stand in front of them and show them we would not be cowards."
"That helped," Sophie Dorian observed, "but I think the fact nine wands rose to answer him was of greater help."
"Sophie!" Brandon shushed at her. "They saved us! That's no way to thank them."
"But it's true!" she bit back.
Ron allowed them to argue as many eyes fell upon them, amused and exasperated in equal measure. On his behalf, he walked away, happy and relieved. They had taken the fight back to the Party, finally.
Spread like a silent whisper through the castle, the fight was taken to Umbridge and her Disciplinary Party. One could not catch sight of the younger students going alone anymore. Instead they walked all together, as a pack, often accompanied by a Prefect or any older student.
And the twins and Lee Jordan made an art of his pranking by using all that knowledge Faith Gourcuff gifted them with. Through the hallways they moved as bees through a hive, knowing all the shortcuts and hidden places. They stung and they fled. And the victims were always a second too late to catch them. Even the mighty did fall. Three times did Ron see the ever arrogant Gertrude Meads run with the tail between her legs, a rain of spells after her, as her two lackeys and sorry excuse of guardians laid behind, put to sleep or stone-stilled.
But there stood an untouchable man.
It was Walden Macnair who captured Dean and Seamus when they spread those mocking stickers of Umbridge all over the castle. Though invisible, he had no problem tracking and seizing them. As punishment, they served a night with him in the Forest. They returned well past dawn, and it was said their faces were dead pale and his eyes deep sunk. It was something Ron could not attest to, but he did see the way they did not utter a word for days and the way they turned fearful of every noise.
The Professors helped them as best as they could, of course. Usually, it was by turning a blind eye to their rebellious acts, others, to appear just in time to save them from the Party's wrath, or even to help them, like that time Sprout gave the twins the smelliest herb in the greenhouses so they could make it dust and toss it all over Umbridge's chambers. That night, Umbridge's temper reached each and every corner of the castle.
And it got worse through the week.
Once, to defend a fellow Ravenclaw, Flitwick had stood so firm and still, his eyes two cold, piercing arrows, Macnair had no other option but to leave. And many students of each side had witnessed such a sight. That day, some came to learn that perhaps they were not so above the rules, whereas others that there was hope still.
So had the week gone by. And now, as they set off for Hogsmeade on a warm, sunny Saturday, Ron could but try to divert his mind from all those worries which laid siege to it.
"And what about next week?" Tracey asked. "I can lend you Darren's broom. I know he's not supposed to have one, but, well, what can I say? It was impossible to refuse his petition when he requested my help so kindly. A big sister has to take care of her little brother once in a while, you see."
"Next week?" Ron mused back, eyes set on the clear sky through the carriage's window. He'd completely forgotten about such a question, but now, as the carriage's steel wheels tapped joyfully against the muddy track, all he could think about was the way they moved. He'd come to suspect they were moved by invisible beasts, after feeling their strange aura. "Wednesday might be a good day, if it's not so windy."
Tracey just stuck her head out of the carriage through the window, "Windy? I don't think so. This is the best weather we've had in a long while. Much better than last year's, that's for sure." She pulled her head back with a wide grin, "We could tell Harry and the rest, also. The Army's members."
Such a choice of words pulled Ron out of his stupor. "Army?" he asked with a cooked eyebrow. "Is that what we call ourselves now?"
Colour did not take long to paint her face; a shade of red so bright any strawberry would've felt jealous of her. "Well, yes, that we do. Is there any problem?"
"Not really. It amused me, that's all."
"Actually, it was Susan's idea. She proposed a name at the end of the last lecture, which you missed. To give us an identity, she said. That and a sense of unity and purpose. She seemed much older when she said so, really. Still, I don't think one of us thought about it. I think we all liked the idea because it sounded cool."
"And who was the genius to come up with such a name?"
"It was Dean," Tracey snickered. "Actually, we are a rather pointless army as of today. We lack a surname, let's say. As we could not agree on one cool and just enough."
"And what did Faith think of this?" Ron questioned.
Tracey sent him a surprised glance. "Since when are you on a first name basis with her?" To that, he could not answer and just gave her a shrug of his shoulders. "Well, anyway. She did not take it so well, of course. Called us a bunch of stupid and delusional children. But still she let us do as we pleased. It was good for the spirits and comradeship, she told us."
"I thought so."
The rest of the journey was a rather pleasant one. Ron slid open the ceiling of the carriage, and the sun shed its warm embrace upon them. The cool breeze brought the smell of flowers to them, though faint as spring had yet to come. Still the trees looked greener than they've done in months, and the birds chirped atop of their branches. From time to time he caught sight of Gerd, who, as an eagle, flew close to their carriage in a wingless fly.
Tracey did her best to fill the journey with words, and they talked and laughed plenty about each and every topic she thought of. She truly had a talent to make him forget about all his problems and all there was bad within the world.
Yet the journey came to an end as the carriage was pulled into the cobblestone road of Hogsmeade. They hoped down and waited for the others to arrive. "Are you nervous?" Tracey asked. "It's said the Shrieking Shack is truly haunted. That there was a time in which screams of pain and suffering could be heard every night."
"As far as I'm concerned, it's only a rumour," Ron replied as he leaned back into the carriage. "Percy used to lose his head about that, you know. The twins would not stop pestering him about the Shack, asking him countless questions about it. And each time Percy answered it was not haunted, that it was just a thing to attract visitors. I think they lost the knack for it when they first came here."
