Invisible Circus

It’s early in the evening and the Snitch is quiet for the most part, only about half of the tables full. Most of the witches and wizards are clustered down at Nott’s end of the room, though, and it’s pleasantly warm, with just enough quiet chatter for Ron to be able to tune it out, to focus all of his attention on what Nott is saying.

"There is a difference," Nott says softly as he looks around the rectangular table, studying the rapt faces that are staring back at him. Six or eight right there, but more are at the next tables—all four of them—and Ron is one of those.

"A difference," he says again, sliding the tip of his finger across the slick wood of the tabletop, like he’s drawing a picture, "between talking and doing. Between making plans and carrying them out. Between planting seeds and harvesting them. Over the last three years, my friends, we have talked, we have made plans, and we have sowed the seeds of our ideas. And now, I say, the time has come to act, to do, and to reap our rewards. Do you agree?"

It’s an intimate talk this, the sort that engenders determination rather than enthusiasm. If Nott was standing on the top of a table, ale soaking the cuff of his robe as his pacing sloshed it out of his mug, Ron would have expected there to be shouts and cheers, people jumping up from their seats in agreement and support. As it is, though, the empathetic nodding seems appropriate, the quiet murmurs of ‘aye.’

Ron nods too, because he never knows when Nott’s gaze will slide in his direction; it has twice already that evening. Each time, his eyes have been cool, distrustful, but he doesn’t seem to be editing his speech (conversation, whatever it is) any, so that, Ron hopes, says something.

Or maybe he’s just decided that there’s not anything Ron can do to stop him.

Ron watches as Nott smiles at his followers, beatific, like he’s granting them a gift, but then the corners of his lips twitch, just once, almost as if he’s suppressing laughter—and Ron wonders if he is, a prophet mocking his disciples. The lips don’t twitch again, though, and he looks so genuinely pleased that Ron starts to wonder if he imagined the whole thing. If he’s just reading into the expression what he wants to read into it. What he knows should be there.

"We’re in agreement then," Nott continues. "Good, good." He nods, his black bangs falling across his eyes. He doesn’t push them away, just nods again. He leans forward, speaking softly again, earnestly.

"I’ll be making an announcement tonight. I’d appreciate it if you all were present. If everyone who supports us could be present. If you could spread the word."

Ron turns his head a bit, watching those watching Nott, and they’re all leaning forward in their seats, enraptured. This is different from Ron’s first night, though, because today, this evening, Nott isn’t commanding the room’s attention, isn’t taking it.

They’re giving it to him.

Because—and Ron knows this, he does, but it’s different seeing it this explicitly—they believe. They well and truly, honestly believe, and he can see it on their faces, mouths open with baited breath, eyes shining as they wait for Nott to continue.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stands up, and some of those at his table start to stand too, but he waves them back down again, even as he uses the shoulder of the wizard next to him to balance himself as he turns to leave.

Ron watches him go and a few minutes later, when all of those around him are ensconced in speculation, he moves to an empty table in the corner.

--

After his first full day of work at the bookshop, there are other places that Ron would like to be—namely in his room, in bed—but there are reasons why he’s in Knockturn Alley, reasons why it’s now, and all of them require him to be at the Snitch. To stay. Tonight, especially, as it looks like he’ll soon be able to confirm or refute the Inspector’s suspicions as to Nott’s motives.

Confirm, Ron is sure, because in everything concerning Ron’s assignment, he likes to think that the Inspector knows all.

And if he’s wrong…

The tables are slowly filling up, the serving girls weaving more frequent paths through the increasingly crowded floor, but Ron is still sitting alone. He’s pulled a scrap of parchment from his pocket and he’s borrowed a quill and pot of ink from the barkeep and now he’s sitting there, the tip of the feather brushing over his lips.

Mum, he writes. The Inspector told him that he should be writing these notes—his feed of information—in wide open places, where it will be less suspicious. After all, who would think him stupid enough to write the pre-determined cipher in plain sight of those he’s writing about?

He crosses out the Mum and replaces it with Dearest Mum.

Hi. I’m writing you this letter in the hope that you’ll see my position on this. I never meant to hurt you, Mum. —I just— It was not my intention. You will probably be suspicious of my motives here and you have every right to be, —Mum I— but I am doing the right thing, okay? Percy was onto something even —if——we— if I realized it too late. For him, Mum, I do this. Every moment of it, because I didn’t believe him. In the end, that’s what it comes down to. And now, looking back, remembering what he said, it all makes sense. He was on the right track. He could see into the future, what was to come, even if the rest of us—

And then the parchment is snatched away from him, straight out from underneath his quill, leaving a mark across the paper. Ron starts to make a frantic grab for it before he realizes who he is, where he is, and who it is, exactly, that is holding his note hostage.

