Dark Gods In The Blood
Chapter Twelve
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A/N: None for this
chapter. Thanks for reading.
Summary: A wandering
student comes home, a broken man pays his penance, and a gruesome murder is
both more and less than it seems. Some
paths to self-discovery have more twists and turns than others.
Rating: R, for
intermittent dark themes, violence, and language
Disclaimer: Nothing
you read here (save the plot and bits of the text itself) belongs to me.
of JK Rowling and Warner Bros. (and someone else, probably, but not me).
to their sources.
Dark Gods in the Blood
by: Hayseed (
Chapter Twelve
Yes,
it was ugly enough; but if you were man enough you
just the faintest
response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a
dim suspicion
of there being a meaning in it which you -- you
so remote
from the night of first ages -- could comprehend.
Heart of Darkness
The owl that usually
delivered Ron’s Daily Prophet was running a bit late. When he’d found out that Hermione read it, Ron decided not to
cancel his subscription as he’d originally planned.
Ron all but lived with
Françoise and the kids any more.
Periodically, he’d go over to the Burrow for a meal or spend an
afternoon at his flat with Hermione, convincing her not to throw out anything
that may or may not be important as she decided that there was only so much
clutter she could put up with. But any
other time, if he wasn’t at work, he was at the Potter home.
In fact, she was to join
him today. He was looking after the
kids while Petunia treated Françoise to something called a ‘day of
beauty.’ Hermione was admittedly fuzzy
on what such a thing would entail, but she suspected various bits of bodies
would be waxed and therefore wanted to hear no more on the matter.
But Ron had Flooed last
night and invited her to spend the day over at the Potters’.
spend some time with Ron.
And the Daily Prophet was
late.
It didn’t matter
much. She’d already showered and
everything but wasn’t due over at the house until nine.
decided to wake her up this morning at six, so here it was only eight and she
had little else to do.
There was no television,
no radio, nothing of any Muggle entertainment at all. Ron didn’t even have any books.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true.
But she had no interest in books such as Keeper Legends of
Yesteryear and what looked to be a collection
of more than fifty books on the Dark Arts.
She’d only read half of them before and the other half looked rather
more unsavory than she’d like to tackle so early in the morning.
So Hermione sipped disconsolately
at a cup of tea and stared at the top of the table, wondering what she could do
for another hour.
She’d already cleaned as
well as she was going to. Hermione was
not a neat-freak by any stretch of the imagination, but she had no interest in
living in abject filth either, so she’d gone over Ron’s flat rather thoroughly
as soon as she moved in. Fortunately,
everything came out rather clean and Hermione was fairly content.
wasn’t too musty smelling, and Ron
refused to accept so much as a Knut of rent money from her in the two weeks
she’d stayed there. “You’ve wasted
entirely too much living in that dratted hotel,” he told her the first time
she’d tried to pay him.
A scratching at the door
signaled the paper’s arrival -- finally -- and Hermione stood quickly, opening
the door and picking it up off the doormat.
As before, she started
from the back and worked her way forward.
She did not question her reasoning as she did this, really.
Advertisements --
Gladrags was running a sale next week, she noted -- and marriage announcements
-- good Lord, was that Dennis Creevey she saw smiling down at that pretty young
witch?
Obituaries.
interest. An eighty-year-old witch that
passed away in St. Mungo’s after a protracted illness.
a Manticore. Only a handful of deaths
greeted her eyes.
The entry at the top of
the page snagged her interest. A young
man smiled sadly at her from the photograph.
Forty-year-old Alisander Weaver, the obituary read.
fourteen-year-old son, currently attending Hogwarts. Weaver, a potions manufacturer by trade, was apparently an
upstanding member of his small community in Buckinghamshire.
Forty years old, she
mused, flipping the page over idly. Dead
at forty.
And he died at home.
polite speech for suicide. After all,
it would hardly be prudent to say, ‘Weaver poisoned himself,’ or whatever had
actually happened.
Dead at forty.
