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Ooo, WIP Amnesty Day. That sounds fun. And hey, a substantial post on this journal! Exciting, I know.
I have a great number of plot bunnies that have never/never fully made it onto the screen. Unfortunately, most of them were lost in the Great Crash of '03; songfics and filks and other fun and angsty things. All that's left now are School of Rock and the To-Be-Titled Post-Hogwarts Novel-Length Fic Of D00M.
Here's a tidbit from the next chapter of SoR:
"Fabulous!" Aberforth shouted over the cheers. Once they died down, he continued. "Now, I am in the process of writing our signature number, but it's your band, too. What sort of music do you want to play?"
"Er, rock?" suggested Red- no, Ron.
"Yes, but what sort of rock?" Aberforth said patiently.
"There's different sorts?" Ron replied, looking puzzled.
Aberforth blinked. "Dear Elvis. I knew the wizarding world was culturally deprived, but I had no idea it had gotten this bad. Someone who's Muggle-born, help us out here?"
The blonde singer - he really had to learn their names - raised her hand. "There's hard rock, and there's alternative rock."
"Yes, and?" he encouraged her.
She shrugged. "Dunno, I don't really listen to it."
He gasped. "What else would you listen to?"
"Spice Girls!" she said excitedly.
"Celestina Warbeck!" chimed in the twins.
"Snoop Dog!" shouted the Gryffindor boys in the back.
"Hanson!" piped up JFF.
"Stop! No more!" Aberforth cried, throwing his hands in the air and falling to his knees. "Mine ears can no longer stand the pain of hearing such discordant rubbish as these avowed our musical greats! Please - please - tell me one of you knows the name Robert Plant."
Silence.
He stared in astonishment. "None of you know Led Zepp?"
"You mean Led Zeppelin?" ventured a Ravenclaw - Terry, that was it.
Aberforth leapt to his feet. "Yes, yes, you know them!"
Terry shrugged. "Not really, but I think my dad listens to them."
"Nooooo!" Aberforth stormed back and forth across the front of the room, pulling at his hair and addressing the ceiling. "Is there no justice in this world? Is nothing sacred? Shall our children and children's children's children lose the one worthwhile legacy their forebears left them?"
The students were frozen in their seats.
In mid-cross, Aberforth whirled to face them, planting his feet. "Well, I for one will not stand for it! Nor will I sit for it! Class, we have a new objective!"
Hee. Next, we have the TBTPHNLFOD. I came up with the original idea two bloody years ago, and I even wrote the first chapter. Even then, I knew it was lacking something to make it more than just another Trio drama. OotP provided that something in the form of Luna. The fic's focus shifted from Harry, Ron, and Hermione to Hermione and Luna. I think the dynamic between them is fascinating, and I want to explore it in a fic. Some of you saw the prologue of that fic, and others saw two versions of a scene from what would be the second chapter.
Originally, it was going to be a first person fic, but since the focus has changed, I'm leaning towards third person. I say this as if I expect to ever get around to writing it, hee. But anyway, here's that scene again, in first person. I would like to state for the world that this scene was one of the very first that I envisioned for the fic, long before OotP arrived. My predictive powers are truly remarkable. ;-)
It wasn't yet chilly enough to make sitting outside uncomfortable. Ron threw a Nerf ball I'd gotten him for Fang to fetch, showing more patience with the aging boarhound than he'd ever bothered with a Potions assignment. Harry and I sat watching on the porch steps. The stars twinkled in the clear sky.
"Bright tonight, isn't it?" I remarked.
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Bright." He returned his fixed gaze to the star to which it always returned.
"Do you still think about him a lot?"
There was silence, and then, "Just when I see the stars." I waited. "Or Fang. Or, well, any big dog, really. Not so much with the poodles." He made a face, and I smiled. "And also when I'm flying. And eating certain foods." He sighed. "Whenever I see Remus," he whispered.
"So everyday, then."
"You could say that."
Fang barked excitedly as Ron played keep-away with the ball. He did his best to jump for it, tapping his paws on Ron's knees. Ron finally looked to be giving in to the puppy dog expression, lowering the ball and holding it out to the dog, but he snatched it away again with a laugh, much to Fang's exasperation.
"You must miss him terribly."
"Yeah, but it's not as...consuming...as it used to be. I mean, I wish he could be here, but it's okay that he's not. Not okay okay, just...I'm doing fine on my own. Does that even make sense?"
"Loads of it," I answered softly.
He shot up. "I'm such an idiot. I'm so sorry, Hermione, I didn't mean to-"
"Don't worry about it, Harry, I'm fine. It's like you said. I just wanted to see..."
"See what?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. Just wanted to see."
There was a human-sounding yelp from the yard as Fang finally tackled Ron. The boy and his dog proceeded to wrestle playfully on the grass, Ron still trying to hold the ball out of reach.
Harry reached over and ruffled my hair gently. "Wasn't it your job to keep me from wallowing in my own angst and self-pity?"
"Only so much a girl can do against that raging ego of yours."
"The Ego Who Lived has needs, too."
"That Lived, Harry, The Ego That Lived. Honestly."
"Whatever you say, Professor Granger. I'm going to break up the match before somebody chokes on a foam football." He rose and joined the other boys in a resumed game of catch.
