Invisible Circus

That night, Ron dreams of Harry. An angry Harry, who’s standing in front of him, green eyes hard, flashing just like they were after Nott’s speech. His arms are crossed over his chest, his mouth is set in a straight, thin line, and he spits out the words of his letter—I don’t know you anymore. You are dead to me—over and over again.

In his dream, Harry calls him Weasley.

He tries to protest. He tries to speak. He tries to reach out with a hand that seems to fade into nothingness the closer it comes to Harry, and he can’t grasp at the sleeve of Harry’s robe, he can’t touch his friend. But then his voice is there again and he says, "Harry, Harry, it’s not what you think," but Hermione is at Harry’s side and her lips are at Harry’s ear and she’s whispering, "Yes, Harry, it is. It’s exactly what you think. He’s nothing but a lie."

Ron can only watch as she curls her hand around Harry’s elbow and leads him away, away from Ron and his explanations and his truth. Leads him away, the both of them fading into nothingness, just like Ron’s hand had, and he can’t do anything but call after them, watch them go. He sobs, "No!" and when he wakes up he can hear the word echoing off of the walls of his room, still ringing in his ears.

He breathes heavily through parted lips, dry and cracked, and his tongue feels too large for his mouth. His nose is dripping, as are his eyes, tears trickling down his cheeks and dampening the pillow beneath his head. He raises his arm and wipes the sleeve of his jumper across his face, the rough fibers stinging already raw skin. He closes his eyes again and tries to swallow, but he’s trembling now with the force of the dream and his breath catches in his throat and suddenly he can’t lie down anymore, he can’t breathe, he’s going to pass out, vomit…

He sits up, his knees immediately coming to his chest, his arms holding onto them as tightly as he can, skin and muscle pressed between bone. He wants the pain, wishes that it could be sharper, bruising. Physical pain he can handle, it’s the mental that he’s no longer so sure about.

You are dead to me.

"Harry." Ron’s lips form the name, but he doesn’t actually say it. His breath is still ragged, rattling around in his chest, even if it’s coming slightly easier now. He means to say that he’s sorry, but the words that come out are: "I can’t do this anymore."

He doesn’t mean it, of course.

Of course he doesn’t mean it, and he tells himself that over and over again on Sunday as he leaves his room, as he walks through the mid-day bustle of the streets to the Snitch, as he stands in shadows of the same doorway he used his first day there, less than a week ago, a lifetime gone by.

He whispers it, cracked words barely making it through his lips, as loud as he can without someone overhearing: "I don’t mean it. I am doing this."

He swallows, says it again. "I am."

Despite the whispered tone, the words sound feeble to his ears, rote, hollow reassurances of the same variety as ‘it’s going to be okay, really,’ even when one knew it wasn’t. He’d said those words to his mum, in the days before Percy had been Kissed. Nothing had been okay then, since.

In his head, his dream still echoes. When he closes his eyes, he can see Harry and Hermione walking away, but when he opens them, he can picture them standing just down the street, twenty paces ahead. Harry’s gesturing at him, pointing him out to Hermione, eyes flashing with hatred.

Ron shakes his head sharply and the vision clears.

He wants to walk across the street, to go into the Snitch, to get settled and drink his ale and see the faces that are looking progressively friendlier the more time he spends there. He should do all of that, because it’s what comprises the ‘this’ that he’s doing, but his mind or body seems to be convinced that he’s back at square one in every sense of the word.

Because, like on that very first day, he can’t move.

He tries, oh he tries. He counts to five, then ten. He murmurs, "Now, now, now." His muscles tense in preparation of movement, straining forward, but it’s as if someone has cast a Petrificus Totalus curse on him, like his feet are rooted in cement.

And every time he does manage to shuffle one foot forward, his stomach lurches. His throat tightens. It’s as if a steel trap has settled around his chest, squeezing him until he goes cold, until sweat prickles the back of his neck, beads on his forehead, slicks his palms.