A wife and son, to
boot. Poor kid, she thought.
him. She tried to imagine being sat
down by McGonagall at the age of fourteen -- in her fourth year, then -- and
told that her father was dead. Ther
her
father ‘died at home.’ What would she
have done? What would this little boy
do?
Hermione shook her head
suddenly, as if to push the thought out of her brain, not wanting to be
alone. Ron would just have to deal with
her being half-an-hour early.
-- -- -- --
“You’re early,” Ron said
as he opened the door. “I was hoping to
have the kids properly washed and brushed before you got here -- like to show
them off at their best advantage, you see.
But Nicholas, I believe, is sitting in the den watching television in
not much and Alice is nearly ready for her after-breakfast bath, aren’t you,
love?” he asked the little girl dangling from his hip, covered in sticky
substances with juice running down her front.
“No bath,” Alice
tried. “Not dirty, Unca Ron.”
“If I left you out here
for much longer, Alice, you’d attract dogs,” he said dryly, poking her gummy cheek
and eliciting a giggle. “Oh!”
who was just standing on the front porch, looking bemused.
clothes. You do seem to be his new
favorite.”
“Good morning to you too,
Ron,” she said, sweeping past him and into the house. “Here I was, thinking I’d get to spend some nice quality time
with my best friend, but instead he expects me to work?”
He grinned.
here and then I’ll be the perfect host.
Tea and biscuits, even.”
“Biscuits?” Alice echoed
hopefully.
“Oh, not for you,” he
told her as he walked off into the interior of the house.
hotcakes as it is. Any more sugar, and
you won’t sleep for a week.”
The conversation faded
and Hermione felt rather awkward lingering in the foyer.
bravely walked into the sitting room alone.
As Ron had said, Nicholas
was sitting in the middle of the floor, propped up on his elbows, watching some
indecipherable cartoon nonsense flash across the screen.
of underwear and what seemed to be a perfectly serviceable pile of clothes was
heaped to one side. Suppressing a
laugh, Hermione coughed softly to announce herself.
Nicholas jumped a
ro
rolling over and eyes widening as he saw who it was. “Oh!” he cried, leaping to his feet. “I’m sorry ... please don’t tell Uncle Ron ... or my mum either,”
he said as an afterthought. “I’m
supposed to be dressed.”
She nodded at the clothes
now at his feet, as straight-faced as she could manage.
Fumbling slightly, he
pulled on the trousers and t-shirt lying on the floor.
weekend,” he told her, grunting slightly as he awkwardly buttoned up his little
jeans.
“It’s Wednesday,”
Hermione replied, corners of her mouth twitching.
“Uncle Ron lets them wear
what they damn well please,” Ron said casually from the doorway, clutching a
marginally cleaner Alice.
The little girl clapped
her hands. “Damn!”
He sighed as Nicholas
laughed. “It’s like she wants
forlornly.
Grinning, Hermione sat
down in a nearby chair, doing her best to look innocent.
that particular one from you or not.”
“Oh, really?
asked, setting her on her feet.
Alice made a beeline for
Nicholas, throwing her chubby arms as far around him as she could manage.
Making a face, he pushed
her away.
But Alice was nothing if
not determined, grabbing on for dear life and laughing as Nicholas shoved even
harder.
“Geroff me, Alice,” he
growled as she yanked on his shirt.
“Are they always like
this?” Hermione asked conversationally, watching the siblings either struggle
or play -- she wasn’t entirely sure.
Ron shrugged.
as Alice’s personal punching bag, but he’s fairly tolerant about it.
he sighed as Alice began to cry.
“Nicholas!” he reprimanded sternly.
Trying his best to look
blameless, Nicholas gave his uncle a wide-eyed stare. As if he hadn’t just slapped his toddler sister and knocked her
to the ground. “She started
“But you’re bigger
reasonable tone. “You can’t go around
hitting her, Nicholas. You could really
hurt her without meaning to. No matter who
This was accompanied by an unsmiling look.