I sat back and returned my gaze to the sky. Fate and all its consequences had never been my cup of tea; it was pure accident that my organization shared the name. Logic and reason were the keys to solving any problem. Using the resources at hand was how one developed and arrived at a unique solution, but any solution was possible with a different turn of thought or single action. We create our own destiny; we are its "parents and originals."
In spite of all that, the fact that Sirius was still looking down on us comforted a fear I didn't know I had. My parents weren't named after stars, but they hadn't abandoned me any more that Harry's godfather had him.
Finally, there's another fic that at this point will probably never see the light of print. It was inspired by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hermionemalfoy, who also collaborated on the plot. It's a darkfic with massive backstory, and Ron/Draco - evil Draco. It was going to be fantastic, too, but after OotP, it just doesn't work like it used to. It was lost in the Crash, but luckily, ! had a copy saved.
Chapter One
Pathetic.
It was a dull, off-grey clump lying in the corner as if too weak or too unwilling, or both, to move beyond its self-defined bounds. It didn't even glisten with wetness anymore, just sort of existed, unnoticed, untouched, and uncared for. Pathetic little patch of what passed for London snow.
He stared fixedly at the last remnants of the pre-Christmas storm in Diagon Alley, where they lay nudged in the dead end of a narrow passage between Madam Malkin's and Florean Fortescue's (specialty of the month: hot peppermint butterbeer with whipped cream and chocolate syrup, cherry optional). It might've been something to look at, once upon a time, when it was fresh. Then maybe it had sparkled with the other snowflakes, each of them special in their own way.
So much for unique and beautiful snowflakes.
Pathetic, really.
But why should it be? It had it so good to start out. What did anyone love more than snow at Christmastime? It was supposed to be the perfect season, the perfect atmosphere, kids out of school and people dreaming of a white holiday, roasted chestnuts and Yuletide carols and all that. Where did things go wrong? Was it the snow's fault for choosing such a lousy place to settle? Or maybe it had been in a better spot, Fortescue's windowsill perhaps, but some street sweeper, numb with nipping frost and working quickly to get home to his wife and her steak and kidney pie, disturbed its rest and pushed it rudely aside to lie unappreciated until the temperature rose enough to do away with it once and for all. The snow was just a hapless victim of circumstance. Hell, maybe it was lucky to be there; if it had been anywhere else, the sun's cold rays would have done away with it already. But then again, was it even worth it to hang on this long?
It wasn't the snow's fault, and it wasn't fair, he decided, and this thought became foremost in his mind, repeating over and over as if saying it a thousand times would fix everything, even though it wouldn't. Not fair, not fair, life's not fair, not fair, not fair…The clamor rose in his head until everything else was drowned out and all he could hear was the mocking voice and all he could see was that stupid, pathetic, good for nothing patch of snow and he just had to run at it and -
The snow scattered across the cobblestones in a layer so thin that it quickly melted into the ground, losing all color and substance. Ron wiped the toe of his boot roughly on the stones, shoved his tingling hands deeper into his thin coat pockets, and abandoned the alley.
It was only a bit of snow, after all.
The noise of the close street resurfaced in his awareness. In spite of the season, Diagon Alley wasn't the bustling, cheerful place it had once been, only a few short years ago, and instead of merry, the sounds were cacophonous, discordant, and all sorts of big words that he couldn't be bothered to remember right now. Of course, Ron hadn't exactly come here to be cheered up. Wallowing, he thought, was one thing at which he truly excelled. He could probably get more than a few others to corroborate that. Not that he was alone in it these days. There were very few people whom he felt were not entitled to a good bout of wallowing every now and then.
You-Know-Who's rebirth a year and a half before had only remained secret for so long. Despite Minister Fudge's protests, the wizarding world was able to wake up and connect the rising violent crime rate with the claims of Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore, acknowledging that indeed, they were once again living in dark times. Rubeus Hagrid's sudden, violent death in the middle of Ron's fifth year at Hogwarts was the final confirmation. The shock of losing someone so well-loved had been the first event to really stir people up and get them to demand forceful action. The Ministry was divided - Fudge was still in power nominally, but he no longer carried any more weight in discussion than the rest of the Council, who could agree on nothing these days other than yes, people were dying, and yes, this was a Bad Thing.
The deaths didn't start and stop with Hagrid, of course. Attacks on Muggle-borns became more frequent, and the Dark Mark was sighted in the air on more than one occasion. Wizarding nightclubs and other evening entertainments, save the ones with "Pureblood Only" signs in the window, had to stay open all day to do any sort of business, but even so, few could keep out of the red. Meanwhile, the home security industry was booming.
At Hogwarts, Dumbledore did his best to shelter the students from the gory details of the violence and the politics, but he encouraged them to stay appraised of them. Every student purchased a Daily Prophet subscription, and every day, hundreds of owls delivered a front page featuring another dismal headline, whether it was of mere speculation or an actual attack. Each Care of Magical Creatures lesson was a reminder of the hard truths. Quidditch went on as normal, but the teachers patrolling the perimeter of the pitch made no effort to conceal why they were there.
Of course, the Headmaster wasn't leaving everything to the disaster that was the Ministry. No one knew exactly what he was up to, but the increased comings and goings of various adult types made it pretty obvious to most that there was some sort of organized resistance forming up in that tower. Whatever it was, however, it wasn't strong enough to stop what happened at the end of the school year; another student was killed by the Dark side. The scene stood out almost - almost - as vividly in Ron's mind as that other...