He leans back against the wall behind him, catching his breath the best he can as he steels himself for another try. It’s easy to do that, to stand there unobserved, watching from a distance, so for a minute, maybe two, he lets himself do so. Watches as a witch enters the pub, as a wizard leaves. Watches the movement of the bodies behind the diamond-paned windows, imagining he can hear the laughter.

Stands there as a crone walks by on the side of the alley closest to his alcove, feels his breath catch as she looks in, meeting his eyes, and then he’s cold for an entirely different reason, because he shouldn’t be standing there.

Standing there watching, like he is, is suspicious.

It’s a mistake, and he can’t afford to make mistakes, not even now. Especially not now, no matter that it would be easier if he did, because then this would all be over. He could go home to the Burrow, he could hug his mum, tell the truth.

He could single-handedly lose the war on Nott before it’s even really begun.

With that knowledge, he braces himself against the wall behind him, turning his wrist so that he can press his fingertips against the rough stone. Then he pushes as hard as he can, using the extra bit of momentum to actually get out into the street.

Now that he’s moving, he means to walk directly to the door of the pub. He means to go inside, to get his ale and find to his table, and maybe Malfoy will be there, maybe Pansy will be, and he’ll be able to laugh off the night before. To say he doesn’t need Harry, doesn’t need his approval, because he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

But that thought makes him stop in the middle of the street, an island in the middle of a sluggish stream of people, and his feet are rooted again. Again, he can’t move, but he can’t stay there any more than he could stay back in his alcove, so he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, murmurs "just go," and turns on his heel, heading back in the direction of his room.

As he walks, he justifies. He tells himself it’s okay to do this, that he shouldn’t be seen at the Snitch every day anyway. He shouldn’t be seen to be too interested in Nott’s actions, words, deeds. The Inspector told him so, more than once, but the justifications sound empty now as he thinks them.

His head falls forward as he walks the well-known path, his eyes staring unseeing at the cobblestones beneath his feet. He breathes in deeply through his nose, breathing out again through parted lips.

And as he walks, he acknowledges. This is the truth: he feels as if a part of him died inside with Harry’s letter, with Harry’s lack of trust. He doesn’t need Harry’s support, he tells himself, he really doesn’t, but for today, at least, he thinks that he can let himself grieve.

One day turns into two, and two into three, and it’s late, only about ten minutes until closing on Wednesday when the old man shows up at the shop. He’s hunched over, with a beard that stretches all the way down to the clean floor, and eyes that twinkle behind rectangular glasses. He asks for Ron.

"Weasley," he rasps. "Is he here? Is he working today?"

Ron can hear him from where he’s crouched down on the floor of the back room, unloading a box, and he freezes; he turns his head very slowly so that he can look at the man through the beaded curtain covering the doorway. He doesn’t look dangerous, Ron thinks as he studies him. Doesn’t look like one of Nott’s goons, and he doesn’t exactly look like someone in the Ministry’s employ either.

Still, looks can be deceiving. Most of the world is convinced that he’s the living embodiment of that statement, after all. Also, there are very few reasons for someone to come asking for him at the bookshop, even fewer of which might be considered good. He puts his hand in his pocket, curling his fingers around the wand hidden there and tries to decide if he should make a bolt for the back exit. Apparate.

If he’s at risk at all, the Inspector told him more than once, it’s better to play it safe than sorry. If he plays the part right, he said, Ron will have reason to appear overly paranoid. People will understand. He grips the wand more tightly, but he hesitates too long.

Mrs. Chubbs says, "Yes, he’s here. He’s just in back, doing all of the unloading these poor old knees can’t do anymore." She calls, "Ronald!"

There’s a shrill edge to her voice, a fond sharpness, and it hits Ron like a punch to his gut. He wobbles on the balls of his feet, suddenly dizzy, because she sounds exactly like his mother used to when she caught him in the act of doing something he oughtn’t. Unconsciously, he raises his hand to his cheek, where his mother slapped him, was it only the week before? The mark is several days gone, but when he traces the finger lightly over his skin, he pretends he can still feel it.

