Unplottable

35 - Ron

Content, Ron opened the wooden box to put the granite knight inside. Its Ensouling process was completed, as far as any chess piece could be finished prior to proper training with its whole team. The knight had played today, and it had done well. Taking a look at the little stone figures in the box, Ron felt a smile take hold of his face. At first, he had practised Ensouling by himself on three pawns. They were to be part of the chess pieces he wanted to give to Hermione, chess pieces that would be unique and entirely made for her.

His first piece was a normal, obedient pawn; it was not very bright, but it bowed low and followed every command, regardless of whether it was safe or even intelligent to do so. Then there was his opposite, a pawn whose character was modelled after Ron's first Ensouled chess figure - the notorious Anarchy Pawn. Unruly and impolite, this pawn would eventually do a player's bidding, but if it thought the move unwise, it tended to be rather rude. Then there was a third pawn whose main feature was impatience: It never remained immobile for long, hopping up and down ever so slightly on the board and constantly asking whether it could move yet.

After Ron had completed these three, he had started on the figure which had tempted him the most - the queen. The little figure had turned out just like he had envisioned her: She was the brightest object he had ever created; he had even managed to teach her how to read, and regularly had her read a book on chess. Even though the chess piece complained regularly because her granite eyes tended to tire after three or four sentences, he thought it a spectacular achievement for a chess figure. Once she had gotten the hang of things, she would surpass all other chessmen. Also, he had installed a certain bossiness in her character; once the queen knew all the chess rules by heart, she would be an insufferable know-it-all, he hoped. At any rate, she would be the true leader of the chessmen - and she would command them with a voice strongly resembling Hermione's.

The bishop he had modelled after Harry, remembering the day in their first year when the three of them had battled the giant chess figures to get to the Philosopher's Stone: Harry had been a bishop then. Ron had given the little figure quite a bit of intelligence (but not as much as the queen had): The figure thought before it spoke or moved and was not quick to anger, but if you truly stepped on its granite toes, beware! Moreover, it took the game very personally; if things went amiss, it tended to brood. It was heroic up to the point where it became a bit ridiculous, and it had been taught to refer to the opposing chessmen as 'The Enemy'. Harry, who had to test-play Ron's Ensouled team (completed with his own chessmen) against Ron in the secrecy of the boys' dormitory on a regular bases, had recognised at once who the bishop was supposed to be. He had not been amused, and he had demanded that Ron should shape a knight after himself, also remembering the giant chess set. Together, the two friends had brainstormed about the character the knight should have. Not too flattered, Ron had nevertheless put their ideas into action when Ensouling the figure:

The knight was a dare-devil, a hothead, but very loyal. It tended to defend the queen, regardless of whether this was the player's intention. It fought fiercely, but it flinched before it was struck - Harry had noticed Ron flinch frequently during Quidditch matches, especially if a Quaffle was approaching him directly. Also, the knight liked to bend the rules of chess. If the opponent wasn't watching, the knight would move straight ahead instead of diagonally, landing on white fields only, of course.

Harry had said he enjoyed playing with the knight, Ron told himself with satisfaction while stowing away all the granite figures. The next project would be a castle; he was already thinking about how he could give the figure the character of Hogwarts castle, changeful and unpredictable. After that, there were still nine figures to go. Ensouling a chess set for Hermione was a big project, but Ron enjoyed it.

While he was still contemplating his work, the dormitory's door suddenly opened with a slam. Neville stormed in, white as a sheet. He took his flute case from his trunk.

"Harry, we're under attack. You're wanted in the Astronomy Tower immediately," he said breathlessly and ran off again.

Making up his mind in the fraction of a second, Ron said: "I'm coming with you." Together, they ran down the stairs to the common room.

Hermione noticed at once that their hurry was not a normal one. "What's up?" she asked, leaving her book and quill on the table and rushing after them.

"We're under attack," Ron replied anxiously. "Stay in the common room."

"No way," Hermione replied, catching up with them right outside the Portrait Hole. "I'm coming. I've been learning Counter Curses for weeks."