Terry Boot, Ravenclaw Prefect and strong contender for Head Boy, rushed home the weekend before the O.W.L.s on an urgent summons from his mother. His grandmother, evidently, was on her deathbed and surely wouldn't last till Terry finished the year and rejoined the Muggle world for the summer. Being the top student he was, Terry had been studying for the exams since Easter, so no one gave it a thought other than to wish his family well and tell him he was lucky to get away from the stressful school environment.
A shriek from the Ravenclaw table the next morning sent chills down everyone's backs as Lisa Turpin stared at the small parcel she'd just received, the blood drained from her face and her eyes and mouth wide with shock and horror. Professor Flitwick rushed over in the dead silence, but not before Lisa's friends had a chance to look in the box and turn away with identical traumatized expressions. Mandy Brocklehurst covered her mouth like she was going to be sick. Flitwick pried the box from Lisa's stiff fingers, took one look inside, and closed the top, turning his usually cheerful face to look gravely at Dumbledore.
At a nod from the Headmaster, the teachers and Harry adjourned to the sideroom. The Great Hall sat in stunned, confused silence for who knew how long. Then, slowly, the whispers trickled through the room: Terry Boot and his family were dead; all that remained of them were the contents of Lisa's box, which included one blood-stained Prefect badge and something else, though none of the girls would say what vision it was that caused them to spend the night in the infirmary with Madam Pomfrey.
Ron assumed that Harry knew, but he never asked him about it, and Harry never told. That happened a lot these days, ever since Harry had become a regular guest in Dumbledore's office. He didn't even bother to take the invisibility cloak for the night meetings, which had been Ron's first clue that Harry had moved beyond childish secrecy and sneaking around to something much more important and teacher-sanctioned.
Whatever the case, O.W.L.s had been cancelled for the first time in history, and everyone went home early to clinging parents. Ron's mother was bad enough before You-Know-Who's resurrection, but if he'd thought the atmosphere at the Burrow was stifling then, he was suffocating now. Everyone but the youngest two Weasleys, the only two who had no memories from You-Know-Who's first rise, had left home (how Fred and George had escaped their mother's clutches, Ron would never know), and Molly hardly let them out of her sight. "My babies," she would murmur with tears in her eyes, "my last babies..." At the time, Ron had thought if he never had to see a redheaded female again, it would be too soon.
Ron stopped his inattentive meandering to stare in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies. The new broomstick models, proudly displayed behind thick, charmed panels, came with a record number of safety measures, even to the detriment of speed and maneuverability. Even flying had been forbidden to him that summer, not that it really mattered in the long run. Despite hours of practice when school started again and a life-long study of the sport, Ron hadn't made Keeper, not even the reserve team. His friends patted him on the back sympathetically, and his brothers encouraged him to try again next year, when there'd be five open spots and, "Anyone who tries out will get on the team!"
Harry, of course, was made Captain.
Ron didn't feel much like looking at brooms anymore. It just wasn't as much fun without the crowd of awed kids pressing their noses against the glass. Turning away from the window, he continued down the street, idly wondering how long he could reasonably stay before his excuse of having to buy a present for his mother ran out. She almost hadn't let him go to begin with, but his father interceded, understanding his son's need to escape. Ron couldn't blame her, really. Not after...
No, no, he wouldn't think of it, he bloody well couldn't get away from it at home, that was why he'd come here, wasn't it? He kept his eyes forward as he quickly passed Flourish and Blotts. No need to depress himself any further by going in there, and anyway, he tended to panic when surrounded by books. There wasn't any point in going in such a place without help; consequently, Ron wasn't seeing much of bookstores or libraries these days. He'd forgotten, though, how close the bookstore was to the end of the street. The crossroads at Gringotts' was marked by a lack of people. He remembered the first time his parents had taken him down to the family vault. He'd been little, maybe four or five, and he remembered leaning over the front of the cart, already the tallest boy his age, and turning back to look at his little sister's half-petrified, half-excited expression as their mother held her tightly --
"Bugger!" The goblin guarding the door looked at him condescendingly, an admirable feat considering their height difference. "Er, sorry," Ron said, turning and hurrying away without any sense of direction. He kept his head down and didn't look up until he noticed the odd silence. What the... he thought as he looked around at the looming grey buildings that stared down at him. The street was nearly deserted, save a few ragged men huddled in a corner, and a disheveled woman holding something that Ron really didn't want to have a closer look at. Then he saw the sign arching overhead - Knockturn Alley.
Surprisingly, this realization didn't scare him like it would have in past years. He knew for a fact that all of his brothers had been there at one point - well, maybe not Percy - not to mention Harry, and they'd all come out fine. Ron was nearly seventeen, after all, and as good as an adult. And anyway, he needed an adventure to take his mind off...things.
He turned slowly around, taking a closer look at the street. The snow here seemed whiter, maybe in contrast to the dark, dingy buildings. And my, but those shop names looked interesting, though he didn't quite feel brave enough to go inside any of them. Besides, that one had a giant stuffed spider in the window. Of course, he was long over that childish fear. There simply wasn't any reason to walk on that side of the road, that was all.
