The Locket

Author's Notes: Small scene stolen from 'Braveheart'. Also more on what happened to

Harry and a little about Hermione.

Dum spiro, spero

-Latin Proverb-

Chapter Six

There was nothing worse than the exceeding agony of watching a loved one suffer and being helpless to alleviate it, Vincent thought. He had stopped being religious at an early age. A lifetime of inciting and exploiting the desires of others had driven any sense of divinity from him, but it had been replaced with a bitter but oddly satisfying helping of cynicism. But now, desperation drove him to kneel beside Felicity's pallet, one hand on her pallid cheek and the other clenched in a fervent prayer to some greater power.

Felicity was breathing, but her chest struggled to rise with each breath, as though she bore a heavy weight upon it. She appeared to be in deep slumber, but Vincent knew better. Felicity was not a peaceful sleeper. Many nights she'd kept him awake with her nonsense words, kicks, and fervent dreams. Now she lay still, and were it not for her breathing, Vincent would have believed her dead. In any case, the frantic flickering of her closed eyelids indicated turmoil within. Vincent placed a hand on the sweat-damp tumble of curls and suppressed the bitterness that accompanied his helplessness.

His focus on Felicity was so complete that he did not notice the door open and a slight figure enter. A quiet footfall from behind alerted him to its presence, and he reached out and seized a bony wrist in his unforgiving grasp.

"Who are you?" he growled. The state of his friend had rendered him reckless, and he did not fear punishment for assaulting a wizard.

Luck was on his side, though, it was another slave who had intruded upon him. The girl seemed unperturbed by his tone. "My name is Selene," she replied. "If you continue to grip my arm that hard, it will leave a mark. It will make me an easier target for Quilfblatts, don't you know."

Sensing no real threat from the slip of a girl, Vincent released her. "What are you doing here?"

A small pouch was thrust into his chest. "I expect she is halfway to madness," Selene replied. "She needs this."

The small vial was filled with a viscous amber liquid, not unlike honey. Vincent uncorked it, inhaled deeply and shuddered. "What is this?"

"It would take too much time to explain. You must trust me."

Vincent looked into her peculiar blue eyes, and could sense no malice there. "If this hurts her," he snarled, "I will give you cause to regret it."

She did not respond, but fixed her peculiar gaze upon him, causing him to shift slightly in discomfort. Finally she spoke. "You don't trust many people, do you?" Grabbing the vial back from him, she pressed the bottle to Felicity's lips and eased her head back to ease the flow of the liquid.

"Now we have given her a path back," she said softly as she recorked the bottle. "It is her decision whether or not to take it."

"So what do we do now?"

