Invisible Circus

For a few moments after Ron wakes up the next morning, he thinks it’s all been a dream. He only feels a draft because the twins, bastards, snuck into his room during the night and opened his window. He hears running water because Ginny, girl that she is, slipped into the loo before he had a fair chance. For a few moments, he’s sure that his mum is in the kitchen downstairs putting together a nice large breakfast and that Percy is at the table, waiting to regale them all with tales of the fight for standardized cauldron thickness.

Then he makes the mistake of opening his eyes.

The room doesn’t look any better in the early dawn light than it did the day before. One of the two windows is boarded up, the cracks between the planks letting in the air that he feels; the glass in the other is filthy, layered with cobwebs. The walls are no better: the plaster is cracked and powdery, showing the beams beneath and the fireplace is small and blackened, the hearth rusted. The sitting chair before it has its stuffing hanging out of its arse.

"Hell," Ron murmurs, but his voice sounds loud to his ears in the otherwise quiet room. He sits up, pulling his sheet-covered legs to his chest, and for a moment, just a few moments, he lets himself press his face to knees.

"One," he says. "Two. Three."

He’ll draw a deep breath in through his nose on the count of five, he tells himself. He’ll get out of bed and get started on his day, because he has important things to do, like stay alive, stay wicked, and find someone who will hire a person whose resume currently bears the word ‘Traitor’ in big, bold letters across the top.

"Four." Another deep breath, this time with an added swallow. "Five."

He tosses the sheet away from his body, then swings his legs over the edge of the mattress. He winces as his feet touch the floor, in part because the boards are as the cold as the air that’s seeping into his room, but mostly because they are not the smoothest things known to wizard-kind, gritty and splintered.

Standing up, he gingerly starts walking towards the hearth, where he dropped the copy of the Prophet that Malfoy shoved at him the night before. He hasn’t read the article about him yet; in the ale-drugged haze of the previous night, that’d seemed acceptable, but as he stares at the rolled up paper now, he knows that it’s not.

He starts to lean down to pick it up, then stops and reaches over to grab his trousers and jumper—non-Weasley, of course—off of the seat of the chair. He pulls them on as quickly as he can, hoping that it’ll be a sort of armor between him and the words.

He’ll feel less vulnerable fully clothed, he thinks, than if he was just wearing a pair of shorts. He has to.

But when Ron sits down in the chair a minute later, listening as it creaks beneath his weight, he’s not sure whether it worked or not. He does know that he wouldn’t want to feel any less vulnerable, though.

The ink is smudged on the page from his manhandling of it the night before, but the words, unfortunately, are still readable. He blinks his eyes closed, takes a deep breath, then slides them open again, making himself look beyond the pictures, beyond the headline.

By Justin Finch-Fletchley, the byline reads. Ministry Correspondent, and of course Justin would be the one writing the article, Ron realizes. He should have been expecting it; he did give Justin a few of the scoops that helped him on his way up the corporate ladder, after all. He and Justin, Seamus and Dean, Neville and Harry and a few of the Hufflepuffs even went out drinking together not so long ago, to celebrate the promotion in style.

Seeing Justin’s name pricks him like a thorn, though, and it hurts worse somehow, he decides, to know that this article is what his friend believes of him, will be what the world believes of him, because of what his friend wrote.

"Once thought hero of the Second War, it now appears that Ronald Weasley, Order of Merlin First Class, may be anything but," he reads aloud, then swallows, reading the rest silently.

The Ministry announced early Wednesday that Weasley had been pulled in for questioning with regards to the Ministry leak, only publicized a few weeks ago. Two hours later, they announced that during a routine transportation from Ministry Headquarters to an undisclosed location, Weasley attacked his guard, stole his wand, and apparated. He is thought to have headed to Knockturn Alley.

At this point in time, Polly Parrotson, a spokeswoman for the Ministry, said, Weasley has been accused of nothing and no warrants have, thus far, been issued for his arrest or capture. But this, many think, is likely to change.

‘We just want to talk to him,’ Parrotson insisted. ‘Really, that’s all we want to do. We just have a few more questions that we need to ask.’

’’s mighty suspicious, if you ask me,’ Gilbert Toulouse, owner of Toulouse Arts on Diagon Alley, said. ‘Why’s he need to run ifs he’s not guilty?’

