The Curse of Charon

Chapter Ten

When Ron awoke, before he even opened his eyes, the first thing that surprised him was how warm everything was. He presumed it was Heaven, that whatever God ruled mortal life had been compassionate. Then he thought that it was more likely to be Hell. After all, he hadn't been the nicest of people all of the time, and now he was roasting for eternity.

Then he opened his eyes, and far from being greeted by the smoking stacks and pillars of brimstone he had feared, images from the Hell he had imagined in his childhood, his eyes were instead met by crisp white light, which seemed not just to pass him by like earthly light had, but flow through him. He was part of the light, and the light was part of him, and they were linked. But the light was controlling his movement. He seemed to be in some kind of strange tunnel, made of the same clean air. It felt almost like being in a hollow tube of glass. The glowing channel that he was immersed in was pulling him forwards. The 'sky' of the strange world was white, and had the consistency of clouds. He didn't think of anything. None of his memories came back to trouble him. He was too mystified by the strange new world.

It was not silent; voices whispered and sang to him, but only to him. They did not fill the space around him, but passed through him just as the light did. Not strange voices. They were unfamiliar but oddly welcoming. They made him feel safe. In fact, his entire surroundings pulsed with a strange sense of safety. This was as far removed from his ideas of Heaven and Hell as the two traditionally were from each other.

He spoke. "Where am I?"

A separate voice answered, one that was louder than the friendly mumblers, and more commanding. He did not fear the voice, but it inspired awe deep within him.

"You will know where you are soon," it told him soothingly. "Hang on now."

"Am I dead?"

"Not yet, but you're very close, Ronald." The use of his entire name made him feel oddly comforted. It inspired a serenity that reminded him of his mother. His mother! What would she think? How would she react? How could he die now?

Suddenly the pulses of safety ceased, the light dimmed, the voices faded. He travelled backwards quickly, and the white sky faded to a dark grey. The clouds were clearly defined now, great zeppelin masses that hung above him, waiting to drag him to his doom. A great fork of purple thunder spilt one of the clouds, and illuminated the black walls of his channel, no longer pale and friendly. In the split-second of lightning he saw the wall was lined with faces, all animated. Now he had seen them, although the darkness obscured them once again, he could hear their tortured cries.

"Save us!" they groaned, their voices aching with toneless agony, "Free us from our prisons!"

Now Ron was very scared. Gone were the comforts of the previous part of his journey, and now he was surrounded by restless souls. It seemed not to be as dark as he had imagined before the lightning struck, he could now make out the faint red glow of some of the eyes, the monstrous eyes that saw into the darkness of his soul, eyes that would never let him rest. Eyes that would stay with him as long as he lived. If he lived.

"Where is this?" he cried out in fear, and began to sob, huge, wrenching sobs, each one tearing his chest. The voices joined his crying, howling and moaning in their low half-voices.

"This is where we keep the souls like you. The souls who doubted Paradise. The souls who would not receive Death's mercy and thus were smitten by Death's wrath." The voice was no longer friendly. In sounded angry, and rose and fell dramatically as it condemned him.

The storm clouds had broken, and rain washed through the channel. It did not help. It was not the cleansing rain of the world that over sixteen years he had come to love, rain that washed away the sins of the sinners. It was cruel rain, rain that washed over him in torrents, each drop stinging with bitterness and hurt and regret.

Ron had broken too, unable to control the overflow of emotion that seemed to be pouring from within him, like a rogue well that could not be plugged shut. The sobs, of grief and fear and misery, wracked his entire body, and with each breath he took, each breath of the foul and sulphurous air that now surrounded him his shoulders heaved and convulsed.

"I-don't-like-it-here," he choked. "I-want-to-le-eave!"

"There is no mercy here for those who refuse to see Death's love," said the voice, soaring ever-higher amongst the misery of the many dead souls and of the one still living, almost. Ron knew his time must be running out, that he should prepare himself for an eternity that would stretch on -well, forever really, - and be full of pain and sadness, but somehow the though brought even more water to the endless stream of tears that threatened to drown him entirely.

"You had your chance, mortal, and you refused comfort. You chose to spend your eternity in sin and misery, and this is where you will stay. Thou hast been judged, Ronald Weasley! Thou shalt forever inhabit this realm of terrible thoughts and dreams. Thou shalt be forever plagued by the worries of the living and the pains of the dead!"

And a huge curtain of some endless, depthless black material fell over him, and engulfed him, and as he choked and spluttered under its weight finally he knew that Ronald Weasley had breathed his last mortal breath. He felt his mind almost evaporate, which was a blessing after the awful, awful passageway, but he knew it would only be a brief respite before his eternal hell.

