The Fall of a Red Haired boy

by Something234

Summary:

The wizarding world thought the Muggle war wasn’t their problem.
They were wrong.

When Ron Weasley is dragged into the Imperium of Man, he learns what real war looks like — soldiers who don’t fear magic, commissars who don’t tolerate secrets, and a universe where the Ministry’s laws mean nothing.

Wizards can hide from Muggles.
They cannot hide from the Imperium.

And once the Imperium learns magic exists, the galaxy stops being big enough for both.

Notes:

his story is inspired by Blood Pact, a novel from the Gaunt’s Ghosts series by Dan Abnett — but don’t worry if you haven’t read it. Everything you need to understand the story is explained along the way.

While it begins with the setup from Blood Pact, it quickly diverges for reasons that will become… magically obvious.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Ron was definitely about to get robbed. 

He knew this was a bad idea; he knew the moment that very particular gleam appeared in Fred's eyes. The one who said he shouldn’t agree to anything they were about to say. Yet, here he was in front of a red door on a cold Muggle street. Damn his pride, damn his need to make those two stuff it.

If the door didn’t open in the next ten minutes, he was getting the merlin out of here. He had had enough of Fred and George's games. 
 
He tapped his foot. His breath fogging in the cold. He glanced at the flickering street light above. He leaned toward the stairs up to the street. 
The door creaked open. 

He winced. He would just tell whoever opened it that he was sorry. 

He turned. 

It was a woman. 

Dumblfuffle.
 
She was pretty.
 
She raised an eyebrow, faintly annoyed.
 
He blushed. 
 
“Why’d you ring?”  Her voice was smooth like fire whisky.
 
“Sorry.” His voice only cracked once. “Accident.” He raised his hands. Backing up, slowly. 
 
She raised a second brow. “It's rather difficult to get here by accident.” 
 
He nodded, bobbing his head like Snape had just called him out in potions. “Right, sorry, just on my way.”
 
She held up a hand. Stopping him in his tracks. 
 
“What's your name, kid?”

He licked his suddenly dry lips. “Ron, Ron Weasley.” 
 
“Who told you to come here, Ron?” 
 
He dropped his hands, not able to meet her eyes. Dark like curtains closed on something too quiet to be anger. 
 
“My brothers told me to, they said I would..." He blushed harder. "Well, it's not important now.”  This was some stupid prank to disturb a pretty Muggle. Those bastards. 

She blinked at him for a moment, and then her eyes softened.

"This isn't the pl-"

Something cut her off. Her hand reached up to fiddle with a pearl on her ear. Alarm crossed her face before she smothered it. Her features turned coy. 
 
He blinked. It was like watching someone slip on a mask they were too good at wearing. 
 
“Well.” She smiled; he didn’t like that smile. “They must be important. Welcome to Zolunder’s." 

The snow was cold on his skin.

"Usually you need two things to get in, but you only need one."  
 
Ron frowned. “It’s fine, I wasn’t-”
 
She moved almost like a panther, her hand falling gently on his shoulder. “Come, dear," she smiled, "it's cold out here, and we have ways of warming you up.”

His whole face turned red. 

“I’m ok, thank-”

"Just a few minutes." 

She leaned in, showing off her cleavage, and his heart raced. Sometimes it really sucked to be fifteen. He tried to mumble out refusals, but before he knew it, he was already inside the smoky lounge and being guided over to a private booth. 
 
All nice leather, and soft smoky air. Spice on his tongue and blazers flaring on the walls, Cantor flinches, hoping with soft songs in their cages. Men in dark uniforms played dice as women in high end dresses slide through the crowds. His skin crawled; he felt like an intruder in a secret world. 
 
She didn't let him stop, though, until he was tucked away in a booth out of sight. He sank into the thick seats, like a barricade of red leather against the world. 
 
“Stay right there.” 

“Wait!” Ron felt like he shouted in a silent room. 
 
She paused, her eyes heavy on him. 
 
“I don’t have any money on me?"

Her lips twitched.
 
"Is that all?"
 
He gulped, rolling a button on his coat between his fingers. 
 
"I don’t think I belong here.” 
 
