Ron Weasley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alwaysreturns) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
riddlelog2017-09-05 01:56 pm
alwaysreturns) wrote in riddlelog2017-09-05 01:56 pm
But I went down to the demonstration
The Closet (you can't always get what you want)
[Making the decision to absolutely not register wasn't a hard one to make. After all, it can't be much worse from the way he's been living, can it? He's spent a few weeks on his own since leaving Harry and Hermione - since trying to get back to them, he corrects himself - and they definitely weren't good weeks or weeks he really wants to repeat, but the important point is that he survived them. So. He can survive in 1980 where things are worse and better at the same time, can't he?
Probably. Yes. Merlin.
In any case, Ron survived by bumming his late nights and early mornings in seedy pubs, where he quickly learned they asked fewer questions than the more upright establishments. The muggle ones were safer, but the first time he tried to order had gone miserably ("do you have Capuchins?") and so Ron tried to lean on the wizarding establishments that were less likely to rat him out.
He's really not sure how that brings him to this part of London, but here he is late at night, worried about being caught with the curfew, and unwilling to lean on Bill for a place to sleep. The Closet (the Closet, he wonders, really?) looks as seedy as it gets, and Ron tugs his stolen muggle baseball cap lower over his face as he steps inside. At least, he reckons, he doesn't have to worry about people recognizing his face much in this year.
On the other hand, he's not too keen on how many names and faces he's recognizing on people in power.
A quick look around tells him this was probably the most massive bloody mistake he's ever made in his life to date; there are a lot more people inside than he thought there would be. Ron slides into a booth that's in as dimly lit a corner as he can find, trying to look as unobtrusive as he can and running through the names of purebloods he went to school with who aren't part of the Sacred twenty-bloody-eight.]
Lurking Outside the Ministry (but if you try sometimes)
[Ron knows at least a few of the muggle entrances to the Ministry, and he spends the better part of his day staking them out. It twists his stomach up, and he tells himself it's just because he got splinched after their last escapade inside, but really it's because he's doing this alone and he wishes to Merlin he wasn't.
He knows he could ask Bill, maybe even find Dean to watch his back a bit, but it's not the same. Besides, right now he just feels like he'd be a danger to them. What if they've decided to register? Ron wonders if this is what Harry felt like, the night he arrived at the Burrow. Wanting to leave to protect everyone else.
It's probably hypocritical to stick to his own, but he's been weeks on his own, after all. Silly to change that now, isn't it?
Yes. Very silly.
So it's a stake out. A very long, boring stakeout of at least three different entrances. He tries to make note of faces, match them to names that fit older versions. He doesn't like what he sees much at all, and he likes his prospects of getting into the Ministry and down to the Department of Mysteries even less. If Harry isn't born yet and Riddle is Minister, is there even a prophecy? Bill brought it up, and Ron hasn't been able to let it go.
He also hasn't been able to let go of the fact that his best mate might not ever exist in this world, and that teases all kinds of things that he is just not equipped to think about. Better to be doing something, definitely.
Even if what he's doing is technically doing nothing. Shouldn't he have donuts for something like this?
Ah, there goes his stomach. Where can he get donuts?]
Closed to Hermione (you get what you need)
[Being stuck out of time, in the wrong past, is exhausting. Ron doesn't understand how this administration came to be, doesn't understand how this curfew could have gone on for a decade without something like the Order popping up to fight it. Or if it does exist, it's hiding itself bloody well, and maybe that's just as bad. People are disappearing, and if his conversation with Harry's mum (that is a whole different issue that he is doing very, very badly with) is anything to go by, no one even expects Riddle or his lackeys.
It's enough to make a bloke wonder if hes' gone loopy. Or at least go loopy enough to start putting graffiti on walls. 'Death Eaters Among Us,' maybe, or 'Don't Trust the Ministry.'
He's never wanted to graffiti something so bad in his life.
Maybe it's the frustration that makes him find the deluminator in his pocket. He clicks and unclicks it, treating it like a ye olde fidget spinner that's only moderately more annoying what with its light theft. He doesn't even think about it as he leans against a building in Diagon Alley, staring at the building that ought to be Fred and George's joke shop. He could really use a laugh right about now.