Of course, they had known for a long time that this might happen. Dumbledore had addressed the students during dinner in the Great Hall several weeks ago. He had told him that the Enemy was likely to attack the castle with an evil curse, and that they should be watchful for suspicious things. During the next three weeks, no less than 7452 suspicious observations had been reported by students, so Dumbledore had called the watchfulness off. However, they all knew they were in danger. Still, very few students had been taken home by their parents. These days, there was danger everywhere.

The Astronomy Tower was fairly crowded. Professor Dumbledore was looking through a telescope; however, he wasn't watching the sky, and Ron was sure he was using magic to see things beyond the reach of the instrument. Fawkes was perched on his shoulder, immobile like a statue. Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick and Ambrose Curtis were standing by the headmaster's side, conversing in low voices. Professor Varlerta, Professor Lyons, Ginny and Neville were setting up their instruments; obviously, they intended to use their music magic for the defence of the castle. The other teachers were nowhere in sight; neither was Romulus Lupin, who had returned two days ago. Ron guessed that they were looking after the other students, trying to prevent chaos and curse injuries.

"There are about two dozen grown Death Eaters, thirty-four boys and Voldemort himself," Dumbledore announced. "Oh, Harry, there you are," he said with a brief smile. "Hermione, Ron, I don't remember calling you up here."

"We'll see to the door and make sure nobody bursts in unannounced, and we'll run errands," Hermione replied matter-of-factly. She was making a statement, not asking or begging. Nobody objected.

"Harry, you will have to assist Minerva, Chent and Ambrose with protecting the castle from the curse," Dumbledore said. "I am hoping that your extraordinary abilities will help us one more time. Meanwhile, Professor Varlerta and her team will try to confuse the minds of the attackers. Once they are weakened, we will attack them."

Ron could not help but stare at Dumbledore. He had always believed his headmaster a kind, slightly mad genius, an old wizard with extraordinary powers - but someone who would never wilfully hurt another living being. Now he knew he was wrong. Dumbledore was made of steel and tough old leather; anybody who thought him too kind to kill was making a big mistake. They were fighting for life and death here - their own lives, but also those of their attackers might be taken. Before the day was over, people would die in or around Hogwarts, or possibly both.

Varlerta, Roary, Ginny and Neville had commenced a low, eerie chant. Their bodies were moving almost imperceptibly to a common rhythm. Ron could feel the air vibrate with tension. All of a sudden, the room around him faded away, giving room to a vision of a glowing river of fire, or was it molten lava? As briefly as it had come, the vision disappeared. Ambrose Curtis, who stood by the window in a position of perfect poise, his wand pointed at whoever might attack them, turned around towards Ron and gave him a strange look. Then he turned back, bent on being alert. Confused, Ron shook his head. This was not the time to worry about visions.

"They are coming," Professor Flitwick murmured, staring out of the window. Somehow, seeing the tiny wizard ready to attack looked funny, but Ron did not feel much like laughing. In a situation like this, a lack of fear could only be attributed to blissful ignorance. Suddenly he wished he had remained in the dormitory where he could pull the blanket over his head and avoid seeing death and battle.

"I wish Severus was here," Professor McGonagall replied softly. "This should be his job." Tiny Flitwick nodded his assent.

Professor Varlerta and her music mages continued chanting. They were now walking in a small circle on the western side of the tower; Ginny and Varlerta were striking their drums. Ron found himself drawn into the hypnotic chant and rhythm. His body seemed to join in and sweetly sing itself to sleep. He pinched himself to keep his senses together. There had to be a reason why he had come to the tower. He had to find a way to be of use in the defence of the castle.

"Get ready," Dumbledore said with a steely voice; Fawkes emitted a single, affirmative craw. This was it, Ron realised; the battle might only take a few seconds. His eyes strayed towards Hermione. For a brief moment, he intended to declare his love to her, right on the spot, because he realised he might never ever get the chance to do so again. However, Hermione was standing next to Curtis now, her wand out, ready to fight. Ron stepped behind her, drawing his wand, but he did not speak. This was neither the time nor the place for sappiness.

Now the sounds of flute and electric guitar rose between the chant and Ginny's continuous drum rhythm. Their magic seemed very strong to Ron; hope rose in him. Would his little sister and her fellow music mages be able to ward off the wicked enemy's curse?