‘He’s guilty,’ a high-level Ministry source agreed. ‘There’s a trail of evidence a year long. The Ministry is just trying to cover up the fact that they should have seen through Weasley earlier, eleven months ago, when signs of the leak first started appearing.’

If Weasley is guilty of leaking information to the Wizard Freedom Fighters, as the general consensus seems to be that he is, he will have been responsible for the deaths of—

And Ron can read no more.

He tosses the paper away from him, watching as it falls, pages fluttering, to the cold hearth. He stands up, scrubbing the palms of his hands on the fabric of his trousers, not feeling any cleaner for it. Sweat is beaded at the back of his neck, on his forehead, in the creases of his elbows, and he can’t stand still, can’t stay in the room any longer.

He hooks his finger in the collar of the robe that’s still draped over the chair, folds it over his arm, walks back over to the bed to grab the wand from beneath his pillow, and then walks out the door. It slams shut behind him, but even though it’s early, he doesn’t care. Everyone else is only paying two sickles a week for their rooms, too—they can’t expect anything better.

His first thought is that he should head back to the Snitch, but the Inspector told him that he had to try to make a life here in Knockturn Alley, and while that life should be centered around The Cause and the goings on at the pub, it shouldn’t be seen to be his whole life.

Act natural, the Inspector told him. Make it a natural part of your life.

The outside world is even colder than his room was and before he starts walking, he bundles himself up into his robe. It doesn’t do much good, but it’s something and Ron wouldn’t be a Weasley if he didn’t know that every little bit counts. He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking, peering at all of the shops that he passes. A native of Knockturn Alley would look at the ground, at the sludge-encrusted cobblestones beneath his feet, but the whole world knows that he’s not a native. He can look around if he wants to.

There’s a witch on the corner, a cart of some sort of food in front of her—whatever it is, it smells good—and Ron is hungry, his stomach suddenly growling, rumbling like the Gryffindor lion, Ginny would say before Ron swatted her with a pillow.

He digs a few knuts out of his rapidly dwindling supply as he walks to the cart, and drops them into the witch’s pudgy hand. In return, she hands him a napkin with a meat-filled bun, gravy dripping out a hole in the dough. He nods his thanks, smiles at her, and between her apron and bonnet, she doesn’t look so different from a witch he might see on Diagon Alley, he doesn’t think.

Hurriedly, he turns away, biting down into the bun as he starts walking again. It’s good, as good as any breakfast his mum ever made for him, and he’s licking the last traces of gravy from his fingers far too soon.
--

He walks for what feels to be hours, but in reality is probably no more than two. Up and down streets, peering into dark, dusty windows, giving a wide berth to the shops that are obviously make their business the darker arts. He watches as window-shades roll themselves up, as signs on doors change from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open,’ as shopkeepers take up their stations behind their tills, but he keeps on walking.

Until he passes what looks to be the most normal looking shop he’s seen down the Alley, a book shop, Libris Exacto, and lo, there is a little sign in the bottom pane of the front window that reads, ‘Help Wanted.’

Ron stops. He stares. He takes two steps towards the door, stops again with his hand resting on the knob, counts to four before the door is yanked open from the wrong side, and a kind looking little man with a scruff of white hair says, "Can I help ye?"

"Uh," Ron says, rather intelligently. "I, uh." He points to the sign in the window, coughs, and finally manages to spit the words out: "I saw your sign. That you were hiring. I wanted to apply. For the job." Another cough. "Or, rather, see if I was qualified to apply for the job, that is."

The wizard looks at him. His eyes are large, Ron notices, buggy, like a toads.

"You’re that Weasley," the Wizard says. "The youngest boy. The one that’s been in all of the papers." Suddenly, his hand shoots out and curls around Ron’s wrist, then he full-on jerks Ron into the book shop. For such a small man, he’s surprisingly strong. "We’d best do our talking inside, then, bes’n’t we?"

He lets go of Ron and gestures for him to move farther into the store, so Ron does. Hermione would be in heaven, he thinks. Bookshelves stretching up the ceiling, musty smelling leather bindings that look to belong to rare books, that feeling of calm, quiet, that she used to say she needed, back during the last days of the war.