"Well, regardless of whether it's haunted or not, I want to see it." So the conversation ended as five more carriages were pulled into the town. From the largest came out Harry, Hermione and Neville, who hastily made their way to the Slytherins. They all wore spring clothes; jeans and light sweaters and jumpers.
"So, time to visit the haunted Shack," Harry started.
"It's not haunted," Hermione observed drily. "It's just a strategy to attract silly visitors."
Ron could but snort at that, glancing at Tracey, "See? Great minds think alike. Anyhow, let's get on the move. The earlier we finish, the sooner we'll be drinking butterbeers and eating Honeydukes sweets."
Hogsmeade roared with life today, as it always happened when the students came to visit it. There was no trace of melted frost in the streets, making them clean and walkable. Shops and restaurants were packed to the brim, as bronze knuts and silver sickles were passed from one hand to another. There also were street artists in the largest alleys. A harpist and a singer sang an epic ballad from past ages near the Three Broomsticks, where a large crowd enjoyed it as they had their breakfast on the large terrace.
"Mind if we stop here for a moment?" Those were Gerdnyaram's words as she descended from the skies, landing on his left shoulder. It took her less than a blink to discard her eagle form.
Ron halted and stood in the middle of the alley. Harry, Neville and Tracey raised their brows in a silent inquiry, yet did not get to voice out their thoughts as Hermione came to stand by Ron's side, her eyes, full of curiosity, also set on the couple.
The man had a beautiful voice, that he could tell even without any artistic knowledge, but what really trapped him was the harp's melody as the woman's fingers pulled from the strings. A song about some proud king of old, who led their people against the inevitable doom. His deeds were full of courage and fairness, with his folk's wellbeing as his one and only priority. A tale of death and despair, perhaps, but also one of life and hope.
"It was not so beautiful a story to make such a glorious song out of it." Gerd could not hide the touch of disdain in her voice. Or perhaps she cared not about it. "Khol kings and queens led us through the War's endless storm, but no one ever came to feel hope or merriment. No one. There was no glory for any warrior to reap. Yet plenty of dead to mourn. And there were those who met a fate far worse than death. Alas, their sacrifice and it alone was what won us the War. I see no mention of them here nor in any other song. I see no mention of them in any history book. And, to my shame and regret, it fills my heart with joy. Such aberrations we committed are better left forgotten."
An euphoric note rose over her voice, and the crowd broke into applause and cheers as the artists gave them a theatrical bowing. Ron could but join them shyly, giving the artists a few claps himself.
"That was so cool!" Tracey whistled.
"Hogsmeade used to host a great parade many years ago, and artists from all over the world came to take part in it," Neville told them. "Grandma says the Great War put an end to that. Maybe that will change in the future. Who knows?"
At last they resumed their stride, and soon enough walked out of the city. The road up to the Shack was a rather steeped one, of dirt filled with plenty of little rocks. To their left stood tall, thin trees of bright greenery, and to their right a slight slope, filled with small bushes and tall grass, led the way to a thin, twisting stream.
It was Tracey who pointed at it halfway through the track with a rather excited, "There it is!" What little could be seen of it was a pointed roof of black tides, crowned by a broken weathervane. When they reached the top of the hill, they were welcomed to a most ordinary sight.
An old, large house of dark wood, even darker in all those points in which the wood had rot and splintered. There was no door to access it, at least not in the front facade. The many windows all around the house had been locked with clay or something akin to that. Its gardens were dirty, full of rubbish, and the grass had been left to grow so wildly its blades would reach one's hips. And the fence's doors swung to the wind's tune, its lock broken and forced.
"And there it is," Ron said, "the most infamous Shack in the whole country. Truly a horrific sight."
His friends could but stare at it, wordless. Harry's glance was a rather unimpressed one, if not disappointed. And so it went for Tracey; doubtless her expectations had been shattered. Now, Hermione seemed a bit smug, even.
"Well, I hear no shouting," Neville observed, almost apologetically.
"It's midday," Tracey argued back. "The screams come at night, those dark and cloudy. At nights when the full moon is fully hidden under the blackness."
"That's a silly legend," Hermione reminded her. "Perhaps someone once snuck into the house and screamed their lungs out for the sake of scaring the town's folk. But, from here, to me it seems like a quite ordinary, abandoned house."
"Not even the ghosts dare to venture nearby," Tracey argued. "Headless Nick told me so, last year at his party. And so I've heard from the Bloody Baron."
And so they argued, one going by logic and realism and the other by legends and local folklore. Ron paid them no second thought, instead glanced at Harry and Neville, "I guess there's only one way to find out." That said, he just went downhill. He almost slipped twice, as the tall, uncut grass gave no grip to his shoes.
He made it to the fence in one piece, against all odds. A noise from behind told him Harry had followed him, but the redhead did not wait. Instead he went through the broken gate, following the path of plain stones amidst that sea of grass while led to the Shack. He took in the house with a keen interest. Up close, it looked much worse; much older. And the smell was a foul one, of rotten meat.
"I just saw a rat the size of your head loitering through the grass," Harry grunted from behind. "And what's with this smell? I swear Dean's potions smell better!"
They circled the Shack in search of a door or any entrance point. Yet there was none. All those windows they found were closed firmly, and the wood, although rotten, was much stronger to the touch than it looked. Ron then drew out his wand and pointed it at the wall, as he felt no desire to touch it with his bare hands. "Do you reckon I should do it?" he asked. "It'd be quite easy to break inside through here."
"I don't know, mate," Harry said with a shrug. "I don't think we'd find much inside. Unless you fancy a dead rat or something worse. Besides, Hermione would kill us. To vandalise such a legendary place? That must be as bad as burning a book."