He wipes the hand not holding the quill on the leg of his trousers and takes a deep breath, but he still lets himself glower at Malfoy—it would be more suspicious, he thinks, if he didn’t.

Malfoy glowers right back.

"And what do we have here?" the blond asks. He slides into the seat across from Ron and begins to read the words on the parchment.

"Dearest Mum," Malfoy reads, a mocking lilt to his voice. His eyes glitter at Ron and Ron feels his fists clenching. He reminds himself that the quill is not his, so he loosens his grip far enough to let it drop to the table, then tucks both of his hands into the folds of his robe.

"I see just a plain old ‘mum’ wasn’t ingratiating enough for you," Malfoy continues, his voice mocking. "And how are you going to sign this letter to your dearest mum? ‘Love, your favourite traitorous son?’"

Ron can see Malfoy’s eyes scanning the rest of the parchment, undoubtedly trying to figure out what message is secreted there, but as he says the last words, his eyes flicker up to Ron again.

"But wait, Percy was always the favourite one wasn’t he? And I’m assuming that carries over into treachery as well." He coughs, looking faintly amused. Bemused, maybe. "That’s assuming you really are being treacherous, which, Weasley, I’ll have you know, I still don’t believe."

"Does it matter what you believe, Malfoy?" Ron asks. Then, with a sigh that’s more honest than act, he says, "And I’ll have you know that I’m getting rather tired of having this conversation with you."

Malfoy slaps the letter down onto the tabletop. "To your credit, Weasley, I never thought you’d last through your first night, much less all of the way into day three. And spouting such drivel as this, I’m doubly amazed."

"It’s not drivel."

"You don’t even sound as if you’ve got yourself convinced, so I can pretty much guarantee that you won’t be convincing your Mum of anything. Thus, drivel. It’s just Percy this, Percy that, oh poor Percy."

Ron thinks that it’s a sign of his maturity that he doesn’t reach across the table to pop Malfoy one on the nose, because no matter how betrayed he feels, how much anger and hatred have burned through him in the last year, two, Percy is still Ron’s brother.

Was.

Before he can respond, though, Malfoy continues.

"I knew Percy, there at the end," he says, softly for him. Almost thoughtfully. "Before the end. The new Percy Weasley, as he liked to call himself, and we had several long talks, he and I. Does that surprise you, Weasley? That one of your brothers deigned to talk to me? Willingly?"

Ron doesn’t speak—no words to say—but again, even if he had, Malfoy wouldn’t have given him a chance, because he keeps right on talking.

"And this is what I have to say about Percy. He was mad as a loon. Absolutely around the bend batty, but he believed. All of this drivel you’ve been spouting, he believed it, preached it. He lived it, and you, you are just saying the words. The right words, what people want to hear."

He sighs, then and looks out one of the windows. Ron doesn’t follow his gaze, to see what’s caught his attention, if anything has. He thinks, for a moment, that Malfoy has forgotten he’s there.

He keeps on talking, though. "But words are not beliefs. Words are not actions."

"And because he believed, he acted, and look where it got him," Ron says bitterly, before he can stop himself. He bites down on the tip of his tongue, but it’s too late. Malfoy is already nodding, like he’s made his point, uncovered Ron’s truths.

And maybe he has. Maybe Malfoy will be Ron’s undoing in this, like he’s threatened to be his undoing since their very first meeting, back on the Hogwarts Express when they were eleven. When Malfoy tempted Harry with his friendship, his connections, and Harry threw the offer back in Malfoy’s face.

Malfoy turns to him again, the look in his eyes evaluating again. "If you’re having those fears still, after all you’ve purportedly done, you shouldn’t have come with in ten feet of Knockturn Alley."

He should protest, Ron knows, but the words just aren’t coming as easily as he wants them to. He was prepared to defend himself to Nott, his background was proof enough there, and to give superficial reasons to random people who wanted to believe in him. But not to someone like Malfoy, someone who’s spent too many years taunting him to not know him.

"Doesn’t everyone fear it, though? Being Kissed? Losing your soul?"

Malfoy laughs at that, an unpleasant sound.

Ron continues: "I do fear it, I’ll admit it—" He thinks of what he’s doing—how much he does believe in it—and the satisfaction he’ll feel when he brings Nott down. The pleasure he’ll get, hearing everyone admit they were wrong about him. He reinforces his next words with those thoughts. "—but the benefits will outweigh the consequences."

