Chapter Text
Sunday, 7th January 2001 - 2 a.m.
It was a very cold night. Thaddeus gripped the folds of his cloak tighter against himself, trying to warm himself up as best as he could. As he exhaled loudly, his breath came out in a silvery steam before fading away. His lips were chapped, and he could feel the cracks on them that would probably end up bleeding.
He found himself thinking wistfully of the warm bed in which his wife was waiting for him at home. Images of himself with his head going deep into his soft pillow, pulling back his fluffy blankets over his body, and kissing Magdalene goodnight before going to sleep with a contented smile on his face flooded his mind. He fidgeted, feeling irritation slowly rising inside him. How much longer would he have to wait?
Magdalene was certainly trying to fight off sleep until he came back, though she was most likely too groggy to last long – Calder, who had turned three in November, was in his contrary phase and was exhausting them both. Thaddeus had been in the Auror Task Force for more than twenty years, and Magdalene had been his wife for well over fifteen years now, but she still worried almost as much as she had back when they had started dating.
She worried even more these days considering what had been happening lately. Eight wizards and witches had vanished in the last month and a half in mysterious circumstances; two of them had ended up dead, their bodies dumped in random places all over the United Kingdom. And to top it off, all the missing people had either been Muggleborn or Half-Blood, something that the media had been quick to point out.
Of course, worried whispers had emerged ever since Fidvi Khokhar, the second victim, had disappeared, and those whispers had grown louder and louder every time another person had gone missing. A collective shiver had taken over the wizarding community, that was paralysed with fear at the idea that somehow, You-Know-Who had managed to come back from the dead yet again.
About two weeks earlier, when Conri Hartnett's body had been found five hundred miles away from the place he had last been seen, stupor had seized Aurors and civilians alike. Of course, everyone had felt very sorry for his family, though nobody had ever doubted that the former Unspeakable had been killed - there was even a strange relief that had gone hand in hand with the discovery of the corpse, since victims of Death Eaters who had disappeared were very rarely found.
Yet, despite this small relief, horror and fright had quickly made their way into everybody's hearts at the knowledge that Hartnett's body had been experimented upon. Thaddeus had not seen the body himself, and photographs of the corpse had been forbidden despite outcries from scoop-hungry journalists, but he had heard other Aurors shiver while recounting the tale in the common room.
The picture those Aurors had painted was the kind that you only saw in the most terrible nightmares. Hartnett's fingers, hands, arms, legs and feet had apparently disappeared, replaced instead with translucent tentacles reminiscent of a jellyfish. Meanwhile, his head had taken up a more cubic-shaped form, while his hair had completely fallen off. Furthermore, the rest of his body had been covered with a bad rash. The Aurors who were at the crime scene had said you could barely make out the place the human body ended and the jellyfish started, as if the two were one and the same.
Really Thaddeus couldn't imagine a much more terrible fate. The Auror department had not even allowed Hartnett's family to see the body, let alone get it back for a proper funeral. As of now the scientific team was still trying to figure out what had happened to Hartnett exactly. So far the only things they were sure about were that the kind of jellyfish Hartnett had been merged with was a species of the family Oceaniidae, and that dark magic had been involved in the twisted process of Transfiguration.
Two days after Hartnett, another body had been found in Cardiff. This one, too, had been awfully disfigured. After a bit of investigation, it had turned out to be Donovan Kovalenko, a British Ukrainian citizen who had worked as a secretary in the Ukrainian embassy until his disappearance, and the last person to have disappeared. Unlike Hartnett, he had not been merged with a jellyfish, but with a bowhead whale. His face had been completely unrecognisable, and it was only because of a very specific birthmark that the scientific team had been able to identify the body.
Just like with Hartnett, Kovalenko's transfigured corpse had been found very far away from the place he had last been seen, since the Ukrainian embassy was based in London. What was more, he had also been found in a completely different region than Bartnett, whose body had been discovered in a little town in Scotland, Tobermory.
All in all, Thaddeus thought with a shudder, there was something really dark going on, but no one could tell whether this was the work of a serial killer, of Pureblood fanatics, of a human trafficking ring, or something else entirely.
