ichi-ni-san-shi-go

ichi--ni--san--shi--go

a ron/fleur catastrophe

> ~ <

1. Ronald

. . . this is how it goes . . .

Music pounded inside the bar and his head with one voice. Aimee Mann played onstage, her smooth, detached voice filtering through the bar, resonating from the rafters to the dance floor and slowly died in the walls before it reached the outside world. Spectral cigarette smoke coiled through the indigo lighting, stained the dancers into blurs as they jetted hip-to-hip upon the dance floor.

The Rusty Bucket

was little more than just that. A dank pub in the middle of Muggle London, its owner the buck-toothed Euan Abercrombie, a former Gryffindor who had sided with Lord Voldemort during the war. He inflated prices annually to compensate for his boundless drinking habits.

A man who was once a wizard sat next to the bar, occasionally swivelled upon his barstool. He grasped with his pallid hands a carafe of fire whisky, watching as busty barmaids with red curls bounced about and took orders from loused patrons with excessively talking hands.

Thirteen years had passed since he took that first step into the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, not knowing then that it would ultimately lead him to his destiny, his tablet of stone inscribed by the spikes of Gods. There, he'd met the two wizards who would bring his life to a crossroads and the one woman who would always be there to hold his hand.

Harry James Potter and Hermione Ophelia Granger were more than his best friends. And Draco Lucius Malfoy was never really that dark-haired, smooth-voiced villain that plagued all those Disney movies.

. . . you'll get angry at yourself . . .
. . . . . and think you can think of something else . . .
. . . and I'll hear the clanging of the bells . . .
. . . . . cause I can't stop you baby . . .

The man emptied his drink and promptly ordered another, adding more pounds to his steadily escalating tab. His dirty-red hair framed a freckled face that seemed aged long past his twenty-four years. Sunken sapphire eyes watched as women wobbled past, their hands searching for balance along the sticky bar as they staggered outside and disappeared into the darkness of the night. His frame was huddled, his back muscles were used to the position, and he wore dirty thrift clothes he'd stolen from a church collection box.

Ronald Arthur Weasley was not looking forward to another night, or day, in London. And he was convinced that the smoky city had long ago forgotten about him. In fact, Britain itself had long ago forgotten about the wizarding world--it was buried deep beneath the rubble of corruption and thievery cloaking the Muggle government.

2. Fleur

. . . cause I don't have a bribery in place . . .
. . . . . no bright shining surface to my face . . .
. . . so I won't go near the market place . . .
. . . . . with what I'm selling lately . . .

. . . cause this is how it goes . . .

Fleur Lavelle Delacour checked her reflection in the dirty window before striding towards the redhead she thought she recognised. Aimee Mann slowed into her next song as Fleur took the bar seat next to Ron and ordered from the blond bartender a Blue Hawaiian, a Curacao drink Gabrielle had introduced her to many years ago.

Ron gave Fleur a fleeting glance before polishing off his fire whisky, draining it lavishly with another gulp.

"May I procure you anuzzer?" Fleur asked in her sumptuous French brogue. Several seconds passed between them before Ron slid his glass listlessly towards her, and she handed it to the barmaid. Fleur watched the blond fill the tilted glass from a half-empty bottle and set it before his well-favoured customer before speaking again. " 'As anyone evair told you zat you are identical to Bill?" she commented and pivoted her barstool towards him, her sapphire slip-dress revealing a bit of her silky skin of her upper thigh.

"No," Ron rudely grunted. "No, because you're lying. But thanks for the drink."

Fleur's smile wavered for a brief second as Ron tipped his drink to her in appreciation. "My pleasure," she said coolly, pausing before going on. "If you fixed yourself up, you'd 'ave great potential to be Bill. I know 'zat 'e would not be sitting 'ere, dwelling upon events zat cannot be changed. All ze while drowning 'iz sorrows." Her glacial eyes narrowed accusingly as she sipped her drink through a thin crimson straw.

"I am not Bill, Fleur."

. . . cause it's all about drugs . . .
. . . . . it's all about shame . . .
. . . and whatever they want . . .
. . . . . don't tell them your name . . .

His callous words cut her tongue short, and she flinched. "I know," she admitted evenly. "But I can 'ope, can I not? Our world is dead, Ronald, is it so terrible to dream ozzerwise?" She exhaled longingly, and a slight frown tugged on the corners of her garnet-stained lips. "I am sorry, I zought zat since you lost Granger and I, Bill--"

Ron viciously reeled on her, an intense flame of hatred smouldering in his eyes as he grasped her at the shoulders. "I only lost Hermione 'cause you killed her!" he said in a low hiss. He released his grip on her as he sat back down, regaining his posture. "How can you sit beside me and believe that that is okay? You're nothin' but a daft slag, Delacour. You-Know-Who's pawn to finger as he pleased"--he snorted--"or as you."