"Ron, Ronald," Mrs. Chubbs calls again, and Ron shakes his head back and forth, clearing away the memory. He stands up, pushes his way through the strings of beads and smiles warily at the old man. He smiles back, gap-toothed. There’s something familiar about the grin, though. About the curve of lips. Ron blinks, trying to place it.

"Weasley," he rasps. "There you are, my boy. There you are. You won’t know me, I shouldn’t think, but I knew your brother, Percy, years ago. I guess you could say I’ve made following his career something of my life’s work."

Then, deliberately, he winks at Ron, and suddenly Ron knows who it is that’s speaking to him. Who it is that’s hiding behind the thin cheeks, the gray hair.

He knows and somehow, through the tang of fear at the back of his throat, through the ice that is suddenly running through his veins, freezing him, he manages to nod. He manages an almost real, genuine smile. It fades quickly, though, because there are even fewer good reasons for the Inspector to be there, standing in front of him than, well, anyone else who might choose to seek Ron out.

That knowledge paralyzes him, he shivers with it and he can only watch as the Inspector turns to Mrs. Chubbs and says, "Is your young assistant about done for the day? Would you mind terribly if I spirited him away?" He laughs, a thin sound.

Ron can hear himself chuckling too, as if from a distance, and it borders on hysterical. He looks at Mrs. Chubbs, expecting her to say ‘No’, almost wanting her to because he doesn’t think he wants to know why the Inspector is there, but she doesn’t. She says yes. She’s nodding.

"Aye," she says, gesturing at the empty shop. "Go on. Get on with you. We’re ‘bout done here anyway."

Pointing in the direction of the back room, where his robe is hanging, Ron says, "Let me just go—" and then his throat closes up again, the fear still there, still growing, because for the Inspector to come to him like this…

The Inspector nods, flicks his hand in the direction of the beaded curtain, still smiling that gap-toothed smile of his, and Ron goes. He closes his eyes as soon as he steps through, takes a deep breath as soon as he’s out of sight, and rests his forehead against the wall by his robe, letting the cool of the plaster creep over his suddenly overheated skin.

Something’s wrong. Something’s gone wrong. Ron knows it. The woman who spotted him hovering across the street from the Snitch, maybe. Maybe she’s told Nott. Maybe he’s slipped up in some other way, even though he can’t think how. It’s over, done with, he’s lost the war, failed…

He breathes in, out, once, twice, and then he reaches up blindly to pull his robe off the hook.

When he steps back out into the main room of the shop, he nods sharply to the Inspector and leads the way to the door, opening it for him. Just like he would have back at the Ministry. Except at the Ministry, he wouldn’t have had to worry about shutting the beard in the door by mistake.

The Inspector doesn’t speak once they’re outside, not until he’s led Ron away from the main street, down back pathways that Ron hasn’t yet had a chance to explore. He leads him to a dark building, as dilapidated looking as any down Knockturn Alley, and then he stops at a door. Three taps of the Inspector’s wand on the rotting wood, a murmured word, and it swings open.

They step inside.

The room is empty but for two stools and a lopsided table, an ash-strewn fireplace. The boards of the floor feel thin underneath Ron’s feet, a bit of bounce and give to them that floor boards just should not have. There are holes in the walls, plaster cracked and powdered, and Ron is pretty sure he can feel a draft coming from somewhere. He rubs his hands over his arms, trying to warm the gooseflesh away.

"We’ll be safe here," the Inspector says, and he no longer sounds like an old man; the familiar soft voice is back. It’s not as soft as it is in Ron’s memory, though, and when he meets the Inspector’s eyes, they look familiar and sad, but hard, too. Harder than Ron has seen directed at him before.

He blinks, and when he closes his eyes he flashes back to Harry—hardness, hatred—so he opens them again, quickly, and reminds himself: memory. That Harry is just a memory and the Inspector is real. He’s real, here with Ron, standing in front of him.

And Ron still doesn’t know why.

"What--?" he starts, but the rest of the question won’t come. Too many words are trying to bubble out, but he’s not really sure what he wants to ask. What, why, how. There is one thing that he really does have to know, though, so he swallows and forces the words out.