Malfoy actually looks a little taken aback at his vehemence, and he chuckles again, but for the first time in Ron’s life, it’s almost a startled, friendly sound. He shoves the parchment back in Ron’s direction, tapping his finger on the word ‘Mum.’

"Try putting that emotion into your words here and you might actually manage to convince someone of your motives."

"You?" Ron asks and Malfoy’s eyes glitter again.

"And probably not Potter or Granger either," he says as he shakes his head. "You think I haven’t noticed their repeated lack of comments in the Prophet? You know as well as I do that neither of them can lie worth shit."

Ron nods in agreement because it’s true.

"We can’t have them blowing your cover, now can we?" Malfoy continues.

Ron sighs. "And we’re back to this."

"Back to this," Malfoy agrees.

But they aren’t, not really, because in that moment, Nott enters the room.

He strides across the floor, a plain back robe open down the front and billowing behind him and the room hushes as he moves. Chairs squeak over worn boards, mugs are settled down onto tables, and whispers of speculation begin rising in his wake.

Do you think— —announce a plan— — lead us—

Ron can hear everything, whispered words echoing in his ears, and he slides his gaze around the room, trying to pinpoint who is saying what. He sees familiar faces, witches and wizards that he recognizes from his two previous evenings, but there are more that he doesn’t recognize. Far more.

The room is more crowded than it was the night of his arrival, but maybe it isn’t unusual. He has to remind himself that he’s only on day three here—no matter that it’s easier to make himself walk into the Snitch, that he feels more comfortable now—and that he doesn’t know everything, no matter how much prepping he’s done.

His gaze slides across Malfoy, too, but unlike the rest of those in the room, the blond doesn’t look like he’s waiting anxiously for whatever it is that Nott is about to say. He’s sitting back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. His gray eyes are flashing in Nott’s direction, and not for the first time, Ron wonders what, exactly, is going on in Malfoy’s head.

Nott claps his hands sharply, once, twice, and he nods as silence spreads across the room in ripples, like the after effects of a stunning spell.

"Welcome," Nott says. He’s standing on top of a table again, looking around the main room of the pub with a proprietary look in his eyes. His thin, stubble-covered cheeks are flushed and he’s smiling that real, genuine smile again, except that this time, it’s wider.

"Welcome, my friends," he continues, his voice warm, the sound of it curling around the room. "It pleases me greatly that so many of you have chosen to join us tonight for what shall, I hope, long be remembered as a turning point in the life of our noble cause."

A few yelps from unknown wizards and again, Ron can feel the energy rising in the room. Part of it is excitement, and Ron knows that some of that, at least, is emanating off of Nott, feeding the crowd and their excitement, in turn, is feeding him.

Nott draws a deep breath, then nods to someone off at the side of the room, before turning his attention back to the crowd as a whole.

"Earlier this evening, I had the opportunity to talk with a few of our brothers and sisters for a time. I posed a question to them and now, with your permission, I shall pose that same question to you."

He motions to one of his bodyguards and a mug appears in his hands. He takes a deep gulp before handing it away again.

"Three years ago, my dear friend Percy Weasley—" Nott looks at Ron as he talks, his gaze evaluating. "—walked into this very pub, sat down at that very bar, and started talking. He talked to anyone who would listen. About betrayal. About his hopes for what the post-war world could have been. He voiced his disagreements with the Ministry and our esteemed Minister. And I, my friends, my brothers and sisters, was lucky enough to be here that night to hear him. I listened and what he had to say was… radical, yes, but it resonated right in here."

Nott slaps a hand over his heart and a few of those in the room start clapping, a cheer or two cutting through the silence. He waves them quiet again and starts pacing the length of the table.

"Right here," he says, patting his chest again. "Right here. That night, I joined with Percy and as time went by, more people started seeing the sense in his words, as is evidenced by the all of those gathering here tonight—although it is true that this crowd is only a portion of our numbers.

"And for three years, we have talked. We have planned and preached and discussed, but there is a difference between talk and action. A difference."

He stops pacing and turns to face the crowd. Ron sees him swallow once, twice, and for a moment, Ron thinks that Nott looks to be nervous, although it’s hardly a word that he associates with this new Nott. A blink later and the thought is gone, though, because Nott starts talking again, his voice just as strong and steady as before.

"And now, my friends, I ask you whether you agree that the time has come to act, to reap our rewards. Is it time, my brothers and sisters? Is it time?"

