Prologue.
As he lay there in the aftermath of the final battle in the middle of the Hogsmeade street, all he could smell was blood. He could smell it from himself as his life force leaked out of him slowly but surely stealing the strength from his limbs. He could smell it, gushing out from the bodies of the last of his friends, schoolmates, and fellow warriors. The mud ground beneath him was soaked with it. So cold and wet was his deathbed that the water from the rain could not make it any wetter. Or was it raining blood as well? Ron wouldn’t be surprised if it were. He couldn't remember when it had started raining.
He couldn’t remember a lot of things. He couldn't remember his mother’s face even though it had only been months since she’d died. Or was it years? He couldn’t remember and as he lay in the pool of his own blood, he wasn’t sure that it changed anything. He was going to see her soon anyway, and Bill and Charlie and Percy and everyone else.
The strong winds carried the smells of smoke, ash, and Sulphur from the burning buildings, trees, and even humans. The pitter-patter of rain, or blood, filled the little potholes in the street. The sound of people screaming, crying, and dying filtered in from the ringing in his ears until he heard a raspy sound. It took him a while to realize it was his own breath laboring past his punctured lung. It was a futile effort to stay alive. Maybe his body didn’t get the memo that he was bleeding out as it was quite useless to put air in a dying body. All it did was bring a more pungent smell of death and decay to his nose.
He scrunched up his face at the revolting smells. Merlin, how long does it take for a bloke to bleed out? He‘d done all that he could and then some. He was ready to meet his family. Ready to meet Harry and Hermione and grovel at their feet for letting them die. For not being a good friend, for failing them, and for letting their sacrifice be in vain. He would apologize for hours and days and if they couldn’t find it in themselves to forgive him he would deserve their hate and scorn.
For all that he hated the death eaters and You-Know-W- Voldemort, he hated himself above everything and everyone. After Harry had died, the wizarding world lost hope. When he’d turned out to be alive nobody's been as hopeful for the future as Ron was. But Voldemort's death didn’t change a thing. The war had raged on for months. Harry had still died, standing as a one-man army against hundreds of dark creatures let loose by the death eaters. The mild heat of July had given way to the chilly winds of October.
Hermione had fallen into the role of leadership like she was born for it. The Wizarding world, at least those still fighting, had fallen behind her like they were born to serve her. Nobody questioned her authority. Like nobody had questioned Harry’s. At least it seemed that way. Hermione had a knack for utilizing every bit of her resources to the best of her ability. She’d used Ron’s penchant for strategy to organize defensive teams in the areas most likely to be attacked by the Death Eaters. They’d even organized a couple of successful raids at the food supplies. They were finally pushing back against the enemy. But then Hermione, sweet, strong Hermione, had fallen. She’d been ambushed in her tent and Ron had not been able to protect her. It was his fault she’d died. She’d been fatally wounded but even then had the courage to pass on her candle of hope to Ron.
Harry and Hermione both had put their hopes in him. HIM. Ron Weasley. Failure extraordinaire. The fuck up. The least talented. The least favored. He was nothing. His accomplishments couldn’t hold a candle to what Harry and Hermine had done in their Hogwarts years alone.
He still hadn’t died. Laying there, broken and devastated Ron felt like he’d spent an eternity musing about his loved one. Accepting, as crushing as it had been to do that, the inevitable demise of everyone he’d known and loved. Wallowing in self-pity would bring nothing but more pain and misery. But there was nothing else he could do. He’d let them down. Failed the wizarding world.
He should’ve known better than to be cocky enough to believe that he could fill in their shoes. That he could stand where they stood. That he could lead them to victory. That he could bring people hope. As soon as he’d taken the mantle, doubt had spread through the remaining forces of DA like a forest fire. Everything he did and said was put through tight scrutiny and critical dissection.
Where people had hung onto Harry and Hermione's words like they were divine prophecies, Ron had his every decision questioned, and every order followed reluctantly. People left the already scarce number of DA. As more and more families joined the dark side, out of nothing but desperation and misery, the Death Eaters gained more and more followers. Hooligans joined just to cause some mayhem and bring about more destruction. Snatchers whisked everyone off of the streets.
Believers of the Pure-Blood supremacy propaganda formed a semi-governing structure and put Dolohov as their new figurehead now that You-Kno-Voldemort was dead. More and more dark creatures rallied behind the new leader. Greyback became the de facto leader of all the werewolf tribes. The vampires joined and then it was over for them. The DA was left to be the mere husk of its former self. Their powers and numbers were shrinking until the last of their camps at Hogsmeade was ambushed and destroyed at the height of the winter in 1999.