Thaddeus didn't think Magdalene had any reason to fret today, though. If the situation he'd been required to deal with had been dangerous, he wouldn't be hanging around waiting for the Hit wizard on duty to come and let him know what was going on. It was probably some kind of drunk wizard who'd destroyed public property thinking Trolls were attacking him. Two months ago he'd arrested a man who had been bothering a neighbourhood in London, believing himself to be Celestina Warbeck. The fella had sung all night with a croaky falsetto voice that seemed immune to the most powerful Silencios.
Merlin, he hated being the reserve Auror at night, but he needed the extra money.
Just as his mind was going to go down a rather dark route he was nonetheless accustomed to, he noticed a familiar figure coming right toward him, looking grim. He couldn't help but raise his eyebrows in surprise.
"Harvey?" he asked as they showed each other their Auror badges and checked each other's identity. "What are you doing here?"
"Nasty business, Thaddeus," Harvey replied sombrely, shaking his head, while Thaddeus followed him. "A young witch who was on her way home after a party stumbled upon the body of Lucinda Backstreet. Lynn's team is already on the crime scene."
Immediately, Thaddeus felt his shoulders slump, and his heart constricted. It was going to be a long night. Magdalene's eyes would give up the fight against sleep well before he would be able to go home, and the first thing he would do when he did go back to his house wouldn't be to kiss his children or wife but take a huge glass of Firewhisky.
Lucinda Backstreet was one of the eight people who had disappeared in the last weeks. A young girl from Bristol, enthusiastic and passionate about the protection of magical animals. One day she had left her home to go to the weekly meeting of her club dedicated to the defence of the rights of magical creatures, and then nobody had ever seen her again. Her disappearance had really caused a stir nationwide. Not only was she the youngest victim, but her father, Cyneric Backstreet, was a well-known businessman who had made a fortune selling transportable strongboxes that were charmed to repel most common spells.
Walking toward her corpse reminded Thaddeus as to why some days he thought that he should find another job.
Neither Harvey nor he were speaking, and the only sounds that could be heard were their boots crunching on the gravel. After a few minutes spent in silence, they finally approached the crime scene. Thaddeus noticed that a few members of the scientific team were already there, looking for evidence and preparing the body for transport, including the Team Leader of the scientific team herself, Auror Lynn Oliver. Thaddeus gave a nod in her direction, which she answered grimly.
Thaddeus looked around for familiar faces, and he saw Monica and Griffiths acknowledge his presence with a small wave, though they quickly got back to what they were doing, both of their faces incredibly serious.
When Thaddeus finally laid eyes on Lucinda's body, he felt himself repress a gag and he had to quickly avert his eyes. The young girl was spread out on the pavement, her face turned toward the starry night. Her expression would give Thaddeus nightmares for months. Her mouth was contorted in pain, her cheeks were tear-stained, and her glassy eyes were wide open in terror, telling a story of terrible suffering.
Though her face and chest had remained human, her stretched-out arms had been turned into something else, just like the previous victims. This time, as far as Thaddeus could tell, the monsters responsible for the murders had tried to turn Lucinda into some sort of part-phoenix creature. While the shape of her arms was visible, they had been saddled with very big wings, covered in those unmistakable red feathers typical of phoenixes. Some of them had seemingly burnt, as they had turned black and were emitting a dark smoke that Thaddeus instinctively backed away from.
Lucinda's hands were still present, but her fingers had elongated, and were contracted, as if she had suffered a seizure. Her legs, too, had been partially Transfigured. Thaddeus could see feathers coming out from under her pants, that had clearly been buttoned up hastily, and her feet had been turned into sharp talons, onto which no shoe could be put, though her shoes had still been put beside her body.
"I can't believe I'll have to be the one who'll tell Cyneric Backstreet that his daughter is dead, and that her death was clearly not a quick, painless one," sighed Harvey next to Thaddeus.