She laughed. It was a delicate sound like bells clinking. “For you, dear, that's not a concern," She studied him a moment longer. "Everything is on the house." Then she grinned. "Now be a good boy for me and stay right there.”

He was so red he could set the table on fire. 

---

Elodie left the boy there, slipping between betting patrons and sliding her body along them. She knew she had that kind of effect on men. She let her hand slide over some of their shoulders. Let her weight shift just close enough to tempt.
 
Zolunders was not some hive bar in the lower levels where kids could get cheap beer after a long shift. Didn’t matter; Urbano had snapped over the vox to get the kid inside, no matter what. 
 
She just wondered what the throne he wanted was with some blushing fifteen-year-old. Urbanos' elegant features were sharper in the glow of the monitors. He leaned back, whipping his mouth with a fine white cloth. A succulent roast forgotten before him. 

Urbano was positively staring at the monitor, the boy, like a pot of gold. 
 
It didn’t help to see the kind of excited light in his eyes; he got in his frenzies.
 
“You treated him well, Elodie?” His voice wasn’t nervous.

“Of course, he’ll need someone gentle though, his skittish as a baby hive rat.”
 
Urbano drew the cloth of his mouth. The fabric was stained red. “Of course he is, his kind is always so skittish.” He smiled, placing his cutlery down. “Pick someone for him.”

Elodie blinked. “He's just a kid, and he didn’t bring any money with him." 
 
Urbano glanced at her for a second, his green eyes flashing in the dim room. She shifted, straightening her dress with a single delicate hand. 
For half a heartbeat, he didn't look away. Then he turned back to the boy. 

"Get him to stay, get him to spend on the house, it doesn't matter how much, just get him comfortable. I want him so happy he doesn't even question the thought of coming back.”
 
Elodie frowned. “Who is he?” 
 
Urbano laughed. “He's a god," His teeth flashed; it wasn't a smile. "A god playing at morality.” 
 
He turned to the girls lounging on their break. Freshening up their makeup or fixing their dresses. 

“Hilda,” he snapped, and the pretty but plain woman looked up. 
 
Hilda nodded, not letting her disappointment show. She had one type. Men who could pay.

Her voice was a low drawl. Most found it charming. It came from the fields now ash outside the hive. “He’ll be well taken care of.”

Her hips swaying in an exhausting motion Elodie knew well. It made the eyes fall on them but left your legs aching by the end of the night. 

The buzzer lit up, and she glanced at the monitor by the door. 

A handsome guard captain was waiting outside. She took a breath, turning to go greet the man, another fool soon to be parted with his money. Her blood felt cold in her veins as she realized something. What did he mean by his kind?

Ron shifted; he didn't like this; he had tucked himself in the farthest corner. The lights dimmed, and the air slicked his throat. He was a kid in a world of monsters, and the jaws were closing in.

Hermione must be getting to him. All her poetry. It didn’t matter that much. He shifted again. He couldn't get comfortable. He wanted to get up, but the thought of going through that room alone with the men and the women made his skin prickle. 

He wasn’t some pure blood snob, but the muggles had been getting more intense lately. 

More muggle army men everywhere, more guns, more dead. He didn’t know much about the Muggle war. It wasn’t important, and the wizarding war had been going on then. 

But it had left a lot of muggles around. 

Still, he was a Weasley; a room full of adults with far too many pieces of metal on their chests didn’t scare him. He shifted, took a swig of his water, squared his shoulders, and moved to leave. Suddenly, he was locking eyes with another pretty woman. Merlin, did they spring from trees here? He jumped back into the corner of the booth. 
 
“I…. I….” He was suddenly very embarrassed. 
 
She smiled with red lips spread wide. “It's ok.” Her voice was different from the other women's. Warm like his mum's pies after dinner. “No harm in being uncomfortable. Throne, I know this place makes my skin crawl, too.” 
 
She slid in. Her purple dress was bright on her skin. 
 
She reached out a delicate hand for him. “Handra. What's your name?” 
 
He stared at her hand for a moment like it was a knife. He gingerly took it.
It was warm but not soft. 
 
“Ron.” 
 
Her eyes sparkled. “That's not your full name, is it?” 
 
He blinked for a moment. “What?” 
 
