When the Sun Falls

A/N: I don’t like these things much, so I’ll get to the point: This story is probably going to turn out to be quite long. I’m saying this now because I know there are some of us who live for short smutlets, so be aware that this isn’t one, and the smut will probably be slow, but sure, in coming. Also, I apologize about the transitions/annoying lines. They won’t be a problem for too long.



A red-faced Ron Weasley stumbled from the Hogwarts Express. Clenching his fists to his sides, he jerked his luggage to follow him, glaring at those who dared to speak to him as the contents of said luggage fell and became splayed on the platform of Platform 9 ¾. He ran into the Muggle world headfirst, never slowing nor stopping for his two best friends who were left racing after him. By the time they had exited the platform, Ron was gone with only a trail of boxers and candies to lead them where his abandoned suitcase lay crumbled in a corner, obviously thrown. Harry turned to Hermione, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursing slightly.

“Well, it’s certainly not my fault,” Hermione exclaimed as she stared to the entrance of the train station and hundreds of brown and blonde and black heads bob about, “Ron was already upset when we boarded the train.”

Harry sighed, giving her a look of disdain before walking steadily away in the direction of the entrance. Hermione stood still for a moment, determined not to leave Ginny completely lost. The younger Weasley came out moments later with her hands on her slim hips and her hair in disarray. One look at Hermione had all hell raining down.

“Where is Ron? I heard you both fighting like loose trolls in the compartment. Don’t tell me he’s wandered off again! I’ll kill him! At a time like this with only who knows what out there to grab him…I’ll skin him alive and then-”

“It seems you won’t have to,” Hermione said, her face dropping as a familiar tapping of high-heels and a screeched yell came bumbling towards them, “I think your Mum might handle him for us.”

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Let it never be said that Ron Weasley was forgiving. Once anger or, worst yet, hatred had settled in his heart, it stayed that way until his point was proven - Ron was right, and all other times when this rule did not apply, the said offender who was right was simply a prat. This title had passed dramatically to Harry, daily to Hermione, and now lay at the threshold of the Burrow where Percy Weasley stood as Ron’s welcoming party.

Neither brother spoke for a moment. Ron took in Percy’s disheveled form, his pale skin clinging tight to his high cheek bones, the black full-length robes hanging from his gaunt body, and the wand barely hung in his calm hand. Percy took a step forward and Ron cocked his head to the side. “Percy?” he said, finding it eerily difficult to look into those dull, brown eyes, “What happened to you? What in the hell are you doing here?”

Percy’s boots skidded on the floor as he halted. He looked as if he’d be sick for a moment, but raised his wand defiantly and pointed it at Ron’s bewildered face.

“Don’t point that thing at me!” Ron scoffed, reaching behind himself for his wand.

“Expelliarmus!” Percy shouted, Ron’s wand flying from its racket and propelling his truck to the floor. Percy turned back to his target, “Stupefy!” The red light swirled from the tip of his wand and hit Ron squarely on his chest. Stumbling downward, Ron was caught in Percy’s arms and huddled up before being carried to the front yard. Ron struggled, flailing his limbs about in his brother’s grasp and throwing his head about wildly to see beyond the superfluous sleeves covering his eyes. In the next moment, Ron could feel his stomach wrenching inward, his surroundings grow dim and confused, before his being and that of Percy became undefined.

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When Ron had awoken, he found himself slumping by his captor. His head swung leisurely back and forth, his mid-section caught by two tight arms. Freezing when he realized that one of these did not belong to Percy, Ron squinted upward behind a tent of sweat-ridden hair and felt his mouth become staggeringly arid. What little light was given revealed the outline of numerous black-hooded figures and slabs of bone-coloured masks which covered half of the faces that stood silent and deadly, the light casting dark angles onto the demonic beings that had Ron’s heart beating all the heavier. He could hear mumbling behind him, his ears straining to hear the tiniest slip of information for him to return to the Order. A small voice inside him dared to wonder if he should be able to relay the message, and a deep, drowning feeling settled in his belly.

“My Lord, I assure you, his companions were not there. I could not wait for them, it would have been dangerous, if not completely illogical -”

“Perish the thought, Mr. Weasley,” said a cool, cutting voice which sent chills down Ron’s spine, “I fully understand why you refuse to betray the trust of so dear an ally as the great Harry Potter. You choose instead to waste my time with your petty family squabbles.” There was a slight, crackling pause in which Percy’s body, that Ron could only guess was to the right of him, grew stiff, “This boy is of no use to me.”