"Is that why you arrived at the crime scene before me?" Thaddeus asked, his voice heavy with sympathy as he looked up at Harvey. "The emergency code for the missing persons' case?"
"Yeah, I was the one from my squad on duty tonight," Harvey replied, his breath turning into vapor as he exhaled. "The witness fortunately remembered it, and I received the signal thirty minutes ago. Right now Gallaway is taking her deposition."
Harvey jutted his chin toward a young woman, who couldn't be older than twenty-five and was in a clear state of great agitation. She was standing a few feet away from the crime scene, and was talking to a black-haired Auror in uniform that Thaddeus had only met a few times.
Thaddeus crouched down to look at Lucinda. He could not imagine the horrors she must have been through, and he shuddered as he thought of her father, who had openly wept in the Aurors' Office when he had been told there were few chances that Lucinda was alive after the first two bodies had been found.
As a father himself, Thaddeus could barely bear to think about that happening to his own children. Lucinda's face was so youthful that it was just plain wrong to imagine her doing anything other than laughing with her friends, complaining that she had too much homework, or giving animated speeches about endangered species.
Feeling dejected, Thaddeus turned his face toward Harvey and declared quietly: "Poor girl. She wasn't even seventeen."
He was stuck in a chair in the tent. He couldn’t get up. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. Everything around him was still. It felt familiar, but things were not as he remembered them to be before he’d left. There were the bed bunks, the table in front of him, plans of something on it — he couldn’t say what it was about —, Hermione’s books, his chess set, Harry’s pouch. He recognised all of those. But there was this mug with a rat on it, and something told him he should know what it was about. There were weird golden chains running across the tent, gripping objects, making them smaller, as if they’d burst any second. And there were badges everywhere, ‘Potter stinks’ badges, and Ron rubbed his forehead without thinking, and was surprised to find that his hand felt dirty.
He looked down at his hands. He was so sure he’d cleaned them several times before, yet they looked filthy, dusty. There was dirt under his nails, but somehow his nails were somehow missing. There was brown stuff on his palms yet again. Ron got up, and went to the sink. He turned the tap on, and put his hands under the water. He washed them, and washed them again, but whenever he removed them from under the water they were still brown. And his back was hurting for some reason.
He looked right. Harry and Hermione were talking to him, their lips moving, but no sound was coming out of them. There was a whistle in his ear, and it was the only thing he could hear apart from his heart hammering in his chest.
“You betrayed them…You betrayed them…It’s too late…”
It was him. It was him again. Ron’s hands went to his neck. There it was, the necklace, the chain. He tugged at it, but it was stuck to his skin. He tugged harder, but instead of coming off the locket sank in his chest, and it was burning, and his hands were burning too, so he removed them. The whistle rose higher.
“So worthless… You’ve tried to hide it, haven’t you? Your jealousy…Your cowardice…Your stupidity…Your mediocrity…You’ve failed. They can all see it now.”
“No! No!” he shouted, walking back, hiding his face behind his arms, but he hit the table and pain flared up his back.
He looked outside the tent. It was so much lighter outside compared to the dark of the tent. It seemed sunny and warm. He could almost hear birds sing above the whistle, the wind was gently moving the branches and leaves of the green trees, and the grass seemed to invite him for a kip. He tried to go out, but the locket kept him back, like a chain around his neck tied to the table.
He kept looking outside, and saw Harry and Hermione. They were shining, and smiling so bright, and they looked so happy tears went to Ron’s eyes. Hermione was making flowers fly and bloom in her hands, while dandelions were blowing in the wind around her. Harry was lying on the ground, his arms under his head and his eyes closed. Ron’s heart felt heavy, as if it’d grown twice in size but was too hefty to carry. It was fusing with the burn from the locket, which was biting his chest.
“Happier without you… Better without you… You’re invisible…”
They were in the sun, while everything around him was dark and full of shadows. Ron tried once more to join them, and this time the locket’s chain let him go up to the entrance of the tent, but he hit an invisible barrier and fell back in the dirt on his bum. His hands went to his neck again, and he found that the chain was squeezing his neck. He almost closed his eyes, but still decided to get up. There had to be a way out, right?