And no matter how good and well-trained his own team was, they were not nearly numerous enough to pull a miraculous victory out their arses against an army of creatures, dead and alive; and Death Eaters. The dead bodies kept piling up until he himself was a shadow of a child- The man he’d once been. The blood of the dead and the cries of the mourners weighed on him day and night. They followed him around everywhere he went. The faces of the kids he’d sent to frontlines haunted his nightmares. Why did you let us die! He’d sent Ginny to frontlines and she hadn't made it back. He’d killed his family and he’d killed everyone he had not saved.
Ron realized that a part of him had died with Harry. His heart had been shattered with Hermione's. And when he himself was about to die, a traitorous part of him still wanted to live. The little boy inside him, who never got over his insecurities wanted a chance to start all over again. Somewhere to the left, he heard footsteps approaching him. Cruel laughter accompanied the heavy footsteps that stopped right by his head.
As much as Ron loved to make people laugh. It was the cruel mocking laugh that he hated the most. It mocked him for all of his failures and shortcomings. Made him feel like a child who’d wet his bed and had his sibling laughing at his embarrassment.
As silent as a whisper it was, the laugh, still felt like a roar in his ears drawing out everything else. He should be dead already, sweet Merlin! Why hasn’t he died yet?
The ugly grinning face of Dolohov came into his view, his large figure dwarfing Ron’s broken body at his feet. The madman was chuckling away as if this was another Tuesday for him. It made Ron mad. He couldn't move but he could still throw every curse he knew at him.
As the large man crouched down beside him, still laughing his hateful little laugh, Ron mustered up the best glare he could. “Fuck Off!”
“You’ve lost, Ronnie boy! You and your army” He said ‘army’ in such a mocking tone that Ron willed him to combust on the spot “should’ve surrendered a long time ago. Tell your men to give up and maybe I’ll show some mercy and make their deaths quick. But where is the fun in that right?”
“Never!” Ron growled out. He was about as threatening to the man as a newborn Mooncalf. Dolohov seemed to find great amusement in his defiance as he gave a full belly laugh. Ugh. Fucking typical. Can’t even let a man die in peace.
“Look around you, Boy!” The dark-haired man gestured to the burning building and dead bodies littering the ground. "Do you think your pathetic ragtag group of muggle lovers can win? Do you honestly believe that you have a chance?! Ha! Don’t make me laugh, Ronnie!”
“Don’t fucking call me that!” he screamed. Ron hated how his voice cracked in the middle. A testament to the fact that he was still a bloody teenager. Too naïve and foolish to lead a war. As much as he was willing to embrace death he was still scared of it. He wanted to meet his friends and family. But he was afraid that they would want nothing to do with him. Death was coming for him, but he didn’t know that whatever came after would be along the lines of a happy reunion.
Dolohov, the bastard that he was, seemed to sense his fear. The sick man reveled and preyed on others' fear. Thrived upon torturing poor souls. With horror, Ron realized that he was shaking all over. His hands were trembling from the nerves even though he could no longer feel them. He turned his head away from the older man. The only way for him to fight was to not let the man see fear on his face.
“You look scared, Ron.” the man taunted. There was a rough hand on his chin mockingly gentle, that turned his head back towards his enemy ”but there’s no need to look away. It is always better to see your death coming.”
“I am not fucking scared of you!” he spoke harshly. Voice barely above a whisper. He could feel his heart slowing down. Could feel his shaking limbs lose all their warmth and go still. He could feel the cold embrace of death surrounding him. Pulling him into the abyss. Dolohov seemed to sense that as well. A strange look came over his face. Something Ron couldn't decipher. Nor did he have any want to. His eyes fluttered and struggled to remain open.
“You should've reconsidered your last words a little more, Ronnie boy. It’s a pity. We could’ve had so much fun if you had a little more left in you.” The burly man patted his head sardonically before chuckling and walking away. Whistling away a merry tune that would haunt the moment of Ron’s demise.
It wasn’t fair! Ron thought as tears blurred the tiny pinpricks of the world he could see through half-lidded eyes. It shouldn’t have been this way. If only I wasn't such a massive failure! If only I had done things differently. If only I could go back and change things. Take my younger self by the ear and shake some sense into him. Do NOT let them die! But there was no way to do that.
He wished he could start over again, to be a better brother, son, and friend. But it was impossible. The past was out of reach. Everything went black but he was sure he hadn’t closed his eyes.