Ron lowered his wand with a snort, "I'm not ready to hear her endless nagging. Yes, it would be better to just walk away and get back to them. Honestly, what a disappointment! I expected nothing and yet I found even less."
To satiate his curiosity, he expanded his magical aura and directed it toward the Shack. Yet he found nothing there. Not a thing he could feel, at least.
The way uphill was so challenging they finally settled for another route. They went down the slope, toward the stream. The soil there was damped and soft, though not slippery. Small fishes of different kinds could be seen through the clean water; from time to time one even dared to jump in a wingless and brief flight. It took them about twenty minutes to reach the entrance to Hogsmeade, where they met with the rest.
"Well, how was it?" Tracey asked excitedly.
"Disappointing," Ron said with a shrug. "Just a regular house; old, dusty and abandoned. Perhaps if we were to come at night it would be different. But that ain't happening, so…"
And feeling they had lost plenty of their precious time, they ventured into the town yet again. Plenty of sweets were eaten that day, and even more laughs were shared. Whenever they crossed paths with another member of the Army, no more than a simple glance and nod were exchanged. Yet it felt different. As if they shared a bond now.
Gerdnyaram came to him once more at some point of the day. And she said nothing as she took a seat on his left shoulder. She became a silent spectator. Her eyes took in every detail of the town and its folk, her ears took in every word and laugh and shout. She came to give the hint of a smile from time to time, as Ron and his friends shared stories from their childhood and their households.
At last came night, cold and dark, and with it came their last minutes in the town. They made their way to the carriages when there was still time, as they had filled their bellies plenty and visited all those shops and places they had not in the previous visit. The main alley was rather crowded, as many of the businesses had already closed.
But not so crowded for a man to bump into them.
"Hey! Don't you have eyes on your face!" Ron said as he turned around. But the hooded man who had walked in between Harry and he paid no second thought to his words as he kept walking. "What a prick!" Ron had already resumed his stride when Harry's words reached them.
"I'm bleeding."
It took the redhead a few seconds to process those words. Then he halted, as did everyone else. "You what?" And there it was, a fine, thin trail of blood pouring through Harry's forearm. The wound was small, like the sting of a bee. But the blood which poured from it was no small amount.
No one seemed to know how to react.
Ron then sprung into action as if moved by some invisible strings as Gerd said, "It was that man!"
And the man, then, ran away.
Ron went in pursuit of him. He tried his best, Nurgon's physical training a blessing he now came to enjoy. But he was much slower and not so graceful at dodging people. This man, on the contrary, seemed to move like a silent shadow, so fast and agile he seemed to slither through the crowded street as if no one was there to stand in his way.
He'll escape! And when the man turned left as he reached the end of Highland Alley, Ron was still halfway through it. Still he refused to give up. He stormed into a dark, narrow passage behind a liquor store. It took him little to rush out of it. But he had not been fast enough, as he had missed the hooded man by a few metres.
"Use the Anticipation!" Gerd said. "Think ahead of the present!"
Ron cursed himself for his slow thinking. Then he took in her powers and accepted her warm embrace.
He was dizzied for a moment, as countless Futures came to him. Most of the people considered simple and few choices. Their golden silhouettes, mostly, just stepped away from the hooded man or stood rooted to their spots. He discarded all those Futures away, focusing on those of the hooded man.
There was none to him, however.
Such a revelation sent through him a wave of surprise so powerful he tripped down. His chin hit the cold ground, and pain exploded all over him. Regardless, it was not enough to pull the boy out of his stupor. A stupor Gerdnyaram herself shared. Though for very different reasons. To Ron, the concept of someone whom the Future could not touch was a thing he deemed impossible. And for Gerdnyaram, it was the presence of such a man which shocked her to the core.
Words and whispers were quick to reach Ron's ears as he laid on the ground, eyes set on where the hooded man had disappeared. Finally a pair of hands seized him and pulled him up.
"Are you okay, Ronnie?" It was Fred. "What the hell happened?" And this was George. Their curiosity was unmistakable, yes, but also a small thing when compared to their worry.
For their sake, Ron pulled himself together. "I was running after a man, who had attacked Harry," he told them as his hand raised to his chin. The wound felt wet and raspy, and his fingers were now damped in blood. It hurt a lot, but he also shrugged the pain away. "He was much faster than I, so I tripped and he escaped."
"We saw Harry," Fred said, pulling a red handkerchief from his trousers. "We were there when the man bumped into him, right outside Zonko's." He pressed it against Ron's wounds, "Here, hold it there. It's the best I can do for the moment."
"We were there, yes, but we did not understand a thing until it was too late," George added. "By then, you had already set off after him."
"How's Harry?" Ron asked.
"He's fine," George replied. "It's just a silly scratch, though it bled way more than it should have. Professor McGonagall should be with him now. We sent Lee to fetch her before coming to your aid. Come on, brother. We should go with them, too. I'm sure she'll want to hear your side of the story."
And so Ron did. He walked by his brother's side, in between them. A storm of questions made his mind a nest for themselves. But one alone rose over them all, like a rumbling thunder over the silent lighting-bolts. And the answer to such a question, he knew, lay within Gerdnyaram.
He need not voice out his question, as she seemed to grasp it from his mind. "That was not a man, Ronald," she said softly. "It was a heartless and soulless creature. A Rod'Azac. A Hunter, by your tongue. A being unbound to the rules we all bow to. A being whose humanity was sacrificed in hopes to achieve so-desired peace. And to see such being here, it scares me."
