Author's Note: Here's the second chapter of my little story (okay, maybe it's not quite so little.) This one is mostly a flashback, too, like the first one. Oh, and I fixed the first paragraph. For some reason a lot of it was cut out and the beginning didn't make sense. Oops! Well, it's fixed now. I also fixed the error regarding the legal drinking age in Britain. My apologies for that oversight. Hope you like!
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling
Chapter 2: Blame
Ron couldn't sleep. He'd been tossing and turning in his bed for hours, trying to get comfortable despite the fact that he felt like the sheets were trying to strangle him. Now he was standing in front of his refrigerator, swigging milk straight from the carton while he stood there in his boxers, his red hair all rumpled. After replacing the now half-empty carton in the fridge, he went into the living room of his apartment in downtown London and sat down on the couch. He picked up the sword, running his fingers across the blade.
"Shit!" he yelped, having cut his thumb. He wiped the blood off on his shorts and put the sword back down on the coffee table. It was a weird place to keep a weapon, but Ron didnt figure that it mattered. It wasn't like he ever had any visitors. And so, the sword lived on the coffee table, right next to the pile of magazines and the stacks of candy bar wrappers. Ron hated that sword. He never took the time to clean it; now it was all rusted and dull. He didn't care. He would have gotten rid of it, just thrown it into the garbage, if he hadn't felt that it would be wrong somehow. He felt he needed the sword around as a reminder, a reminder of the worst thing hed ever done.
Ron sucked on his thumb for a minute, then sat back and closed his eyes, thinking about the sword and the part that it had played in his life. He replayed the images from his eighteenth year in his mind, as he had done so many times before. That year he couldn't forget, even when he tried.
The eighteen year old Ron sat in his hammock, polishing his sword. Dull and covered with rust, it hadn't looked like much when he'd gotten it. It had been his grandfathers, his fathers father. Ron received it on the day of his graduation from Hogwarts. Not impressive at first sight, he'd worked to restore it. Now, as he sat in his tent absent-mindedly wiping at the blade with a rag, it glistened a bright silver. Engraved into the handle was one word: "Weasley."
Ron always brought the sword into battle with him, whether for good luck or for actual practical use he could never quite decide. He hadn't had to use it in combat yet. There was always the possibility of becoming disarmed and needing to rely on the old weapon rather than on magic. A lot of the other soldiers carried Muggle weapons, too. Ron knew for a fact that his old classmate Seamus Finnigan always kept a small hand pistol tucked inside his left boot.
Ron's platoon had been involved in most of the major battles of what was beginning to be called the Second Childrens' Crusade. Almost all of the soldiers currently fighting against the armies of Lord Voldemort weren't even twenty; mere boys were risking and, in many cases, losing their lives in the fight. They came straight from school, be it Hogwarts or Beauxbatons or some other magic school, to serve in the war currently raging between good and evil. And, like the first Childrens' Crusade, this seemed to be a lost cause. They were outnumbered, their powers outweighed, by Voldemort's armies.
Ron had left without a moment's hesitation after graduation to enlist. So had most of the boys in his graduating class, except of course for the Slytherins. Oh, theyd joined in the fighting; they were just on the other side of the fence, so to speak. So far, they were on the winning side.
Voldemort had been gaining power and followers steadily since the end of Ron's fourth year at Hogwarts. Now, the Dark Lord had an army twice the size of theirs, and at least three times as powerful. The Ministry told them that it was hopeless, that they could never win. When he heard that, Ron had thought to himself that they'd just described every great success story in history.
While Ron and his fellow soldiers felt no regret for joining in what had been deemed a lost cause, they did fear for their own lives and for the lives of their families and friends. As they often said to one another, what was left for the magical community if they gave up? Of course, there was one thing they could do that would stop the war cold. These people, these Dark wizards who had no discernable souls and knew not the meaning of the word compassion, wanted one thing. They wanted Harry Potter dead.
Ron's commanding officer and former best friend, Harry Potter himself. The boy who lived, the famous face with the famous scar was going in to battle the next day. He was going in on the front line, no less. What an idiot, but Ron had to smile at his friend's bravery. It had always been this way, ever since their first year together at Hogwarts. Harry risking his life up front, right in evil's face. Ron should have been used to it by now. But how do you get used to your very best friend having near-death experiences all the time? The answer is simple. You don't.
