Shadow Walks
My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
--Green Day, "Boulevard of Broken Dreams"
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Chapter Five:
Can you help me? I'm bent; I'm so scared that I'll never get put back together.
--Matchbox 20, "Bent"
When Luna unlocked the door to their flat and opened it, using a softly spoken Alohamora, she was more than a little surprised to see Ron sitting morosely on the sofa. A glass of something sat on the coffee table, but the ice had melted completely, and the container itself was now ensconced in a puddle of its own making.
"Hi," she said in a composed voice, trying not to sound curious or astonished at his presence. Her eyes darted around the rest of the room. The flat seemed otherwise empty, and was now darkening, Ron having failed to rejuvenate the fire with his wand.
He grunted something that could have been construed as some sort of greeting.
"Where's Harry?" she asked.
"Back to work," he said succinctly, barely moving his mouth. Her expression modified then, sympathy creeping in to shadow the cornflower blue of her eyes.
"How are you?" she asked, gently emphasizing the pronoun. It was difficult enough to lose a job under any circumstances, much less ones that would be plastered over the front page of the Prophet.
"Not great," he responded, still keeping words to a minimum, and trying to sound disinterested.
"I wouldn't expect you to be. But - but I'm glad you're here," she managed, not really wanting the implied, but unsaid, instead of down at the pub tacked onto the end of her statement.
She set her satchel in the armchair that sat beneath the window, and moved into the kitchen, turning on lights with casual flicks of her wand as she went.
"Maybe Harry'll be back in time for all three of us to have dinner together. It's been a - "
"Somehow, I don't think he will - at least not until late. You know how - you know how he gets at this … time of year." He sighed heavily. "He's in love with her, isn't he?" Luna looked at him over the counter that separated the two rooms, almost serenely, not looking a bit disconcerted with Ron's use of the present tense.
"Yes. He always has been, I think," she replied. "He just didn't realize it until…" Ron nodded despondently, neither of them bothering to add the slightly melodramatic until it was too late. It seemed to loom large in the room all the same, as if someone had spelled it out in enormous, glowing letters.
There was a long silence, broken sporadically by the rattle and clank of pots and pans, as Luna levitated them into place to begin dinner.
"I told him," Ron blurted abruptly, the words seemingly propelled from his mouth of their own volition. Luna started, and a ladle become suddenly and noisily acquainted with the stovetop.
"Told him what?" she asked.
"What really happened."
Luna abandoned her embryonic dinner preparations and moved back into the living room, her ethereal gracefulness making her appear to glide above the ground.
"What did really happen?" she asked. She had long suspected that something had gone on at the Final Battle that he had not shared with anyone. There had been a few cryptic ramblings from a drunken haze, and the suddenly aborted sessions with a mind-healer at St. Mungo's that had made her wonder. Always striving to maintain the placid exterior and the whimsical demeanor that seemed to calm him, she had waited, placing her shaky faith in the tenet that what was meant to happen would happen, and the universe strove for balance, strove for its own destiny…that someday, he would tell her.
Slowly, in a dry, dull voice that sounded like the rustle of a thousand scrolls furling up at once, Ron related the story that he'd told Harry. Once, during the narrative, he reached for the watered-down liquor on the coffee table, but his hand stopped in mid-motion and retreated back to his lap. By the time he'd finished, he was trembling and his voice was clogged with tears.
He slowly lifted his gaze to Luna's, dreading what he might see there, but her eyes were soft and liquid-shiny, a crinkled smile on her face.
"You shouldn't have borne this alone for so long," she whispered.
"I don't deserve any support or compassion. She's dead, and it's my fault. You should have seen Harry's face when - when - It was like I'd killed him too. I - " He made a jagged swipe at the drink again, stopped, clenched his questing fingers into a fist, swore, and grabbed the glass. His fingertips were white against the beads of condensation on the smooth surface. He looked at Luna almost defiantly, and chugged the contents of the glass, wincing and clearing his throat as the drink burned satisfactorily on the way down. "Do you love me?" he asked abruptly, getting up and walking down the short corridor to his room. Distantly, Luna could hear rustling, followed by the musical clink of glass against glass.
"You know I do, Ronald," she replied, raising her voice slightly so he would hear. Seconds later, he emerged holding an amber-filled decanter of Ogden's finest. Her eyes went from the bottle to his face, and then back to the bottle again, but she did not comment. "I've loved you from the first time you spoke to me. Maybe even before. Ginny talked about you all the time. And the morning I wore that lion hat to your Quidditch game, I'd seen a whirlypuff spinning anti-clockwise outside my dormitory window. That always means the love of your life is about to do something grand."