No further word was shared between them.
Later on, Ron would tell McGonagall his side of the story per her request. And the journey back to Hogwarts was a silent one, in which no one seemed to have the spirit to break it. They all bundled together in a large carriage, and tension loomed over them like a grey could about to pour rain.
It was, of course, bound to end.
"What the hell happened?" Tracey asked in a whisper.
No one seemed to know how to reply to her. But to give her an answer would be quite an easy task. It was only a matter of time for Harry to gather enough courage. "It was bound to happen, I guess."
Tracey glanced at him, eyes narrowed despite her surprise. "What do you mean?"
"This is Voldemort's work," the Gryffindor explained. And such words flowed out of him as if they were those of a simple spell. "Who else might be behind this? It was him, one way or another."
No one dared to tell him otherwise.
At first, Ron went by them and said nothing. Yet the words Gerd had mused came back to him. They deserved to know. Part of it, at least. Enough to shed a bit of light above the dark shadow Voldemort casted. "I do not think so," he sighed out.
Harry frowned at him. "Who else, if not?"
"I don't know," the redhead said calmly. "But that man did not try to kill you. And he could have done it, as easily as he ran away. Yet he did not. Instead harmed you lightly, for a reason I cannot understand. And that makes me uneasy because I cannot understand his reason to attack you in such a way, place and time." He drew in a deep breath, trying to gather what little information he had. "I just think there's something amiss here. Too many things we do not know. Perhaps whoever attacked you works for Voldemort. Perhaps not. Hell if I know. I would rather wait and observe what happens next before coming up with any deduction. Again, maybe the situation is not as grave as we think. Regardless, we better be ready for the worst. Better safe than sorry, as they say."
So the conversation ended, as everyone was pulled into their mind. Ron could almost see the gears turning and turning in their minds as they worked to solve the mystery. But his mind remained calm, as he knew it was pointless to put it to work. Gerdnyaram had all the answers he sought, and she would share them with him whether she liked or not.
That night, he waited for everyone to be asleep. And once Hogwarts fell silent and still under the night's veil, he then strode out of his dormitory under the shelter of the Disillusionment Charm.
It took him little time to reach the top of the Astronomy Tower.
It was not so short a walk for his legs to not feel its toll, more so with such a swift pace. Yet it felt easy to ignore all that when his mind was set on a clear objective. So he opened the Tower's door and stepped into the night. Clear and full of stars, it was. The moon shed plenty of light upon them, enough to catch glimpses of the dark, endless Forest.
Yet his eyes fell upon a brighter sight. That of Gerdnyaram, whose blue gleam seemed to dispel the night away. "You have come," she just said.
Ron made his way over her, then leaned over the stone handrail by her side. "You called for me. You guided me here. To answer all my questions, I hope."
"I did swear that our new pact would be one forged by trust and honesty," she said. "That no more lies would dent our Link. I intend to fulfil my oath toward you, Ronald."
"I believe you have plenty to tell me about. So much that a full night would not be enough to cover it."
"And yours is a wise guest, I am afraid. I have so much to tell you, so many stories of shame and sorrow and euphoria and regrets that a full year would not be enough to even start. Enough to bequeath madness upon you. And so I ask for your trust. Because I will answer all your questions, my dear boy. But one at a time, as I deem it wise."
Shadows of mistrust prowled his mind. Whispers and not so faint voices screaming at him to not commit the same mistake a second time. To not become her puppet yet again. But he put an end to them with no trouble at all. Words and promises could fool one. All the emotions he felt through their Link could not.
"I do trust you, Gerdnyaram."
A glimpse of surprise broke through her stoic features, fickle as a spark. Not caused by his words, most likely, but due to the firmness within them. "If so, let us begin. What do you want to know?"
"Tell me about the man who attacked Harry."
"It was long ago when he last could be referred to as a man," the Essentia sighed. "A Rod'Azac, as I told you. And henceforth, for the sake of communication, I will refer to them as one by your tongue would, as Hunters of Old."
"What does that mean? Do not speak to me in riddles, please. I value blunt honesty above all else."
She halted in her speech, eyes set on the moon. "Would you rather be shown it than told? I could do that, I think. Our Link has grown much stronger in these past months. I could welcome you into my memories." To that, he could but give her a firm nod. Gerd then turned to face him, and her little fingers graced his forehead. "Walk with me through the roads of the past, Ronald."
It all seemed to flash, the colours so blurry they became one to then become light itself. He did not think he closed his eyes, but at some point it felt as if he opened them again. Gone was the radiant light, replaced by a most sombre sight.
A battlefield, an endless plain so filled with corpses and its soil so soaked with blood words could not depict such a horror. Steel weapons lay broken and splintered all over the plain, thrust into the ground or into the bodies of large monsters. Men and women, what little remained of them, could be found within each step. Their corpses so torn apart the task to identify them was impossible. It was then when Ron realised it was raining. A soft, constant pour of water. Almost like a weep.
"The fateful Battle of the Weeping Plains." Gerd came to stand by his side. She did not look like a ghost anymore. A tall woman of fair skin, of brown, cascading hair whose green eyes gleamed in sorrow. Here there was no trace of her blue gleam. "This happened years before I was born, hence why Nightmares and humans alike feel so distant here, as it is but a tale I was told of instead of a memory of mine. But I was told like any other child about this battle, regardless. Not because of the battle itself, but for what it came to mean."