Of course, it wasn't as though they had entered this situation with the same friendship that had gotten them safely through many a year at school. In fact, it hadn't become apparent that they were even both present until roll was taken on the first day of training. Harry was a captain, Ron a soldier. Ron was expendable. Harry was irreplaceable. He knew this and accepted it as a fact, knowing there was no way to change it.
On that first day, Ron had been gratified to see that Harry had at least recognized his name when it was called. He had even said hello, though the greeting had sounded strained. Ron couldnt blame him for feeling awkward; the situation was awkward. Harry and Ron hadn't even said goodbye to one another on graduation day, hadn't even signed one another's yearbooks. Now they were sleeping two tents apart, and Ron received all of his orders straight from Harry's mouth.
The next day their company was to march on the Dark Lord's forces; a sneak attack, in the early morning hours. They would probably have to leave at three oclock in the morning in order to have the advantage of surprise. Needless to say, Ron was not looking forward to it. He glanced down at his watch and was shocked to find that it was past ten already. Lights out were always called at nine- had he missed it, he'd been so lost in thought? He stood and walked to the front of his tent, poking his head out of the door. Sure enough, he couldn't see a light on anywhere else in the camp, except....
"Can't sleep?" he asked Harry, whose lantern was still burning brightly on his small desk. He took a good long look at his old friend. He still looked like a little boy. Hell, they all did. Sometimes Ron just wanted to scream that they were too young to die and should just go home, home to where their mothers could hold them when they were scared and home to a place free from death and suffering. He could tell that most of them felt the same way he did, with the exception of Harry. Harry had faced death so many times by now that it must have seemed, at least to him, that he was running out the clock, that his time was short.
"No. You?" Harry replied. Despite the deep shadows underneath his eyes, he looked wide-awake.
"I'm here, aren't I? I saw your light."
"I'm just working out some plans for tomorrow," Harry said, gesturing to the maps and charts littering his desk. But Ron knew Harry better than that.
"You were thinking about your parents, you mean?" he asked, knowing full well what the answer would be. Harry always thought about Lily and James when he was faced with danger, and the upcoming battle would be plenty dangerous.
"Yeah, I guess," Harry sighed, looking down at his lap. "Ron? I want you to know that, well, this is gonna sound so hokey but...I never stopped thinking of you as my best friend. I just want you to remember that, okay?"
After speaking, Harry rose from his seat and gave Ron a quick hug; the two friends had never embraced before. Sure, they'd hugged Hermione plenty of times, but never each other. Ron cringed as he remembered Hermione, and quickly pushed all thoughts of her out of his mind.
"I know that, don't even worry about it," Ron replied, taken aback by Harry's sudden display of emotion. This was a good thing; all was forgiven.
"Now get back to your tent and get some sleep. I need you ready for tomorrow," said Harry, suddenly all business.
"Yes Sir," said Ron, confused by what had just happened. He pondered it on the walk back to his tent, but forced his mind to go blank as soon as he had gotten into bed. Harry was right about one thing; he did need his sleep.
When Ron awoke less than three hours later, he found the camp in utter chaos. From what he could gather from the garbled bits of conversation he overheard from soldiers walking by his tent, someone on their side had turned traitor and informed one of the Dark Lords minions, not only of their plans for the attack, but also of their location. The Dark army had come, in full force.
Ron struggled to get dressed, putting on his pants backwards twice and his shirt on inside out once before he finished.
He grabbed his wand and shoved his sword into one of the belt loops of his jeans. He left the safety of his tent and came face to face with the madness that had engulfed the camp. Tents had been torn asunder, clothing and other personal items belonging to the soldiers were lying haphazard on the ground. No one was around, they were all heading to the battle now raging on a hillside about two hundred yards from where the ruined campsite now rested. Ron's immediate concern was finding Harry. Not only was he worried for his friend, but Harry was his commanding officer. He needed orders. Ron found him shouting instructions to a group of panic-stricken soldiers while trying to pull his shirt on.
"Harry! What should I do?" called Ron into the tent.
"Bloody Hell! Just go kill something, Weasley!" Harry shouted in reply. Ron had never heard him swear before, let alone call anyone besides Draco by their last name. But Ron didnt stop to wonder, he just charged past the tents to the hillside where all the action was.