As his consciousness drifted further and further away, he was sure he felt his body dying. There was an odd pang in the small of his back, and another voice shouted his name, and everything grew very, very cold.

Back in the snow, on the Quidditch field, his body had been unearthed. And although he was sure he had died, his eyes were opening, the spirits and visions and storm clouds had gone, and all he could see was muddy snow. Then something jerked his shoulder and pulled him over onto his back. A familiar face, blurred against the startling brightness of the snow and the daylight was speaking to him. He figure above him was calling his name. Then everything slid into focus and he saw the face.

"Professor Lupin?" he croaked in surprise.

Then everything went black.

*

Hermione left Snape just after he told her the news, and headed straight to the hospital wing, where she suspected he'd be. However, the information Snape had received had obviously come from the field, when they had found Ron, and Hermione had the unfortunate experience of meeting Lupin and Hagrid carry him to the same place as she had been headed. He looked stiff as a board, and so, so lifeless. And accordingly, Miss Granger, who prided herself on her composure, screamed.

Had she been less concerned about the fact that her best friend and, until a few days ago, boyfriend, was now most probably a corpse, she might have noticed how weak Remus looked, how Hagrid was supporting most of Ron's weight.

But she didn't.

*

However grand his dinner table had been, however commanding he had looked the night before, there was no denying, in the cruel light of morning, that Lucius looked old.

Not just naturally old, but as though he had aged drastically in the last few months. Draco could see the hollows at his neck, how his cheeks were too flushed and his eyes too bright for mere happiness or excitement. Hey burned with a zeal and a passion that Draco had never seen in his father before, and frankly it scared him.

The pale beams that filtered through the windows of the breakfast room cast gruesome and exaggerated shadows over his face, and showed every line, every wrinkle, every blonde hair that had given up and faded to grey. He looked tired, tired of fighting, tired of living.

"You don't look well, father," Draco offered, his voice still flat and cold.

"Shut up."

*

Blaise didn't care that it was Christmas Eve. She didn't care about all the muggles in her living room, getting merrily pissed at the expense of her adopters. They weren't her parents, not any more. Just the people who lied to her for sixteen years.

She had overheard something her 'parents' said last night, the words echoing through the thin plasterboard walls to deep within the stony orphaned cavern of her heart. Kate, the woman she had called mother all her life, had said, "We're the ones that brought her up. We're her parents."

Normally she would have agreed with that, had it been anyone other than her they were talking about. Now she questioned everything. Now she questioned herself.

*

Harry didn't know how Hermione had heard about Ron so quickly, but he did know she hadn't stayed to see him. He had met her in the corridor, as she ran back to her dormitory. He had seen the tears in her eyes, the handkerchief clutched to her chest. He had feared the worst, in the cheerless, lonely way he had become accustomed to over the last week, after hours of sitting in the common room, without Ron, without Hermione. Without Draco.

Seamus and Dean had been around a little bit of the time, but were more often than not too busy spending time with each other. And they spent this time very intimately, which reminded Harry of the night he had spent with Draco in the forest, which reminded him that Draco was in Wiltshire, which once again reinforced the aching loneliness that stretched before him like a prison sentence.

Now Ron might be dead, and Hermione was senseless, and he had no idea what to do. Other than keep walking towards the Hospital Wing, with a slow and peaceful gait.

*

Dean didn't mind that Seamus wouldn't sleep with him. He had gotten over it. There were other ways to have fun; ways that wouldn't make Seamus feel uncomfortable. He hadn't mentioned it since; what they had together was too good for him to lose by humiliating his Irish love.

They took walks in the grounds, and played games in the common room, and laughed and joked and shared secret kisses in the tumultuous depths of the night.

It just felt like something was missing. Even at their most intimate, when Dean could focus all of his attention on the beautiful boy before him, he felt that there was still a part of Seamus that wasn't there. And it bothered him. It was the faraway look in his eyes, the hungry longing he tasted on his skin. But why? What else did Seamus want?

*

When he arrived, Harry learnt that Ron was in fact perfectly alive, with little harm done other than being a bit cold. It was a strange situation, since Harry was used to being the one in the bed, friends waiting anxiously beside him. Now the reverse had happened, and he wasn't quite sure how to take it. Ron looked very strong, while Harry himself felt as though he could sink back into the huge chair and disappear.

He didn't know how he felt, if in fact he felt anything. It hadn't sunk in yet, and he was beginning to wonder if it ever would.

Ron was not only alive, but also awake, an added bonus in Harry's book considering the number of times he himself had been rendered unconscious by his own stupidity.