"Has something happened?"

The Inspector stares at Ron for a moment, then turns away and walks over to one of the chairs without answering. He’s not moving like an old man anymore. His shoulders are no longer hunched, his stride is brisk. When he sits down, the chair rocks underneath his weight. After he’s settled, he looks at Ron again, but he doesn’t motion for Ron to take the other chair. He says, "Has something happened? I don’t know, Ron. Why don’t you tell me."

And he knows, Ron realizes. He knows that Ron hasn’t been to the Snitch for three days, not since the night with Malfoy. Not since the… letter. Unable to meet the Inspector’s gaze, he says, "You heard about Harry’s note then."

"Yes, Ron, I did."

He sounds almost… happy about it, too. Like Ron’s whole fucking world hadn’t crumbled around him when he’d read Harry’s words.

"Yes, I heard about Harry’s note," he continues. "I heard about it from Harry himself, actually, during a lovely meeting that lasted for well over an hour. He used an astonishing number of colorful words to curse the day you decided to sit with him on the Hogwarts Express, the day he decided you were his friend, and even the day you were born. A brilliant time was had by all, I assure you."

Ron doesn’t say anything; he’s not sure what there is to say to that. At his sides, his fists are clenched, nails digging into palms. He bites down on his lip, not nearly hard enough to draw blood, but with enough force to let the sharp press hold his attention.

When the Inspector continues, his voice is softer, but he sounds more detached. Ron’s not sure whether it’s an improvement or not.

"What I want to know, Ron, is whether you’re going to let Harry be a problem. It’s been three days since you showed your face in the Snitch, three days in which you could have been working your way into Nott’s good graces, and what do you do? You stand across the street, watching people come and go." He pauses. "That’s unacceptable, Ron, and I shouldn’t have had to come here and tell you that."

"But you were the one who told me I shouldn’t go to the Snitch every day anyway," Ron says, fully aware that he sounds petulant, yet unable to stop himself. He swallows, then looks the Inspector in the eyes, because he knows his friend is in there somewhere. He knows it. "Harry, he told me I was dead to him."

"And you want me to do what?"

The Inspector barks the question out, then he laughs just a little, closing his eyes. He says, "I can’t be the friend you want me to be here, Ron, nor can I be the friend I want to be. There are more important things at stake here than friendship. You had to know that something like this would happen. You should have known."

Ron should have, he knows, and he did. But knowing is different than acknowledging or living the reality. "I did," Ron says. "I just didn’t think…"

"That Harry wouldn’t trust you," the Inspector finishes, still harshly, still detached, but there’s a little more warmth there than there was before. "I know, Ron, but together we’ve spent the last year making sure that no one would, not even Harry." He pauses. "And the fact that he doesn’t, Ron, that should be considered a good thing. If you can fool him, you can fool anyone. Even Nott, who, need I remind you, is the one that needs to be fooled."

"I know."

Ron looks up at the Inspector again, and sees that he’s getting a little fuzzy around the edges: a flash of gray-brown hair through the salt-and-pepper strands, a peek of bare chin through the beard. The Inspector seems to sense it too, because he pulls the flask away from his hip and takes a swallow. The image solidifies again.

"I just didn’t expect it to hurt so much. I expected Harry to hate me, I did." Ron pauses, swallowing. "I just didn’t expect him to mean it."

The Inspector nods sagely.

"But he does, oh, he does."

He states it matter-of-factly, no matter that he has to know that the words are cutting into Ron like knives. "And you know what, I couldn’t have planned this better than if I’d asked Harry to write that note myself—which I didn’t, I promise you. But think of it this way: now, you don’t need to wonder what he’s thinking of you. You’re going to say that you wouldn’t have been, but I know you, Ron. Subconsciously you would have been evaluating every action you took: is this the one that’s going to make Harry lose faith in me? This one? Now, you don’t have to wonder anymore."

"Because he already hates me."

"You no longer have anything to lose."