Striding down the street, he found himself looking around with active interest for the first time in months. This was new, this was exciting, this was engaging and distracting. And something about it made him feel...revitalized. Probably just the scenery change. But still, Knockturn Alley seemed to be exactly what the mediwizard ordered; he'd have to do this kind of thing more often. He wondered what his mother would say to a Christmas gift from "The Skull and Dagger"?
He was so preoccupied in following the conveyor belt in a window display (the food actually looked edible, and Ron was always up for a snack) that he didn't notice the person standing in front of the next shop until he smacked right into him.
"Oof!" the former roadblock said, falling face-forward into the snow.
"Oh, sorry, I didn't see you," Ron apologized, offering a hand to the fallen boy. Sometimes he really hated his height, though there were benefits to automatically coming out on top in a fight. The shorter boy (well, he was shorter than Ron, anyway) sprang up unaided and whirled around. Ron was dumbfounded. "Malfoy?"
"Fancy meeting you here, Weasley."
"Not terribly surprising to see you." And it wasn't, of course, not in this place. Malfoy hardly looked as if he'd just taken an embarrassing tumble; his face and hair were clean of snow. Or maybe it just didn't show, seeing as they were all the same color. His robe and cloak were black, velvet maybe, or something else that made them seem to suck all color and life from his surroundings. Ron almost wanted to find a mirror and make sure his hair was still brightly, annoyingly red. The velvetorwhatever cloak was held together with a silver broach that probably would've looked girly on anyone else. That irritating smirk was certainly there, as the other looked Ron up and down, from shabby corduroy coat to scuffed boots. Ron suddenly felt highly conspicuous of his obvious hand-me-downs from Percy and probably Bill before him, and irritatingly self-conscious. Ron hated feeling self-conscious.
"I don't think Mummy Dearest would be too happy if she knew where you were, now would she? Or maybe she's finally gotten too fat to stop you from stumbling into places you have no business being at?"
Ron could feel his ears reddening. "One more word, Malfoy, and I swear-"
"Temper, temper, Weasel. It was just a question. On second thought, she's probably too busy making funeral ar-" but Ron jumped him before he could finish, attempting to knock the blond to the ground again and finally give him the beating he so well deserved.
They grappled for a few seconds. Malfoy, however, was surprisingly strong for his size, or maybe he was just sneaky, because how else could Ron explain how his arms ended up wrenched behind him and bound together in the other's iron grasp?
"Let go, Malfoy," he said, wincing, bent half backwards to accommodate the height difference.
Bloody hell, he could hear the damn smirk. "No, I don't think I will. I've got you right where I want you," he whispered dangerously in Ron's ear, his voice and hands like cold steel.
Alarm bells rang in his head. Why oh why had he not turned around when he first realized where he'd wandered? He struggled harder against Malfoy. "Get your slimy hands off of me right now, and maybe I won't kill you for what you said."
"Nice try, but as the one very much in charge now, I'm not exactly quaking with fear. And if they're slimy, that's only because you made them so."
"Huh?"
"The snow, of course." Then Malfoy did something very odd, and planted a big, wet, sloppy kiss on Ron's cheek.
"Euugh!" Ron cried, recoiling and trying to figure out how to wipe his face clean with Malfoy still attached to both arms. He ended up making a strained and ultimately ineffective scraping motion in the direction of his coat front.
Malfoy laughed. "Oh, Weasley, you're so easy to get to, you know that?" He tugged, and Ron had no choice but to follow, backwards, balancing precariously on his heels. "Come on, I can't wait to show my father what followed me home."
"I'm not following you anywhere!"
"See, you say that, but you're doing it anyway." He dragged a stumbling, protesting Ron to the next door. It seemed pointless to call out to any of the shady characters on the street, and they weren't watching anyway. Backwards as he was, Ron couldn't see the name of the shop they were entering, and he nearly fell over the concrete steps up to the entrance. He heard a Jabberknoll's cry when the door opened. How appropriate. Malfoy yanked harder, and Ron fell into the room, the door slamming in front of him.
Once recovered from the shock of the cold stone floor on his back and his free hands, he rolled over, lifted his head and stared at the pair of large, shiny boots confronting him. Oh, shit, it can't be…but as he continued to gaze up, up, and up, his fears were confirmed. Lucius Malfoy smiled a sinister smile down at him.
"My, my, it seems to be Weasel-hunting season."
Chapter Two
Ron half-ran, half-stumbled his way out of Knockturn Alley and back onto more populated streets. That had been bizarre to say the least. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there; it had felt like forever, and yet when he actually thought over what had happened and what had been said, he realized it couldn't have been more than half an hour.
An owl's screech to his right snapped him out of his crouched position. He looked into the beady, knowing eyes of an eagle owl and laughed, a sound too long absent from both the street and Ron's own heart. The owl screeched back at him, but Ron just poked it through the cage and scampered off before Mr. Eyelops could come after him. A brief stop inside the gift shop across the street took care of his original mission, and despite the owl's continued glare at him when he emerged, Ron put the strange events of the day out of his mind and left for The Leaky Cauldron, a little poorer, but feeling like an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
He'd never tell his father this, but really, it was sort of amazing what an encounter with your worst enemy could do for your state of mind. As long as you came out alive, that is.
Maybe he wouldn't tell Harry that, either.
~~~
Landing in the Burrow's fireplace brought Ron's mood back down to its previous depths. The once loud and bustling house was almost silent, as if even the various Muggle and magical objects within knew better than to disturb the peace.