Then the sound of the instruments seemed to waiver, to grow thin and fake, to die away. Simultaneously to the loss of sound, Ron found all his senses weaken; his eyesight faded, and the figures around him became blurred and slightly transparent. He could not feel his body anymore. The typical smell of the Astronomy Tower, old telescope grease, died away. All warmth left him. Desperately, Ron groped for the cloth of his robes just to feel anything at all; for a moment, it felt as if he had neither hand nor robes. This scared him only very indistinctly; simultaneously with his senses, his emotions were disappearing. The room faded to grey altogether, leaving him alone in nothingness.

Suddenly he felt a rhythm; he wasn't sure whether it was his heartbeat or his sister's drum. It reminded him of being woken by Ginny after he had been hit by an ice missile. With the memory, his sensations returned one by one. He was hearing the music of Varlerta's team; he was in the Astronomy Tower, looking at those who would fight the evil curse; he was feeling the floor beneath his feet, the cloth in his fingers, and the room smelled like telescope grease again. Whatever evil magic had attacked him, it had been beaten off for now.

Roary, Varlerta, Ginny and Neville were still playing and singing. They were swaying slightly; sweat was streaming down their faces, and the skin of Ginny's drum as well as Varlerta's guitar strings were slightly bloodsmeared.

"Now," Professor McGonagall hissed. She shot a blast of red light from her wand; so did Flitwick, Ambrose and Hermione. Ashamed, Ron looked down at his own wand, which had fallen to the floor. He bent to pick it up, admonishing himself to have a spell ready for next time. But which spell could he use? His mind seemed empty, and his body felt terribly cold, still remembering the nothingness it had experienced.

Dumbledore, he noticed, had not shot off a spell either; he did not even hold his wand in his hand. Standing in the middle of the room, he rather seemed like someone in trance. Maybe he was doing a different kind of magic Ron did not understand. It had to be something exhausting: The skin of the ancient wizard was grey, and he was trembling; Fawkes was preening his long, white hair. Ron found the look worrisome, so he looked the other way.

Varlerta uttered a sound while continuing to play eerie, disharmonic arpeggio chords. Her utterance was more like a moan, but it seemed that Professor McGonagall took it as a signal.

"The music magic is working on our attackers. They are confused and out of focus, so they can't hold up the curse. This time we'll get them - now!" she hissed.

Ron shot off a Freezing Jinx, the only thing he could think of; next to the others' red blasts, it looked weak and slightly ridiculous, but he decided it was better than nothing.

There were several loud bangs, maybe even screams; smoke rose up from the Hogwarts grounds. Ron was glad of the castle's protecting walls.

"Merlin help us - the children!" Professor McGonagall whispered after a glance out the window. Ron stood on tiptoes, but he couldn't see a thing through all the smoke. Maybe Professor McGonagall could see things he couldn't with the aid of some unknown magic. He wasn't sure whether he wanted her abilities right now.

"Think of the children we've got here, Minerva," Ambrose Curtis said softly, his left hand on her shoulder while his right was still holding his wand ready.

"They will go insane out there," Professor McGonagall replied tonelessly, "at best, that is."

Beside him, Ron heard a strange moan. Turning, he saw Professor Dumbledore move in bizarre convulsions. It was a scary sight: His wrinkled, usually benevolent face was distorted into a grimace; the eyes were bulging, his cracked, bloodless lips drawn back to reveal his clenched teeth. Fawkes was having trouble staying on the headmaster's shoulder, but he held on tightly.

At once, Professor McGonagall was by the headmaster's side. She put a soothing hand on his shoulder, but she didn't address him. Perhaps, Ron thought, she was afraid that Dumbledore was casting an unknown spell to save the castle, and it might be fatal to disturb him now.

Professor Dumbledore sank to the floor, clutching his shins and moaning. Professor McGonagall knelt beside him and put an arm around him. All the while, Curtis, Flitwick, Harry and Hermione were shooting red flashes out of the window in short intervals, while Varlerta, Roary, Ginny and Neville were still playing. They looked exhausted, but not like they might break down any minute. All of them seemed to be holding out well in the face of the enemy's attack, Ron thought. He was unsure which part to play in it himself. For some reason, maybe due to his long sickness, he didn't have the training his friends had; he did not know enough about combat magic, at least not in the large-scale dimensions they were facing here. He fiercely longed to be useful, although he couldn't bear the thought of killing someone.