“You spoil everything…You complete arse…We’re so disappointed…You were never at their level. You knew that, didn’t you?”
He tried to grab the tent’s fabric. The thick and sturdy material rotted in his hands, quickly falling to dust. He opened his fist, and it felt like sand was falling from his hand. He tried to touch another part of the tent, but it immediately took fire, scorching a hole the size of his head. He turned around in panic, and saw that all the objects around him, the table, the bed bunks, the chairs, the books, all were turning black and falling apart.
“You’re horrible…You’re nothing…Nothing…Disappear, disappear!”
He turned his head towards Harry and Hermione, hoping that they weren’t turning black because of him. They were coming his way, and he felt a surge of happiness and joy so strong that for a moment, the locket felt a bit lighter. But joy quickly turned to dread when he realised they were clearly angry with him. Their eyes were red, their skin was turning white, and their bright smiles were turning into snarls. They were glaring at him.
“It was your redemption, Ronald. They were your redemption. You should’ve let them crush you. Now all you can do is spoil them too.”
He felt cold. He was shivering all over. He glanced at the two glaring figures in front of him, before looking away. He gulped, and closed his eyes. He knew he’d fucked everything up. He deserved their anger and more. But he didn’t want them to be upset over this. And if he was honest with himself, he wished so very deeply they could stop being upset at him, too. He’d never thought he’d find himself on the receiving end of their hatred. His heart was beating so loudly in his ears that he thought he might throw up.
“Listen,” he choked, his mouth furred while his eyes prickled with tears. “I – I’m so, so, so sorry. I know no word will ever be enough, but I… I promise I won’t bother you anymore. I’ll just do whatever you need me to do. Please,” he added as he looked at them again, his vision blurry. “Please, don’t throw me out…It’s snowing outside, and I need you so much…”
But Harry and Hermione were not listening to him. Their red eyes, which’d been so cold just a moment before, were now full of flames. Red, hot flames coming out of their eyes. And they were burning him. He was hot. He was sweating. Drops of sweat were running down his face. He tugged at his clothes, and tried to remove the locket again, but it sank even deeper in his chest and against his heart. And it was so heavy he nearly leaned forward under its weight. It hurt. He felt like he was melting.
He looked down at his hands again. He was actually melting. The skin of his fingers was going brown and was softening; small drops began to fall on the floor of the tent. Plop, Plop. They were forming a puddle and it looked like mud. In fact, he was sure it was mud. He wanted to yell, but he couldn't. His face was already melting, joining the puddle on the floor.
Ron woke up with a start and sat up, gasping for air. It’d been a nightmare. Just a fucking nightmare. He ran a hand across his face, shivering from head to toe, and felt wetness on his cheeks. Fuck it, he’d once again been crying in his sleep. It was the fourth time in seven days. Even as a child Ron hadn't been that much of a wuss, even though George liked to remind him that he'd kept taking refuge into one of his brothers' beds (or Ginny's) whenever he was scared, and that until he was eight.
It wouldn't matter as much if he’d been crying for anything else. Not that he preferred the other nightmares, mind you, but he just felt pathetic for turning into a sobbing mess all because he'd been too weak to resist an effing necklace. Harry was particularly affected by Dementors. Nothing less than Bellatrix Lestrange could make Hermione truly terrified. Ginny, who’d been possessed by a diary, didn't flinch at the mere presence of a book.
But him? Ron could already imagine George making grand gestures wherever he went: "Alas, my dear Sirs, gentlemen, thou shall make place for the delicate Ronniekins in his worn-out PJs, for he fainted when the dreaded locket came into his dainty view. Please bring the smelling salts while we're fanning his pasty white and freckled face and he's letting out little whines of distress. He's the king of wimps, thou see, and he can't bear the sight of lockets, less he be crying like a famished baby!"
Yeah. George'd be the kind of arsehole who'd offer him a pacifier if he knew what kind of nightmares was making Ron cry in his sleep.