The noise in the room is deafening and Ron only stands because it would be more noticeable if he didn’t. Malfoy, he notices, doesn’t. But the blond is clapping, even if it is a weak sort of movement.

At the front of the room, Nott seems to grow, to swell with the noise. His smile is still there, now even wider than before.

"The time has come!" Nott shouts, his voice magically amplified to sound above the voices of those around him. "The world has ignored our cries long enough! We shall stand together and prove that we are more than radical words and deeds. We shall prove that we are the future!"

Another roar.

"We live in a parliamentary nation, my friends, and it is time for us to stand up and be heard! To prove once and for all that we are here to stay! And with your approval, my friends," Nott says, suddenly speaking more quietly and the room quiets with him. The hush is strained, though, barely held together by his influence. "With your approval, I would like to announce my candidacy for the position of Minister of Magic. Because we have to start somewhere, don’t we, so why not start from the top?"

The cheers and toasts are so loud, Ron’s ears are buzzing, and he listens to the voices around him battle until they gradually join together in one cheer—"Nott! Nott! Nott!" —and the Snitch’s rafters shake with it.

Ron joins in, of course, clapping his hands in time with the beat. The cheers go on and on and Ron loses track of time, caught up in it all. Until he looks over at Malfoy and sees that the blond has left. He starts clapping again, but the rhythm is gone.

Several minutes pass before Nott’s voice can be heard again. "Thank you, my friends. Thank you for your acceptance, your support." Then, with a look to the bar: "Tonight, in honor of this momentous occasion, the bar shall be open for your drinking pleasure, courtesy of me. Celebrate, for change is coming! Celebrate, for change is already here!"

Only then does Ron sit down again. The room feels too cramped all of a sudden, no longer pleasant. Too crowded, and all Ron wants to do is finish his letter and leave. He still can’t, though, not without it looking suspicious.

He slowly picks up the quill again, dips the tip in the pot of ink and writes one final line, not in the cipher. It doesn’t matter, though. The Inspector will know what he means.

Or maybe you’re right to be suspicious. Maybe I am crazy. But I don’t think I am. Love, your son, Ron.

With that, he picks the parchment up and stares at it for several seconds, before finally crumpling it into a ball and dropping it in his pocket. When he looks up again, musicians have appeared from somewhere and they’re already fiddling away at a lively tune. Some of the tables have been cleared from the floor and dancing couples are already reeling around the confined space.

He hears a soft cough and a Ravenclaw girl, two years younger than he is, is standing in front of him. She’s holding out her hand, black braids swinging around her neck.

"May I have this dance?" she asks softly.

He wants to say no, but she’s smiling at him and this is one of those necessary steps towards acceptance, or so the Inspector would tell him. There are reasons why Ron is there, after all, and newly confirmed reasons why he’s there now.

He takes her hand, soft and gentle in his and leads her out onto the dance floor.

It feels wrong, he thinks as they begin to move, because his entire life, he’s been told that Knockturn Alley is a dangerous place, dark and forbidden, but this is normal, real, welcoming: a warm fire, free drinks, a smiling girl in his arms, and sounds of joy surrounding him.

It only takes him two dances to lose himself again.

--

He’s tired, breathless, and sweaty when he steps out of the Snitch and into the dark and curving street. The night air feels like ice on his skin and he shivers, pulling his robe more tightly around him. He’s still smiling, though, and his cheeks ache with it.

"Tomorrow, Weasley?" one of the barmaids asks him, leaning out the front window. They shared two turns round the dance floor and they could have shared more, he knows—the look in her eyes had told him as much—but there are some things he refuses to betray. He nods and keeps on walking, humming a remnant of the last song as he goes.

The alcove is two streets over and by the time he approaches it, he’s no longer smiling. He’s serious, all business again.

It’s no more than a trash heap for the not so discerning witch or wizard and he stumbles up to it, balancing himself on the near wall, feigning intoxication. He bends over, pretending to retch, but there’s no one to see him or the ball of parchment that falls from his pocket.

And then he stumbles away again, weaving his way down the street.

He doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t see the rat that scurries out of the shadows, the way its eyes glitter with more than rodent-like intelligence, or the way it grips the ball of parchment in its paws as it disappears with a small crack.

It’s not until he reaches his room that he lets himself relax again, as much as he can relax anyway. He leans back against his door, closes his eyes, and Nott’s words from earlier that evening echo in his brain: there’s a difference between talk and action.

"I’ve acted," he says to himself, the words hardly louder than a whisper. "And now I’ve acted."

tbc.