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The nights were always cold at that time of year. The chilly wind slapped imperiously at the faces of the few people who dared to go out of their houses. Leaving the heat of one’s bed and the simple sense of security of the duvet wasn’t ideal and the temptation to forget about it and let things go their own way was strong. After all, getting out of home and going to the meeting could only make him more miserable.
However, he ought to know.
He had to see it by himself.
Everybody had told him not to, that it was dangerous, but he didn’t want to trust them.
It couldn’t have happened.
It was impossible, and he would be the one to be right. At last, everything would be back the same.
The warm female body he loved so much lay near him, her chest moving in the slow rhythm of sleep. He summoned all of his courage as if he had to jump off a cliff and let his left foot come out from under his blankets and touch the floor. The cold made him aware that it wouldn’t be easy for him to get out of the house and face him, but he had endured worse than the cold in his life.
Much scarier was what he had seen during those years and what weighed on his thirty-year-old shoulders.
He sat on the edge of his mattress, being careful not to let the sleeping woman catch a cold by moving the blankets. As he silently dressed in the heaviest robes he owned, he knew he had reached a point of no return. He would go to that meeting, looking for his peace...or his damnation.
Maybe even for his death.
Everything would be in the hands of the other.
He grabbed his wand and twirled it between his fingers. He had polished it before going to sleep, as usual. He was an Auror, and he couldn’t allow himself not to take care of it.
Ollivander, who had been killed by one of his creations just after they had started their last Hogwarts year, had often told him, ‘Your wand must always be in perfect condition.’
He put the object into the pocket of the heavy cloak he wore and walked to the front door. When he passed the room of his children, Albus and Minerva, he blew them a silent kiss.
Maybe he would never be back.
He went downstairs and looked longingly at every room that he passed. He was starving for details to impress in his memory, so much that he could almost see in the darkness as if he were a cat. He became aware of many things that he never noticed before.
He raised his hood and let it cover his head, decisively grabbing his front door’s handle.
‘You’re leaving?’
He stilled, a hand on the metallic knob. Then, sighing, he turned and his gaze met his wife’s. She looked sleepy but also serious and decisive as she stared at him, resting her back on the archway that welcomed people into their foyer. The maroon dressing gown she wore wasn’t hers. Of course, she had woken up suddenly, and not finding him at her side, she'd looked for the first clothes she could find, putting them on, and going to look for him.
‘Go back to bed, Hermione. I don't want you to catch a cold.’
She slowly drew near him, hampered by her large belly, in which the third of the Weasleys’ children was getting ready to see the world.
‘If you go...to Grimmauld Place...you know very well who you’ll find there.’
He gently stroked her cheek.
‘Yes. Harry Potter.’
She briskly pulled away from his caress and yelled, ‘No! You won’t find Harry! You know that...the person who will be there waiting for you is...You-Know-Who.’
It was alarming that she called him like that. She, who had been the first to not fear saying that name; she, who was now an Auror like him. The days when Aurors wouldn't call Voldemort by name were way over; it was a way to declare that they were fighting the Dark Lord; it was almost a matter of pride. In their specific case, however, things were different. He didn’t say that name and Hermione now didn’t hide her fear to do it. His brother Percy, the new Minister for Magic, had asked all the Aurors to turn a blind eye to this since they were in a peculiar position. They hadn't been sacked from their job, but the others looked at them with concern mixed with derision. The others didn’t trust them; he knew well that he and Hermione weren’t told many secrets and that everybody thought they would never fight the Dark Lord.
And they were right.
Hermione would never do that because she was too scared after what had happened to Neville Longbottom. He, Ron, would never do it either because...
Hermione began to sob, and Ron stared at her anxiously.
‘Honey, please calm down. In your condition, you shouldn’t do that. And besides, you’ll wake up our children.’
He forced her to sit down and she allowed him to do so, but muttered, ‘That would be better! So I can show them their father, leaving his house for the last time.’
He squeezed her hands and fell to his knees.
‘Don’t say that. I’ll be back. I told Harry to come and he will, I know he will.’
The ad he had published in the Daily Prophet said, ‘To honour the memory of Sirius Black, on the night of January the sixth, in front of our beloved one’s house. So that we won’t ever forget.’ Harry wouldn’t fail to notice it.
‘He won’t disappoint me.’
Hermione grabbed the border of his cloak, desperately asking, ‘When will you give up? When will you open your eyes?’ He turned back, but she held him tighter and forced him to meet her gaze.
‘Ron...’ she pleaded.
‘It’s not true.’
‘It is, you must believe it,’ she whispered, as he tore his gaze from hers and stood up. He attempted to keep some distance between them, but he couldn’t avoid hearing her words when she continued saying, ‘Harry Potter is dead.’