Ron turns back to the wizard, remembering that he’s applying for a position here, and it won’t do much to help his case if he continues to ignore the man who would be his boss.

"Funny," the wizard says before he can speak. "I don’t remember hearing that you were much of a book lover. Your brother Percy, yes. That young girl you used to walk out with, yes, but not you."

Ron’s lips curve up into a crooked smile and he chuckles humorlessly.

"I’m not. But I know a bit now, thanks to my family and—" he grimaces, that he should ever be referring to Hermione in such a way "—acquaintances. I know how useful they can be. I have a slightly better opinion of them now that I don’t have to use them anymore."

Thankfully, the wizard actually chuckles at that. His eyes crinkle up, his round cheeks bulge with his smile, and he rubs his hands together. "Aye, aye, that’s often the way it works, now isn’t it? Aye, aye." He nods his head in agreement with himself, then looks Ron in the eyes and says, "Me name is Chubbs. Marvin Chubbs."

"Good to meet you."

Ron doesn’t know what to say beyond that, so as he waits for Chubbs to keep on talking, he concentrates on not letting himself fidget. Hands in his pockets, feet planted firmly on the ground, and he will not scratch the itch on the tip of his nose, he will not.

"Tell me, Mr. Weasley—" Chubbs starts.

"Ron. Please call me Ron."

"Ron, then. Tell me, Ron. Do you have any experience working in a shop?"

"Yes," Ron says, and for one of the first times in his life, he’s glad that the twins drafted him into working at their Hogsmeade shop. "Yes, I do. I worked in my brothers’ shop for two summers. Before I started working for the Ministry."

Before Percy, before he started leaking information, before he ran from the Ministry, a fugitive from his world even if there’s no official warrant out for him yet. It’s only a matter of hours, he knows. Days at most, however long it takes the Inspector to "discover" exactly how much access he had to secret Ministry files.

"Aye, aye. Yes. Weasley Wizard Wheezes, good store that. Provided the young’uns with just the sorts of distractions they needed during those dark days."

Ron nods warily, wondering which side of those ‘dark days’ Chubbs had been on. "It’s a good store."

"But obviously you can’t work there now. You can’t work much of anywhere now, if everything they say in the papers is true." Chubbs pinches his chin between his fingers, then moves his fingers down to his throat. "It is true, I take it, or you wouldn’t be standing here, asking me for a job."

"It's true." It’s easier to say the words today, Ron realizes. He sounds more convincing, he thinks.

Chubbs harrumphs, narrows his eyes, and opens his mouth, on the verge of saying something—no, Ron’s sure, because it just can’t be that easy. This life he’s trying to make for himself won’t be easy, not in the slightest, and for the first shop he tries at to hire him, well. It just wouldn’t be right. That’s not the way his luck goes.

"I’ve been where you are," Chubbs says softly, so softly that Ron’s not sure he’s meant to hear, then he coughs and shakes his head, as if rousing himself from a trance, then continues. "Aye, well, your brother did me a good turn once. I’m not saying I agree wit’ everything your lot are trying to do, but I don’t disagree either. And your brother used to come in here, he did. He was a good man, he was. Believed strongly in The Cause and you can’t fault a man for that, can you? You can have the job. Probationary-like, of course."

"Of course," Ron says, smiling widely, and as he shakes Chubbs’ hand, as he thanks him profusely for the opportunity, he decides that maybe this is the way his luck is going. Maybe it’s a good sign, a portent of things to come.

Or maybe, he thinks, he finally has something about this whole horrid situation that he genuinely wants to thank Percy for.
--

He only pauses for a moment on the doorstep before he enters the Snitch that evening, just time enough for one breath, not even a count of five, and then he’s inside, the heat and life of the room seeming almost overwhelming after the cool impersonality of the world outside.

It’s different tonight, less nerve-wracking and although people still glance at him when he walks in, there’s a less noticeable hush, fewer blatant stares. It’s more like he’s a just man walking into a new pub, the regulars acknowledging a not-so-familiar face. He still studies the room as he walks to the bar, trying to remember who was there the night before, who wasn’t, what new threats he might face if someone else doesn’t buy his story.