Ron.
He stares blankly for a moment, wondering if he imagined it. Is he just imagining things now? But no - no. That was Hermione's voice, calling him. Calling him. Maybe he is going loopy, because he's suddenly so certain. It couldn't have been more than a whisper, but it was her.
When he pulls the deluminator out, turns away from the main road and clicks it, a little ball of light comes out. The few lights on around him stay lit, but that ball just hovers in front of him, and somehow he's not afraid at all when it floats toward him, through him, right into his heart. He touches his chest, and he just knows.
She's here. And the deluminator will take him to her. Ron closes his eyes and disapparates.]
The Dog House; Closed to Harry, James, Sirius (We decided that we would have a soda)
[After leaving Lily with the address to James Potter and Sirius Black's house - and don't worry, the fact that he will eventually have to think about leaving Harry's mum's shop to go to his dad's and godfather's home is going to lay him up - Ron wastes no time. Last he saw Harry, they fought. Last he saw him, Ron told him so many terrible things, and he hates the bloody locket for making him say it, but he mostly hates himself, for the way a piece of You-Know-who brought that out of him.
He feels shitty, and the only thing to do about it is fix things in the most awkward, teenage boy way. So, par for the course.
When he reaches the address Lily wrote down for him, he stares at the door, looks between it and the paper in his hand. All right, Ronald. Apologizing isn't so hard, is it? (Yes it is. It is so hard.)
Well, if he keeps steeling himself, there was no point in practically breaking Lily's door down, was there? So. He shoves the paper in his pocket and knocks, and somehow resists the urge to knock again after three seconds, and again three seconds after that.]
[Making the decision to absolutely not register wasn't a hard one to make. After all, it can't be much worse from the way he's been living, can it? He's spent a few weeks on his own since leaving Harry and Hermione - since trying to get back to them, he corrects himself - and they definitely weren't good weeks or weeks he really wants to repeat, but the important point is that he survived them. So. He can survive in 1980 where things are worse and better at the same time, can't he?
Probably. Yes. Merlin.
In any case, Ron survived by bumming his late nights and early mornings in seedy pubs, where he quickly learned they asked fewer questions than the more upright establishments. The muggle ones were safer, but the first time he tried to order had gone miserably ("do you have Capuchins?") and so Ron tried to lean on the wizarding establishments that were less likely to rat him out.
He's really not sure how that brings him to this part of London, but here he is late at night, worried about being caught with the curfew, and unwilling to lean on Bill for a place to sleep. The Closet (the Closet, he wonders, really?) looks as seedy as it gets, and Ron tugs his stolen muggle baseball cap lower over his face as he steps inside. At least, he reckons, he doesn't have to worry about people recognizing his face much in this year.
On the other hand, he's not too keen on how many names and faces he's recognizing on people in power.
A quick look around tells him this was probably the most massive bloody mistake he's ever made in his life to date; there are a lot more people inside than he thought there would be. Ron slides into a booth that's in as dimly lit a corner as he can find, trying to look as unobtrusive as he can and running through the names of purebloods he went to school with who aren't part of the Sacred twenty-bloody-eight.]
Lurking Outside the Ministry (but if you try sometimes)
[Ron knows at least a few of the muggle entrances to the Ministry, and he spends the better part of his day staking them out. It twists his stomach up, and he tells himself it's just because he got splinched after their last escapade inside, but really it's because he's doing this alone and he wishes to Merlin he wasn't.
He knows he could ask Bill, maybe even find Dean to watch his back a bit, but it's not the same. Besides, right now he just feels like he'd be a danger to them. What if they've decided to register? Ron wonders if this is what Harry felt like, the night he arrived at the Burrow. Wanting to leave to protect everyone else.
It's probably hypocritical to stick to his own, but he's been weeks on his own, after all. Silly to change that now, isn't it?
Yes. Very silly.
So it's a stake out. A very long, boring stakeout of at least three different entrances. He tries to make note of faces, match them to names that fit older versions. He doesn't like what he sees much at all, and he likes his prospects of getting into the Ministry and down to the Department of Mysteries even less. If Harry isn't born yet and Riddle is Minister, is there even a prophecy? Bill brought it up, and Ron hasn't been able to let it go.