Selene cast her distinctive gaze upon him once again. "Now we must wait."

~~~

The brush strokes caressed the canvas softly, adding dimension and color to the outline of the beloved old home. Using the myriad of brushes at his disposal, the artist captured the very essence of the Burrow, down to the last haphazard feathers adorning the final chicken in the yard.

"You can stop watching me," Ron said after he released the paintbrush from his mouth, dropping it on the table beside him. "I hate it when you do that."

Ginny grinned and focused on her bubbling pot. "Adds to its appeal," she quipped back. "I never actually imagined you'd be good."

"And what," Ron said, "is that supposed to mean? Or was this simply to be a pastime for a withering cripple?"

Her gasp of surprise followed by apologetic rambling was just the reaction Ron had hoped for. "Ron, you know I never...would never imply..."

His laughter was an effective silencer. "Merlin, Ginny. It was a joke."

"Joke. Right." The stove was turned off, and she was sitting beside him a moment afterwards. "I need to get used to this, the fact that you suddenly seem to be..." She stopped abruptly, but her meaning was clear. That he seems to accept the fact that he's a cripple after all this time. That he's joking about it. She looked at Ron speculatively and bit her lip. "It wasn't anything Neville said, was it?"

Ron looked at the line between her eyebrows, a surefire indicator of her worried state. "I've been stuck like this for how many years? It's about time I stopped moping. Having Neville over helped me see that." He was silent for a moment as he was struck by a thought. "It was nice to have him over. It's rather boring with just you around."

She stuck her tongue out at him, a gesture she hadn't attempted in over a decade. Watching the old mischievous glint reappear in her eyes brought a prickling sensation to the corners of Ron's eyes. He blinked hard to clear any vestiges of tears. "What in Merlin's name are you cooking?" he asked.

Ginny didn't reply but she came over and wiped at them with the corner of her sleeve. Her eyes, however, were carefully appraising the painting. The line between her eyebrows had reappeared, but this time in thought. "You know," she said, "this really is good, Ron. They all are." She turned to face him. "Have you ever given any thought to selling them?"

He laughed riotously at that, but when he opened his eyes, Ginny's expression had not faltered. "You're serious," he said.

"Clearly. These really are good." Her eyes glinted with mischief. "And you know I'm not the type to pay compliments because of sisterly regard."

He chuckled. "True. But still, Gin...there's no market. Most of us can barely afford the pay the bills on the magic meters." There was a bitter undertone to his last statement.

Ginny either did not notice or chose to ignore it. She was hugging herself and rocking back and forth on her seat. "This is a grand idea, can't you see that? I meant what I said before, Ron. I never thought you'd be so good. I just thought...well it's never too late for a new hobby."

Ron knew quite well what she was about to say. After the attack, after he had lost his limbs one at a time to the curse, the outlook had seemed hopeless. Physically he had recovered well, but mentally he appeared beyond repair.

Ron, Hermione, Harry...they had never truly understood the nature of the link between them at Hogwarts. "We're somehow stronger when we are together," Hermione would always say. It was certainly stronger than mere friendship. Thinking upon it later, as a limbless cripple, Ron felt as though their individual magic had entwined itself together, like individual vines twisting together to grow even stronger, bloom more profusely than it ever could before. When Hermione had died, the first of the three to go, they both had felt it.

Her last words had been his name, followed by another word, one Ron could not quite make out. She had weakly pressed a small locket into his hands, and with a last look that spoke volumes, she had gone. He still felt as though a part of his soul had been ripped from his body. So this is what Voldemort feels when he makes a Horcrux, he had thought. What kind of evil must he be made of to be able to stand it?

Hermione's death was made more terrible by the multitude of unknowns surrounding it. She had been gone for over a year, with scant correspondence, and no mention about where she was or what she was doing. Her errant behavior had caused much frustration amongst the other members of the Order of the Phoenix. Harry and he had defended her as expected, but it was Luna Lovegood's vociferous defense that had surprised everyone. It was thanks to her shockingly vocal support that Hermione's actions escaped further castigation. That, coupled with the fact that Hermione often provided key intelligence on attacks and Death Eater plans, helped maintain her position within the Order, even without her physical presence.

But Ron did miss her physical presence, and not simply for the obvious reasons. He missed the smell of her hair on his pillow in the morning; the way she sang popular songs with made up lyrics in the shower. He missed the way she fell asleep on her research volumes at night, and the way she snuggled into his chest in sleepy gratitude when he carried her back to bed. After her death, Harry and he knew that their magical power had been weakened, they could feel it.

While the circumstances of Hermione's death were shrouded in mystery, Harry's death was quite the opposite. Ron had been right by his side when it happened, and it was his wand that had conjured the knife that had killed Harry, though not by his hand. The details of the ambush, what was said, what was done, they were forgotten. But Ron would never forget Voldemort casting the spells on their eyes, his and Harry's. He could remember the cold, cruel laugh when Voldemort cursed his limbs, one by one. He remembered the terrible anguish in Harry's eyes, his inability to look away from the swirling green pools.

"So you will die, Potter," Voldemort had said. "Knowing the weakness that is love. Knowing that your friends suffered far more than you."

Ron's cries had been terrible to hear, but he'd managed to say the words he wanted, spittle and froth and blood spewing forth from the effort. "Harry!" he had screamed in excruciating agony as he felt life leaving his arms, his legs. "I would do it again. Again and again! I was always ready to die for you, we both were."

Equal to the pain of his torture had been the look in Harry's eyes, the despair and helplessness and anger. Even worse than both had been watching Harry die, watching the light in those once-brilliant green eyes finally go out as Voldemort cut his throat with the conjured knife. His last word was an apology.

Ron was left as a shell of his former self, to live his life of despair. He had never told anyone the details of what had happened, not even Ginny. There are some things, some secrets that are so terrible they must be borne alone, he thought.

The painting lessons had been Dean's idea. "When I was little, about eight or nine, I broke my leg, rather badly," he had said, not quite meeting Ron's eyes. "My uncle taught be a few things, and got me a paint set while I was stuck in bed. I thought you should give it a try."

Ron had started off drawing swirls of darkness. When he stared at them for hours on end, he felt some of the pain ebb away into numbness. And it was in this numbed state that his mind drifted to thoughts of suicide, using Ginny's wand. The charges on her magic meter would be balanced, he had reasoned, by the subsequent savings Ginny would have after his death. He had even gone so far as to practice positioning her wand properly in his mouth while she showered. But things changed.

He was ready that day, several years ago. The wand was positioned in his mouth, Hermione's locket around his neck. The word was halfway out of his mouth when he felt it, a pulse from the locket. It was a feeling that he could not explain, but suddenly he wanted to stay, to live. There is more out there, he had thought. Something that is worth living for. How magic could convey such meaning, such a message, was a puzzle to him. Subsequent tests on the locket yielded no hidden traces of magic, no residues of any spells. But the essence he had felt on that day was so real, so powerful, he never again made such an attempt. No more swirls of darkness emerged from his paintbrush, and as scenes from his childhood replaced them, his skills improved.

"Ron?" Ginny's voice jarred him from his thoughts, and her eyes were worried. "Are you quite alright?"

"Fine," he replied. "Just thinking about my...progress."

"Your progress into a true artist," she said excitedly, her momentary concern gone. "You say there's no market and you're wrong. People have forgotten, Ron, forgotten about the color in our world. Everything seems gray, everything. Who has time to capture the old like you do? Or the talent?" She grabbed his face in her hands. "You can do that!" Each word was punctuated with a squeeze, uncovering forgotten memories of a certain Auntie Muriel.

He shook his head away. "Think business, silly girl. Who can afford it? Usually the point is no make a profit, not to make people feel good."

"Purebloods." She caught her error immediately. "Rich purebloods. Those who supported Him and their families. There is an elite set out there." Ginny nodded resolutely. "They will pay."

It was very difficult, if not impossible to dissuade Ginny from any course she had set her mind to. Ron was determined to try this time, though he was not sure how. "I'll make you a deal," he said finally. "You get me one commission in two weeks. Just one. If you succeed, I'll take part in this scheme of yours."

She favored him with a dazzling grin that instantly turned her into the Hogwarts heartbreaker she had once been. "You watch, Ron," she said. "I never lose." With that, she grabbed her cloak and dashed out the door.