The Weasleys fell silent. Hermione stared at her still husband. She stood from her chair, trying not to cry, and rested a hand on his shoulder.
‘Ron...’
He turned suddenly, and the tears she saw in his eyes made Hermione’s ones get also watery.
‘You know him well, exactly like I do. How can you think he ended up that way? How dare you? Even when we finished Hogwarts, our bond didn’t break. We were a team! We were friends!’
She shook her head and he continued, trying to convince her, ‘D’you really believe that Harry Potter, the wizarding world’s hope, The-Boy-Who-Lived, Voldemort’s nemesis...would fall like that?’ He wouldn’t have even noticed having said that name if Hermione hadn’t paled at it. He hugged her, exhausted, and murmured, ‘D’you really believe that our friend Harry would become a monster?’
The baby inside Hermione’s belly moved as if it wanted to tell its father not to say blasphemy. Hermione looked at her husband and whispered, ‘We still haven’t decided on the baby's name.’
Ron smiled and said, ‘Maybe after tonight...we’ll want to call him Harry again.’ Then, as if he wanted to run away from his wife, he quickly opened the door and went out into the night.
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His freezing feet, which his boots hardly covered from the sharp cold of the night, were sinking deep into the snow as he walked towards Grimmauld Place. He could have just Apparated there, but it so rarely snowed in London that he had decided to walk. He needed to clear his mind. The wind slapped his face heavily, but he didn’t feel it and walked blankly as if something was pulling him against his will. In truth, fear was filling his heart with every step he took.
What if Hermione’s right? What if I’m going straight into Voldemort’s arms?
Yet again, he'd said the name. It was as if he didn’t care about saying it or not anymore.
Silly. Now I’m a full Auror again.
He hoped that this didn’t mean that his soul was preparing to face the Dark Lord.
Two years. So many things had happened in such a small time frame and every detail was passing in front of his mind’s eye. What he had seen by himself, what others had told him of the events he hadn’t witnessed; all these memories were haunting him in his nocturnal walk.
Minerva McGonagall, the Hogwarts Headmistress after Albus Dumbledore’s death, died in mysterious circumstances when snakes crept into her room, Merlin only knew how, and from where. The new Hogwarts Headmaster, Severus Snape, had repeatedly asked for an inquiry about it, but the Minister for Magic hadn’t listened.
Ron met Snape again a few days ago. His former Potions teacher was now almost unrecognisable with his white beard, still not as long as Dumbledore’s, but still important on his face. Snape called him to Hogwarts to discuss Neville Longbottom’s death.
‘Finally, the Minister for Magic admits that the Death Eaters are back. You Aurors are looking for the Dark Lord, but you started too late. Minerva’s death should have warned you already, there was no need to wait for further losses. I'd said that a long time ago.’
Snape deeply resented the Ministry of Magic because of what had happened.
‘Weasley, I’m warning you. You must give up your hopes of seeing Harry Potter again. If you keep looking for him, you’ll find yourself facing the Dark Lord. It won’t be easy for you. Do you understand what I mean?’
Rage had filled Ron’s heart at Snape's words and the younger wizard Ron had walked out of the Headmaster’s office and slammed the door, roaring, ‘You’ve always hated Harry. You really would be pleased if things went that way, wouldn’t you?’
Outside the school, he'd met Hagrid. Even the half-giant's thick beard had turned white; his and Madame Maxime’s younger son had been attending Hogwarts for five years now. Like Ron, even Hagrid didn’t want to believe what everybody said. Their gazes had met, and they both had nodded.
Harry’s alive.
He had decided to publish that ad, as his last hope to show everybody that Harry was still alive and well, that Harry himself would come out of his shelter and slam the truth in everybody’s faces.
As he walked through the snow, Ron silently prayed, Harry...don’t disappoint me.
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Grimmauld Place was deserted. The starry sky covered a dingy, dark street and observed with amusement the small and still maroon spot that waited stubbornly for something to happen.
Ron lifted his cloak’s collar and walked around to keep himself warm. Merlin only knew who would come to his meeting. Would it be Harry? Would it be Voldemort? Would it be nobody? Or, maybe, would it be both Harry and Voldemort?
Ron’s hand was squeezing his wand in his pocket, looking for a sense of comfort.
He thought about Neville and his heart sank. Good ole Neville had opened a shop in Diagon Alley. He had been great at making infusions, and his knowledge of Herbology helped him to find a cure for most illnesses and to help everyone recover their strength. He, Ron and Harry had kept in touch after having got their N.E.W.T.s, and everything went well at first. Then McGonagall died, Harry disappeared, and a little while after, Neville died. The Aurors found him; a victim of the curse that nobody thought would ever be uttered again.
Avada Kedavra.