"I'm not half good enough for you, Luna. I probably never will be." Apology glinted in Ron's eyes, but it did not stop him from opening the bottle, and lifting it to his lips, scorning the just-emptied glass.
"Don't do this," fell from Luna's lips before could stop it. She clasped her hands together tightly in her lap, as if somehow their combined force would keep her mouth in check. He slanted a look at her, and took a second drink.
"It's all I've got left," he remarked, wiping his chin. The room was silent, save for the slosh of whiskey in the bottle, as he raised it again.
"That's not true," she insisted quietly, her voice trembling only the barest amount.
"I abandoned my best friend on a battlefield, and she is dead. And it's ruined my life, Harry's life, everything. Don't you understand? Everything is wrong. You think Harry wanted to chase after the bad guys forever? No! He wanted to teach! Can you believe that? Hogwarts was the first real home he could remember - he always wanted to go back someday." He took a long quaff of the bottle. "You aren't supposed to be here; you - you're a reminder that she's not here." Luna knew that he didn't mean to make those words exactly as cruel as they sounded, but it still felt like he'd struck her in the face.
"Then the whirlypuff was wrong?" Luna muttered, half to herself in a disbelieving voice. Ron was well on his way to becoming quite drunk, but he still looked over at her in confusion.
"What?"
"You're in love with her too, then? Just like Harry?" Some of the bitterness that she usually buried had crept insidiously into her voice. Think of Papa…and the Snorkacks, she told herself insistently, willing herself back to a time and place where she had felt whole, like herself. It had been so long that she had almost forgotten.
"No," Ron said with a mirthless half-smile. "I didn't love Hermione. I thought I did for a long time, but I - I don't think I was capable of loving her like she should have been loved. Maybe I'm not able to love anyone like they deserve." He blinked up at her with meaning in his voice, but did not give Luna a chance to respond. "She was supposed to live with us - all three of us together. Our lives were so - so connected for so long that I don't think we knew how to function away from each other. And we knew the Battle was coming…" A dark look crossed his face, and he appeared to brush those most unwelcome of memories away. "Every time I pass that door," he gestured vaguely down the hall, but she knew he meant the guest room. "I think of the fact that she isn't here - that she'll never be here, and it's all because of me. And - and I watch Harry, and he's like - like half a person, and that's my fault too." He stared dismally at nothing, and it was as if Luna had been Petrified. His words were raining down upon her like hammer blows, but she was determined to let him speak his piece. Maybe it would help drain some long festering wounds.
"It's the last thing I see before I go to sleep, and the first thing I think about when I wake up," he said softly. "Whenever I - we - " He looked up at her sadly. "Whenever we're… together, it - it's just like this." He lifted the bottle toward her, and the liquid gleamed in the dim light of the room like topaz jewelry. "It helps me forget - for a little while. When I'm with you, I'm happy for a bit, but it's - it's not real."
"Yes, it is," Luna insisted. "Your aura - "
"Temporary peace. Fake life." Ron's voice was almost sing-song. "Only lasts as long as I can push her - what I did to her - out of my mind. Now I've got Harry's guilt to add to it." He took another swig, and added whimsically. "Lucky me."
"Ron - " Luna managed, but knew that she wasn't going to make it. Her jaw trembled violently, as she tried to clutch at her equanimity, the placidity that had kept her going through school, when people whispered about her, looked at her oddly, openly mocked her, or stole her things. Nothing had hurt as badly as this, as Ron telling her that what they had was a pale substitute of real love, a crutch that helped him get through the day, something of no more value to him than that bottle of liquor.
He looked at her then, and his eyes were already bleary, but still naked with pain.
"Now, look," he said, "now I've made you upset. It's a hat trick for Weasley!" He raised his arms over his head in a mock victory salute, and his mouth twisted sardonically. A solitary sob escaped Luna's throat, and she clapped her hands over her mouth. "I guess I'll just go." He spoke in a dull voice, as he rose from the couch, still clutching the whiskey bottle around its slender neck.
"You don't have to - " she began, but her throat closed around her words, and she knew that she didn't really mean them anyway. Wasn't it better this way? Better for him to leave and drink himself into a stupor, than to stay here, maudlin and bitter, flaying her alive with his thoughtless words? He looked at her sharply then, as if he'd read her mind.
"Yeah, I do," he whispered, and moved unevenly to the door.
He didn't even glance back at her before he exited.
And Luna sat there, alone, in the dark, empty apartment, an unwanted member of a defunct, sad, faux-Trio, while the two boys she loved most in the world, slowly self-destructed by means of their own choosing. Harry was working. Ron was getting blitzed. She was here, worthless, useless, helpless, Ron's words ringing in her head.