She smiled. “I know what it's like to not always like your name. Do you want to know my name? Not my stage name, but my real name?”
He looked at her, at her warm eyes and her soft smile. 
 
“Sure.”

“Elibrethrial.”
 
He laughed. He couldn’t help it, a surprised sound leaving him. “Merlins, that's bad.” Before suddenly realizing what he said, his hands were scrambling up. “I mean not that… It's wonderful. Very flower-like….” He gulped and took a swig of his water. 
 
Idiot. 

She waved to a server over. 

“I don’t drink.” He shook his head. “I mean, I’m not allowed.”
 
She winked. 

“Just this once." Her eyes were softening. "It helps take the edge off. It's on the house.”

The girl serving was his age. Hermione would hate this place. She would say something about gender norms and piggish men and the corrupt establishment. He desperately wished she were here.

The drink came soon after, as they slipped into conversation, he couldn’t taste the alcohol. She made everything feel good. Not in the way his teenage brain might want it, but in the way that human part of him did. That little itch that said Look at me. See me.
 
Then another drink came and another until he slipped into a kind of haze. He glanced up, blinking as a man passed. A commotion was coming down the hall. She noticed him looking. She was leaning in. He didn't realize she had gotten that close. 
 
There was yelling.

Then the door opened and a man came in, all big and strong. A cruel face in a leather jacket and a cap on top. 
 
“Whose that?” He slurred. She glanced over and paled. She said something, but he didn't hear. Things started to feel wrong. 
 
“A commissar.” She sounded terrified. It was the mask again, he realized with a jolt like the first woman. They both had these masks on. They both weren’t what they seemed.
 
They both had sad eyes. 
 
The man and four others, all guns and uniforms and stern, cruel looks on their faces, made for one table. Where a handsome man was throwing cards down. 

The whole place fell silent. A tomb of broken masks. 

“What are they going to do to him?” 

Handra bit her lip. “Probably some idiot deserter.” 
 
“Deserter?” Ron asked, turning. “Of what?” 
 
She looked at him like he was mad. But he didn’t know. It was Muggle stuff. 
 
“Of the guard. They’ll shoot him, of course.” 
 
This wasn't a prank. 
 
“Shoot him?"
 
She gave him another strange look, but he didn't see her now.
 
The handsome man didn’t look evil. He didn’t look like someone who should be killed. He looked like Cedric, tall and handsome with kind eyes. Before what happened, he felt something crack deep inside.

He wasn’t Harry; he didn't have the right to be sad. He reached up. 
 
He was crying. 
 
Handra placed a hand on his shoulder. Trying to pull him down. “Let’s not worry about them. You were telling me about your brothers?"
 
She smelled like roses. She smelt rotten.  She tried to turn his face to her. Tried to get him to look at her. She was making him sick. He pushed away. 
 
"Stop it." He whispered.

Her face turned to stone. 

“Come sit down." 
 
He kept staring at the men in black coats. The commissar. At the pale man in the seat. Like Cedric. His body on the ground, dead eyes. 

He reached for his wand but stopped. He would be expelled. 
 
The man was standing, and the army man in the nice uniform was speaking. No, he wanted to say, don't let them take you. 
 
“I’m sorry.” He slid past Handra. 
 
“Wait!” She called, but he was already halfway across the room.

Sweating, panting, and running. The lights were flickering. The birds in the cages cried out. 
 
One of the girls was struggling.
 
He heard her say “let him go!” but the blood pounding in his ears was so loud he could be mistaken. The cruel man in the black coat said something about taking her, too. 
 
They couldn't kill her. 
 
He won't let them. 
 
No one was looking at him; everyone was looking at the Muggle army men.

He swung.

His fist raced toward the man in the dark coat. 
 
He missed. 

There was a heartbeat of nothing. The world dead to sound. 
 
A fish meet his face. Pain, white hot and sudden blinded him for a second. 

His shoulder slammed to the floor. He glanced up, cradling his throbbing cheek. Meeting the eyes of the man he just tried to punch. They were flickered with something colder than the ice.

Another man, his features so sharp they could cut, stared at him like a prize about to be stolen. 

“Commissar Hark, I apologize." His voice was like silk. "He's from a good family." 