~~~

The melody was beautiful. The notes caressed her ears, familiar and yet heart-wrenchingly sorrowful at the same time. There was an emotion in the singer had that rendered the song rich with meaning. Even though the voice itself was not spectacular, it conveyed something that notes written with quill and ink could never hope to capture. Felicity yearned to make it cease, and yet could not make herself stop listening. As though her mind were transparent, the music stopped and the woman turned to face her.

Her brown eyes were large and intelligent. There was an intensity and eagerness to her face which made her even more attractive than the limits of her physical features. Felicity felt as though a fist had enclosed her heart and started to squeeze mercilessly. She could barely get the next word out.

Mother?

The woman smiled and nodded. I was afraid you would not recognize me.

Felicity felt the corners of her eyes burn with the threat of imminent tears. I'm dreaming, aren't I?

Yes you are, the woman replied, as she held her hand below her daughter's chin. It hovered there as though it would pain her to actually make contact. And you must wake.

Felicity shook her head. I'd rather stay here. I don't want to go back there. Please let me stay with you.

The woman's eyes glimmered with sadness, but she seemed aware that her tears would break her daughter's resolve and willed them away. If only I could have it that way, my darling, but it cannot be so.

Felicity nodded, but tasted the salty essence of the tears that tracked their way freely down her cheeks. So this is goodbye.

The woman smiled and traced her fingers along the curve of her daughter's cheek without actually making contact with it. She nodded slowly. For now.

Can I ask you one thing before I leave? Felicity waited for her mother's nod before she continued. May I know your name?

The woman smiled and nodded. Of course.

~~~

Author's Notes:

The Latin quote translates to 'While I breathe, I hope'.

I want to thank my beta, Meucci Warlock, for his incredible editing. Also, thanks to the reviewers for your comments, they've been quite helpful. The major quibble I saw was with Felicity's dialogue - it needed to be dumbed down. I agree completely, the problem is my terrible dialogue writing ability, which makes this very difficult for me to do. However, I will definitely make a huge effort to keep her more slave-like as the chapters progress. I'm definitely learning as I go with this fic!