“Sorry, Uncle Ron,” he
grumbled, glaring at his still-sniffling sister. “But I think she knows
exactly what she’s doing. She likes
Studying the baby’s
red-rimmed eyes, Hermione had to concede that there was
there did not seem to belong to a two-year-old. Almost two-year-old.
Whatever.
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But Ron was having none
of it. “Sorry, mate,” he told Nicholas
cheerfully. “I’m afraid that’s sort of
a ‘little sister’ prerogative. Little
brother, too, for that matter. I used
to get the twins in trouble all the time when we were young.
becoming more thoughtful, “the twins usually deserved
But turnabout is fair play -- Ginny did the same thing to me when I
tried to play ‘big brother.’”
By this time, Alice
seemed to have recovered nicely, toddling over to the television and poking a
few buttons with obvious curiosity.
“Piggy?” she asked no one in particular.
<
“Oh, no,” Nicholas
moaned, putting his head in his hands melodramatically.
“Piggy,” she repeated
more stubbornly. “Watch piggy!
and she gave the television screen a little smack with the palm of her hand.
“All right, Alice,” Ron
cried, moving over to put a calming hand on the top of her head.
featured a Muggle photograph of a pig, among a few other common barnyard
animals.
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1'>
“Piggy,” Alice said again
in a decidedly happier voice.
Hermione was amused.
wrapped firmly around her finger, doesn’t she?”
“Françoise isn’t far
behind,” Ron said as he worried the plastic box open. “Uh oh,” he groaned, glancing back and forth between the
television and whatever the box held.
“Nicholas, would you ...?”
Rolling his eyes and
emitting a sigh that clearly showed this to be a reoccurring phenomenon,
Nicholas plucked the case out of Ron’s hands.
“It’s not that hard, you know,” he said, punching a few buttons on a
black box sitting beside the television that Hermione hadn’t noticed
before. “Just put the disc in and hit
the play button. It even says play
“That’s not a VCR, then,”
Hermione said dubiously, watching introductory credits flash up on the
television screen as Nicholas turned it on.
“It’s a PVC machine,” Ron
replied.
“DVD
again. “Papa ... Papa brought it home
before Alice was born. We watch movies
on it.”
She peered at the machine
with mild interest. “So films are on
CD’s now? When did that
Nicholas shrugged and
settled down on the sofa, permitting Alice to snuggle into his side.
Before I was born, though.
What’s a VCR?”
“It was what we had
before your DVD thing, I guess,” she replied, still looking at the contraption,
running her fingers over the black plastic with vague curiosity.
“DVD’s,” Nicholas
amended. “And what are tapes?”
With a short laugh at his
confused expression (and Ron’s as well), Hermione threw her hands up in the
air. “I give up!” she cried
playfully. “You’ll have to dig out a
history book, Nicholas.”
“I wonder,” he began after a beat of silence.
“Hush, Nic’las,” Alice reprimanded him, her stern little face
ludicrously juxtaposed with her bobbing curls and round cheeks.
Ron watched Hermione try to suppress her giggles with
something approaching cheerful resignation.
“I suppose if we’re to have any conversation, then,” he said, “we ought
to take it out of the room, so that little Miss Alice here can enjoy her film.”
“Piggy, Unca Ron,” the little girl in question
admonished. “Piggy movie.”
He laughed at her look of consternation.
Following him into the kitchen, she watched him set a kettle
of water on the stove and then hasten back to the doorway to check on Alice and
Nicholas. She sat down at the round
table and soon, recalling just what had happened to that poor table,
leapt back to her feet.
Smiling mirthlessly at her, Ron turned the heat up under the
kettle and began fiddling in a cabinet.
“Hard, isn’t it?”
“I understand what Ginny meant,” she replied faintly.
here after ... after ... well, just after.”
He stuck his head through the archway into the den once
again. “You kids need anything?”
There was an indignant high-pitched squeal in response.
After a slight pause, another little voice floated into the
kitchen. “Can ... can I have
some tea?” Nicholas asked softly, hovering in the doorway and looking up at Ron
hopefully.
