Dark Gods in the Blood

Chapter Twenty-Four

His was an impenetrable darkness. I looked at him as you

peer down at a man who is lying at the bottom of a precipice

where the sun never shines.

-- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

Ron's eyes ached as he poured over Harry's case file for the umpteenth time. He knew he shouldn't be reading such a thing here of all places, but he couldn't seem to leave it at work. So he contented himself by putting a Binding Charm on the folder every time he put it away so that neither Nicholas nor Françoise could get into it. Alice -- still too young to be able to read -- wouldn't have been interested in a boring stack of papers anyway.

Nonetheless, there was always the risk of either Harry's wife or his son reading over Ron's shoulder, seeing things that they shouldn't, knowing things about Harry that no one should ever have to know. Ron was actually glad that they hadn't sent Harry on to the Muggle coroner for an autopsy like they had the Desmond fellow -- he could not have borne those stark photographs and clinical descriptions peeking out of the file if they'd had Harry's face in them.

And Kingsley was finally listening to Hermione, especially now that she could begin most of her theories with, "Severus Snape and I think ..." He wondered if Hermione had any idea how much credibility being the only person on the face of the planet it seemed that Snape would speak candidly with brought her. Probably not.

But then again ...

She did seem to talk to Snape an awful lot these days. It had progressed from every week to every few days to, now, she was over there at least every other day -- sometimes two days in a row -- armed with files and photos and ideas. The Snape that Ron remembered would have had a hard time dealing with Hermione in the throes of research, as she was now, and he often marveled at the fact that Hermione seemed to emerge from her meetings with Snape relatively unscathed.

"Uncle Ron!" Nicholas shouted from somewhere within the depths of the house, jerking Ron out of his semi-reverie. "Uncle Ron!"

Irritably, he replaced the Binding Charm and stuffed the file into his briefcase. "What?" he yelled from his doorway.

"Supper's ready!" came Françoise's answering cry.

When he reached the kitchen, she already had Alice bundled up in her high chair, waving a piece of bread happily in the air. "Supper super supper," Alice crowed.

"As single-minded as a Niffler," Ron said, cheerfully tousling Alice's curls. "So ... what are we having?"

"You and I are having chicken primavera," Françoise told him, holding out a wine glass full of a honey-colored white. "But I figured that the kids would balk at that many vegetables on one plate, so they're having plain old baked chicken."

"Sounds great." He sipped at the wine. "Hey, this is really good!"

"It's a chardonnay I picked up a few weeks ago on a whim," she replied. "Just thought I should ... expand my horizons or something."

"Well, I like it," Ron said with an easy smile. "It's ... fruity. Full, like."

Laughing, she returned to the stove and began fiddling around with plates. "When did you become a wine critic?"

He stuck his nose in the air. "Ah, yes ... this chardonnay has a full flavor, with a fruity finish. Clearly a heady, bold wine, with previously unexplored nuances," he drawled, doing his best Draco Malfoy impression and causing Françoise to laugh all the harder.

"Mum ... can I taste?" Nicholas asked, tugging at his mother's trouser leg.

She sobered quickly. "You're too young."

"Aw ..." he protested. "Just a little taste!"

"If we were in your native country, Françoise," Ron teased.

Making a face, she carried two plates over to the table, sitting one at Nicholas' place and the other in front of Alice. "Oh, all right. But just a sip."

Eagerly, Nicholas took Ron's glass out of his outstretched hand and brought it to his lips. Taking the tiniest of tastes, the boy coughed and began to splutter.

Both Ron and Françoise laughed.

"Yuck!" Nicholas exclaimed. "It makes my throat stick together!"

"Good," Françoise said firmly. "Now sit down -- both of you. We'll be ready to eat in just a second."

Ron and Nicholas sat obediently, the empty seat that Ron still absently considered Harry's between them. Soon enough, Françoise plunked a steaming plate down in front of Ron and seated herself. "All right?" Nicholas asked, hand hovering over his fork.

In response, she just rolled her eyes and watched her son plunge headlong into his meal.

"I like to see a young man with a healthy appetite," Ron said, twirling a fork through his pasta.

"There's a difference between healthy and grotesque," Françoise replied sharply. "Nicholas, I did not put that napkin beside your plate for decoration!"

Silently, he wiped his mouth and placed the napkin neatly in his lap.