Ron looked down at his hands, the real ones this time. Goddammit, they were still shaking. Bloody fuck, he thought as he closed his eyes in frustration, why did he have no control over his own body? Why did he have to act like he was a ninety-something-old codger who needed help to take a piss?
Even though the bedroom was completely silent at this hour of the night, Ron could still hear his heart thumping madly in his ears, and despite himself he couldn't help but feel like the locket was still whistling behind him, making his skin crawl. Sweat was running down his back and had already soaked his armpits, and yet for some reason he was cold, goosebumps erupting all over his flesh.
And he still had this impression of someone hissing near him, and the room was closing on him, and his pyjama top was glued to his skin, and he didn't like the way the sheets were trapping his legs, preventing him from moving... Unable to bear the situation any longer and feeling like he was suffocating, Ron yanked the sheets off his part of the bed and got up quickly, before pulling his sticky pyjama top over his head and throwing it on the ground.
He took his wand and started walking toward the door, though he couldn't help himself and stopped to throw a glance at Hermione once he was in the doorframe. She was sleeping peacefully, her wild brown curls framing her head like some kind of fairy tale princess. The moonlight was lighting up her beautiful face, and she had a contented smile that almost made him want to go back to bed to kiss it.
Leaving the bedroom, Ron crossed the corridor and went into the small kitchen of the flat, and immediately put filled the kettle to make himself tea. He cast a heating charm on the kettle, took his favourite mug, and put a teabag in it. Waiting for the water to boil, he put his outstretched arms on the counter and sighed, his head lowered toward the sink.
It was the third time in a week that he'd had a nightmare about the locket. It wasn't surprising per se, because it was January and it was always around this time of the year that Ron had the most vivid nightmares in regard to the locket, but it still sucked. Especially because it'd been three years already, and some part of Ron had — foolishly — hoped that the nightmares and his locket-related terror would have subsided by now.
But nope, he mused as he stared at the happy light brown dog on the mug running around and chasing a butterfly. He still had dreams in which he could feel the heavy weight of the locket on his chest, preventing him from breathing. In which he was trapped in an endless stream of dark thoughts echoed by the locket's whispers, reminding him of all the times he’d felt worthless. In which he kept leaving the tent as Harry's scornful stares and Hermione's cries followed him even after he woke up.
At the same time, he knew the nightmares were the last thing he deserved for ever having walked out on Harry and Hermione. He'd never been good enough for them in the first place, but deserting them when they needed him most was irredeemable, something that the locket, whether it be through his nightmares or flashes, kept reminding him of.
At this moment a whistling sound made Ron's heart do a somersault before he realised that it was only the kettle boiling. He poured the hot water into his mug, added two sugar lumps and a half to his drink, steeped the teabags in the water, and as he run his hand across his hair his thoughts went back to the place he had among his two best friends.
He was thankful Harry and Hermione still wanted him in their lives, and somehow he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, when they'd wake up and realise he'd been nothing but a cock-up all this time. Truth be told, part of Ron had to pinch himself every morning when he was reminded that Hermione wanted to be with him, of all people, and that he got to be an Auror Trainee with Harry, and that Harry still thought Ron had his back.
So he'd keep trying to enjoy every moment while it lasted. It wasn’t always easy, because every little thing seemed to remind him of a memory in which he'd fucked up or that showed how worthless he was. Yet Ron had learned to cast the memories aside in order to focus on more important things, like his family, Harry, Hermione, his other friends, or his studies. The hardest part in all this was to not let his useless feelings get in the way of things.
Ron could say with some pride that he'd grown way better at dismissing his gross feelings of jealousy and insecurity compared to when he was a teenager. Sure, sometimes he slipped up because he was still a moron, he pondered as he turned a spoon inside his mug. But all in all, so far he’d managed to keep his selfish desires in check — for the most part.