"So how are you feeling?" had been the first thing he said, and also probably the least well-thought out.

"Can't complain," Ron had replied, although he probably could have. Loosing a toe to frostbite couldn't have been that nice.

"Well...um...how have you been lately?"

"Buried in a pile of snow."

"Ah. And how was that?"

"Cold," said Ron, tapping his finger. "Look, Harry, if you want to ask me why, I don't mind. Not at all. I'd rather you did ask, if you're going to, than endure any more of this pointless conversation."

Harry was stunned.

"Um...ok. Where did you go, and why?"

"After the incident in the common room, I ran. Across the lawns, to the edge of the forest, around and around the Quidditch pitch. Then I stopped. I didn't want to stop, you see. I had to. I couldn't run any more. Then I just fell down, and I didn't want to get up again. I waited an hour, two, but nothing changed. It was cold, and dark, but I didn't care. I just saw no point in getting up again. The next day it started to snow, and I should have gotten up and gone inside. I should have been tired and cold and stiff and hungry, but I wasn't. Eventually the snow covered me completely, and I just stayed in my little hollow. My body started to shut down, I couldn't think any more. I had nothing to think about. I was waiting for death, Harry. Now that I'm here, now I'm not dying in the snow, it's fucking scary. I'd do anything not to be where I was then, but when I was there I didn't care, if you see what I mean. There seemed to be no point in doing anything except...die. I didn't plan it, it just sort of...happened."

Harry nodded, dumbstruck.

"I don't suppose you know how it is," Ron continued, with a hint of bitterness. "I mean, I don't suppose the Boy who Lived ever wanted to die."

The words should have shot through Harry. They should have made him so angry, but he wasn't. He could see Ron was frightened behind the wall of strength he had built around himself. He could see that the old Ron was hiding deep within this new and stony castle.

"There have been times," he said slowly. "Times when life sickened me, when there was so much ugliness right before my eyes that it didn't seem worth it. There have been times when I thought death was just around the corner, in that graveyard in out fourth year, when we duelled in the Ministry last summer. But I've never taken it further than a thought, if that's what you mean." Ron's eyes narrowed. He looked angrier than Harry had ever seen him before. Not just quick, fiery anger that exploded inside of him, but something stronger. There was something cruel in his friend's eyes. Something bitter, some malice that had never been there before.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he said, without meaning it. "I should have known that my problems could never have matched up with yours. I mean, of course, dying on a sports field is nothing compared to dying at the hands of a dark lord. So much less dramatic."

Again, Harry realised this should have made him seethe, but he could excuse Ron's behaviour. He had to, for both of their sake.

"I'm sorry if I gave you that impression. I honestly didn't mean to." He had chosen his words carefully, measuring them against Ron's boundless new rage.

"You know what, Harry? You can just fuck off. Just fuck off out of here and don't ever come back.

"Happy Christmas, Ron," Harry replied, and left his friend, who seemed not to care about Christmas Eve, alone but for his dark and corrosive mood.

*

'How can happiness feel so wrong?

How can misery feel so sweet?' - Katie Melua, The Closest Thing to Crazy.

I couldn't do it, in the end. I couldn't stay for Christmas. I came back, even though it hurts to even stand within these halls. I heard once that torture can make or break a man. I hope this makes me; I can't see how anything could break me any further.

I needed to be close to you. I didn't need people around me, like I thought I did. Only you. And I suppose your house is the closest I'm going to get these days.

You used to call me forgiving. You said I was incapable of hating anyone. Dear old Moony, too nice and quiet, and believing in the goodness of man. That's one thing your death taught me, Sirius. It taught me to hate.

That woman, that awful woman who merely laughed after she had torn from me everything I ever held dear. I hate her now. I hate her for what she did to me. I hate how she pulled us apart

I can't ever forgive her.

And here I am now, breathing in the air of your home, my breath mingling with the last part of you that remains. And I'm holding the walls that you hated; in the hope that maybe you brushed your hand against them the last time you left.

~

Don't, Moony, please. It breaks my heart to hear you talk like that.

~

Then, when he felt he could just about stand up without the support of a solid structure, Remus Lupin walked away from the hall and up the stairs to the room that he and Sirius had shared. And he put down his suitcase, and fell onto the huge bed, the bed that still smelt of them, the bed that hadn't been made since the last time they ever slept there together. On his own, Sirius had preferred another room. This one was for the two of them together.

No living soul had touched it since the weekend before...the weekend before...oh God.

The tears came, pulling at him with each choked breath he took, throbbing through his shoulders and pounding at his ribs.