Suddenly, Dumbledore made a strange, inhuman noise. Looking at him, Ron felt drawn into the headmaster's sufferings. Again he saw a vision of the fiery stream; it was carrying him with it to a remote place, far beyond the dimensions of the Astronomy Tower. A part of the fiery stream was controlled by the people up in the room where he had left his body; in his mind, he could separate the strands. Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick were emitting a strong flow of energy, continuously battling against the enemy's force. Then there was Hermione's fire, steady, powerful and well known to him; Harry's fire was stronger, but it was not wholly coming out of Harry himself; a large part of it was drawn from a strange, distant source. Separating the strand of Ambrose Curtis, Ron was suddenly looking at a dark-skinned face appearing out of the fiery stream; the face was winking at him, it seemed.

Varlerta and her team were not emitting any fire at all; rather, their music seemed to weave itself into the stream coming to meet them from the other side, a ferocious, greenish fire licking at the walls of Hogwarts castle, trying to annihilate them all. Yet the music in the fire was distracting it, re-directing it, disturbing its focus. There was suffering in all this distraction; Ron seemed to hear the sound of minds breaking. It scared him.

In the midst of all these fiery currents, he saw Dumbledore, fighting two battles at once. Green and silvery energy appeared to wind around his body like a snake, trying to choke him. For a moment, Ron could see Dumbledore as a golden lion with a silver mane, wrestling the snake. Fawkes was attacking the snake with his beak; red fire seemed to flow from his claws. Together, they should have been able to shake off the snake, but something was hindering them; something was draining Dumbledore's strength far more than the snake could. It seemed a distant pain was drawing the headmaster's energy away from the battle, and it was all too human.

"What is it, Albus?" Professor McGonagall whispered at last. The sound brought Ron back into his body, back into the physical reality of the Astronomy Tower where the ancient wizard was half-kneeling, half-lying on the floor.

"Evnissyen, my son," the headmaster croaked. "He is here. Oh, Merlin, let him be safe."

Professor McGonagall gasped; she held onto Dumbledore's shoulders. "You've got to forget about him," she whispered imploringly. "You've got to do battle with us here. We need you. Without you, we will be lost." If Ron wasn't mistaken, there were tears in her eyes. It scared him more than everything else he had seen that day.

Dumbledore nodded, his teeth clenched. With the help of Professor McGonagall, he managed to get to his knees and even to his feet, though he still needed steadying. Seeing him lean on the aged head of Gryffindor House, Ron finally found his own task in the Astronomy Tower.

"Please, Professor McGonagall," he said timidly, "I can hold him up. You have to help with the battle."

Professor McGonagall gave Ron a strange look, but then she helped Dumbledore lean onto Ron's offered shoulder. The headmaster held on strongly, managing to remain upright in spite of his buckling knees. His clawlike clutch hurt Ron's shoulder, but Ron did not flinch; he braced his body to support Dumbledore's weight while Professor McGonagall was hurrying back to the window.

"Alright, I won't think of him," he heard the headmaster whisper. "If he only gets out alive."

Ron had never heard of Dumbledore having a son, and if there was one, it was hard to fathom why this son should be outside with the attackers. However, there was not much time to ponder this; the battle demanded too much of his attention.

On Ambrose's command, the group at the window let off one more set of red flashes. Ambrose sighed, sounding almost satisfied. "That was a good one," he murmured. "I hope they are letting off now."

"All these dead children," Professor McGonagall whispered, infinite sadness in her voice. "How can such a deed be a victory?"

"Think of the children here, Minerva," Ambrose repeated. "We've got to defend the children entrusted to us."

Ron felt relief flood through him. For the moment, he did not give a damn about dead children outside the castle's wall. All he wanted was to go on living, to see another year in the castle. He wanted Hogwarts to win this battle, no matter what the cost on the other side might be.