Everything is wrong.
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Harry was on the continent, pacing back and forth in a dark, dank corridor several levels beneath the main entrance to the Ukrainian Ministry of Magic. His hands were clasped behind his back, as he moved this way and that in front of a featureless door pierced only by a tiny, square window. The window had been magically blackened, and Harry was spearing the door with particularly dark looks. Fellow Auror Neville Longbottom lounged with deceptive casualness against one gray concrete wall, eying him watchfully.
"What are they doing in there?" he finally ground out, loud enough to attract attention from a couple of other agents further down the hall.
"You've done this enough times; you ought to know exactly what they're doing," Neville remarked laconically, and Harry scowled at him.
"I don't see why they won't let me talk to him."
"Maybe because they don't want him lethally hexed before they find out what he knows," Neville offered. Harry glared at him with an air of betrayal. "C'mon, Harry," Neville added, lifting both hands in a placating way. "You're not exactly known for being rule-abiding. Never have been."
Harry slumped a little, and shoved his hands in his pockets.
"I guess that's true enough," he said glumly. "I suppose I should just be glad we got him." Neville nodded sincerely.
"He's the last ranking Death Eater that was at large."
"I'm glad you got him," Harry said, pausing mid-stride to clap Neville companionably on the back.
"Harry, this was your case. It was the intelligence you and your team gathered that led us to Dolohov."
Harry looked uncomfortable and opened his mouth, intending to downplay what Neville was saying, but the door swung open then, and all thought of conversation was driven from the two young Aurors' minds.
Kingsley Shacklebolt emerged, accompanied by his Ukrainian counterpart, Oleksiy Lyubov. The dark skin of the British Auror was shiny with sweat, and they both looked exhausted and grim.
"What?" Harry burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. "What did he say?" Lyubov eyed him dubiously, and Harry felt himself flush. He had never personally participated in a case in the Ukraine, but obviously, his reputation had preceded him.
"Not much," Kingsley said. "Cocky bastard. He knows that he's going back to England, and that he'll get the Kiss, and he's still not talking. He's determined not to give us the satisfaction."
"Veritaserum?" Harry queried quickly, his mind racing as he plunged into Auror mode.
"He can shake off the effects of it. We couldn't get anything reliable out of him. It's likely he's more than half mad anyway. Lyubov's team found significant Cruciatus residue in his brain - looked to be around five, six years old, probably courtesy of his dear Master."
Neville and Harry exchanged glances.
"How could he have eluded us for so long," Harry asked incredulously, "if he was mad?"
"That is the thousand Galleon question, is it not, Mr. Potter?" Lyubov inquired in accented English, with thinly veiled politeness and unmistakable insinuation. Harry bristled, brushing off the warning hand Neville laid on his arm.
"Let me talk to him," he implored, ignoring Lyubov and looking only at his boss. Kingsley nearly laughed.
"Harry, I can't do that. You aren't specialized in interrogation, and you know what happened the last time you were in a cell with a Death Eater." Harry looked at him sullenly.
"That was Pettigrew; it was different," he muttered shortly. "I don't think Dolohov's insane. I think he's covering up the fact that he knows things that could help us!"
"Our mind-healers have assured me that - " Lyubov began stiffly.
"What if I go in there with him?" Neville spoke up quickly, and Harry tossed him a grateful glance. The Ukrainian Head Auror did not look pleased at having been so unceremoniously interrupted.
"Longbottom, I think that sending Harry in to such a potentially incendiary situation is a mistake. There is nothing more that - " While Shacklebolt was speaking, Harry surreptitiously pointed a finger at the doorway and murmured a wandless incantation under his breath. Neville was the only one who caught the movement, and his eyes widened, but he said nothing.
An instant later, an alarm went off. There were shouts from the Aurors on duty at the checkpoint down the hall, and Lyubov strode toward them urgently, muttering foreign curses under his breath.
"What's going on?" Kingsley said, more rhetorically than anything else, but Neville had been listening to the frantic shouts from the Ukrainian Aurors.
"A ward's gone down," Neville said, and the other two looked at him with some surprise. He shrugged nonchalantly. "I've been here awhile," he added, to explain his knowledge of the language. Shacklebolt was watching Lyubov shout angry orders to the hapless Aurors on duty, with much obvious invective and gesticulation.