It’s not likely, though, he knows. Not when Nott has welcomed him to the fold, not when he has a job, a solid base to build his lies on. Not when—

"Ron, Ron," a witch calls from down the bar before he can order his drink, one he recognizes from Hogwarts—a Slytherin, a seventh year when he was a first—and she’s waving him over, so he goes.

She’s standing in front of a wall covered in posters—Most Wanted posters, he sees upon closer examination. Names and reward sums. He recognizes the faces of a few of the wizards and witches in the room, scattered at tables around the room, talking and laughing and drinking with others. Some of the parchments are old, edges torn and discolored, but the one in the very center, on the top, is new and bright.

"Wanted," she reads, her voice running like spiders down his spine. "Information leading to the apprehension of one Ronald Weasley. They must want you pretty badly, musn’t they, given how many Galleons they’re offering."

Ron can feel the color draining from his cheeks. He knew the poster was coming, of course. It was part of the plan, another sign that things were going exactly as the Inspector wanted them to go. It was a rather large sum of Galleons, though, and if anyone in Knockturn Alley was desperate enough…

"I wouldn’t worry your head about it," the witch continues. "No one on this wall ‘s been caught yet. Not unless Mr. Nott wants them to be and he’s not going to want you to be." She leans in, her breath flickering across his cheek like a snake’s tongue. "The Alley doesn’t take kindly to intruders, you know."

Ron nods. That’s what the Inspector told him, thus every single thing he’s done in the past year so that he might have the best possible chance of fitting in.

"You’re one of us now," the witch continues. "You and your brother. I always knew the two of you had the most potential of anyone in your family. Could see it even back at Hogwarts. Knew you wouldn’t be content living in Potter’s shadow forever."

He chuckles mirthlessly at that, says, "No, no more shadows for me," then turns back to the bar. He drops his money down onto the countertop and nods at the barkeep, who hurries over with a mug of ale, Ron’s drink from the night before. Ron takes it and turns back to the room, looking for a place to sit, a corner to hide in, maybe.

It’s not meant to be, though, because every last corner of the room—all seven of them, plus four more alcoves—is taken, the last by Draco Malfoy, who seems to spot Ron in the same moment that Ron spots him. His eyes narrow, his face seems to become even more pale, and as their gazes lock, he starts to stand up from his table.

But then Ron hears someone saying, "Mr. Weasley, Mr. Weasley," and it’s the wizard from the night before, the one with the bushy eyebrows, and he’s standing in front of Ron, smiling a gap-toothed smile.

"Join us won’t you, Mr. Weasley?" the wizard says. "My Elvira, she’d dearly like to meet you, she would. She be a big fan of your brothers’ pranks, she be."

Ron nods at the wizard and follows him to a table in the center of the room, right in the middle of the action. He can feel the heavy weight of Malfoy’s gaze on him as he walks and after he’s sitting down and listening to Elvira talk about the trouble her young girls have gotten up to courtesy of his brothers’ inventions, he glances over again.

This is what he finds interesting: Malfoy is sitting all alone, none of the people at the nearby tables paying him any mind at all. In this room, Malfoy, he thinks suddenly, might be even less trusted than he is. It’s a thought that warms him right up inside and he can’t help but give him a taunting, overly cheery grin.

He’s playing with fire, the Inspector would say, but it’s Malfoy and some habits die hard.

Some things will never change.

Before he can see Malfoy’s reaction, though, he turns his attention back to Elvira and starts telling her of the products that the twins were in the process of developing when he left.

Nott doesn’t make an appearance that night.
--

It’s late when Ron returns to his room and he needs to be up early the next morning— work to go to and all—but he’s not tired yet. The ale is buzzing through his system, making him feel more relaxed than he has in days. He slowly takes off his robe and drapes it over the chair, digs the wand out of the pocket, and he’s already pointing it in the direction of the hearth, incendio on the tip of his tongue when he sees the paper lying there still.

Slowly, he steps over to the hearth and picks it up, dusting what ashes he can from the pages. He eyes his picture one more time, then lets his eyes travel farther down the article, to the end, just for shits and giggles, as Seamus would have put it.

Spokespeople for Harry Potter could not be reached for comment.

And Ron laughs, because it always comes back to Harry in the end, doesn’t it? Always, no matter what he does.

He tosses the paper back onto the hearth, mutters "incendio," and smiles as he watches it go up in flames.

TBC.