He kept making efforts to show others, and more particularly Harry and Hermione, that he’d changed. For that he needed to make sure they didn't notice he still had the same old feelings, or at least he needed to let them know that those feelings would never be a burden to them again. Of course sometimes they couldn't help but notice a few things, like this time Ron had casually let slip that he thought Hermione often favoured Harry over him and it had ended up in a huge row with Hermione as she yelled he was just being a possessive jealous sod trying to stifle her. Or this time he had jokingly told Harry he was Mum's favourite and Harry, disturbed, had replied that however important Mrs. Weasley was in his life, she was not his mother. Harry’d been weird for days after that, all because of Ron, his stupid mouth and his stupid brain.
That was the reason why he made sure no one knew the extent of the mess he had in his head. While he’d never been a great liar, he tried not to be too specific if someone asked him what was wrong. To take their attention away from whatever face he was making. To dismiss his reactions whenever they were related to this pathetic sticky, stinky magma of insecurity inside him.
And it was somewhat working, but for how long would it last?
Right as his mood was turning as bitter as the tea he’d brewed, given that he’d let the teabag steep for more than ten minutes, he heard footsteps coming in his direction. He didn't bother to take his wand or even turn around. Ron would recognize Hermione's light but determined steps anywhere.
She entered the kitchen and stopped in the hallway for a few seconds, before walking toward him and enveloping him from behind. Even though she’d wrapped a warm nightgown around her, her hands were still cold on his chest. Yet he didn't mind. The contact of her skin on his, the touch of her curls and cheek on his back made everything better, and despite himself he closed his eyes for a brief instant, savouring the moment.
"A nightmare again?" she asked in a low voice.
"Yeah..." Ron admitted with a sigh. "I didn't want to wake you up, but I needed to get up."
"It's okay," Hermione replied in a reassuring tone. "But I'm starting to get worried. You've had many nightmares in the last three weeks and haven't been able to sleep properly even though you have exams coming up. Perhaps you should see a Healer to get a Sleeping potion?" she added anxiously.
"Not until I really have to," he retorted firmly. "We've already had far too many problems with Sleeping potions, I don't want to risk it. Besides, I'd have to tell the Auror Academy's specialist Healer about it and I'd like to avoid it if I can."
"I know," Hermione sighed. "I'm just worried about you. You always seem to get so stressed out before your exams at the Auror Academy, even worse than I've ever been at Hogwarts. I wished you would stop doubting yourself so much."
Ron did not reply, but he squeezed Hermione's hands — they were still clasped on his chest, right next to his heart. It was strange how the people around him seemed to know him so well while at the same time not knowing anything about the exact reasons that were making him upset.
"What can I say?" He finally acknowledged after a few moments of silence, though he hoped his tone appeared casual. "You can't change old habits with a wave of your wand. I guess it's hard for me to think I won't fuck up somewhere. But you shouldn't worry about me", he added gently. “Go back to sleep."
"I woke up because you were not beside me in the bed, I'm not going back in there without you," she retorted assertively.
"I'm gonna lose the debate if I try to argue, aren't I?" Ron snorted.
"Of course you’d lose, I'm more stubborn than you," she said confidently, and Ron could feel that she was sporting a small smile.
"Even if that were true, which remains to be seen, that's nothing to boast about, Miss Granger," he tutted in a mock formal voice. "I've been told that I'm more stubborn than a brooding mule having been raised by Harry, so imagine what could be worse than that... Apart from Harry himself, of course."
Ron felt Hermione shake behind him as she laughed heartily. He could not help but feel a surge of pride at having made her laugh after having made her worry for no good reason. Being able to make Hermione laugh as much as possible was one of his goals in life, and the sound of her laughter was one of the things he cherished most.
"I love you," she said fondly, as if it was the only logical answer to his antics.
At that, Ron turned around, and it was his turn to envelop Hermione in his arms, her smaller body fitting perfectly with his own. He kissed the top of her head, her brown curls tickling his face, before putting his chin on top of the mass of her unruly hair.
"I love you too," he whispered, and he hoped she could not detect how emotional he was.
He was glad that she couldn’t see his face in the dark kitchen that was only lit up by the moonbeams that went through the main window. If she had, she would have seen in his eyes, of which Hermione always said they could never lie, the one thing that kept playing on a loop in his head but that was stuck in his throat.
I don't deserve you.