Day after day, The Daily Prophet started to report deaths that could have easily been traced back to the worst of the Unforgivable Curses—deaths of Muggles and Muggle-borns. The Muggles chased after some non-existent terrorists; they thought these people possessed a biological weapon of mass destruction, able to kill without leaving any trace. The Aurors were running after the new Death Eaters, who had suddenly come back stronger than ever. Terror ruled worldwide. Ron had heard of huge arguments between the Muggle Prime Minister and the Minister for Magic.
Poor Percy. He had thought it would be easy to be the Minister for Magic after the events that happened in my seventh year.
He shrugged some snow from his cloak and thought more deeply.
We all believed that it was the end of Voldemort...and instead, he came back. Somehow, his followers must have resurrected him. There’s no other explanation.
Suddenly, his instinct warned him of a presence that had stayed hidden until now. Ron abruptly turned and took his wand out of his pocket, pointing it at the dark figure that had approached him and that now seemed to be overcoming him.
Abruptly as well, the newcomer took his wand out and pointed it at Ron.
The red-haired man stared at the one who faced him, his heart racing in his chest. The other man’s black hair was a bit longer than what Ron remembered, but more noticeable was the fact that his cold smile and blank eyes, no longer hidden behind thick glasses, didn’t look at all similar to those of Harry Potter.
Ron’s jaw dropped, but he was still able to whisper, ‘Harry...’
Harry stayed still, his wand ready and an amused expression on his face. Only when Ron lowered his wand did Harry put his own away, making it vanish into the folds of his long, black cloak.
The snow stopped falling.
‘Harry...’
There was still no reply. The expression on his old friend’s face was an enigma for Ron.
‘Is it really you, Harry?’
‘Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer, Weasley?’
Low and alarming, like when he spoke in Parseltongue, Harry’s voice stroked Ron’s soul as if it were death itself.
‘Harry...you’re alive...’
‘It depends on what you mean.’
His dream was crashing in front of his very eyes. Harry Potter’s image was fading away in a black cloud with terrible semblances.
The new Lord Voldemort.
Ron stayed silent for a while, hearing in his mind the words everybody had been repeating to him for months.
Harry Potter took the name of Lord Voldemort and is butchering Muggles and Muggle-borns with his fellow Death Eaters.
‘It was true, then...you’re the new Lord Voldemort.’
The Dark Lord took a hold of his wand again, and Ron put himself on guard. But the figure before him raised his hands in a sign of peace and smiled. He pointed his wand away from Ron and waved it in an expert gesture.
‘You’re pale, Weasley. It’s better if...’ a bench materialised on the street, appearing in the middle of a hissing puff of blackness, ‘...you sit down.’
He put his wand away and stared at Ron. He must have noticed that the red-haired man was still looking at him suspiciously, for he gently beckoned for him to sit down, saying, ‘Please do.’
Ron moved to the bench and sat, resting his elbows on his knees, his stare fixed on the white pavement. Voldemort approached and stood in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest. When Ron looked up at him, the dark figure seemed to crush him under his terrible power.
‘Why, Harry? Everything was going so well. Why?’
Voldemort sat next to him and rested his back on the bench, crossing his arms under his head and observing the sky.
‘Nice idea, the ad in the newspaper. You have a good imagination.’
Ron didn’t utter a reply. He was too shocked by what he was witnessing to dare speak.
‘How is my dear Hermione?’
Ron froze and stared at the man before him, trying to figure out if his wife was in danger, but he then understood that Voldemort was only trying to make a little conversation.
‘She’s fine.’
The other man smiled and asked, ‘She already knew it, didn’t she?’
Ron lowered his eyes and nodded.
‘Hermione Granger-Weasley...it’s almost unbelievable that she has Muggle blood in her veins.’
He had avoided using the word Mudblood, but Ron found this courtesy too cunning to appreciate. The new Lord Voldemort was possibly stronger than the former one. He didn’t fear anybody and didn’t have weaknesses. At last, Ron saw what the others had seen. At last, he could give the right meaning to what had happened.
The Dursleys had been the first ones to die.
‘You did all this to get rid of your aunt and uncle, Harry?’
The Dark Lord allowed himself a chortling hiss.
‘I must admit it; it started that way, as a personal vendetta against those filthy Muggles, Weasley.’
The amused grin that appeared on his face as he described how the life of Petunia and Vernon Dursley had ended hurt Ron, even more than the fact that his friend was still addressing him by his surname.
‘They sat one in front of the other in that pathetic, normal living room of theirs, between their normal stuff, awaiting the end of their normal lives. I decided to shorten their wait. When I went into that room, the same one where that house-elf—what was his name? Oh, Dobby—played his unpleasant trick on me with the cake...they almost died from the shock. I would have been sad had I not enjoyed a little talk with them. My way, of course. The agreement for the conversation was that I spoke and drank the tea they had prepared for themselves as they listened to my questions and answered by screaming. I engraved into my mind every moment of their slow agony. I took care to remember every single scream they uttered under the Cruciatus Curse. I had a vision at that moment, Weasley. I saw what that place really was, I finally saw the Dursleys for what they were.’ Voldemort stared at Ron with eyes shining with intense pleasure.
