Fic: Crimson, Clawed; Ron; PG
Fic: Crimson, Clawed
Author: sheafrotherdon
Characters: Ron (maaaaybe a shade of Ron/Draco)
Rating: PG
Summary: Charlie dies, and brute force offers Ron a comfort that magic cannot.
A/N: written for bk11 as a pinch-hint for tarie's Illustrated Ficcish Wish Fulfillment Swap. You can find the art that inspired this story here.
He remembers the first flare of magic he felt - warmth at his palm, igniting faith. In his mind’s eye he sees still the frayed, tattered carpet of his parents’ sitting room; the toy he wanted; the quiver and shrug of a dog-eared bear moving despite itself, drawn to the silence in his fingertips. He remembers the pleasure that spread through his body, the complicated wash of childish confusion.
“S’alright, Ron,” his dad had murmured, patting his shoulder. “That’s magic, lad - your magic. Proper wizard now, eh?”
Eyes closed, sheets rough at his back, he can remember the curl of faith that lit inside him then, set his feet on his brothers’ path. He remembers all that came after - the moments of quiet; purity caught within a storm when magic rushed up from the spaces inside him, surged to his command, did his bidding. He remembers the words to direct it - to channel colour, quiet noise, tamp down emotion, weave a spell.
He knows he conjured laughter. He thinks he may have summoned death.
It was Charlie who taught him to set aside magic, Charlie who died and broke his faith. The memory of soot-smudged parchment is never more than a half-thought away, crisp-clear image behind his eyelids, bloody news pinned to the page by Bill’s shaking hand. Charlie’s gone . . . - his mother’s refusal to believe it was true; his father’s ashen, broken conviction; his own grief like flint pressed hard against the vulnerable curve of his belly.
He remembers fleeing, dirt lane uneven beneath his boots, stumbling toward the maybe-oblivion of cheap, bitter whiskey. He remembers the fight, the crooked relief of bruises, split lips, knuckles torn to bone. He remembers the ache, deep in his stomach, as he struggled to his feet, caught his breath above the crumpled frame of a man unlucky enough to stand beside him, nudge his arm as he reached for a pint. He remembers the taste of blood on his tongue, triumph bitter as bile at his throat.
Memory flares, and he feels again the struggling fury of grief that scorched his hands, rooted itself in muscle, ground itself into bone. He remembers the blood-warm anger of his breathing, the comfort that quickly lodged itself in the angle of his spine, in the curve of his fist, the pull of each tendon. There was nothing in magic to compare to this brute force, too-long dormant, quiet within him, exploding in the theft of another’s breath.
With eyes closed, he can see the lists he wrote in halting cursive, choosing whom to hurt, deciding who should bear blame. He remembers the burn of instinct that guided him, shepherded him to alleys, darkened streets, shadowed passage-ways and doors that shrank beneath broken streetlights. He recalls the vulnerable places in each person’s body - throat and stomach, groin and breast; remembers each Mark he ground beneath his heel, desperate to obliterate evil with the feeble weapons of street-dirt and gravel.
Yet -
He doesn’t know how it came to this - to a second-floor bed-sit with two broken chairs and a dusty mantle, to a narrow bed . . . to Malfoy beside him. There are bruises blooming on Malfoy’s hips, and Ron knows his fingers would match each purpling weal if he lifted his hand, set palm against bone. He swallows awkwardly, knows beyond doubt he’s the cause of Malfoy’s split lip, the blood matted into hair. But he cannot remember - cannot piece together the desperate hours of the night now past. Fragments are all that are willed to him - frosted streets, disbelief, a need born of fury; crimson, clawed.
Malfoy touches his face and Ron winces - no one-sided fight then. “Feeling better?” Malfoy asks, and there’s a strange, broken tenderness in his fingertips, tactile suggestion of an understanding that Ron can’t bear.
“I - “ He swallows, shakes his head.
“I’m sorry about Charlie.”
Ron waits for anger to blind him, save him - but nothing comes. “What did you do?” he whispers desperately, hand closing firm around Draco’s wrist.
“I ran too,” Draco murmurs.
