Holding to the Edges
You must be keeping something from the world
See I'm holding to the edges of the light you leave behind
Ron really did just want to go get lunch with his two favorite people, honest. It's an hour past the usual lunch break and Hermione still hasn't come up from the bowls of ministry (not uncommon, granted, but never this long), and Ron and Harry, of course, do what they always do.
They go and get her.
Or at least, they try to go and get her.
Instead, what happens is they open the wrong door (the ritual room is so creepy, Ron doesn't understand how the unspeakables enjoy this kind of thing), leave, and open the next door - the time chamber (and isn't that a nostalgic sight). However, instead of the relatively neat (for crazy scientist types anyway) rows of time-turners and heads-in-jars and what-have-you, Ron and Harry walk into sheer chaos.
There's sand in the air and dust in their eyes and Ron turns to Harry, arm out to push his mate back, as the blood drips drips drips down his palm into a pile of the stuff. Harry's yelling something at him over the noise, over the other voices screaming frantic in the background, and Ron doesn't understand because his mouth tastes like ash and ozone and his ears are ringing while his head is spinning, and when the world starts to tilt in on him, Ron does the only thing he knows to do.
He shoves Harry back, away toward the exit, and falls.
Waking up is an experience. It feels almost as if he has a hangover, but from magic and like he's just finished a particularly brutal game of quidditch while hanging upside down. His chest is tight and his head is all but split open (is this what Hermione calls a migraine? No wonder she doesn't want to move), the nerves in his hands and arms are numb like he's laid on them wrong or something and Ron doesn't know if the smell of ash and magic was coming from his skin or the tiny grains sticking to the creases of his clothes.
And while this isn't the worst he's ever felt - nothing quite beats the cruciatus curse, really (cheers, Bellatrix) - it's definitely not a way he wants to feel ever again.
Thankfully there's a system for this kind of thing. At least for the unspeakables, there seems to be. Because the moment Ron wakes up (and in a bed, strangely enough) from his ... accident, he's met with the cloaked forms of three unspeakables standing by his bedside (no, he does not shriek like a startled cat, shut up).
Apparently, surprise time travel isn't as unheard of as the majority are led to believe; because, the first thing he's handed (after a calming drought, that is) is a folder with paperwork to fill out. Ron takes a good look at the first page - a basic file, all things considered. And fills it out with the quill handed to him by the cloak closest.
Name: Ron Weasley
Age: 25
Birthdate and Year: March 1st, 1980
Reason for time travel: accident in the DoM - Time Chamber
Purposes for time travel (if applicable): N/A
Ron wonders idly what other kinds of reasons people end up traveling like this. Probably to fix something, right? Well. He's not exactly the best choice for that sort of thing - he's not really the type to follow plans he isn't sure of anymore (as much as he loves Harry, the git really is quite impulsive, it's taken years of Ron and Hermione both trying to get him to follow a plan before anything stuck). So obviously, he's not here with the purpose of fixing or changing anything.
As he fills out the following paperwork - things like recounting the accident and the major historical moments of his time - Ron ponders just what he's going to do now. Because by this point he's noticed something glaringly important: he's alone. Harry isn't with him, and hopefully, that means Ron pushed him out of the way in time and not just ... lost to the annuls of time and space.
He finishes filling out the paperwork, noticing distantly that one of the unspeakables leaves the room after a soft conversation with the other two. Presumably to get back to work (if these unspeakables are anything like the ones from his time, every one of 'em are barmy about work).
"So," Ron starts, handing the folder off to Cloak Number 1 (the shortest of the lot), "-when exactly am I?"
Cloak Number 2 shuffles their weight to face him and seems to look deep into Ron's soul. "Ninteen Seventy-eight."
Ron blinks. That's not good ... bloody hell, that's really not good.
He leverages himself up properly from his partially raised lounge and shuffles to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs off the side in preperation to stand, but a hand clamps down on his shoulder (Ron flinches at the touch, reminded a bit too much of Snape doing the same) and keeps him seated.
"Don't get up just yet, our healer will be here soon to give a more thorough check now that you're awake."
Ron sighs, leaning slightly away from the hand, relieved when the unspeakable shuffles back and around to face Ron.
"Alright," he looks between the two, brows furrowing as Cloak Number 1 shows something on his papers to their partner, who then startles, shocked, only to turn and face Ron with an intensity that startles him. "What is it?"