‘It was a pigsty. Those Muggles were only fat pigs and their house was a mere pigsty.’
That evening, Lord Voldemort had left behind him a burning house and two carbonised bodies.
‘It was elating to violate Privet Drive’s normality. Of course, Dudley got the same treatment too.’ His gaze fixed on the nothing in front of him, as he thought of his cousin. ‘He'd become a low-level boxer. When I saw his crushed face, I nearly thought to let him live with that image of himself...maybe it would have been a fair punishment. However, I shall say that my curiosity to know whether or not he would scream like his parents had won me over.’ Ron was disgusted and stood up as Voldemort continued, ‘Actually, he did one good thing in his life. He chose a wife good enough for him. An enormous cow who gave birth to a pig as big as his father.’
All were dead and their house had also burned.
‘Shut up!’ Ron said.
Voldemort stilled and resumed his composure after the memory he'd just remembered brought him some excitement.
‘I thought I’d stop after having visited Dudley. But Weasley...’ His eyes burned as he stood and approached Ron. ‘Once you’ve tasted power, you can’t live without it. Our ancestors spoke about ambrosia, the Gods’ nectar. I think that this food was nothing more than power. The power to bring death, to do to people what you want. To be the strongest is food for your soul, Weasley, and makes you immortal.’
Ron stared in disbelief at those green eyes, now lit by an evil light. ‘D’you think you’re immortal?’
The Dark Lord watched him carefully; he then let his gaze wander and said, ‘Before, you thought I was too noble to be the new Voldemort. Now you think I’m crazy. Do you know about shades of grey, redhead?’
‘I know Good and Evil. It’s enough.’
Voldemort nodded. ‘Interesting reply, although trivial. Worthy of an Auror. Maybe it would've been the same one I would have given, had I been one. I know I’m not immortal, Weasley. Power feeds on fear, but sometimes, the same fear can also create and strengthen rebellion. I know I have strong enemies. I don’t underestimate the Aurors, and I’m aware that someday, I might be killed. Thus, when I understood that only by starting the mechanism of fear could I quench my thirst for power, I took care in purging my potential enemies. Dumbledore gave me great pleasure by choosing to get out of my way himself; I personally set up McGonagall, although maybe I took too many risks there. Then I thought about Neville. I wasn’t sure if he represented a danger to me. But, you know, he could have been The-Boy-Who-Lived instead of me, and I preferred not to take any risks. I looked for Riddle’s Death Eaters and gained their loyalty; then, I brought back the Dementors from the desolate lands where they were exiled.’
Once again, Ron noticed a theatrically thoughtful expression forming on the other wizard’s face.
‘They really were angry,’ Voldemort added.
‘You know that you’ll be stopped, don’t you? You’ll make a mistake, sooner or later.’
Voldemort waved his hand.
‘I have already made mistakes if that’s what you mean. If you don’t count the risks I took in killing McGonagall, as I looked for followers, I had the bad idea of trying to win over Severus Snape.’
Ron paled. That’s what the Hogwarts Headmaster had meant. He knew perfectly well that Harry was the new Lord Voldemort, and he knew even better that Ron would go look for him and find himself disappointed and maybe killed.
‘I went to meet Snape, in that odd office that once was Dumbledore’s. I thought he would make it darker, but I was surprised to see that everything was as Dumbledore had left it.’
‘Snape is a good person. He’s more than what he looks like.’
‘Uh-huh...he was clever enough not to go back to that loser, Riddle, but he wasn’t intelligent enough to follow the true Master. I arrived at his office without problems. Hogwarts’s defences must have become old. When I arrived there, he was waiting for me. I was surprised and thought it was a trap. All the old Headmasters, even the more sluggish ones, were awake and were staring at me from their pictures. Snape purposely put the ones of McGonagall and Dumbledore on the desk. All three were there, staring at me.’
Ron saw a trace of real emotion passing through Voldemort’s eyes as he thought of that episode. He must have been very touched by the way the Headmaster caught him off balance.
‘I greeted Snape, nodded to Dumbledore and bowed in front of McGonagall, begging her pardon at having had to...let’s say...to make her the object of attention from my hissing friends. Dumbledore stared at me with disappointment. I think he considers me another of his mistakes.’
Ron thought with nostalgia at his former headmaster. Professor Dumbledore was a great person; he surely was the real brain behind Tom Riddle’s defeat. Of course, he'd made mistakes, which were certainly weighing on his soul, but Ron was sure that Dumbledore must've suffered a lot after finding out Harry’s destiny since he had indeed loved the boy.