Ron gave the boy’s head a pat. “Milk.”
“Tea,” he countered with a frown.
“Milk,” Ron said firmly.
“Nicholas, you know your mum doesn’t like you having tea at your
age. Besides, you’re a growing boy and
all that. Milk’s good for you.”
Glowering venomously,
Nicholas crossed his arms over his chest.
“Papa let me have tea when I
wanted it.”
Ron matched him glare for
glare. “First of all, Nicholas, I know
that’s not true. And second of all, I’m
not your father.”
“Then stop acting like
you are!” he shouted, running from the room.
Hermione heard his feet thudding as he raced up the stairs.
With a rueful smile, Ron
shrugged at Hermione’s questioning look.
“Nicholas and I have always had a rather dysfunctional working
relationship,” he said, rattling teacups.
“It’s got to steep a bit.”
“Of course,” she replied,
hoping he would continue if she held her tongue.
“Nicholas ...” he began,
leaning against the counter and regarding a spoon with apparent interest.
“So I’ve heard,” she said
dryly, eliciting a rather emotionless chuckle.
Decisively, firmly, Ron
laid the spoon on the counter, running his thumb around its handle, deep in
thought. “He’s never really liked me, I
don’t think. You see, for all his dratted
sensitivity, what Nicholas really wants
is to be able to properly assess things.
Decide their function, their purpose.
He’s simply frightfully good at it.
That’s the sensitivity -- he knows
He takes their measure as soon as he looks twice at them.”
“Intuitive,” she
interjected.
He smiled at the
spoon. “Perhaps.
somehow defy his little scheme. He has
this mental image -- this ideal form -- of what his Uncle Ron should be.
His smile turned self-deprecating.
“I am sadly lacking. He resents
me for this, I think. For not being
enough like ...” Finally, Ron tore his
gaze from the silver spoon and his eyes bore into hers.
I do run on, don’t I?”
“Oh, I don’t mind,”
Hermione said with a sly look. “I like
learning new and interesting things, you see.”
His laugh was closer to
genuine and he began pouring out the tea.
“Is this a good time, then, for me to attempt to learn some new and
interesting things about you?” He
handed her a cup.
“Your efforts at subtlety
are rather pathetic, Ron,” she replied demurely, taking a cautious sip and
wincing as the hot liquid scalded her tongue.
“I don’t like it,” he
said, apparently immune to boiling water as he took a long draught from his own
cup. “You breeze in after thirteen
years without a word and then you won’t tell me a damned thing about where
you’ve been. It worries me,
Hermione. Especially since I know why
you left.”
She did not meet his
eyes. “You can’t,” she said.
His tone was bland.
one way or another. Remember -- I’m an
Auror. I can strap you down to a table
and force-feed you Veritaserum. And I’d
do it without so much as a second of remorse.”
“Speaking of ...” she
said in a transparent attempt to change the subject. “I was wondering about the investigation ... you know ...”
Shrugging, Ron drained
his cup -- Hermione had not even managed a second swallow of hers.
assignment over and over but won’t throw me so much as a scrap of information.
“Assignment?” she echoed
delicately. “Ron, what do you ...?”
He was silent for several
beats, making a pretense of cleaning up the tea things.
out his cup. “Albus made me swear
“But then again ... I can’t see what it would hurt.
grave. “Hermione, you’ve got to promise
me that what I tell you won’t leave this room.
Not a soul. Understand?”
Wordlessly, excitement
bubbling in her gut, Hermione nodded.
“You know that
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was defeated back during our seveyearyear,” he
began. “Well ... his corporeal bits, at
any rate.”
She nodded again, a bit
impatiently this time.
“What you don’t know is
that Voldemort didn’t really die entirely until Harry himself died,” Ron said
bluntly.
Hermione blinked, trying
to process his statement. “Ron ...”
With a wave of his hand,
he cut her question off before it could start.
“We’re not sure exactly how Harry survived that attack when he was a
baby.”
She did
Ron’s voice was
gentle. eleven-year-old boy, Hermione,” he said.