Cloak Number 2 clears their throat subtly, glancing down at their partner before signing and sitting on the chair by Ron's bed.
"We will answer your questions after the healer sees you, otherwise they'd have my head. For the moment though, you should know that your ... travel to this time is ... unprecedented. There's not been a case quite like yours, not really."
"I don't doubt that," Ron sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair, slouching, "-experiencing true time travel, especially by accident like this - when I wasn't even trying to travel in the first place - have such low chances of happening it's near impossible."
"Quite," Cloak Number 1 says, flipping quickly through the pages until finally settling on one, entire body going rigid.
Cloak Number 2 turns their head toward them, "What is it?" they ask, standing.
"File 15," 2 murmurs, "this is like File 15."
Cloak Number 2 pauses, tenses, then seems to straighten up to their full height (and what a height that is, this person could give Hagrid a run for his money). "... are you sure?"
"Of course, I'm sure. I went through the files hours ago, just in case. This is ..."
"Alright. I'll ... inform the head."
"Right," Cloak Number 2 turns toward Ron, then, shoving the file into Cloak 1's chest and walking over to sit in the chair recently vacated, "Now, Mr. Weasley was it? Healer Rasmund will be here within the next oh, five minutes or so, and during that time I want to ask you something.
Clearing his throat, Ron sits up properly and nods once, "Of course."
"You mention a Dark Lord - a You-know-who. What, exactly, was his name?"
"Oh. Did I not say? It's ... ugh, it's Voldemort."
It's only years of desensitization that Ron doesn't outright shudder at the name (though his face does pinch in disgust and residual fear, he's long gotten used to the sound of the name, at this point). The unspeakable seems to freeze for a second before they hum, sharing a hurried glance with the other unspeakable, who then turns to leave the room.
"Alright. And this ... Voldemort, you said in the file he rises to power in the early 70s, though he's - 'temporarily vanquished' in '81."
Ron furrows his brow, "Well, yeah. He tried to kill off his prophesized enemy that night. it's all there."
"Yes," they nod, but Ron notices that they're looking at him so intently through their cloak that he can feel his skin actually crawl with it, "-the thing is, though. This Dark Lord doesn't exist here."
That ... gives him pause.
Ron can literally feel his brain pause.
Voldemort ... isn't, what? Around? Trying to kill every nonmagical and newmaj in sight? This ... is not what he was expecting to hear.
"If he doesn't exist ... what does that mean for me? Obviously, this isn't my timeline, then. If this being 1978 is true."
"Well-"
BANG!
Ron flinches. The door slams against the wall after being flung open by a burly man dressed in healers' robes and with a harassed look on his pinched face.
"My patient?"
"Healer Rasmund," Cloak 2 stands from their seat and nods their head toward Ron (who's trying really, really hard to get his heart back in working order because really, did he have to slam the door open like that?).
"Unspeakable Grout. I assume you have what I need?"
Cloak 2 - or, Grout apparently - sighs and Ron thinks they probably roll their eyes as well, "Everything's where you've left it, Healer. Mr. Weasley woke maybe 15 minutes ago and it's fully coherent."
"Very well."
Ron watches as Healer Rasmund makes his way briskly to Ron's side, wand flicking about as he casts diagnostics and other such spells. Ron sits there silently, more worried about the fact that apparently he's landed himself in some sort of alternate universe or some such rot (he really wishes he would have paid more attention to Hermione when she went on her little time-space-related rants at home).
"Well," Rasmund says, pulling Ron from his thoughts, "You're perfectly healthy outside of a mild case of anemia and severe magical exhaustion. You're not to perform magic for another week, after which only light casting until the month is out. Use anything more draining than 5th-year spells before the end of the month, it's your problem. Otherwise, foods high in iron and fiber are recommended for the next three days, and do take care not to drink anything alcoholic for the next week at least."
He turns then, all but marching out of the room without another word.
Ron looks at Unspeable Grout with a poleaxed expression on his face and they seem to almost wilt where they stand.
"Yes, he's always like that," they sigh and sit back down in their vacated seat. "We'll make sure you're healthy and fully caught up with the times before you leave, don't worry."
"Right." Ron runs his hand through his hair again, pulling slightly at the strands when his eyes try to shut of their own accord, "So I guess you've got an idea about ... all this, then? Why things aren't what I know them to be?"
They nod, and Ron sighs out loud and heavily, slouching down to rest his elbows on his knees and just barely keeping himself from hanging his head in defeat.