‘I talked to Snape. I described the world I want to build, a world where Muggles would be under the control of wizards, and where those infamous crossbreeds will be banned, but...’
‘INFAMOUS CROSSBREEDS?’ Ron roared. His thoughts ran to Hermione, of course, and he found that this term Voldemort had adopted was even worse than the one he was escaping using: Mudblood. ‘Is that what my wife is? An aberration?’
He was going to take his wand out, but Voldemort stopped him instantly and held his wrist tightly. The Dark Lord’s face was a few inches from his.
‘You do know that you have no chance against me, Weasley.’ Twisting his arm, Voldemort forced Ron to let go of his wand, which fell to the snow and then released him.
‘Do you want to know why I came?’
‘If you want to do to me what you did to Neville, what are you waiting for?’
‘Fool! I never forgot Hermione and you. Why do you think she’s still alive?’
‘You mean that you’re forgiving her for being an aberration? Oh, what a noble master you are.’
Voldemort’s eyes became small slits on his face.
‘I’m somehow grateful to Hermione for having saved me so many times in the past, and I didn’t forget our adventures together. She’s what she is, but I may allow her to leave this world when her time comes, and not before.’
Ron smirked. He didn’t fear mocking Voldemort. The person he was facing was nothing more than a fool. Riddle wasn’t completely healthy in his mind, but Harry Potter had turned himself into a monster. In his mind, he had nearly merged with his mortal enemy, so much so he had taken Voldemort’s name and become an even more dangerous and evil threat.
‘I should thank you, I suppose,’ Ron said.
They stayed quiet for a while. Ron, on his knees, was holding his sore arm; Voldemort, with a long face, was staring at him.
‘Be at my side, Ron.’
The man with red hair looked up. Voldemort had called him by his name.
‘Snape didn’t want to take my side and will be punished when I decide. But you...’ He kneeled to Ron’s height and held him by his shoulders as he continued, ‘Don’t make the same mistake.’
Ron couldn't believe his ears. Voldemort was insane. How could he possibly think that...?
‘You and Hermione can escape the force that will demolish the world. I’m giving you the chance!’
Ron’s jaws dropped as he shook his head in disbelief. This must’ve been a nightmare, or maybe a hallucination.
‘You were always by my side. Why don’t you follow me on this new adventure? It’s just that, Ron! A new adventure together! This time we’ll be the strongest!’
Ron forced Voldemort to let go of him.
‘If we were the weakest, how could we defeat Tom Riddle?’
The Dark Lord stood. Nothing but darkness gleamed in his eyes.
‘I don't think you've realised, Weasley.’
He turned towards the obscurity and beckoned to somebody. Three figures emerged suddenly. Two big men were dragging a slim and shorter one who opposed them with the smallest of resistance.
‘Riddle was nothing more than a precursor. A Baptist born only to clean the way to the true Messiah.’
Ron easily recognized that Crabbe and Goyle were the two big men. But he couldn’t believe his eyes when he made out just who their prisoner was—Draco Malfoy. The silver-blond hair of Lucius’s son, the son of one of Riddle’s most faithful followers, was all messed up. The snow had melted the multitude of gel he'd used to keep it in order and had drained onto his face. Crabbe and Goyle threw him rudely to the bare ground, and Voldemort turned his back to them, facing Ron.
‘This filthy little traitor tried to play the same trick on me that Snape did on Riddle. He thought he could be a spy, our little Draco. What a rascal.’ Ron shuddered when Voldemort held his wand. ‘I’ll show you real power, Weasley. But first...’
He pointed his wand at Draco and muttered, ‘Silencio.’ Draco’s jaw dropped when the black tentacle-like spell came out of Harry’s wand and flew at him, sinking into his throat, but he couldn’t utter a sound.
Voldemort mocked him. ‘Don’t want to wake up those Muggles you were trying to protect, do you? Who would have expected this from you? Malfoy, a Death Eater’s son, has become a Muggle lover.’
Once again, he raised his wand and pointed it at the blond man, who was crawling away, trying to escape.
‘Crucio!’
Suddenly Malfoy crashed to the ground and started writhing, opening his mouth wide but not uttering a sound. He rolled on the snow and violently arched his back as if he had been thrown on a fire.
‘HARRY, ENOUGH!’ Ron yelled, but the Dark Lord’s wand kept inexorably following Malfoy, who struggled in pain. Ron ducked to the ground to pick up his wand and said, ‘Stupefy!’
The red light that came out of the thin wood darted in the direction of Voldemort, who turned over like a cat, wrapped into his flapping black cloak. He Accio-ed poor Goyle between him and Ron so that Ron’s spell hit Goyle. In a gesture worthy of a dancer, Voldemort avoided the big man and pointed his wand at Ron, hissing, ‘Expelliarmus!’