Hark tilted his head. Clenching his fist. There was blood on it. His blood. 

“Urbano, he tried to hit me. That’s a capital offense.” 
 
Urbano's face went a nasty white. “He's just a little drunk, you know how teenagers get.”
 
“I wasn’t drunk.” Ron slurred. 

There was a beat of silence. 
 
“Well then, you're just an idiot.” Hark’s voice was dry. 
 
Ron scrambled up. The room swayed. He wondered if someone had started to transfigure it. “You can’t just take people. She didn’t do anything.” 
 
“Boy.” The man they were arresting locked eyes with Ron. “Shut. Up.”

It sounded just like the tone Hermione used when he had done something foolish. 
 
“No.” Ron gripped the table to steady himself. “Why can’t you just let her go?" 
 
Urbano stepped in front of him. “Good sir, it's just youthful bluster.”
 
Hark turned to Urbano and smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “You let someone underage here? That's a third offense.”
 
Urbano's face twisted. “That is hardly-"
 
Hark ignored him. “Take the kid too.”
 
“What, but I didn’t do anything!”

One of the army men, a pace from him, reached over and grabbed Ron. He struggled, hissing at the tight grip. “Let go of me! This is wrong! You can’t just take people!”
 
He was punched in the gut. He doubled over.

“Be quiet." 
 
Ron was shoved out the door. 
 
“Wait!” Urbano almost looked like he was going to claw the man off Ron.
 
He was dragged to the door, but when the cold hit him, his stomach flipped. 

He heaved. Bile burned his throat. 
 
The man holding him flinched back in disgust. 
 
He wanted to die in a fairy hole. This topped the last two months of awful things that happened to him, combined. 
 
The man in the black coat snorted. He wanted to spit in his face. He was forced up the stairs and into the street. 
 
The snow was falling in thick sheets. Clocking the world in white that stained the tar-covered surfaces. As if hiding the cities' sins. 
 
He was bundled along with the girl and the older man into a Muggle vehicle; it looked like a truck, if he remembered Harry’s comments about them.

He was shoved into a seat with Hark sitting across from him. 

“You dump fething kid.” Hark snapped. “You think it's ok to punch commissars, do you? If I were anyone else, I would have you shot in the street.”
 
Ron hunched in on himself, suddenly realizing he was surrounded by a bunch of armed adults who all looked far meaner than Snape.  Yet something was nagging at the back of his brain. Something was wrong about this. 
 
“Do you understand?” Hark snapped.

“Yes… Yes, sir.” Ron said quietly.

He glanced over to the hostess they took. She was at the end, two men down from Hark. Why wasn’t the girl more scared?

He remembered how scared his sister was after her second year in that chamber. How his tough little sister cried. He remembered her shaking even months ago. 

The girl and the man in the army uniform, the one they arrested, were too calm. If there was any benefit of having Fred and George as your brothers, it was knowing when mischief was about.

“Good.” Hark's voice was a low rasp. “Now I’m going to let you off this truck." He leaned right into Ron's face. "But never do anything that dumb again. Do you understand?” 
 
Ron blinked at him, then at the others, the Muggle army men. Then at all their faces, and then he smiled. Ah. He thought. I see now. 

He knew enough of Fred and Georges games to recognize something off. 
 
“Oh," 
 
Hark's face stilled. 
 
Ron’s voice was like a gunshot in an amphitheater. “This is a racket.”

The silence was deafening.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Daur's face froze as the kid grinned at them, half drunk and far too proud. Rawne was still spouting that cursed Commissar's cap like some parody of war. Ranwe fingers twitched toward his gun, but Daur gave him a harsh look. He would shot his major before he shot the kid. 

They were thieves, not monsters. 

 

Meryn sighed. 

 

“Look, kid.” He started, “You know what will happen to you if you say a word, right?” 

 

The kid blinked his eyes too bright, too intense, damned naive. He glanced around the truck, at him, Meryn, Varl, Banda, and finally at Rawne, who looked two seconds from gutting him. 

 

“I die.” He said, Daur jolted a little, sure the hive was cruel, but he wasn’t expecting the finality in the kid's voice.