And he’s right, Ron knows he is. He just wishes that the truth didn’t have to make him feel so dead inside.

He nods.

"Good," the Inspector says, he slaps his thigh with something resembling glee. The gap-toothed grin is back, and Ron can tell that the conversation is winding down. "Now, when you leave here, I expect you to go to the Snitch. I expect you to have one drink, at the very least, and if Nott happens to show his face, I expect you to find some way of talking to him. When the time comes, Ron, you need to be in his inner circle. The Wizarding World needs you there."

Again, Ron nods. "Nothing left to lose," he says.

It’s the Inspector’s turn to nod, to echo the words. They stare at each other for a few moments, and that’s it, the end. Two weeks ago, even, they would have ended the meeting with friendly small talk, inquiries about families and other assorted pleasantries. It won’t be so tonight. The Inspector stands, walks to the door, and says, "Wait five minutes, then you can leave."

Ron looks down at the floor, not wanting to watch his only ally in this world of his—friend or not—walk away. But the Inspector doesn’t leave immediately. Nor does he turn around.

"Aside from this one thing, Ron, you’ve been doing better than I could have hoped. I just want you to know that. And I trust you’ll do what needs to be done, no matter what needs to be done. I trust you."

Then he’s gone and Ron stares at the empty fireplace until it’s time for him to go.

The Snitch again, a half an hour later.

Ron doesn’t hesitate this time as he walks down the cobbled street outside, not even as he veers through the stream of people heading in the other direction, as he dodges, stops, then moves forward again. He doesn’t hesitate until he’s actually at the door, curling his hand around the handle, pulling it open, but he’s not paralyzed like he was before. It’s just a moment, a breath; today, it’s easy.

Today, it’s hard for him to believe that three days ago he wasn’t able to do something as simple as this.

He steps through the doorway.

Only when he’s inside does he let himself truly stop, because it’s only when he’s inside that he realizes everything is different. Not the pub itself—that’s the same as it’s been every time he’s come: warmth, voices, alcohol, wood burning on the hearth across the room. It’s all the same, but nothing else is and it takes him a few moments, a few breaths to realize why, what exactly has changed. But then he does.

It’s him.

It’s like he’s taken a step back. It’s as if, suddenly, he’s watching himself live, rather than doing the actual living. He’s not feeling the cut of Harry’s words anymore. He’s feeling numb, detached, and at the same time, he’s feeling more at ease in this life than he has yet.

Everything is different, yes, but he’s also pretty sure that it’s better.

In that instant, he thinks that the Inspector might have been right. Maybe Harry’s letter really was something he needed. Maybe he needed it to be the knife it apparently was, cutting through all of the hopes and expectations he was unwittingly harboring.

Because that’s what it’s done. He’s free now and while it doesn’t feel good, per se, he feels, well, lighter. More focused.

He has nothing left to lose.

The door opens behind him again and Ron realizes that he’s been standing in one place for too long now, even to do a survey of the room, so he begins walking to the bar. And as he walks, he discovers something else: apparently he’s genuinely been missed. He’s being greeted with smiles, nods of the head, folk with familiar faces reaching out to clasp at his hands, his elbows.

Sympathetic voices are saying: "We heard about Potter." "He don’t know what he be doing, Sir." "Never worth the hype, he wasn’t, and so I always said."

He should be pulling back, he thinks. He should be worried, he thinks, that apparently the whole room knows about the contents of his letter from Harry, about how they found out—Malfoy? Pansy? Someone sitting at one of the nearby tables three nights ago? Close enough to overhear? To read over one of their shoulders?—but he’s not. There’s that detachment again. Numbness again, and maybe he really has taken the Inspector’s words to heart, because he doesn’t feel any need to pull away. He murmurs a few ‘Thank You’s, shakes a few hands, smiles tiredly, and again he feels more in tune with what he’s supposed to be doing here than he has before.

Again, it’s easier.