Only his Auror training helped Ron keep his wand; he quickly flattened himself against the ground. He was attempting a new attack when Voldemort’s voice resounded again in the empty street.
‘Imperio!’
Ron’s body froze. His Auror’s heart was racing madly in his chest—not only was he in the Dark Lord’s hands, but the man who had been Harry Potter, his best friend, had used an Unforgivable Curse on him. Immediately he lost control of his mind, his consciousness fading into darkness.
‘Throw that wand away!’
Promptly, Ron’s arm got rid of his wand; Voldemort approached him with large steps, walking without pity on Draco’s back. Malfoy was still curled in on himself.
‘What did you think you were doing?’ Voldemort’s hands clenched against Ron’s neck. ‘You really thought you could face me? Did you go insane or what?’ He shook Ron harshly. ‘Did I want a fool at my side?’
Voldemort turned towards Malfoy, who was undignified in trying to drag himself away.
‘Now I’ll show who you want to fight against, Weasley. Watch and learn.’
Ron’s head sprang to the side, and his eyes followed Draco’s figure, which was trying to escape his destiny.
‘Avada Kedavra.’
Draco fell straight away. In the half-consciousness due to Voldemort’s control, Ron saw Malfoy’s widened mouth filling with snow as his life’s flame extinguished in the twinkle of an eye. Voldemort beckoned Crabbe, who pointed his wand toward his companion and muttered roughly, ‘Ennervate.’
Still a little stunned, Goyle stood and helped Crabbe drag Malfoy’s body away.
A few seconds later, Ron was able to move and think on his own again. The Dark Lord turned slowly in his direction and said, ‘This is my last offer, Weasley. I won’t ask again. Do you want to be at my side?’
Ron glared at him, finally aware of what Hermione had told him.
Harry Potter was dead.
He closed his eyes and thought of his wife, of his children, of the one who was still on the way and who he would have wanted so badly to call Harry because that would have meant that he'd been innocent, that yet again, lies had been told about his best friend.
When Hermione had told him that she was pregnant again, she had joked about calling the child Viktor, and Ron had pretended to take offence at it. He remembered how much Hermione had cuddled him to have him forgive her silly joke. He thought of Albus’s excitement about going back to Hogwarts, and of Minerva drawing the school and looking forward to starting there next year.
He thought about their time at Hogwarts, about the Ford Anglia, about the Quidditch matches and about the tasty food they ate during the welcome and goodbye feasts every year.
Harry was always in those memories.
Harry, arriving late with him on their first day of school.
Harry, slinking out of Hogwarts to go to Hogsmeade.
Harry, cheating with him and making up the predictions for Professor Trelawney.
Harry, the best man at his wedding.
Those images of Harry Potter faded away, replaced by the Dark Lord’s eerie face.
‘You won’t have anything more than this from me, Voldemort!’
Amazingly quickly, Ron hit his opponent with a strong punch to the face, and then he hurled himself over Harry, trying to hit him again. Harry reacted, kneeing him in the stomach, but Ron was too angry to feel it. That monster, that horrible monster, Voldemort, had come back from the past and had killed his best friend.
A blow.
Another one.
Tears veiled his eyes, which burned as he hit the person before him with all his strength.
Then he heard a scream from his opponent, which he couldn’t understand because he was too angry, and he felt a pang of fear growing in his stomach. A cold shiver ran all over his spine and tensed his muscles.
From the darkness, he caught the terrible glimpse of the Dementors appearing and approaching him.
Ron rolled over the body of Voldemort—who was rubbing his face, spotted with blood coming from his broken nose—and tried to escape, but realised he was trapped. He put a hand in his pocket but didn’t find his wand, which he had thrown away a moment before. Terrorised, still in shock at Draco’s recent death and for the words and actions of the shadow of his best friend, he brought his hands to his temples and screamed, ‘Expecto Patronum!’
The Dementors drew away for a moment but soon understood that their victim wasn’t holding a wand and resumed their glide towards him. Then Ron saw the horrid skeleton-like fingers of one of them come out of its cloak; he fell on his knees and yelled again, almost pleading, ‘Expecto Patronum!’
A Dementor grabbed him and pulled him to it with no effort. Ron lost himself in the grip of that horrid being, as everything around him was losing colour.
‘Erumpo Furorem!’
Ron fell to the ground as the Dementor that had grabbed him was thrown away by a bolt of lightning, which ran into all the other Dementors as well, pushing them away in all directions.
Ron desperately gasped for air as he felt his heart wanting to break through his chest.
Merlin! Was that...the materialisation of Harry’s anger? I’ve never seen such dreadful strength before...
‘Imbeciles!’ Voldemort’s angry voice came to Ron’s exhausted ears. ‘Idiots! How dare you? Who told you to Kiss him? I only told you to hold him down!’