Fleur was taken aback with his caustic remark and forthright truth; she massaged her shoulders, the white imprints from Ron's fingertips slowly fading. "Ze war 'as been long over, Weasley, and I was not ze the only Death Eater," she snapped as she took her drink and left Ron to flounder in the shallow waters of memories past.

. . . this is how it goes . . .

3. Ronald

Ron decided to wallow for many minutes longer, past the point where Aimee Mann left the stage with all her billowing, multi-coloured skirts and funky rock beads, only to be replaced by a dreadful Beatles cover band calling themselves Bigger Than Je-sus. When the infamous song Helter Skelter ground to a tone-deaf halt, Ron skulled his fire whisky and rose, the pungent alcohol shooting scorchingly his oesophagus.

"See you tomorrow night, Ronnie," the blond bartender assumed, and Ron gave him a polite nod and grimace as he pushed his way into the night. The starless abyss loomed overhead like a warm greeting from Death and the kiss of a cold scythe.

. . . one more failure to connect . . .

. . . . . with so many how could I object . . .
. . . and you, what on earth did you expect . . .
. . . . . well I can't tell you baby . . .

He vaguely saw the silvery outline of the Delacour woman as she fumbled with a skeletal brass key and entered the sixth room of the Rusty Inn. Ron removed a cigarette from a tin container in his back pocket and lit it, his eyes focussed on the dim light coming from the curtain-covered window of Fleur's room. Her wiry silhouette sent electricity through his body and a rush of blood to his face. He tossed the half-smoked fag to the ground, striding toward the sixth room with a new purpose in mind.

4. Fleur

. . . when this is how it goes . . .

Fleur jumped when the redhead slammed through her door, and she screamed.

"Oh, it is only you," she said a little shakily, though still holding her conduct. "Mon Dieu, you scared me." Fleur breathed deeply. Ron gave a careless shrug and tossed her a half-hearted apology, which Fleur offhandedly ignored. "What can I do for you, Meester Weasley?" she added curtly as she crossed her arms below her small breasts.

"I was thinking about what you said--"

"Ze, er, intimacy?" Fleur interrupted with hopeful eyes, and for a moment, Ron was Bill.

. . . cause it's all about drugs . . .
. . . . . it's all about shame . . .
. . . and whatever they want . . .
. . . . . don't tell them your name . . .

Ron's mouth dropped. "No!" he exclaimed and a disgusted look crept over his face. "Never. The Death Eaters, the war. You see, there's been something that has plagued me for years now, Delacour--why? Why did you join You-Know-Who? How could you have killed Hermione without remorse or thought? Why did you betray Harry and Bill?"

Fleur sighed deeply to cover her sinking heart. "I am veela," she explained as though it was as simple as that. "For centuries my people 'ave been drawn towards the plummeting darkness. We lust after it; it is an obsession zat we can never drink enough of. I found somezing in ze Dark Lord zat Bill could never give me, would never. 'E gave Bill immunity, but only if I pledged to 'im my allegiance. You are right, it's my fault zat 'Arry's dead, zat 'Ermione's dead, zat Bill left. But wiz zem fell ze only ting I 'ave ever zought commendable of my love. I killed 'Ermione because I 'ad to." She raised her head, a glint in her eyes. "I enjoyed it because I'm veela."

Ron gave her a long, searching look before deciding that she spoke the truth. He advanced upon her slowly, tracing his bottom lip with his tongue and shaking his head in disgust. "You betrayed us."

"But I 'ad 'elp!" she unsteadily reminded him.

"Harry was right to kill Percy, but the blood on his hands is nothing compared to yours."

Fleur took a shaking step back, right into the edge of the bed. Falling onto the hard mattress, she stared into the cold eyes of the redhead above her. "You 'ave your answer, now you can leave," she ordered, but missed a breath as Ron pulled something metal from his jacket.

5. Ronald

. . . so I'll try to hold on . . .
. . . . . while you try to let go . . .
. . . you won't tell me it's gone . . .
. . . . . but baby I'll know . . .
. . . baby I'll know . . .
. . . . baby I'll know . . .
. . . . . baby I'll know . . .

With ease, Ron withdrew the Muggle killing contraption from the inside pocket of his jacket, aimed the barrel steadily at the point between Fleur's eyes.

"I wasn't ze only Death Eater," he heard her whisper as tears streamed from her crystalline eyes and stained her cheeks.

"No," Ron agreed, "but you were the only one who mattered."

And he pulled the trigger once . . .

between Fleur's eyes, her blood decorated the wall in beautiful designs . . .

twice . . .

on himself . . .

he sucked the barrel deep into his mouth and thought he saw Hermione and Harry waving . .

and he never looked back.