Mindful of the distraction, Harry wrenched open the door in one swift motion, and plunged inside. As it closed, the mingled cries from Neville and Kingsley were cut off by the Silencing charms in place. A softly muttered spell locked the door behind him. His eyes adjusted to the shadowy dimness of the cell, and he could see Antonin Dolohov seated in a plain, straight-backed wooden chair, magical shackles gleaming around his wrists and ankles. He was wearing tattered Muggle clothing, and his hygiene appeared to be just on the wrong side of clean.
"I knew you'd be here," Dolohov smirked. "Lurking like the pathetic vulture that you are."
"Nice to see you again too, Antonin," Harry said casually, but the glint in his eyes was far from friendly. "You ought to tell them what you know. Might give you a few ticks in the `not so bad' column before the end."
"I'll tell them nothing. There will be no clemency for me, so I'll die before I betray the brethren." Dolohov's voice was harsh and raspy; it sounded like he had some kind of respiratory illness.
Harry moved so quickly that it startled both of them, and he was only inches from Dolohov's face, nose to nose, his hands fisted in the Death Eater's dirty shirt.
"Death is too good for you," he hissed. Dolohov's lips split in a horrible imitation of a smile.
"You won't do anything to me. They'd discharge you - you'd probably do time in Azkaban." Dolohov's eyes were sharp, alert, malicious, and Harry was more convinced than ever that this man was no more mad than he was - although that was, perhaps, not the greatest comparison to make.
"I'm the Boy Who Lived," Harry bit off, enunciating the words carefully, projecting more confidence than he actually felt. "I could have your entrails for lunch, and nobody would care."
"Liar," Dolohov spat. "You think we don't watch you? You think we don't know all about your sad, sad life, your reprimands at the Ministry…that sot you call a best friend? We know all about you, Harry Potter."
Harry leaned closer, knocking Dolohov's head none too gently against the wall behind his head.
"Who's we?" Dolohov grimaced at him.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Harry took a deep breath, struggling to tamp down his rising temper. He'd like nothing more than to beat that smirking face into a bloody pulp.
"If you know all about me, if you're watching me as closely as you say, then why haven't you tried to kill me?" Harry asked, raising an inquiring eyebrow.
"But this is so much more fun," Dolohov sneered. "Bellatrix was right. I didn't believe her, but she was right." Harry's hand trembled violently, as he tried to close his fingers around his wand.
"About what?" he asked, hoping his face was sufficiently schooled to give away none of the turmoil he was feeling.
"I never would have thought that a Mudblood could possibly matter so much." Dolohov shook his head in mock sympathy. Heated fury surged through Harry, blinding him, deafening him to all else but Dolohov's filthy, derisive smile and calculated words. He let out a roar of rage, and sprang at his adversary, even as he distantly heard the cell door blow open. There was a tumult of noise behind him, but he barely registered it underneath his own hoarse shouting.
"What about Hermione? What do you know about Hermione?" The chair clattered raucously against the stone floor where he had tipped it over, and he shook Dolohov violently, relishing the noise his head made as it hit the floor over and over.
Dolohov's eyes were glassy, but he still grinned at Harry with unholy mirth. The pinned Death Eater moved his tongue around in his mouth, as if ruminating on exactly what to say next. Harry could feel someone - probably Neville - pulling him away, and he fought, shoving the person hard. Something - probably a Stunning spell - whizzed just over his head, barely missing him.
"Bellatrix was right: there are things worse than death," Dolohov finally said, and snapped his teeth together with an audible clack. Harry's eyes widened with alarm, as he realized what Dolohov had done.
"He's taken a potion capsule!" he shouted suddenly. "He's taken a potion capsule!" Harry struggled to upright the chair, one hand moving up to force open the Death Eater's jaw, but Dolohov's muscles were already going slack.
"Where is she? Where is she?" he cried desperately, wildly striking at the Aurors attempting to move him. Distantly, he heard Shacklebolt order them not to Stun him. He overbalanced and fell, landing with his cheek on the hard stone, quite close to the dying Death Eater.
"She's not - " Dolohov managed to rasp faintly, his voice nothing more than a barely audible wheeze. Whatever he would have spoken next died as a mere rattle in his throat.
"No!" Harry protested, as firm hands closed around his arms this time, and dragged him roughly from the cell.
--
AN: Still amazed by the response to this story. I'm glad you all seem to be enjoying it so much.
I was pleased with the response to Ron in the last chapter. I was worried that I made what he did in the last battle too unforgivable, but I wanted it to be something worthy of five years of ongoing regret. But most of you seemed to see it in a similar light as I did. He comes off as kind of a jerk in this chapter too, but he's feeling really guilty. He'll start making the effort to redeem himself soon.
You may leave a review on your way out, if you like.
lorien
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