He also hasn't been able to let go of the fact that his best mate might not ever exist in this world, and that teases all kinds of things that he is just not equipped to think about. Better to be doing something, definitely.
Even if what he's doing is technically doing nothing. Shouldn't he have donuts for something like this?
Ah, there goes his stomach. Where can he get donuts?]
Closed to Hermione (you get what you need)
[Being stuck out of time, in the wrong past, is exhausting. Ron doesn't understand how this administration came to be, doesn't understand how this curfew could have gone on for a decade without something like the Order popping up to fight it. Or if it does exist, it's hiding itself bloody well, and maybe that's just as bad. People are disappearing, and if his conversation with Harry's mum (that is a whole different issue that he is doing very, very badly with) is anything to go by, no one even expects Riddle or his lackeys.
It's enough to make a bloke wonder if hes' gone loopy. Or at least go loopy enough to start putting graffiti on walls. 'Death Eaters Among Us,' maybe, or 'Don't Trust the Ministry.'
He's never wanted to graffiti something so bad in his life.
Maybe it's the frustration that makes him find the deluminator in his pocket. He clicks and unclicks it, treating it like a ye olde fidget spinner that's only moderately more annoying what with its light theft. He doesn't even think about it as he leans against a building in Diagon Alley, staring at the building that ought to be Fred and George's joke shop. He could really use a laugh right about now.
Ron.
He stares blankly for a moment, wondering if he imagined it. Is he just imagining things now? But no - no. That was Hermione's voice, calling him. Calling him. Maybe he is going loopy, because he's suddenly so certain. It couldn't have been more than a whisper, but it was her.
When he pulls the deluminator out, turns away from the main road and clicks it, a little ball of light comes out. The few lights on around him stay lit, but that ball just hovers in front of him, and somehow he's not afraid at all when it floats toward him, through him, right into his heart. He touches his chest, and he just knows.
She's here. And the deluminator will take him to her. Ron closes his eyes and disapparates.]
The Dog House; Closed to Harry, James, Sirius (We decided that we would have a soda)
[After leaving Lily with the address to James Potter and Sirius Black's house - and don't worry, the fact that he will eventually have to think about leaving Harry's mum's shop to go to his dad's and godfather's home is going to lay him up - Ron wastes no time. Last he saw Harry, they fought. Last he saw him, Ron told him so many terrible things, and he hates the bloody locket for making him say it, but he mostly hates himself, for the way a piece of You-Know-who brought that out of him.
He feels shitty, and the only thing to do about it is fix things in the most awkward, teenage boy way. So, par for the course.
When he reaches the address Lily wrote down for him, he stares at the door, looks between it and the paper in his hand. All right, Ronald. Apologizing isn't so hard, is it? (Yes it is. It is so hard.)
Well, if he keeps steeling himself, there was no point in practically breaking Lily's door down, was there? So. He shoves the paper in his pocket and knocks, and somehow resists the urge to knock again after three seconds, and again three seconds after that.]
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At least, he's fairly certain it's Lucius Malfoy. The hair is wrong, but all the arrogance, the gravitas - the stuff that reminds him of Draco, and maybe just a bit more threat than he'd care to admit.
If Lucius Malfoy does him in, he's going to be damned angry.
What, he wonders, would Harry or Hermione do here?]
Have at. 'Specially if one of those is for me.
[How much does he not want a shot of firewhisky with Lucius bloody Malfoy? So much.
(Still running through names. Not Macmillian, he thinks. Not Abbott. Their families are too old, and striking a balance of old but not infamous here is absolutely maddening.)]
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This one smells like fear. Not quite terror, yet. It's not quite like when he'd slipped into the cottage of a Muggleborn witch and made her thoroughly regret ever being born with magic - but it's fear all the same. Lucius leans one elbow on the scarred table and tilts his head to one side. ]
Lucius Malfoy. You are?