He kicked some snow on a Dementor, which stood up hissing and tried to face him. Voldemort pointed his wand at it and snapped, 'Watch what you’re doing.’
The Dementor stretched with its hands out towards its master briefly, but then drew back and faded away into the night, followed by its bedraggled companions.
Ron lifted his gaze and tried to stand up, not succeeding. Voldemort cleared his face of the blood and glared at him.
‘As you wish, Weasley.’
He put his wand back into his pocket and shrugged on his cloak. He then turned his back on Ron and said, ‘I’ll let you live, this once, but it's the last favour I'll do to you. Next time we meet, I’ll kill you.’
Ron’s throat felt hoarse, his tongue freezing from the snow he'd eaten before, but he found in himself the strength to reply, ‘As you wish, Lord Voldemort.’
The man in the black cloak stopped and turned his head slightly towards him as if wanting to say something in reply. But then he turned again and went away, leaving Ron lying in the snow.
As the snowflakes resumed their fall, the red-haired man felt his strength coming back slowly. When he could stand up, he waited a moment to be sure he could stay on his feet and looked around for his wand. He saw it resting near the wall of the house. Luckily, the snow hadn’t covered it.
He went back home and thought about what had just happened.
Harry Potter was dead. It was true. His past had smothered him. He had gone insane. Completely and utterly insane.
By now, Ron knew that he would dedicate the rest of his life to the sole task of trying to stop his former best friend, even just to save anyone else from experiencing what Neville, Minerva McGonagall, or even the Dursleys, and Draco Malfoy, had been forced to bear. He needed to fight to prevent other people from dying as victims of the Dark Lord’s madness. Poor Neville was the most impressive example of what now disturbed his former friend’s mind.
Longbottom had been no danger to him. He would have never been. All that blabbing over a possible threat was only an excuse. An excuse to kill him.
There was no real plan behind the new Voldemort’s massacres. His recycling of Tom Riddle’s ideas was only a mere excuse, as he wanted to keep on performing the other man's crimes and getting away with them. To hide his murderous activities behind a veil of anonymity.
He killed for pleasure.
He killed to taste the power and enjoy other people’s pain.
He killed to satisfy his thirst for blood, the thirst of a slayer.
When Ron opened the door of his house, the sky was already showing the first grey of dawn. He found Hermione sitting on the same chair where he had left her. From how swollen her eyes were, Ron understood that she must have cried a lot. When she saw him entering the house, she moved as quickly as her condition allowed her and hugged him.
‘You’re alive! Merlin, you’re alive!’
‘I’m fine. Please, don’t distress yourself, honey; it’s not healthy for you.’ He tried to tear himself away from her, but she didn’t let him.
‘Did he come?’ she asked. Ron gently stroked her hair.
‘You were right. As you always are.’ They met each other’s gazes for an endless moment, and then he added, ‘Harry Potter is dead. He really is.’
Only at that moment did Hermione seem to notice the sorry conditions of her husband. She dragged him to the first floor and ordered him to go to sleep. When she closed the door and went out into the corridor, Ron heard her telling their children, who he had woken up because of the sound of his footsteps going upstairs, to leave their father alone. That he needed to sleep.
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‘What happened to Dad? Did he catch a cold?’
Albus was an intelligent and serious boy. Calm and reflexive, he looked older than his young age, loving immensely to read and learn. They talked a lot, Hermione and her first-born, and the boy seemed destined for a great school career.
‘Come on! Dad is an Auror, he won’t let a simple cold get at him!’ said Hermione jokingly.
Minerva was more impulsive and lively than Albus; she loved to run, sing, and trick her family members with the stuff her uncles Fred and George gave her as a present when she went to Diagon Alley.
Although they were very different, the two children had always got on well together. Albus was protective toward his sister, and she returned his attention by not using on him the worst jokes her uncles gave her and tidying up his books; although clever, Albus wasn’t very neat and tidy. The unruly Minerva, instead, was almost anal in keeping things in their place! She often told off even her parents if they left something lying around.
‘Be quiet, children! Your dad needs to sleep.’
‘You should rest too, Mum.’
‘I told you, I'll make breakfast for you until after our brother’s born!’ Albus and Minerva said at the same time.
Hermione grinned at the attention her children were giving her and at their excitement for the imminent birth of their new brother.
But a shadow veiled that grin. A shadow that had a name.
‘Let’s go downstairs, children. Let’s talk...’
The children followed Hermione and sat down next to her on the sofa. Before she started to talk, she hugged them tightly. She noticed that they were anxious and understood that the new Voldemort’s shadow was falling slowly even on their house, and even they couldn’t be immune to it. It was impossible not to perceive the dark canopy that was weighing on them, as over the whole world.