"So ... how was school, Nicholas?" Ron asked as he swallowed a bite of chicken.

The boy shrugged and scraped up a bit of rice onto his fork. "All right. We finished reading James and the Giant Peach today."

"What?"

"It's a book, Uncle Ron," Nicholas sighed, clearly annoyed with Ron's ignorance. "A Muggle book. I liked it a lot, actually. And in math, Mrs. Daniels started talking about multiplication. She's going to make us memorize the whole times tables!"

He was slightly more comfortable with Muggle mathematics. "Well ... that's a good idea, Nicholas," Ron said apologetically. "I know it's a fair amount of work now, but later, it'll be useful."

"That's what she said," he pouted.

"I always liked math," Françoise said reflectively. "It was nice to be either absolutely right or absolutely wrong. Not many shades of gray in math class."

"I bet there are, though," Ron replied through a mouthful of tomato -- she frowned at him and he swallowed quickly. "Sorry -- kids, don't talk with your mouth full, okay?"

Nicholas grinned up at him cheekily. "I already knew that one, Uncle Ron."

"I bet you did," Ron retorted playfully. "Just like you know that your elbows don't belong on the table."

Reddening, he jerked his elbows from the table's edge where they'd been resting.

For a good while, the only sounds in the kitchen were the clattering of forks against plates and the rattling of ice in glasses as drinks were sipped. Every now and again, Alice would make some sort of garbled noise, waving a piece of chicken in the air and laughing at nothing in particular. And sometimes, Françoise would glance over at Ron as if she was about to speak but would stay silent in the end. Ron tried to focus all of his attention on his plate.

"What did you do at work today?" Nicholas asked thickly, wiping away a milk moustache. "Catch any evil wizards?"

Ron sighed. "Not oday, Nicholas. But Auror Tonks managed to knock over the water cooler this morning."

The boy laughed. "I like Tonks," he said shyly. "When she comes to the house, she changes her hair color to whatever I ask for."

"I'm sure she has just as much fun with that as you do," he replied.

"But she hasn't come over for a long time," Nicholas continued, wide-eyed and guileless. "Not since ... since ..." he faltered.

Françoise reached over the table to pat his hand comfortingly. "It's all right, Nicholas," she said. "It's okay to be sad."

"I know," he said, looking down into his lap and fidgeting with his napkin. "But I've been sad for so long ..."

"It's okay to be happy, too," Ron told him gently, resisting the urge to touch him. "He'd understand. In fact, I'm sure he'd prefer it."

Nicholas' answering smile was rather watey. "It's a forever sort of sad," he said. "But it's a sad that I can be happy through, too."

And now Françoise's eyes were looking suspiciously misty. "That's the best way to put it that I've ever heard, Nicholas. A sad that we can be happy through."

"Funny," Ron said, affecting cheer with some effort, "I've never seen it on a cross-stitch sampler, though. All the best bits of wisdom come off samplers. Or out of one of Hermione's damned schoolbooks."

Françoise grinned, forgiving the single expletive for a change. "What's a sampler?" Nicholas asked curiously, not smiling.

"A picture, like. Done with a needle and thread on special cloth, usually. I'll show you some time," he promised. "Mum used to do them when she was pregnant with us kids."

"You know what, Uncle Ron?" Nicholas asked, looking up at him.

His smile was more genuine this time. "Obviously I don't."

"I forgot to tell Hermione the last time I saw her -- will you tell her for me?"

"Tell her what?" he questioned.

Nicholas' eyes flittered away from his for a moment, skittering around the table, not focusing on anything in particular. "I dreamed about her," he said shyly. "Only this time, I knew who she was."

"Oh, you did, huh?" Ron inquired mock-sternly. "Just what did this dream entail, young man? Do I have to defend my best friend's honor?"

Nicholas giggled, relaxing a bit. "Not like that, Uncle Ron," he replied. "But I did dream about her. Her and the dragon."

"Dragon?" Françoise echoed with interest.

"A big dragon," he explained with wide eyes. "With sharp teeth and fire coming out of its mouth. A scary dragon. In my dream, Hermione was running. Running down a long hallway, and at the end of it was a door. The dragon was behind the door and I knew the dragon was behind the door, but she didn't know. So when she opened the door, the dragon knew she was coming but she didn't even have her wand."

Ron didn't like this. "And then ...?"