She walked through the field, each step taken with extreme caution to not grace the dead. "Here we achieved the cruellest and bloodiest defeat in more than two decades of war. It was King Nalend Khol's second battle; fourth of his name and last of all kings. His late father, King Dalingrar Khol, most courageous of all kings, had just died of heart disease when he went abed to never awake again. And the poor boy was thrown into a conflict way out of his reach. Here, a quarter of the world's magical blood was lost. Just think about it, about what was lost here."
Ron was at a loss for words, mainly because he felt as if nothing he could say was worthy of the sombre picture in front of him. To talk, it would mean to insult all those who died here.
Gerdnyaram went on. "We lost all semblance of hope. Regardless of the fact many of our elite warriors had survived the battle. Long gone was that air of uncertainty. Now it was utter despair that swarmed every household. I now ask myself if such tragedy was a necessary evil. I have always believed that light shines brightest amidst darkness. What happened next was nothing akin to light nor darkness, but an inhuman feat that saved us from doom. Ironic, is it not? To fight death with something worse. To fight evil instincts with lack of humanity as we got rid of our emotions. So were born the Hunters of Old."
"Do not ask me about the ritual our warriors went through, because I know nothing about it. All who once did are now dead and forgotten, their bones and flesh all but dust and nourishment for the maggots. The Sages from the Citadel, with the help of Herpo the Foul and King Nalend's blessing, sunk a blade into Mother Nature's heart and bereft the humanity of those noble and courageous warriors who offered themselves for the Change. Such is the reason they are immune to the Anticipation. Because they are doomed to live yet in death. Because there is no future for them."
She halted, eyes glistened with tears. "Our counterattack was a most violent one. Not even the Nightmares stood a chance against these Hunters. They fought with inhuman rage, as if possessed by Death itself. But it was a cold rage. To them, killing was as natural as breathing. Killing was a thing they must do, nothing else. They could not be killed for much hurt they were or blood they lost. Mercy was not a thing for them, either. Nor love, as their families soon came to understand. Puppets, glorious puppets for killing and destroying. We rose victorious from the War for the Dawn… But at what cost!"
The weight of the emotion her words carried dizzied him. Still he wriggled out of it and found his voice. "If so, what the hell was doing such a thing in Hogsmeade? Why did it attack Harry?" Ron felt as if all those corpses at his feet cursed his name for his lack of sorrow toward them. He certainly honoured their sacrifice and pitied their fate, but a thing from the past was nothing but a thing from the past.
It was the future what worried him.
"I do not know," Gerdnyaram sighed. "I was greatly surprised to encounter a Hunter here. But the fact he attacked Harry Potter…"
"What of it?" Ron demanded.
"It makes me think it is but part of the storm I fear so much. That Herpo's return is close at hand. That his heir, he who is known as Lord Voldemort, is more alive than we all think. That war, bloody and cruel as they are, is upon us." She opened her arms widely. It took Ron a few seconds to understand she was asking for an embrace of him. He, of course, allowed her to take comfort in his touch as he took comfort in her warmth. "I fear this war might be worse than that my people suffered. I have seen it, Ronald. I have seen it in those visions the Great Sight bestowed upon me. I think it was what made me mad. Because I could not fathom so much death and despair. I do not want to see the world in ruins, Ronald."
She became stiff in his arms, the faint echo of a sob carried by the contact of her flesh upon his. He could but pat her back soothingly, feeling none of that calmness he tried to show. It was the first time Gerdnyaram showed this kind of weakness in front of him. And that scared him. A lot. She was supposed to be the strong one. Not he, a weak boy.
"We will not allow it, Gerd," still he said. "You and me, together. But not alone. There are plenty of people who will not stand aside as they try to make a ruin out of this world. Have a bit of faith in them, please. You will not stand alone this time."
Ron woke up that morning by the arrival of dawn, which announced the first morning of March. It took him more than a minute to even open his eyes, not because of exhaustion, which he was, but because of all that had happened that night. Was it healthy to feel such hammering against his head so early into the day? Probably not, but there was nothing he could do.
That field full of corpses was a sight he would never forget.
Still he stood up and got ready for the day as if nothing had happened. Breakfast helped him to move forward, certainly. But of greater help was Binn's class, as it granted him two more hours of sleep. The ghost's monotonous voice became a lullaby for the redhead. There was a bit of drool on the table when he opened his eyes.
"Are you so tired?" Tracey asked him at some point of the morning, as they made their way to the greenhouses.
"I had trouble sleeping yesterday," Ron answered. "Spent a fair share of time thinking about the man who attacked Harry."
"Oh. Did you come up with any conclusion?"
"Not a bloody one."
And morning went by the blink of an eye. Of course, everyone knew about the attack by now. Harry was approached by every member of the Army at some point of the day. They all wore worried features on their faces, which went away as soon as they saw he was fine. But their questions did not go away so easily. Mainly because there was no answer he could give them. So whispers travelled from mouth to ear. And the gossip was quick to die, as people seldom found any interest in dead-end gossip.
Ron was reminded again of their childish war just after dinner.
Tracey and he walked through the second level, through a large, well-illuminated hallway decorated by plenty of pictures of notable wizards and witches who had once served the people with their mastery of Healing Magic. Their conversation about Quidditch was put to an end when a shout broke through it. A bunch of spells came toward them next.
Ron did not hesitate to draw out his wand and parry them with ease. Stunners and others spells such Expelliarmus, Depulso and Incendio. Then came water from a decent-casted Aqua Eructo, which he just dispelled away with a Depulso of his own. "The hell is happening here?"