“He said what Harry needed to hear -- nothing more.
confidential -- is that we have no idea what
happened that night. The best guess we
have is that either Lily or James Potter cast some sort of protection spell
over their son. And not a standard one,
either. The details are, fortunately,
not incredibly important. The upshot is
that Harry and Voldemort were bonded that night. Something in their souls.”
Letting out a deep “Of course he knew,” Ron She noticed that he was “Hermione, the link went “I always wondered why Ron’s expression was She finished her “I didn’t know until Hermione considered his “But I thought about it,” With wide eyes, she Ron smiled sadly. Staring down at the “Never She was quiet, not “And that’s what Kingsley Shaking her head, “It’s always been -- --
breath, Hermione wrapped her hands around her teacup, wanting to feel something
at least vaguely familiar underneath her fingertips. “Bonded,” she muttered, more to herself than Ron.
said impatiently. “How could he
not? Voldemort was practically trawling
through his mind nightly for two and a half years at least.”
actually saying the Dark Lord’s name.
“Then what would Dumbledore need to keep all of this a secret for?” she
asked dumbly, not seeing Ron’s point.
both ways,” he said in a gentle voice.
“The concern had always been not that Voldemort would use Harry, but
that Harry would use Voldemort. That
there were bits of his soul that were, in essence, the Dark Lord’s.
significant to Dumbledore than he let on.
It was a sign that Harry could subconsciously draw on Voldemort’s
will. The only reason Albus let Harry stay
on at Hogwarts after his second year was because he managed to defeat the basilisk
with Gryffindor’s own sword.”
Dumbledore allowed the Chamber of Secrets to remain open,” she said, finally
taking another sip of tea. “According
to Harry’s story, he had to have at
least an idea of what was going on. I
never knew why he didn’t try to do something.”
carefully blank. “It was
matters. Well, and that no one was
hurt,” he continued after a slight pause.
“Harry was not watched quite as
carefully after that, particularly after he became more aware of the link
between him and Voldemort. But then he
managed to defeat You-Know-Who and the game changed yet again.”
tea. “I never knew how complicated it
was. It all seemed so simple when we
were living it -- the Dark Lord was evil and needed to be defeated, and we were
good and needed to win. Nothing more.”
about three years after,” he agreed.
“After I finished my training at the Aurory. Albus called me into his office one day.
Order meetings, but I’d never met with him alone, you know.
this. You can imagine, I was pretty
angry with him for a while.”
words. A fresh-faced,
twenty-one-year-old Ron Weasley, full of selghteghteous Gryffindor indignation
and the brashness of youth, being told that his best friend had the potential
to become the next Dark Lord. Angry was
quite possibly an understatement.
he continued. “And at the end of it
all, I realized he was right. We all
loved Harry, and that made his protection tantamount. It was just sad that he might need to be protected from himself.
the residual energies he’d transferred to Harry would act.
anticipated his next words.
watchdog. I was in the perfect position
for it -- closer to Harry than any other human being on the face of the
Earth. And I was glad to do it, proud
to do it. Because deep down, I knew
what Dumbledore was too cautious to believe -- that Harry couldn’t
No matter what bits of Voldemort he had bouncing around up in his
head. Harry wanted nothing to do with
any of it. So because of that, I
agreed.”
saucer in her hands, Hermione hated to ask her next question but knew there was
no way around it. “So you’re saying
that Harry never ...”
“Harry wasn’t a perfect fellow by any stretch of the imagination, but
there’s a vast difference between imperfection and evil.”
knowing exactly what to say.
wanted to ask about,” he said. “He
didn’t know the particulars, of course, but he knew enough to wonder if maybe a
motive for Harry’s death was buried there.
But he’s got no worries -- I’ve already told him everything I know.
would want him to know.”
Hermione sat her teacup beside the sink.
“Webs within webs,” she commented.
“When did life get so difficult?”
difficult, love,” he said, mood shifting from dismal to something almost
resembling cheerful. “It just takes
some of us longer to notice that fact than others.”
-- --