There you go, all of my writing skeletons flung from the figurative closet. Hard drive. Whatever.
I have a great number of plot bunnies that have never/never fully made it onto the screen. Unfortunately, most of them were lost in the Great Crash of '03; songfics and filks and other fun and angsty things. All that's left now are School of Rock and the To-Be-Titled Post-Hogwarts Novel-Length Fic Of D00M.
Here's a tidbit from the next chapter of SoR:
"Fabulous!" Aberforth shouted over the cheers. Once they died down, he continued. "Now, I am in the process of writing our signature number, but it's your band, too. What sort of music do you want to play?"
"Er, rock?" suggested Red- no, Ron.
"Yes, but what sort of rock?" Aberforth said patiently.
"There's different sorts?" Ron replied, looking puzzled.
Aberforth blinked. "Dear Elvis. I knew the wizarding world was culturally deprived, but I had no idea it had gotten this bad. Someone who's Muggle-born, help us out here?"
The blonde singer - he really had to learn their names - raised her hand. "There's hard rock, and there's alternative rock."
"Yes, and?" he encouraged her.
She shrugged. "Dunno, I don't really listen to it."
He gasped. "What else would you listen to?"
"Spice Girls!" she said excitedly.
"Celestina Warbeck!" chimed in the twins.
"Snoop Dog!" shouted the Gryffindor boys in the back.
"Hanson!" piped up JFF.
"Stop! No more!" Aberforth cried, throwing his hands in the air and falling to his knees. "Mine ears can no longer stand the pain of hearing such discordant rubbish as these avowed our musical greats! Please - please - tell me one of you knows the name Robert Plant."
Silence.
He stared in astonishment. "None of you know Led Zepp?"
"You mean Led Zeppelin?" ventured a Ravenclaw - Terry, that was it.
Aberforth leapt to his feet. "Yes, yes, you know them!"
Terry shrugged. "Not really, but I think my dad listens to them."
"Nooooo!" Aberforth stormed back and forth across the front of the room, pulling at his hair and addressing the ceiling. "Is there no justice in this world? Is nothing sacred? Shall our children and children's children's children lose the one worthwhile legacy their forebears left them?"
The students were frozen in their seats.
In mid-cross, Aberforth whirled to face them, planting his feet. "Well, I for one will not stand for it! Nor will I sit for it! Class, we have a new objective!"
Hee. Next, we have the TBTPHNLFOD. I came up with the original idea two bloody years ago, and I even wrote the first chapter. Even then, I knew it was lacking something to make it more than just another Trio drama. OotP provided that something in the form of Luna. The fic's focus shifted from Harry, Ron, and Hermione to Hermione and Luna. I think the dynamic between them is fascinating, and I want to explore it in a fic. Some of you saw the prologue of that fic, and others saw two versions of a scene from what would be the second chapter.
Originally, it was going to be a first person fic, but since the focus has changed, I'm leaning towards third person. I say this as if I expect to ever get around to writing it, hee. But anyway, here's that scene again, in first person. I would like to state for the world that this scene was one of the very first that I envisioned for the fic, long before OotP arrived. My predictive powers are truly remarkable. ;-)
It wasn't yet chilly enough to make sitting outside uncomfortable. Ron threw a Nerf ball I'd gotten him for Fang to fetch, showing more patience with the aging boarhound than he'd ever bothered with a Potions assignment. Harry and I sat watching on the porch steps. The stars twinkled in the clear sky.
"Bright tonight, isn't it?" I remarked.
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Bright." He returned his fixed gaze to the star to which it always returned.
"Do you still think about him a lot?"
There was silence, and then, "Just when I see the stars." I waited. "Or Fang. Or, well, any big dog, really. Not so much with the poodles." He made a face, and I smiled. "And also when I'm flying. And eating certain foods." He sighed. "Whenever I see Remus," he whispered.
"So everyday, then."
"You could say that."
Fang barked excitedly as Ron played keep-away with the ball. He did his best to jump for it, tapping his paws on Ron's knees. Ron finally looked to be giving in to the puppy dog expression, lowering the ball and holding it out to the dog, but he snatched it away again with a laugh, much to Fang's exasperation.
"You must miss him terribly."
"Yeah, but it's not as...consuming...as it used to be. I mean, I wish he could be here, but it's okay that he's not. Not okay okay, just...I'm doing fine on my own. Does that even make sense?"
"Loads of it," I answered softly.
He shot up. "I'm such an idiot. I'm so sorry, Hermione, I didn't mean to-"
"Don't worry about it, Harry, I'm fine. It's like you said. I just wanted to see..."
"See what?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. Just wanted to see."
There was a human-sounding yelp from the yard as Fang finally tackled Ron. The boy and his dog proceeded to wrestle playfully on the grass, Ron still trying to hold the ball out of reach.
Harry reached over and ruffled my hair gently. "Wasn't it your job to keep me from wallowing in my own angst and self-pity?"
"Only so much a girl can do against that raging ego of yours."
"The Ego Who Lived has needs, too."
"That Lived, Harry, The Ego That Lived. Honestly."
"Whatever you say, Professor Granger. I'm going to break up the match before somebody chokes on a foam football." He rose and joined the other boys in a resumed game of catch.