The bartender has his ale ready for him when he gets to the bar, just as Ron has the right number of coins in the palm of his hand ready to drop on the counter. His normal seat has been taken already, but on his quick scan of the room, he notices two things: no Malfoy or Pansy in sight and an empty table off in one corner. He’s grateful for both things.

He’s halfway through his pint of ale when Nott arrives, and he watches as the other man sits down at a quickly emptied table by the fire, flanked by his bodyguards. One of the barmaids brings a pint glass over to him, something steaming, and sets it down on the table.

Nott drinks.

Ron watches.

Apparently Nott feels Ron’s gaze on him—although how he’s able to pinpoint its source, Ron doesn’t know, given that a good portion of the room is staring at Nott—because when he looks up again, he looks directly at Ron. Their eyes meet for several seconds, maybe ten, and then Ron raises his glass in Nott’s direction.

Immediately afterwards, he looks down again. There is a flutter of something that’s not detachment in his chest—Fear? Nervousness? Actual feeling?—and he takes another gulp of his drink. One more swallow like that and he’ll have to get himself another round.

Suddenly, the room quiets and when Ron looks up to see why, he sees Nott walking towards him, not quite stalking, not quite gliding, but he’s moving as if he owns the room, and he does, he does. Ron knows he does.

He looks down at the empty chair across the table from him just as Nott’s fingers curl around the back, pulling it out. He sits, his bodyguards moving into place behind him: that wall, again, between him and Nott and the rest of the world.

He doesn’t smile at Nott, just watches him until the other man speaks.

"You’re still here."

"I am," Ron says. "I’m still here."

"Dear Pansy told me about the letter you’d had," Nott continues after a moment of studying Ron, probably of trying to divine Ron’s true motives. Again. But he won’t be able to, of this Ron is suddenly sure, because he’s done a good job at making himself into this… traitor. A good job. He’s fooled Harry, after all.

Because he’s got nothing left to lose.

Ron nods.

"She says that you were pretty torn up about it. She says you came here, showed the letter to her and Malfoy, and then you got drunk. You haven’t been seen here since."

Ron nods again.

"I thought maybe you’d gone back to your old life," Nott continues. "I thought maybe you’d realized that this wasn’t just some game. I thought that maybe you’d decided the stakes were too high."

The stakes will never be too high, but there is no way that Ron can tell Nott that, so he settles for a weak chuckle.

"I’m here," he says. "I told you my first night here, I gave up my life for this cause. You want to see the proof?" He pulls the letter out of his pocket. It’s just a crumpled ball of parchment now so he tosses it across the table towards Nott. It lands without bouncing and it takes Nott a few moments to decide to pick it up.

He does though, finally, and Ron watches Nott read it. Then Nott hands it back to him and Ron folds it nicely again along the original creases, sticking it back in his pocket.

When Nott doesn’t seem inclined to say anything, Ron says, "I won’t deny that I was upset when I came here Saturday. I’d hoped, maybe, that after I joined you, Harry’d start to see the sense in what we’re doing, in what we believe. If I believed, I thought, maybe he’d… I’d hoped…"

He takes his last swallow of ale, then sets the glass back down on the table, tracing his finger around the base.

"I’m not here for me," Ron says, and for the first time in a week, he decides he might be better off telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so he does. "And I’m not here just because of my brother, either. I’m here for all of us." He flicks his hand in the direction of the rest of the room, Knockturn Alley, England at large. "I’m here to do what I can to save the world."

He is.

Nott doesn’t say anything in response, just holds Ron’s gaze and Ron doesn’t look away. He doesn’t feel any urge to look away.

Finally, Nott nods. "Okay," he says, like maybe he actually believes Ron. Like he’s starting to, like Malfoy was starting to on Saturday night.

And Ron feels like an elastic band all of a sudden, like one that’s been snapped across the room, because one moment he’s still got that detached, distanced feeling, and the next he’s firmly back in reality, living his life rather than watching it being lived.

One moment he’s watching himself do what he needs to do, and the next he’s actually doing it.

"Okay," Ron says, watching as Nott takes a drink. "Okay, then. Good."

tbc.