His question did not take long to be answered. At the end of the hallway there was an open space in which four corridors met, where Susan, Justin and Lee Jordan held their ground against some nameless and older Ravenclaws who all wore the Party's badge on their chests.
Tracey sent him a doubtful glance, "Should we do anything to help them?"
Before he could even answer, someone else put an end to such a meaningless fight.
A wave of dread came from behind, mighty and furious. Tracey fell to her knees with a whimper, and Ron's brain urged him to do the same, to either seek shelter or run away. But he withstood the assault by taking a calming breath. This wave of dread, though powerful, was nothing compared to Faith's use of Magical Transmutation.
Daniel Williams walked past the two Slytherins, then, not even sparing a glance for them. "Bunch of stupid brats," he growled. "To give me such work when my patrol shift was about to end. Do you wanna play soldiers? Then I'll give you war…"
Not a single member from the Party nor the Army stood a chance. As Daniel walked toward them in peaceful fury—even those wizards and witches from the pictures disappeared from sight—they all fell to their knees and tried to crawl away, eyes opened in fear and their bodies struck by sudden sobbing.
Ron paid no attention to them, as he knew what would happen. Instead he crouched down by his friend's side. "Here, here. I'm here. You're safe. Take a deep breath and try to calm down. I'm here." He patted her back as Tracey throwed her arms over him, seeking any kind of shelter in his presence. Her sobbing shook her body as if a frenzied stroke. "Come on, Trace. Stand on your feet and come with me." She did so, though a trembling mess.
It took her a few hallways to finally stop her shaking. "What was that?" she asked in a whisper, still held to him as if her life relied on it.
"A taste of Magical Transmutation," he said softly. He helped her to sit down, now way out of Daniel's reach. "That arrogant prick, he really paid no mind to us. Do you feel better now?" She gave him a shy nod. "It's normal to feel so scared, Trace. It's a very advanced technique. I myself have no idea about how it works. All I know is that it's fueled by one's emotions, which are turned into a sort of magic. Regardless, I've suffered from it and I know how horrible it is. Those seven are in for a horrible night."
Yet he felt no ounce of sympathy toward them. Ron understood very well one could not lower their gaze and allow the bullies to crush them. He understood the need to stand up to them. But all their nonsense about armies, war and soldiers… Having seen real war in Gerdnyaram's memories, it just did not sit well with him to see his friends speaking so easily of such horrors.
"Can we go back to the common room, please?" Tracey asked hoarsely, which pulled him out of his thoughts. "All I want is to lay down and close my eyes. Merlin, I feel so tired and drained!"
He could but concede her wish to her.
That week, Hogwarts was put in a timeless jail. Or so it seemed to Ron. It felt as if he were to live the very same day again and again.
Each day the same story was repeated. A bunch of fights here and there; the Party against the Army. Few tried to extinguish such fires anymore; let it be because they found it too arduous a task or because they just no longer care. Prefects, led by Percy and Claire Tossard, and the Professors could but feel overwhelmed.
Surprisingly enough, Umbridge did not seem to care about such chaos within her castle. Long forgotten was the law and order she loved to preach about, it seemed. In fact, she had not been seen in more than a week. "It must be because of the elections," Hermione told him once Ron brought the matter to the table. "They are around the corner. And she's a rather notable face in Fudge's party."
On the contrary, Faith Gourcuff did really care about such chaos. "I wonder if I did well in training you," she had confessed to Ron after they had bumped into one another in a hallway. "I warned those fools to not start any fight. And look at the picture now."
"I find their battles rather childish and pointless, too," Ron had said. "But I do not see so many children crying anymore. Nor so many depressed and fearful students. As far as I know, all they have done is to defend themselves, as you told them. Not even my brothers have started any fight for the sake of it so far."
Not all was bad, though.
On Wednesday afternoon, Ron rested his eyes after having written three essays in a row, and sat on a very comfortable couch in the common room, about to embrace a much deserved nap. The warmth in front of him was cold and ashen, as the weather had warmed a lot in the recent days.
He had developed a habit of light sleeping, and oftenly awoke at night at the faintest of the sounds. However, he did not stand a chance against the person who sneaked from behind. Not until he was slapped on the back of his head with a rather tough something.
"Wake up, you sleepy-head!" Tracey said with a wide grin. She held in her hands a large, thin, wrapped something. Had he not felt so stunned, he would have had no trouble knowing what it was.
"How could you hit me so hard out of nowhere?" Ron complained.
"How could you forget to tell me about your birthday?" Tracey bit back, her grin so wide it almost seemed to stretch out of her face. "Happy belated birthday, by the way! My, my, fourteen years old! Aren't you a big boy now?" The way he blushed to such embarrassment did nothing but to fuel her mockery. "Here you have your gift, birthday boy."
It was then when it all hit Ron at once. "Wait, that's for me? You bought me a gift?"
"Yes, that's something people do on birthdays, silly. They buy a gift for those they love."
The gift was thrown at him, then. It was lighter than it looked, and of a very peculiar shape. He had no need to open it to know what it was. And so, his embarrassment did nothing but to increase. Almost to the point of turning into shame. "There was no need to do this, Tracey," Ron mused. "This must have cost you a fortune!"
"It was on sale," she just said as she dropped herself by his side in the couch's armrest. "Come on. Open it, silly."
Taking in a defeated sigh, Ron unwrapped a brand-new Nimbus Two-Thousand. He could but run his finger through the fine, shiny wood. He found no splint on its surface, as he was used to.