I sat back and returned my gaze to the sky. Fate and all its consequences had never been my cup of tea; it was pure accident that my organization shared the name. Logic and reason were the keys to solving any problem. Using the resources at hand was how one developed and arrived at a unique solution, but any solution was possible with a different turn of thought or single action. We create our own destiny; we are its "parents and originals."
In spite of all that, the fact that Sirius was still looking down on us comforted a fear I didn't know I had. My parents weren't named after stars, but they hadn't abandoned me any more that Harry's godfather had him.
Finally, there's another fic that at this point will probably never see the light of print. It was inspired by
hermionemalfoy, who also collaborated on the plot. It's a darkfic with massive backstory, and Ron/Draco - evil Draco. It was going to be fantastic, too, but after OotP, it just doesn't work like it used to. It was lost in the Crash, but luckily, ! had a copy saved. Chapter One
Pathetic.
It was a dull, off-grey clump lying in the corner as if too weak or too unwilling, or both, to move beyond its self-defined bounds. It didn't even glisten with wetness anymore, just sort of existed, unnoticed, untouched, and uncared for. Pathetic little patch of what passed for London snow.
He stared fixedly at the last remnants of the pre-Christmas storm in Diagon Alley, where they lay nudged in the dead end of a narrow passage between Madam Malkin's and Florean Fortescue's (specialty of the month: hot peppermint butterbeer with whipped cream and chocolate syrup, cherry optional). It might've been something to look at, once upon a time, when it was fresh. Then maybe it had sparkled with the other snowflakes, each of them special in their own way.
So much for unique and beautiful snowflakes.
Pathetic, really.
But why should it be? It had it so good to start out. What did anyone love more than snow at Christmastime? It was supposed to be the perfect season, the perfect atmosphere, kids out of school and people dreaming of a white holiday, roasted chestnuts and Yuletide carols and all that. Where did things go wrong? Was it the snow's fault for choosing such a lousy place to settle? Or maybe it had been in a better spot, Fortescue's windowsill perhaps, but some street sweeper, numb with nipping frost and working quickly to get home to his wife and her steak and kidney pie, disturbed its rest and pushed it rudely aside to lie unappreciated until the temperature rose enough to do away with it once and for all. The snow was just a hapless victim of circumstance. Hell, maybe it was lucky to be there; if it had been anywhere else, the sun's cold rays would have done away with it already. But then again, was it even worth it to hang on this long?
It wasn't the snow's fault, and it wasn't fair, he decided, and this thought became foremost in his mind, repeating over and over as if saying it a thousand times would fix everything, even though it wouldn't. Not fair, not fair, life's not fair, not fair, not fair…The clamor rose in his head until everything else was drowned out and all he could hear was the mocking voice and all he could see was that stupid, pathetic, good for nothing patch of snow and he just had to run at it and -
The snow scattered across the cobblestones in a layer so thin that it quickly melted into the ground, losing all color and substance. Ron wiped the toe of his boot roughly on the stones, shoved his tingling hands deeper into his thin coat pockets, and abandoned the alley.
It was only a bit of snow, after all.
The noise of the close street resurfaced in his awareness. In spite of the season, Diagon Alley wasn't the bustling, cheerful place it had once been, only a few short years ago, and instead of merry, the sounds were cacophonous, discordant, and all sorts of big words that he couldn't be bothered to remember right now. Of course, Ron hadn't exactly come here to be cheered up. Wallowing, he thought, was one thing at which he truly excelled. He could probably get more than a few others to corroborate that. Not that he was alone in it these days. There were very few people whom he felt were not entitled to a good bout of wallowing every now and then.
You-Know-Who's rebirth a year and a half before had only remained secret for so long. Despite Minister Fudge's protests, the wizarding world was able to wake up and connect the rising violent crime rate with the claims of Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore, acknowledging that indeed, they were once again living in dark times. Rubeus Hagrid's sudden, violent death in the middle of Ron's fifth year at Hogwarts was the final confirmation. The shock of losing someone so well-loved had been the first event to really stir people up and get them to demand forceful action. The Ministry was divided - Fudge was still in power nominally, but he no longer carried any more weight in discussion than the rest of the Council, who could agree on nothing these days other than yes, people were dying, and yes, this was a Bad Thing.
The deaths didn't start and stop with Hagrid, of course. Attacks on Muggle-borns became more frequent, and the Dark Mark was sighted in the air on more than one occasion. Wizarding nightclubs and other evening entertainments, save the ones with "Pureblood Only" signs in the window, had to stay open all day to do any sort of business, but even so, few could keep out of the red. Meanwhile, the home security industry was booming.
At Hogwarts, Dumbledore did his best to shelter the students from the gory details of the violence and the politics, but he encouraged them to stay appraised of them. Every student purchased a Daily Prophet subscription, and every day, hundreds of owls delivered a front page featuring another dismal headline, whether it was of mere speculation or an actual attack. Each Care of Magical Creatures lesson was a reminder of the hard truths. Quidditch went on as normal, but the teachers patrolling the perimeter of the pitch made no effort to conceal why they were there.
Of course, the Headmaster wasn't leaving everything to the disaster that was the Ministry. No one knew exactly what he was up to, but the increased comings and goings of various adult types made it pretty obvious to most that there was some sort of organized resistance forming up in that tower. Whatever it was, however, it wasn't strong enough to stop what happened at the end of the school year; another student was killed by the Dark side. The scene stood out almost - almost - as vividly in Ron's mind as that other...