Percy released a heavily shaken sigh, “But - My Lord…He’s incredibly close to Harry. Intimately close. He can be used to draw him near and you may finish him once and for all.” Ron could feel one arm grow slightly loose on him as his brother motioned about the room, “I thought that was the entire point of all these interlude missions.”

“The point of your assignment was to watch Potter.” said Voldemort, “Severus has delivered the primary message, he has fulfilled Malfoy’s task and now I am able to sense only the deepest of fears in Potter. My plans do not include to strike him once more so soon. It would be foolish. I must wait until his guard is wasted and his trust assured before I strike again. Killing Ronald now would only make Potter wiser to your involvement. Do you wish so blatantly to face him? I hear he savors every moment to derive glory, so I do not doubt that he will ensure the deepest of vengeance for the death of such a closely held friend. I understand the current punishment for allegiance to my name is the ancient torture methods provided before the discovery of Dementors.” Ron could practically feel Voldemort’s grin cascading along his body, “They are so deliciously painful. If there ever was a use for a Muggle, it would be their creative structures of self-destruction. The bone-crushing thumbscrews…the flaying…splaying an open wound and filling it with…ah, what is that word, Severus?”

“I believe the insects are called bees.” Snape replied. Ron’s face grew hot, his stomach lurching restlessly. Sweat clung to his robes from Percy’s lax fingers.

“Yes, yes. Bees. I read they used to sew them into the body and survey them crawling about in the brain cavity. Unfortunately, Muggles no longer consider this humane. The Ministry, however,” Voldemort said with clear amusement in his voice, “is above such primitive a thing as ethics. I can only imagine what travesties Dumbledore and Potter have plotted specifically for those who dare cross them…”

Percy did not answer for a long while, and yet Ron could sense no change in the stagnate bodies which stood in front of him. He felt as though the world could break and still those lined figures would stand, still as stone, staring at him with voids for eyes, each mouth as set and cruel as the last. When Percy spoke, Ron did not recognize the voice which came so flatly and unaffected, a voice which bore no relation to that of his bookish, prefect brother which had, for so many years, been one of the many of the teachers of his pre-Hogwarts training. He could only hear the slightest crack which denoted fear.

“With all due respect…what shall I do now that I have brought him, albeit unwanted?”

“Why, my dear boy…have you learned nothing these few months?” Voldemort asked, “Kill him.”

“Excuse me?” Percy said, his whole body shaking now.

“You have disobeyed my wishes, Percy.” said Voldemort as if he were discussing the punishment of a toddler who had spilt milk upon a freshly washed floor, his voice controlled and constant, “You have a choice in the matter of course. I would never force you to do anything you did not want to do. You may leave him here with us to do as we please, you may even take him home, no harm done. But, as is the way of a wizard, you will owe a heavy debt to me, one that I will not forsake. Quite simply, Percy, you have two options.” Ron flinched suddenly when two long fingers pressed against the back of his neck, dragging down to press against his drenched skin. His body emitted a cold relation to the pads of the fingers, as if death were touching him and hanging him from the threads of life. His mind became riddled with incoherent thoughts and a dim confusion. “You may kill him, or you may be killed. You see, we do not fear gods nor praise them for their generosity, Percy. True gods are those who cause fear, require blood for those who do not follow their paths to righteousness.” Ron could feel Voldemort behind him now, his body hovering, needless of weight or maintenance.

“If you are truly my disciple, and I truly your master, you will gladly show me your loyalty. Or,” he paused, lifting Ron’s head up so that the brothers’ eyes met and locked, “does your loyalty still lie elsewhere?”

Percy gazed into the eyes below him with complete vacuity, his face a mold of porcelain and dark eyes held appalling wide, taking the whole of his forehead under red curls flattened by the hood of his allegiance. Ron could see nothing but these eyes and the backdrop of the invisible ceiling, an endless void of darkness. He could no longer feel anything but the awareness of living and the fear of death, his body no more a part of him now than the simple air he breathed. It was the single noise in the room for what seemed an eternity, a rasping intake of breath and a quick, darting exhale. Percy appeared to have stopped breathing altogether, and Ron was left to guess at what must be passing in his mind.

And then the wand reappeared into his vision, Percy’s hands propped Ron’s quivering chin in his hand in a gesture far too soft for his intention, and he pointed his weapon at his brother’s face once more. Ron’s final thought, of life, of the world, of being, was cut short by the two words croaked from Percy’s lips and a dark palette turned into one continuous lime light. And then Ron Weasley knew only the ceiling of darkness and the cool of the slate stone to which his body fell lifeless.