"There are much better brooms on the market," Tracey said softly, her amused mock long gone. "But I know you far too well. You would have killed me, if so. This broom is fast, excellent and cheap. And don't you dare to open your mouth. I wanted to make you a gift, and so I did. That's it. Period. C'est fini. Now, you better shut your mouth and come with me. I believe you promised me a flight."
That night he went to bed later than usual. Exhausted, but in a different way. A much more welcomed way. And he was able to not sink into that endless plain of corpses and blood. And he did not picture the faces of his family and friends on those nameless corpses. Needless to say, he embraced the rest.
When he woke up the next morning, he felt so full of energy he jumped straight out of bed. There he found Blaise, already dressed and putting books into his bag.
He sent the redhead a quick glance, "Good morning."
"Good morning," Ron replied coldly.
A tense silence fell over them as they ignored each other. Ron was quick to dress up, and even faster to prepare his bag. But, of course, he would not be granted such a moment of relief. "Has the Party given you much trouble lately?" Blaise asked suddenly.
Ron did not turn around. "No."
A few seconds of silence, then again. "I worry about you, you know? I saved your ass once, when Flint had you cornered in that hallway."
"What a kind soul you have become!" Ron laughed mirthlessly.
"I know I was a coward back then!" Blaise snapped, and Ron finally turned around. There was a reddish touch in his cheeks; a rather rare sight. Whether it was due to anger or shame was a thing Ron could not discern. "I have cursed myself each day since. Not only because I turned my back on you when you needed me most, but because I also abandoned Tracey to her luck when she, too, needed me most. I know I hurt you greatly, but, man, give me a breath! I'm bloody trying!"
Ron tied the latches of his bag and threw it over his shoulders. "Words are cheap, Blaise. They cannot repair what you broke. We do not belong together, you and me. We were raised very differently. I tried to get used to some of your ways, but I could not. I do not know if you tried to get used to some of mine, but I do know you, too, failed at it. It was a good start, the way you helped me and the way you still worry about us. But you have a bloody marathon to walk still. We, Weasleys, do hold grudges like few people."
That said, Ron left the dormitory.
Now his excellent mod was ruined. Little he knew that it was going to get sunk way more. He strode into the Great Hall alone, as Tracey had the habit of waking up later, and it took him little to know something big had happened. All the students there held their heads together and talked in whispers, the succulent food long forgotten.
There was an empty seat by Daniel's left, so he took it rather unceremoniously. If there was someone who knew the ins and outs of the world, that was him. "What's happened?" Ron asked.
Daniel arched his brow. "It's quite early to fancy a chat so much, isn't it?" To that, Ron gave him a shrug of his shoulders. "Here, take a look for yourself and let me finish my damn coffee."
He threw at Ron a copy of the Daily Prophet. He did not need to read the headline to know what all the fuss was about. Still he readed, and still he felt a growing headache. Fudge had done it, that bloody fool. But as he made his way through such a thicket of words, he understood he was not in the mood to do so.
"Enlighten me, please," Ron sighed as he closed the newspaper.
Daniel halted halfway through a sip, "About the elections? Why?"
"Because you are clever and I'm stupid. Come on, do me this bloody favour. You owe me, as you almost frightened my friend to death a few days ago."
The Head-Boy pondered about those words, then he gave in. "Fudge not only won the elections, he stomped on his rivals. Though it's not so great a feat as it sounds. They are a funny lot, yet also useless. Pius Thicknesse, a name who's been used to give a sense of conflict within the Ministry. It's well known he's on Fudge payroll, and he's quite happy about that. Then comes Lord Corban Jaxley, whose only votes came from his pureblood comrades. And, oh, there's this young girl, only a few years older than I, a lass from Knockturn Alley. People call her the Dreamy Fool. As you can imagine, her progressist measures weren't welcomed with much interest. Well, at least she tries."
"That's all, really?" Ron blinked.
"Yes, that's all."
"What about Amelia Bones? My father has always spoken wonders about her. And, from what little I know, she's very well regarded in the Ministry."
"Bones did not stand a claim to the ministership," Daniel said with a shrug. "She likes her work already, and finds it too demanding to not focus on it entirely. Had she laid a claim, well, perhaps there would have been a battle. There's no point to wonder about the what ifs. Fudge won, hence he will be Minister for Magic yet again."
"How do you know so much?" Ron wondered, impressed.
"I plan to work in the Ministry," Daniel smirked. "It's one of the easiest jobs out there, and one in which you'll win a lot of money if you surround yourself well enough. My academic record is impeccable, and I have already caught the eye of very important people there. Between you and me, ninety percent of the officials are utter fools and duffers. I will rise through the ranks with ease, and I will earn a lot of money by doing almost nothing. After all, a ten percent of my effort is worth more than a hundred percent of most people."
Again Ron blinked, surprised with Daniel's ambitions and how well-planned he had his life. They did not share further words through breakfast, and just ate and drank in silence.
Nothing else happened that week save the obvious; more and more fights, more and more homework. Umbridge made an act of presence again on Friday. She took her seat in the middle of the Professor's table at lunch, as if a throne; the wide smile she wore lasted the entire hour. At last came Sunday, and Ron found himself in the Room of Requirement before there was any light in the sky.
The group—as he refused to address themselves as the Army—had grown exponentially. There were new members from each and every House, save Slytherin. Anthony Goldstein, Lisa Turpin, Terry Boot and Padma Patil from Ravenclaw. Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson from Gryffindor. And from Hufflepuff, an Indian fellow named Nitin Divekar, a year older than Ron himself; he later came to know the badger had been targeted by Gertrude herself multiple times, and so the twins had recruited him for the cause.