"I'm .. not in the same timeline anymore, am I?"
Grout seems to hesitate for only a split second, but it's enough of a confirmation, for him.
Ron closes his eyes and fights back the sting behind his lids and the bubbling feeling of fear and pain and grief that sits at the base of his throat.
"Right. Okay."
Grout sighs then, too, and says quietly, "I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley."
Ron huffs, reluctantly amused, and shakes his head, "There's nothin' you can do about it, is there? Not your fault."
The door - still open from when Healer Rasmund came and left in a flurry, creaks slightly as the two other unspeakables from before walk back into the room with one other.
The badge on their robes tells Ron this is the current head Unspeakable and he finally straightens up from his slouch into a posture his Aunt Muriel would be proud of (and everyone else would stare at, because he's not usually one to follow etiquette, really, but. well. This was a situation he'd never been prepared for and when in doubt, use your manners!).
"Well met, Mr. Weasley. I am the Department of Mysteries Head, Unspeakable Noel."
"Well met, sir."
Head Noel walks into the room with elegance and Ron knows immediately that this man is probably from an old family - likely with old money to match - or has the training of it, "While the circumstances are unfortunate, your presence here proves a theory of ours we've been working on for quite a while and for that, thank you. My apologies, however, for your loss."
Ron takes a deep breath and nods to him once, posture perfect and hands folded tightly together in his lap, "Thank you, sir."
"Now," he turns to Cloak 1 and 3 (of which Ron would really like to know the names of, at this point) and holds out a hand for the two files handed to him, "-from what information you have provided us and one other file of ours, we've come to the conclusion that you are most definitely from an alternate timeline. Whether this is proof of diverging timelines into alternate realities or entire off-shoots of multiple universes, we are unsure. What we do know, however, is that with our current knowledge and abilities, we have no way to send you to your own time."
Noel takes a sheet of paper out of one of the folders and after a quick glance over, hands it to Unspeakble Grout.
"I am here to offer you an opportunity."
Ron squares his shoulders and tilts his head back slightly, narrowing his eyes, "An opportunity."
"Yes," Noel conjures a highbacked chair at the foot of Ron's bed and sits down silently, "An opportunity to acclimate to this time, our culture, and hopefully, with as little setback as possible. There have been cases of unwilling travelers losing their sanity not long after their accident, or purposefully hindering themselves from adapting - too stubborn to accept they are no longer where or when they are supposed to be; and to be quite frank with you, Mr. Weasley? We'd like to keep any casualties to zero if we can help it - yourself included."
Ron looks at Noel, at the other three unspeakables who watch with polite interest, and thinks to himself for a moment if he was really going to do this.
Well, Ron was a Gryffindor.
"Very well," the formalities settle oddly heavy on Ron's tongue and he feels restless sitting so long in this posture, but he tries his best to ignore that, "I want to hear about this opportunity of yours. What exactly is it you're offering and why should I accept it."
The Department Head seems to relax a bit at that (not that it's all that noticeable, but Ron's had years of watching Snape to predict his moods and Noel isn't nearly so good as Snape was), and says,
"Well. First, let's get you caught up on current events, and then we will proceed in figuring out the proper paperwork to file for you. You don't technically exist yet, after all. Then, we will see about finding you a career."
Ron nods slowly, leaning back against the pillows behind him as his mind whirrs, "Alright, sure. Probably for the best, anyway."
Noel nods, and stands from his seat, banishing it silently as he does.
"Your day has been long," he says, walking back toward the door, "We will let you rest and begin tomorrow."
"Thank you, sir."
"You're most welcome, Mr. Weasley," he turns to look at Ron, letting the hood of his cloak fall back and exposing his face to Ron for the first time, and Ron watches as dark eyes warm in compassion and a small smile pulls at thin lips. The aged face of Noel wasn't what Ron was expecting (not that he really expected much) but Ron thinks it's better that way.
The unspeakables leave Ron to his thoughts (and fears and grief and loneliness), and as he shuffles into a more comfortable laying position, Ron wonders what's going to happen next. Whatever it is, he hopes he can handle it, because he really doesn't think he can handle much more.
When the lights fade to darkness and the quiet turns deafening, Ron feels the tears finally fall down his cheeks as he stares sightlessly up at the ceiling. He misses Harry and Hermione like one would miss a limb and there's nothing he can do about it. Sleep doesn't come to him but in small bursts that night ... not enough to dream and Ron doesn't know if he's thankful for that or not.