Terry Boot, Ravenclaw Prefect and strong contender for Head Boy, rushed home the weekend before the O.W.L.s on an urgent summons from his mother. His grandmother, evidently, was on her deathbed and surely wouldn't last till Terry finished the year and rejoined the Muggle world for the summer. Being the top student he was, Terry had been studying for the exams since Easter, so no one gave it a thought other than to wish his family well and tell him he was lucky to get away from the stressful school environment.
A shriek from the Ravenclaw table the next morning sent chills down everyone's backs as Lisa Turpin stared at the small parcel she'd just received, the blood drained from her face and her eyes and mouth wide with shock and horror. Professor Flitwick rushed over in the dead silence, but not before Lisa's friends had a chance to look in the box and turn away with identical traumatized expressions. Mandy Brocklehurst covered her mouth like she was going to be sick. Flitwick pried the box from Lisa's stiff fingers, took one look inside, and closed the top, turning his usually cheerful face to look gravely at Dumbledore.
At a nod from the Headmaster, the teachers and Harry adjourned to the sideroom. The Great Hall sat in stunned, confused silence for who knew how long. Then, slowly, the whispers trickled through the room: Terry Boot and his family were dead; all that remained of them were the contents of Lisa's box, which included one blood-stained Prefect badge and something else, though none of the girls would say what vision it was that caused them to spend the night in the infirmary with Madam Pomfrey.
Ron assumed that Harry knew, but he never asked him about it, and Harry never told. That happened a lot these days, ever since Harry had become a regular guest in Dumbledore's office. He didn't even bother to take the invisibility cloak for the night meetings, which had been Ron's first clue that Harry had moved beyond childish secrecy and sneaking around to something much more important and teacher-sanctioned.
Whatever the case, O.W.L.s had been cancelled for the first time in history, and everyone went home early to clinging parents. Ron's mother was bad enough before You-Know-Who's resurrection, but if he'd thought the atmosphere at the Burrow was stifling then, he was suffocating now. Everyone but the youngest two Weasleys, the only two who had no memories from You-Know-Who's first rise, had left home (how Fred and George had escaped their mother's clutches, Ron would never know), and Molly hardly let them out of her sight. "My babies," she would murmur with tears in her eyes, "my last babies..." At the time, Ron had thought if he never had to see a redheaded female again, it would be too soon.
Ron stopped his inattentive meandering to stare in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies. The new broomstick models, proudly displayed behind thick, charmed panels, came with a record number of safety measures, even to the detriment of speed and maneuverability. Even flying had been forbidden to him that summer, not that it really mattered in the long run. Despite hours of practice when school started again and a life-long study of the sport, Ron hadn't made Keeper, not even the reserve team. His friends patted him on the back sympathetically, and his brothers encouraged him to try again next year, when there'd be five open spots and, "Anyone who tries out will get on the team!"
Harry, of course, was made Captain.
Ron didn't feel much like looking at brooms anymore. It just wasn't as much fun without the crowd of awed kids pressing their noses against the glass. Turning away from the window, he continued down the street, idly wondering how long he could reasonably stay before his excuse of having to buy a present for his mother ran out. She almost hadn't let him go to begin with, but his father interceded, understanding his son's need to escape. Ron couldn't blame her, really. Not after...
No, no, he wouldn't think of it, he bloody well couldn't get away from it at home, that was why he'd come here, wasn't it? He kept his eyes forward as he quickly passed Flourish and Blotts. No need to depress himself any further by going in there, and anyway, he tended to panic when surrounded by books. There wasn't any point in going in such a place without help; consequently, Ron wasn't seeing much of bookstores or libraries these days. He'd forgotten, though, how close the bookstore was to the end of the street. The crossroads at Gringotts' was marked by a lack of people. He remembered the first time his parents had taken him down to the family vault. He'd been little, maybe four or five, and he remembered leaning over the front of the cart, already the tallest boy his age, and turning back to look at his little sister's half-petrified, half-excited expression as their mother held her tightly --
"Bugger!" The goblin guarding the door looked at him condescendingly, an admirable feat considering their height difference. "Er, sorry," Ron said, turning and hurrying away without any sense of direction. He kept his head down and didn't look up until he noticed the odd silence. What the... he thought as he looked around at the looming grey buildings that stared down at him. The street was nearly deserted, save a few ragged men huddled in a corner, and a disheveled woman holding something that Ron really didn't want to have a closer look at. Then he saw the sign arching overhead - Knockturn Alley.
Surprisingly, this realization didn't scare him like it would have in past years. He knew for a fact that all of his brothers had been there at one point - well, maybe not Percy - not to mention Harry, and they'd all come out fine. Ron was nearly seventeen, after all, and as good as an adult. And anyway, he needed an adventure to take his mind off...things.
He turned slowly around, taking a closer look at the street. The snow here seemed whiter, maybe in contrast to the dark, dingy buildings. And my, but those shop names looked interesting, though he didn't quite feel brave enough to go inside any of them. Besides, that one had a giant stuffed spider in the window. Of course, he was long over that childish fear. There simply wasn't any reason to walk on that side of the road, that was all.
Striding down the street, he found himself looking around with active interest for the first time in months. This was new, this was exciting, this was engaging and distracting. And something about it made him feel...revitalized. Probably just the scenery change. But still, Knockturn Alley seemed to be exactly what the mediwizard ordered; he'd have to do this kind of thing more often. He wondered what his mother would say to a Christmas gift from "The Skull and Dagger"?