[And there's Ron's confirmation. Lucius' eyes glitter a bit as he waits to see if he can smell a lie, too. Whoever this is, he's too on edge to belong here, and he's very curious to hear who he'll claim to be. ]
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Seconds that do him nearly no good, really.]
Lee, [He finally chokes out, trying for a self-depreciating smile. Don't say Jordan, he thinks, don't say Jordan, don't say Jordan-- and then the right (Merlin, he hopes) pureblood family pops into mind.] Lee MacDougal. Please to, er, meet you, sir.
[Do not gag, he orders himself. Maybe if he plays his age, first time in a proper bar, that can excuse the rest. I am dead.[
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[ That's a skeptical look on his face for a moment there, but it's wiped away quickly enough. Lucius is hardly the most dangerous looking of his friends. Indeed, there's a lazy, dissipated look about him much of the time. That makes it a little...odd that this....MacDougal is looking at him as if he expects Crucio at any moment. No one expects that sort of thing from Lucius Malfoy.
Not this version of himself, at least, which makes him think that someone here knows a different version of him. And that, he thinks, means he's from out of time. ]
It has a tendency to burn on the way down, when you're not used to it.
[ And a moment later, before Ron can say a word, the hat's off, and Lucius tilts his head. ]
Lee MacDougal. Are you sure it's not Weasley?
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Ron hates the alternative.
He throws back the rest of the shot, manages to only choke on it a little bit. Merlin, he hopes he doesn't regret that later, if it tastes like spicy misery going down he really doesn't want to imagine it in reverse.]
A Weasley?
[Ron is generally an honest kind of bloke, prone to wearing his emotions on his sleeve. But having one ridiculous adventure after another, every year at school, being best mates with the chosen one - he's learned how to lie. And when he tries, he's not half bad.
Maybe that also comes from years of shuffling blame for one thing or another among six siblings, but thinking about that will just make this even more miserable. His lip curls.]
Just cause I've got red hair, you think I'm one of them? [He sounds offended: it's easy. He's just picturing anyone else having this go at his family.]
Being ginger doesn't make me a blood traitor.
[He picks up the glass, holds it up between them.] I think for that insult, you should owe me another.
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My mistake. And of course you're right.
[ He checks to make sure that Evan's disappeared in the back - he likes to make Lucius' life difficult in any way he can, really - before signaling for a bottle of the whiskey. ]
You must be related to Magnus MacDougal. We went to school together, he and I, competed for Prefect for a bit. Got married just after graduation to....Bridget Abbott, I think. How is he these days? I heard something about triplets, but that can't be right.
[ Of course there's not Magnus MacDougal, and he knows better than most that the Abbotts have no daughter named Bridget. But he's curious whether this Weasley, and he's still sure it's a Weasley, will play along.
Or not. ]
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He's also positive that Morag and Hannah weren't related, or at least, weren't step-siblings since bloody everyone is related after a certain point.
The prick is trying to play me, he realizes, and lets the frown turn into something much closer to questioning Lucius' sanity.]
Sure you've got the right MacDougals? Or the Abbotts, for that matter. Think someone's giving you bad info.
[So shove off, he adds only, regretfully, in his head.]
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But Ron's also right; he is trying to trap him, and he keeps his smile easy as the girl sets the bottle on the table and he pays. ]
The Abbotts are a big family, for purebloods. Could be I've got the wrong branch. The MacDougals are a big family then? There aren't many of you in London or in Wiltshire. Of course, many people tell me I need to expand my list of friends.
[ He pours Ron another drink but just turns his own empty glass in circles on the tabletop before he frowns at the baseball cap. ]
Is that some American quidditch hat? Or something from a...Muggle sport?
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[Ron has his moments of brilliance, it's true, but his deductive reasoning isn't exactly tops. He hasn't considered that Harry not being born yet could mean others haven't been born yet, or that other people who existed in his time, universe, whatever, may never exist here.
Possibly because that is a deeply alarming and depressing line of thinking that Ron is really not prepared to wander down. Ron shrugs, looking down at his shot and resisting the groan at having to have another. That can only end badly. Is there a spell, he wonders? Fred and George never passed it on (but if he lingers too long on that, he'll just get upset about all the normal things you-know-who has prevented him from doing).]