All he could think was that there was only one thing he wanted, that he would be happy if he could have it. One tiny little thing. One thing, and he would be happy for eternity. He wasn't asking for much. He was a simple man, and easy to please. All he needed was his Snuffles.

But thinking that only made his cry harder.

*

"Had you any thoughts as to how I'm supposed to get you Potter, father?" Draco asked. In reality, he knew it would be stupidly easy. Cruelly easy. The façade he had put on for his father, the cold and distant front was just a flimsy mask, trying desperately to prove to Lucius that he was ok with his mission. He knew inside that he wasn't. He knew he had to betray the only person he had ever truly loved. He hated himself for saying yes, but no was not an option.

"Yes," Lucius replied, with a nasty smile. "It isn't enough for you to lure him here. He has to really want to come, or else the spell won't work. If he has any suspicions about false pretences, he will be useless."

"So how do I make sure of that?" Lucius smiled again.

"You have to make him fall in love with you."

Draco's heart sank. He was almost certainly already there. He could see the gleam in Lucius' eyes, and realised his father was enjoying this. He was enjoying the prospect of watching his only son break the heart of the hero of the wizarding world.

"Why do I have to do that? I thought the Magnanimatis would work anyway."

"The Magnanimatis would work anyway. But that's not what young Mr Potter is for. We have...other purposes for him."

"Like what?"

"Tell me, Draco, did the Magnanimatis show any signs of activity while you were at school?"

"Not really," said Draco, thinking about what had happened to Blaise.

"Well, doesn't that surprise you? After all, you were surrounded by purebloods all year long." Draco thought for a moment. Lucius was right! Why hadn't the book been picking up purebloods left right and centre?

"I put a lock on it," Lucius continued. "A spell. The only circumstances in which it would have started to work is if someone nearby had a Golden Orb. And the only person at your school with one is Harry Potter. I don't suppose you spent much time with him last term."

This made both a lot of sense and none whatsoever. It would explain why

Blaise had started to suffer, but if only Harry had a Golden orb, then why had Blaise been affected?

*

"Hello Ron."

"Hello Hermione."

When he had returned to the common room, Harry had informed Hermione the Ron was very much alive, although he had warned her that he might not be up to any visitors yet. He didn't want her to meet the Ron that he had just left. But she felt so guilty about spending all that time with Snape that she had gone anyway. Of course, that wasn't the reason she had given Harry. No one needed to know about her and Severus, not just yet anyway.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Fine. Y'know, lost a toe, had a near-death experience, the usual."

Unable to control herself, she hooted with laughter.

"What?" he asked irritably. "What's so funny?"

"Well, you don't believe in near-death experiences, do you?" Hermione had no space in her scientific mind for all that near-death, out-of-body claptrap.

"So you think I'm lying? You think that this is a perverse attempt at humour?"

She looked surprised.

"Well, you can't actually...I mean surely you don't think..."

"Yes I bloody well do, actually!" he shouted. "I know what happened, Hermione! I know what I saw!"

"Well then," she said, trying to regain some composure.

"You still don't believe me, do you?" he continued at the top of his voice. "Do you want me to prove it? All right then, I will!"

"No, Ron, really, it's ok."

"It bloody well isn't!"

*

"Sorry to bother you, Headmaster, but Mr Weasley is asking for a pensieve. Shall, I give him one, or do you want to talk to him first? He's been making rather a fuss."

"It's all right, Poppy," Dumbledore replied. "You can give him mine."

"Are you sure?"

"Certain, my dear."

*

There was an owl at the window, a familiar looking owl that carried what looked like a large bundle of parchment. Draco gave it an owl treat and relieved it of it's messages. It hooted and flew away.

He took the top letter of the pile, which was stiffer than the rest and had a purple envelope. It was a Christmas card, the first one he had received this year. Normally his mother organised Christmas, but he hadn't seen her in the three days he had been at home. It was Christmas Eve now, and she still had not turned up.

He opened the card, which was slightly bent and had a picture of a hippogriff on the front. Apparently the sender had a sense of humour.

'To Draco,

Merry Christmas.

I miss you a lot,

All my love,

Harry.'

Suddenly Draco didn't want to know what the rest of the letters from Harry said. He didn't want to hear how much he was loved and missed, if it meant that every word would remind him of what a horrible bastard he was. When every word told him of the ultimate betrayal, and how cruel he was to barter with the life of his Harry. His Harry.

After all, who else did Harry have? He had no family; his friends never seemed that interested in him any more. In reality, Draco was probably the only person who really loved him back, who returned the love that he gave wholly.

And he was going to throw him to the tigers.