There were many new faces; perhaps too many, he could but think. But it seemed the founding members trusted them, as they were the ones to do the recruiting. Only time would tell whether they were of trust or not, but a secret was not a secret anymore when so many people knew about it. However, that they all hated the Party was plain to sight. Ron saw it on their faces, whenever they spoke of the abuse they had suffered at some point of the year.
Ron glanced about the chamber. Many were still practising the Disillusionment Charm, such as Ginny, Alaine, Justin and Ernie, who had yet to achieve a decent enough spell, and the newest members. It took little time for Anthony Goldstein and the fifth-graders to get the knack of it; yet it was far from perfect.
Now, most of the founding members practised a variety of simple yet useful spells. There was one to turn the floor into a very slippery surface, so one could run and leave their pursuers behind. There was a spell to lock doors which could not be undone by a simple Alohomora and the likes. There was another to cast a cloud of smoke upon one's footsteps. And another to cast such a potent light in order to blind one's enemies.
This last spell was that which Ron favoured over the rest, as he found it the most useful of the lot. So he got to practise, and found it was not so difficult to learn nor master. The key laid within the power, he came to realise after many tries. If given too much power to the cast, the spell became unstable; as fickle as a spark. If given too little, anyone could withstood the flash if they were adamant enough.
On the hundredth or so try, as Susan reached for his wand, Ron chanted, "Solem!" and a bright flash of light was born in between them. The girl could but whimper as she closed her eyes and shielded her face with her hands. Ron, however, who had closed his eyes just in time, was able to reopen them and run away. It took Susan more than a minute to regain her sight.
Satisfied, he gave a try to all those other spells; yet without much dedication. At some point in the morning, as the day grew hot and bright, he caught sight of Faith Gourcuff, who no longer seemed to oversee the lecture and instead had settled for a rest near a dead warmth. He then remembered the way she had toyed with him in the previous class, and an idea came to his mind.
He made his way over to her.
"A moment of your time?" Ron asked her, to which he next added, "In private, please."
She gave in with a nod of her head, and walked toward the left end of the chamber; where her favourite window awaited. Faith took a seat on the sill and beckoned him to speak.
"Next week I will be in San Francisco," the redhead began, "in a duelling tournament of great name and prestige. There, I will face duellists about my age, yet much more experienced and skilled than I. There's one in particular, a pureblood lad, who's incredible. I doubt I can beat him if it comes to it, but, as you do, this boy uses spectres of magic with great mastery. I would love to have your advice, as you tricked me rather easily two weeks ago."
It took her a moment to answer.
"Use the Sense. Use your eyes and sight," she said. "Those are your most reliable weapons. Now, you must not fear for this boy to trick you the way I did. I doubt Dumbledore himself is able to manipulate spectres as I do." She took delight in his dumbfounded look. "There are many physical mistakes within an amateur's spectres. I find eyes and hair the trickiest to replicate, you see. Or clothes, too. You must also pay attention to the noise of his footsteps, or even to that of breathing. And if he is so talented none of these flaws are within his spectres, which I really doubt, then you must focus on his magical aura and identify it."
"As if the flow of magic within them?" Ron ventured.
"Exactly," Faith nodded. "The flow of magic; that is the harder aspect of one to replicate. Even if there is no physical flaw within one's spectres, their magical aura is what gives them away most of the time. As if empty puppets. Or incomplete puppets, if the skill and talent one possesses has been honed close to perfection. Before the battle, get to know your opponents. Take in every detail of them, even those they are not aware of themselves. Only then you will be able to say you are ready."
It was a good piece of advice, he reckoned. One that he knew already, but one regardless he appreciated to be reminded of. Still he doubted he could beat Shawn if it came to it. But he felt confident going against anyone else.
At last the lecture ended, just before lunch. The students took their leave among laughs and cheers, stepping out of the Room of Requirement without a worry; as it was about lunch time, it was safe to walk out without much care. Still the noise worried Ron. If their numbers kept going up, it would be too hard for them to go unnoticed anymore.
He could but stay behind to close their leave, eyes set on the adjoining hallways. Yet no one was there to stalk upon them and he felt like a fool. But better a guarded fool than a naive prick, he reckoned.
It was as he observed their cheers and laughs that a certain thought came to his mind; like a violent gale tumbling down any other thought. Come the war, all of them would be presented with a choice: to either join the fight, therefore dying, or to run away and disappear, therefore killing a part of themselves; that fair and just. And he could already tell which one many of them would choose. All those laughs and cheers, their merriment and euphory, would turn into tears and cries, into fear and despair. Their sweat, into blood. And where five shared air and space, only one would remain.
He could see them on an endless, red plain of his own. But this time their corpses, though torn apart beyond recognition, wore their faces. Masks of horror, they wore too. A forever uncompleted lament; pale and cold dread; rivers of tears scoring down their eyes through dirty and bloodied features.
Such a picture casted a shadow upon his spirit.
They were not prepared, and they will never be. Unless one could bring them word of it beforehand.
It took Ron little to put an end to such foolishness. I'm not a hero, he reminded himself. Once I tried to reach further than I ought to; beyond my skills and brains. I failed, defeated and played by a shadow of the past, and my people paid and suffered thanks to my selfish desires. With a shake of his head Ron sent it all to the back of his mind, almost achieving a cold yet scary calm within himself. I can only save so few people. Though I will try to help them, their fate fares on themselves. For the better or the worse, it fares on themselves.