He was so preoccupied in following the conveyor belt in a window display (the food actually looked edible, and Ron was always up for a snack) that he didn't notice the person standing in front of the next shop until he smacked right into him.
"Oof!" the former roadblock said, falling face-forward into the snow.
"Oh, sorry, I didn't see you," Ron apologized, offering a hand to the fallen boy. Sometimes he really hated his height, though there were benefits to automatically coming out on top in a fight. The shorter boy (well, he was shorter than Ron, anyway) sprang up unaided and whirled around. Ron was dumbfounded. "Malfoy?"
"Fancy meeting you here, Weasley."
"Not terribly surprising to see you." And it wasn't, of course, not in this place. Malfoy hardly looked as if he'd just taken an embarrassing tumble; his face and hair were clean of snow. Or maybe it just didn't show, seeing as they were all the same color. His robe and cloak were black, velvet maybe, or something else that made them seem to suck all color and life from his surroundings. Ron almost wanted to find a mirror and make sure his hair was still brightly, annoyingly red. The velvetorwhatever cloak was held together with a silver broach that probably would've looked girly on anyone else. That irritating smirk was certainly there, as the other looked Ron up and down, from shabby corduroy coat to scuffed boots. Ron suddenly felt highly conspicuous of his obvious hand-me-downs from Percy and probably Bill before him, and irritatingly self-conscious. Ron hated feeling self-conscious.
"I don't think Mummy Dearest would be too happy if she knew where you were, now would she? Or maybe she's finally gotten too fat to stop you from stumbling into places you have no business being at?"
Ron could feel his ears reddening. "One more word, Malfoy, and I swear-"
"Temper, temper, Weasel. It was just a question. On second thought, she's probably too busy making funeral ar-" but Ron jumped him before he could finish, attempting to knock the blond to the ground again and finally give him the beating he so well deserved.
They grappled for a few seconds. Malfoy, however, was surprisingly strong for his size, or maybe he was just sneaky, because how else could Ron explain how his arms ended up wrenched behind him and bound together in the other's iron grasp?
"Let go, Malfoy," he said, wincing, bent half backwards to accommodate the height difference.
Bloody hell, he could hear the damn smirk. "No, I don't think I will. I've got you right where I want you," he whispered dangerously in Ron's ear, his voice and hands like cold steel.
Alarm bells rang in his head. Why oh why had he not turned around when he first realized where he'd wandered? He struggled harder against Malfoy. "Get your slimy hands off of me right now, and maybe I won't kill you for what you said."
"Nice try, but as the one very much in charge now, I'm not exactly quaking with fear. And if they're slimy, that's only because you made them so."
"Huh?"
"The snow, of course." Then Malfoy did something very odd, and planted a big, wet, sloppy kiss on Ron's cheek.
"Euugh!" Ron cried, recoiling and trying to figure out how to wipe his face clean with Malfoy still attached to both arms. He ended up making a strained and ultimately ineffective scraping motion in the direction of his coat front.
Malfoy laughed. "Oh, Weasley, you're so easy to get to, you know that?" He tugged, and Ron had no choice but to follow, backwards, balancing precariously on his heels. "Come on, I can't wait to show my father what followed me home."
"I'm not following you anywhere!"
"See, you say that, but you're doing it anyway." He dragged a stumbling, protesting Ron to the next door. It seemed pointless to call out to any of the shady characters on the street, and they weren't watching anyway. Backwards as he was, Ron couldn't see the name of the shop they were entering, and he nearly fell over the concrete steps up to the entrance. He heard a Jabberknoll's cry when the door opened. How appropriate. Malfoy yanked harder, and Ron fell into the room, the door slamming in front of him.
Once recovered from the shock of the cold stone floor on his back and his free hands, he rolled over, lifted his head and stared at the pair of large, shiny boots confronting him. Oh, shit, it can't be…but as he continued to gaze up, up, and up, his fears were confirmed. Lucius Malfoy smiled a sinister smile down at him.
"My, my, it seems to be Weasel-hunting season."
Chapter Two
Ron half-ran, half-stumbled his way out of Knockturn Alley and back onto more populated streets. That had been bizarre to say the least. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there; it had felt like forever, and yet when he actually thought over what had happened and what had been said, he realized it couldn't have been more than half an hour.
An owl's screech to his right snapped him out of his crouched position. He looked into the beady, knowing eyes of an eagle owl and laughed, a sound too long absent from both the street and Ron's own heart. The owl screeched back at him, but Ron just poked it through the cage and scampered off before Mr. Eyelops could come after him. A brief stop inside the gift shop across the street took care of his original mission, and despite the owl's continued glare at him when he emerged, Ron put the strange events of the day out of his mind and left for The Leaky Cauldron, a little poorer, but feeling like an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
He'd never tell his father this, but really, it was sort of amazing what an encounter with your worst enemy could do for your state of mind. As long as you came out alive, that is.
Maybe he wouldn't tell Harry that, either.
~~~
Landing in the Burrow's fireplace brought Ron's mood back down to its previous depths. The once loud and bustling house was almost silent, as if even the various Muggle and magical objects within knew better than to disturb the peace.
There you go, all of my writing skeletons flung from the figurative closet. Hard drive. Whatever.