"The dragon roared at her. And tried to hurt her with its claws. But Hermione just stood there and ... and shouted at it."

"What did she say?" Françoise asked, by now genuinely curious.

Nicholas shrugged. "I couldn't make it out. And then I woke up. But I thought I should tell Hermione about it."

"That's ... that's true, Nicholas," Ron said after a long pause. "Thank you for telling me -- I'll be sure to let her know."

His eyes were wide and guileless. "She won't be mad, will she?" he asked worriedly.

"Mad?" Ron echoed, incredulous. "Why on Earth would she ...?"

"Well," Nicholas hedged, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "She didn't like it before when I told her about my dream. She didn't say so, but I could tell -- she was scared of me. And that's why I didn't say anything else. I don't want her to--"

"Nicholas," Françoise began, but she trailed off nearly immediately, clearly at a loss as to how to assuage her son's worry.

Taking up the challenge, Ron ducked his head so he could meet Nicholas' eyes clearly and forthrightly. "Nicholas," he said in a gentle voice. "Hermione isn't afraid of you. She worries about you sometimes, I'm sure, just like I do every now and again. But it's not fear, boyo. Although I admit, it was pretty scary the way you acted the first time you saw her. I'm sure you had her scared, but not of you. For you, maybe."

"I was scared of her," he admitted lowly. "Of what she meant."

"What do you mean, Nicholas?" he questioned, trying not to blink and eyes watering with the effort.

He ran his fingertip nervously over the rim of his milk glass. "I didn't think she was real," he replied. "I thought I'd imagined her all those years ago."

Both Ron and Françoise paled as they stared at an increasingly uncomfortable Nicholas. Neither seemed able to speak, either.

"Ever since I can remember," he continued, not looking at their stunned faces. "She was in my dreams. Not all of them, but enough that I was afraid of her. Afraid of why she was there. They were never good dreams. Not very scary, but not good either. And then ... she let Papa ..." He was miserably silent for a few long moments.

"Nicholas ..." Ron said hoarsely, his efforts at being comforting falling flat.

"So when I saw that she was real," he finally said. "That I hadn't made her up in my head, well, that was even worse. I didn't tell her, though. I only told her about the one dream, because she asked. Because I knew that she wasn't the reason I was afraid of my dreams, afraid of her. But I didn't want to make her afraid, either. Did I do the right thing, Uncle Ron?" he asked, concern dawning in his eyes once more. "I can tell her about all of my dreams if you think I should. About the tiger, and the dragon, and the man with the blond hair."

He was absolutely baffled. Briefly, Ron toyed with the idea of taking Nicholas over to the Aurory after supper, having him speak with Hermione immediately. But then, a calming wave of rationality washed over him and he dismissed the idea as a fit of fancy. "I don't think so, Nicholas," he said as calmly as he could. "Hermione's got a lot on her plate right now."

But still ...

Nicholas' eyes mirrored his own inner conflict.

But still ...

"Maybe you should tell her later," he continued. "After she's been here longer and everything's not so crazy. What do you think about that, Nicholas?"

The turmoil in the boy's eyes faded and he relaxed visibly. "Okay, Uncle Ron."

-- -- -- -- --

"Explain something to me," Ron exclaimed as he walked back into the sitting room.

"What?" Françoise asked, glancing up from her book.

Sighing, he sat beside her on the sofa and leaned back, stretching his arms over its back. "Alice."

"Well ... she's a two-year-old girl. It's all about dolls and ordering you around, mostly," she said with a grin, laying her book to the side.

"She was literally falling asleep in place," Ron complained. "In their playroom. But when I pick her up to carry her to bed, all of a sudden, she's wide awake and ready to play. I just don't get it ..."

"As I said, Ron," she said, "she's a two-year-old girl. Being fickle is her prerogative."

"I don't think it has anything to do with age," he grumbled, earning himself a playful swat on the arm.

Laughing at his pained expression, Françoise tucked a lock of her hair over her ear. "Watch it, Ron Weasley."

"All you girls fight dirty," he protested teasingly, flinching as her fist raised in the air again. "All right, all right!"

She sniffed, but she was smiling as she spoke. "We have the vote now -- we don't have to put up with chauvinistic sods like you any more."

"Aw ... Françoise, you know you like having me around," he said with a charming grin.

Putting a finger to her chin, she pretended to consider it. "Well ... I do like having you around to carry heavy boxes down from the attic."