‘You remember when you were small, and I told you stories about how the Wizarding world had been freed from an evil man?’
‘D’you mean Uncle Harry’s story, Mum?’
‘I like that story very much. When Uncle Harry came here, he told it so nicely!’
Feeling her heart racing in her chest, Hermione gently stroked her daughter’s hair as she said, ‘I’m afraid...that story’s not ended yet, Minerva. And I believe Uncle Harry won’t tell it anymore.’
They fell silent. After having thought for a while, Albus said, ‘It’s just what I was afraid of, then.’
Hermione looked at him, a frown furrowing her brows.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I liked to listen to Uncle Harry telling his story. I liked the part where he fought Riddle in the chamber best. But although I asked him lots of questions, and Uncle Harry always answered, there was one question he never wanted to answer.’
Hermione understood that her son’s doubt was the same one that had gripped her all that time after the final battle had ended.
‘Why has his scar never faded away?’
Albus really was wiser than his age.
‘If a connection is made between two people and one of them happens to die, why does the link still exist?’
Minerva stared at her brother and asked, ‘D’you mean Riddle killed Uncle Harry and took his place?’
Hermione burst in, ‘No. There’s no doubt that Riddle’s dead. Your father and I witnessed the fight from under a magic wall he’d built to face Harry alone. Tom Riddle was sucked into Uncle Harry’s wand when Fawkes helped Harry to release the power of the Phoenix.’
‘But Mum! Then what Albus says is...’ argued Minerva, but Hermione interrupted her.
‘Albus, the link between two people can exist even beyond time. I believe Uncle Harry never got rid of the demons that inhabited his past. His childhood was difficult; the way he had to face responsibility at such a young age, the way he lost Sirius and the continuous, distressing feeling of being the centre of attention, both in the Muggle and wizarding worlds...all of that consumed him. His life was overwhelming, with too many tragedies concentrated in too few years. He saw things too scary for a young boy to bear. When everything was over, he finally had the time to think back on it. He recalled everything again every time he told the story to you or anybody else, anytime he was alone thinking. Eventually, he couldn’t stand the memory of his adventures anymore and reacted violently, unchaining all his emotions altogether.’
‘The mix of all the colours is black,’ added Albus.
Hermione remembered something she had desperately tried to forget. The last time they spent Christmas together, Harry had once again told the children the story of his fight against Tom Riddle. When he'd finished the story and the children had run away to simulate the fight with their fake wands, she had sat next to Harry and had noticed his eyes. Swollen and red, like those of someone who hadn’t slept in a long time. He'd said that it was due to stress at work, but she'd seen through his lie. Those eyes were the first signs of the tempest to come.
‘Your uncle never wanted to detach himself from Voldemort’s shadow because, even if he was evil, it was an easy cover for his distress.’
‘You mean that Uncle Harry chose to become evil?’
Hermione reflected for a moment and then said, ‘It’s easier to deal with the demons when you are one of them. If you can’t fight them, join them.’
She hugged her children tightly and felt the thoughts she had tried to bury into her soul rising back, slowly but inexorably.
Harry won’t spare those who fight him. Maybe the only way to save ourselves is not to stand in his way. However...
Something in her awoke that night. The fact that she was a mother and her desire to protect her family had subdued her for a long time, but her boiling Gryffindor’s blood was incapable of accepting it. It started to rebel.
We can’t let Harry destroy everything for which so many people lost their lives. We just can’t allow this to happen. I became an Auror with Harry and Ron because I knew that. During my seven Hogwarts years, I wanted to destroy Tom Riddle more than anything else in the world. And now...I must be an Auror to the end.
‘Children...’
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘We don’t fear Voldemort.’ She hugged them tighter and continued, ‘Repeat it.’
‘We don’t fear Voldemort,’ Minerva said with a light but decisive voice.
Albus got the frown of a fighter as he repeated, ‘We don’t fear Voldemort!’
The still unborn child said something too, by giving a strong kick inside her belly.
We must fight Voldemort. We’ll probably die in the attempt, but children, we can’t avoid this fight by denying ourselves for fear. We’ll all do what is in our power to stop him. If Ron’s and my skill isn’t enough, maybe one day you will be the ones to write the final word of Harry Potter’s story.
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Rest and wait to go back to fighting.
Ron was an Auror and knew what his duty was. He would face Voldemort again, he knew that. He also knew that he would never have a chance against him.
Next time we meet, I’ll kill you.
He was aware of that.
He wouldn’t have any chance of winning that fight, for he knew that Voldemort was strong and desperate. Besides, the feelings the Dark Lord still felt for him and Hermione will strengthen his folly and increase his power immensely when they'll face him again. As sleep won against him, Ron knew well what words would be the last words he’d hear in his life.
Avada Kedavra.
Fin