He passed many wounded soldiers on his way to the battle, and had to force himself not to look down to see if he recognized any of them. He did pause, however, when he heard Seamus Finnigan screaming like there was no tomorrow. Ron looked down to find Seamus writhing on the ground a few feet to his left, clutching his foot.
"What happened?" Ron shouted over the din.
"Shot myself! Stupid pistol, forgot it was there!" replied Seamus, gritting his teeth against what Ron could only assume was terrible pain. "You go, Ill be alright!" he yelled.
Ron did as he was told and rushed into the fray, flinging his sword aside in his hurry to start cursing. The words Avada Kedavra flew from his lips and into the darkness. The entire hill was lit with bright flashes of green as wizards fell lifeless to the ground, one after another. The battle raged for nearly two hours, Ron barely escaping death countless times as he fired curse after curse into the blackness. He had stopped thinking, stopped aiming, even. Now he was just shooting in the general direction of the Death Eaters. He had even stopped praying.
Suddenly he heard a laugh that stopped him right in his tracks, made his blood run cold, and sent a shiver of fear running up his spine. He looked to the very top of the hill and saw none other than the Dark Lord himself, an ominous figure clad all in black standing tall against the rapidly lightening sky. And what was worse, he had Harry by the hair. He was holding him up off the ground, while Harry writhed and struggled to free himself from death's grip.
To his credit, Harry didn't scream. He didn't open his mouth once, and his face was locked in an expression of what one could only call pride. Ron rushed forward, as did many other soldiers. They couldn't reach Harry, though. There were just too many Death Eaters, who had now formed a protective circle around their master.
"Finally!" came the voice of the Dark Lord. "Finally you will die, Potter!" he shrieked. Ron offered a quick prayer to God, if He even existed, to spare his friend's life. As he looked upwards for that one second, he saw that the sky was lightening from black to gray, the stars winking out one by one. It was like they were dying....
"You can kill me, but you will be defeated in the end," Harry replied, in a strong voice devoid of any fear. He spoke not just to Voldemort, but to the Death Eaters and, most of all, to his own soldiers. Just then, Ron saw the Dark Lord draw something long and shiny from his belt-His sword!
"Prepare to meet your parents, boy!" Voldemort cackled, raising the blade into the air.
"I always did wish to die up to my knees in blood," was Harry's perfectly calm reply.
"And how ironic, Ive just noticed something," the Dark Lord spoke again, pausing with the sword still raised. "This sword I have, do you see that it bears an engraving? Weasley, it says. That is wonderful, the famous boy who lived, killed with his best friends own sword. I couldn't have written a more perfect ending for you!"
Then he brought the sword crashing down, impaling Harry as he fell to the ground. Voldemort disappeared, along with what remained of his entire evil army.
Harry died before he was reached by anyone who could have helped him; indeed he was beyond help and closing in on death's door. One Ronald Weasley, who could do nothing but grasp his friend's hand, reached him, however. Harry saw those familiar eyes fill with tears, and forgave him without question, without words. His eyes rolled back, and the famous Harry Potter passed out of this world.
It was really too bad that the dying Harry couldn't speak though. Ron never knew that he was forgiven, only knew that he was, at least in part, responsible for his best friend's death. Ron held onto Harry's hand for a long time, until he felt a hand on his soldier. It was Seamus, holding out his sword, now clean of blood.
"Its alright; it wasnt your fault, not really," he said. Ron just burst into tears.
Yes, Ron felt that that night on the battlefield would stay with him forever and for always. He had dreams about it almost every night.
He remembered making the phone call to Hermione; that had been the hardest thing of all, to tell his childhood friend that Harry had died. In a way, Harry and Hermione had been closer to each other than either had ever been to Ron. They had had this sort of bond, and oftentimes Ron had wondered if they didn't like each other and were just afraid to admit it.
Ron shook his head, lifting himself from the couch. A few hours had passed since he'd first sat down and started pondering the past. He padded back to his bedroom, thinking about the funeral and how he'd never seen so many people crying at once, not before and certainly not since. He'd given a short speech, as had Hermione. God, she'd looked so devastated. She had to stop in the middle of her speech because she was crying so hard.
Ron slipped between the sheets into bed for the second time that night. He put both of his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. But, he knew he wouldn't be getting any sleep; not with that sword in the very next room.