With a huff, Ron frowned. "That's what a Levitation Charm was designed for."

"Did your sense of humor curl up and die somewhere today, Ron?" she asked, giving him an amazed look.

"Somewhere in between all of the serial killer monographs that Kingsley is insisting we all read and Hermione's presentations, I rather think it did," he said heavily.

Françoise's expression sobered instantly. "Is she close?" she asked hesitantly.

"As close as any of us are," he admitted. "Kingsley was doubtful at first, but he's finally come full circle. The problem is, she and Snape know about as much about serial killers as the rest of us."

"Why don't you just call in the Muggles to --?"

"Too many," he replied, interrupting her question. "We'd need at least fifty men to launch a full investigation, and that's just too many leaks at once. Actually, that's one point that Kingsley's been firm on this whole time -- both Hermione and, believe it or not, my father have pushed on more than one occasion for more Muggle involvement."

"Your father?" she asked dubiously.

He stifled a sigh. "I think Kingsley just wanted to bring in some Order people," he said. "Tonks is busy on other cases, you know, and besides, I don't know what sort of help she'd be -- she's more of a field operator than anything else. And Dad's closemouthed, as far as that goes, and for all that he puts on that scatterbrained air, he's good at looking at a bunch of puzzle pieces and coming up with solutions that no one else has thought of before. I think his official position is a liaison of some sort, but Kingsley's got him fully briefed."

"I hope ..." she began quietly, tears forming under her eyelashes. "I hope that no one else has to die."

"So do I," he agreed.

"Oh, and I wish, Ron ..." Her tears were flowing more freely now. "I wish Harry hadn't had to die!"

His mouth was dry.

She buried her face into his shoulder, her nose cold even through his shirt. "Sometimes, when I'm alone at night, I wish it had been anyone else. That someone else had died, and not him. Isn't that horrible? I'm an awful person ... wishing this on someone else ..."

"Shh ..." he murmured, smoothing her hair with his hand and leaning into her embrace. "You're not an awful person."

"I miss him," she sobbed. "I miss him so much it hurts -- it's like something has been torn out of my chest, Ron."

"I know," he muttered. And he did. He understood that feeling ... that incompleteness.

Tear-stained eyes gazed up at him trustingly. "You do," she exclaimed. It was not a question.

"I do," he repeated, looking down at her, mesmerized by her eyes.

And suddenly her lips were on his and his hands were sliding over her shoulders, down her back.

Ron's mind was on fire. He was kissing Harry's wife.

He was kissing Françoise.

And it was beautiful.

Her lips were sweet beneath his -- he could taste the salt of her tears and the wine from supper and the tang of Françoise. He drank her in and her arms tightened around his neck.

It wasn't until her mouth opened and her tongue touched his that Ron recollected himself.

And then he was off the couch, arms wrapped around his middle, nearly shivering with the realization.

Françoise.

Harry's wife.

Her gaze was a mixture of desire and hurt. "Ron ..." she whispered, sultry and sweet and holding her arms out invitingly, and Ron knew then that he wanted her. Everything else be damned, he wanted her.

Something in him cried out and Ron stiffened. "I ... I gotta go, Françoise," he stammered, his tongue feeling too large for his mouth as he spoke.

Confusion blossomed in her eyes. "But ..."

He did not wait to hear what she had to say, knowing he would be lost if he did. "Gotta go," he mumbled, more to himself than to her.

Not wanting to bother with the Floo, Ron simply Disapparated, staggering only slightly as the sitting room in his own flat shimmered into view.

"Hermione?" he shouted as soon as he was able.

Silent and dark, nothing moved in the flat, save his voice echoing through the air. Ron sighed, wanting to slap his forehead in frustration. Of course she wasn't here -- she would be over at the Aurory, muttering over maps and photos with Kingsley Shacklebolt.

But he didn't want to go to work. Didn't want to have to deal with anyone.

Still treading unsteadily, he moved into the bedroom, stripping off his robes and collapsing onto the bed wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.

The sheets smelled like Hermione. Soap and detergent and good, clean things. He buried his head in her pillow, breathing in some spicy sort of fragrance that he knew had to belong to her. And he wished he could talk to her, lay his head in her lap and pour everything out.

Curling into a ball on the bed, Ron began to cry.

-- -- -- -- --