Not too big, 'less you count all the extended family. Everyone's family tree shares a branch somewhere, these days.
[Ron reaches out for the cap, careful not to just snatch it back. Play it cool, aloof.] Muggle, I guess, since I took it from one. Like I said, just liked the way it looks. [He taps the front above the brim, where the name underlines the design of some ferocious beasts roaring in opposite directions. Not quiet lions, but maybe tigers? Ron has no idea, he hasn't actually looked at the hat till now.] Rather a Cannons hat, but I lost mine a while back.
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[ A pure-blood wife, at least. There was a time he would have married a half-blood witch - a particular one quite happily - and his father wouldn't have objected much. The Malfoys weren't obsessive about blood purity the way some families did. But Lucius' closest friends were from just those families now, which reduced his options.]
I suppose it's an interesting design, for Muggle work. Are you in London long, then? It's a bit...chaotic just now, with all these deviants. The ministry's been working overtime.
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He's not sure why that idea pricks at the back of his thoughts like it's something he ought to feel bad about.
He shrugs, fitting the hat back on his head.]
S'pose I could try to transfigure it into something better, but it was never my strong suit. [Looking back, though, Pettigrew deserved to be turned into a furry goblet.]
Nah - never been outside Diagon Alley, really. Family keeps up north.
[It was north, wasn't it? He remembers Morag's accent placing her vaguely there, at least.]
Just wanted to celebrate not having to go back to Hogwarts. [He lifts his glass in a little toast to Malfoy and somehow manages not to throw up.]
Seems like it was a good idea.
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Mm, you should stay awhile, then. London's the center of the world in a lot of ways, and what better way to celebrate freedom? [ He studied dark arts texts at Durmstrang for four months, but he's a nerd. ]
Though I suppose there's less trouble up north. Scotland, isn't it? Or maybe I'm confusing branches again.
[ He's got no way of proving 'Lee MacDougal' a liar, and he knows it. Right now it's just about playing this game, as long as possible, and cataloging all those reactions before he compares notes with Bellatrix. ]
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(At least, he tells himself, he never stabbed Harry in the back. Just left him to do the hardest thing he could on his own. Not remotely the same.)
He shrugs, fiddling with the glass between his hands. He'd feel a lot more comfortable if it was a wand, and also if he was cursing Lucius' Malfoy's face off, but beggars can't be choosers and all that.]
Think you might be. We haven't been that far north. Not for a while, anyway. [It's a Scottish name, but Morag didn't sound like a highlander, not really. Ron abruptly wishes he'd spent more time with the other Houses, outside of classes. Only Hogwarts never really made much sense, doing that.]
Seems like a nice idea. Staying, that is. Know any rooms for letting?
[So that he can cross off places to absolutely not go to.]
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There's a faintly amused look on his face, as if he's got some idea that redhead here wants to curse him into a ferret, but he just leans - lounges, really - back in the booth. ]
Many people are opening their homes - the Time Deviants, you know. Of course, those are for people who'd have trouble finding a place on their own, which isn't the case with someone like yourself. I'd look up Amycus Carrow, though. Alecto's moved out recently, and he's likely lonely in their old flat without her.
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Yeah? Don't think he's enjoying himself, finally having a flat to himself?
[Ron always used to fantasize about a place of his own, but it's always so much easier to get bored or lonely, when you're used to having tons of family about and underfoot and poling fun and doing the things that brothers and sisters do.]
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He and Alecto are very close, I expect he misses her company now that she's gone. The flat's likely quiet without her.
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Guess I'll look him up, then. [Hell fucking no.] But if I had a flat all to my self, I'd keep it that way.
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[ Of course, it just makes 'Lee' sound like someone with a mountain of siblings, which in turn makes him sound like a Weasley, but that's just a broken record at this point, and Lucius slides out of his seat
to the abject relief of the person he's been buying alcohol for. ]Charming to meet you, of course.
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Same. Cheers for the drinks. [He lifts the glass, feels about the same toward it as he did six years ago toward the sandwich his mum packed for his first train to Hogwarts. He needs to figure out how to get the bloody hell out of here.]