Ron’s magic flares.
Author: sheafrotherdon
Characters: Ron (maaaaybe a shade of Ron/Draco)
Rating: PG
Summary: Charlie dies, and brute force offers Ron a comfort that magic cannot.
A/N: written for bk11 as a pinch-hint for tarie's Illustrated Ficcish Wish Fulfillment Swap. You can find the art that inspired this story here.
He remembers the first flare of magic he felt - warmth at his palm, igniting faith. In his mind’s eye he sees still the frayed, tattered carpet of his parents’ sitting room; the toy he wanted; the quiver and shrug of a dog-eared bear moving despite itself, drawn to the silence in his fingertips. He remembers the pleasure that spread through his body, the complicated wash of childish confusion.
“S’alright, Ron,” his dad had murmured, patting his shoulder. “That’s magic, lad - your magic. Proper wizard now, eh?”
Eyes closed, sheets rough at his back, he can remember the curl of faith that lit inside him then, set his feet on his brothers’ path. He remembers all that came after - the moments of quiet; purity caught within a storm when magic rushed up from the spaces inside him, surged to his command, did his bidding. He remembers the words to direct it - to channel colour, quiet noise, tamp down emotion, weave a spell.
He knows he conjured laughter. He thinks he may have summoned death.
It was Charlie who taught him to set aside magic, Charlie who died and broke his faith. The memory of soot-smudged parchment is never more than a half-thought away, crisp-clear image behind his eyelids, bloody news pinned to the page by Bill’s shaking hand. Charlie’s gone . . . - his mother’s refusal to believe it was true; his father’s ashen, broken conviction; his own grief like flint pressed hard against the vulnerable curve of his belly.
He remembers fleeing, dirt lane uneven beneath his boots, stumbling toward the maybe-oblivion of cheap, bitter whiskey. He remembers the fight, the crooked relief of bruises, split lips, knuckles torn to bone. He remembers the ache, deep in his stomach, as he struggled to his feet, caught his breath above the crumpled frame of a man unlucky enough to stand beside him, nudge his arm as he reached for a pint. He remembers the taste of blood on his tongue, triumph bitter as bile at his throat.
Memory flares, and he feels again the struggling fury of grief that scorched his hands, rooted itself in muscle, ground itself into bone. He remembers the blood-warm anger of his breathing, the comfort that quickly lodged itself in the angle of his spine, in the curve of his fist, the pull of each tendon. There was nothing in magic to compare to this brute force, too-long dormant, quiet within him, exploding in the theft of another’s breath.
With eyes closed, he can see the lists he wrote in halting cursive, choosing whom to hurt, deciding who should bear blame. He remembers the burn of instinct that guided him, shepherded him to alleys, darkened streets, shadowed passage-ways and doors that shrank beneath broken streetlights. He recalls the vulnerable places in each person’s body - throat and stomach, groin and breast; remembers each Mark he ground beneath his heel, desperate to obliterate evil with the feeble weapons of street-dirt and gravel.
Yet -
He doesn’t know how it came to this - to a second-floor bed-sit with two broken chairs and a dusty mantle, to a narrow bed . . . to Malfoy beside him. There are bruises blooming on Malfoy’s hips, and Ron knows his fingers would match each purpling weal if he lifted his hand, set palm against bone. He swallows awkwardly, knows beyond doubt he’s the cause of Malfoy’s split lip, the blood matted into hair. But he cannot remember - cannot piece together the desperate hours of the night now past. Fragments are all that are willed to him - frosted streets, disbelief, a need born of fury; crimson, clawed.
Malfoy touches his face and Ron winces - no one-sided fight then. “Feeling better?” Malfoy asks, and there’s a strange, broken tenderness in his fingertips, tactile suggestion of an understanding that Ron can’t bear.
“I - “ He swallows, shakes his head.
“I’m sorry about Charlie.”
Ron waits for anger to blind him, save him - but nothing comes. “What did you do?” he whispers desperately, hand closing firm around Draco’s wrist.
“I ran too,” Draco murmurs.
Ron’s magic flares.