A sudden shriek made his blood freeze. White like a sheet, Flitwick was pointing to the window. Then a blazing light filled the room. The music of Professor Varlerta's team died away as if it had never existed. A quick glimpse out of the window showed Ron the horrible truth: A glowing green fireball nearly the size of the castle was approaching them with immense speed, threatening to devour Hogwarts and all the people inside the castle. This was the end, he thought; at last You-Know-Who had found a weapon against which they had no defence due to its sheer size and speed.

Dumbledore's body went rigid; his fingers left Ron's shoulder. He whipped out his wand and shouted: "Parsprototum!"

Ron felt the floor move underneath his feet; the air was suddenly thick like syrup, so breathing became difficult. Loosing their equilibrium, the people in the tower were tumbling against each other. The blazing green light faded as quickly as it had come. As far as Ron could make out in all the confusion, the giant fireball had turned around, scorching grass and trees on its way back towards the enemy.

"I think that will be the last we will have seen of that lot," Flitwick piped breathlessly.

Still shaken, Ron did his best to steady himself, expecting Dumbledore's hand would return to his shoulder, seeking support. When it didn't come, he turned around in time to see the headmaster fall. As if in slow motion, Dumbledore's body crumbled to the floor. It looked as if muscles and sinews had disappeared, leaving an unconnected array of bones which could no longer stand on their own. The headmaster's blue eyes were wide open, but the light inside of them had faded. Fawkes sat on the floow beside his head. The bird wailed quietly, but no healing tears flowed from his eyes.

With a shriek, Professor McGonagall threw herself onto the floor next to the fallen old wizard. She felt his wrist, then touched his face which had assumed the look of crackling parchment. Finally, she laid his head in her lap, closing his eyes, not uttering another sound.

Slowly, as if unsure what to do now, they all gathered around the headmaster. Ron saw their faces mirroring his own disbelief. Varlerta gave Roary a questioning look and harvested a tiny shake of the head as a reply. Ginny's bloodied hand had sneaked into Neville's, while Hermione and Harry looked disconnected to all the human beings around them. Flitwick seemed tinier than ever like someone dwarfed by the turn of events.

"He saved us," Ambrose Curtis said in a choked voice. "He made the big fireball turn around and burn the enemy when none of my magic could have stopped it."

"He gave his life for that," Varlerta said hoarsely.

"He gave it for us," Roary whispered, amazed.

"Is there no hope?" Harry asked wildly. "Let's take him to Madam Pomfrey immediately. Maybe she can still help him."

"It is too late - he is beyond anybody's help now," Flitwick said after bending over Dumbledore's body. "There are things even magic can't - or shouldn't - tamper with."

Ron moved towards Harry and Hermione; Ginny and Neville drew close, too. His friends looked as confused, as uncomprehending as he felt. Could Dumbledore die? It seemed incredible. The ancient wizard had been their stronghold, more of a protection than the very walls of the castle. Ron realised he had believed Dumbledore to be immortal - or at least, to die in the final battle against the enemy.

In all his numb and confused sorrow, he suddenly saw a glimpse of hope. If Dumbledore had just given his life to finally kill You-Know-Who, all of this would make sense. It would still be an unimaginable loss, but it would not feel entirely pointless any longer.

"Do you think - do you think he killed You-Know - do you think, he killed Lord Voldemort with the fireball?" Ron stuttered.

All eyes turned to him. Then Flitwick slowly shook his head. "I don't think so," he replied. "That's not how - how I believe things will happen." His eyes darted towards Harry.

For a while, nobody said a word. They stood around the sunken body of their headmaster and leader, regarding Professor McGonagall stroking his limp hair slowly and aimlessly.

"But what are we going to do now?" Hermione finally asked. Her voice sounded small and afraid in the silence surrounding them.

Ambrose Curtis seemed to wake up from a trance. "We've got to take a look at the rest of the castle and check the grounds. We cannot be sure whether their lot is dead or gone without a thorough search."

Flitwick laid a hand on Professor McGonagall's shoulder. The Transfiguration teacher did not look up or react in any way. It seemed impossible to leave her here without support.

"Let's go," Varlerta said grimly. "We have work to do."