 

The kids eyes were to wide, unseeing. He gave a cheeky grin.

 

“But you know a little something else keeps the lips sealed shut a lot better than threats.” 

 

Varl sighed. “Lovely, an idiot who thinks he's clever.”

 

Rawne growled in a low voice. “You better be happy with a beating if you-”

 

Daur leaned forward, rubbing his eyes. “How much?” 

 

“Like feth!” Rawne snapped, his voice still tinged with threat. Meryn's head snapped to Daur like he had said the dumbest thing he had ever heard, and Banda's face twisted in a sneer, her eyes narrowed. 

 

No one was happy with him, still, this was the easiest way to handle it, he knew that. 

 

“What the feth are you thinking, cap?” Cant’s voice barked from the driver's seat. 

 

The boy glanced at him, his cheeky grin still on his lips.

 

“I didn't think you would go for it.”

 

“We're not.” Meryn snapped, shooting daggers at Daur. 

 

Daur glanced at all of them. “It’s the easiest way to deal with this. Do you want to deal with Hark snapping at us for assaulting a civilian? He won’t give two grox-shits about us robbing a low-end gambling den, but hitting a kid will make even Gaunt perk up.” 

 

That shut them all up, and even Rawne glanced away before running one scarred hand through dark brown hair. 

 

“Fine.” He glared at the kid. “But you're getting some Amasec money and that's it, you got that? Nothing more?” 

 

The kid's lips widened, “So this Hark fellow… you lo-”

 

“Don’t you start.” Varl snapped, and the kid shut up. They might not be monsters, but they were guard, more than that, they were Tanith. 

 

Daur shook his head. “What is a kid like you even doing in a place like that?” 

 

The kid shrugged. “They let me in.”

Banda snorted. “Said something about his family being big shots or something." 

 

That got a wince from everyone, but the kid gave her a confused look. 

 

“Wha-”

 

The truck slammed to a halt, and Rawne's cold eyes snapped to Cant up front. 

 

“What the feth?” He snapped. “What's the matter, Cant?”

 

“Roadblock!” Trooper Cant's voice snapped back. Daur felt a jolt through his system. This was going to be bad. 

 

“What?” he called, moving to look into the cab, and paled. 

 

“It's only the fething commissariat!” Cant called. The kid moved, shoving beside Daur as he stared out the truck's blacked out glass.

 

“The real one, I mean!” 

 

“Blimey.” Daur heard the kid mumble. “That's a lot of muggles with guns.” He frowned, turning to ask the kid what he meant, when there was a banging on the side of the truck. He glanced back at Meryn, Rawne, Varl, and Banda. All as pale as he was. 

 

The banging got louder. 

 

Rawne let out a bark of a laugh and moved to open the side hatch. They didn’t have much choice now. Daur shoved the kid back into the seats and gave him a look before he could grumble. 

 

“Yeah,” Rawne muttered as he threw open the door to two junior commissars, “This is absolutely what not good feels like.”

---

 

Victor Hark strode through Section, the grey brick mansions that stood at the heart of the Oligarchy, the base of Commissariat authority and high command on the planet. It was bracketed on its western side by a deep terrace below the gardens of Viceroy Square, some of the only shrubbery left on Balhaut. It faced the Avenue Regnum Khulan that stood with perfect symmetry for over a mile. 

 

All other residential districts after the Balhuat campaign had been cleared out and turned into defensive fortifications. An awe-inspiring lattice of gun towers and siege walls winding through what had once been the highest of wealth for the hive. Second only to the manse of the ordos on Melkanor street, six blocks away. 

 

It was a true imperial fortress, impenetrable by all accounts. That was less Harks' concern. No, what he was focused on was the six troopers currently under his command sitting in the prison cells below. 

 

He had thought he would be visiting the lower-level penitentiary in the northern hemisphere of Balhaut, the set of facilities there was like an ant hill crawling with inmates, where most military offenders were held. The idiots he was in charge of had somehow gotten themselves into Section's maximum security cell-blocks. 

 

He sighed, glancing at three commissariat cadets on their hands and knees scrubbing the marble floors. Hark's lips twitched. He remembered being in that position and knew none of them relished doing it. 

 

He nodded at the duty officer at the desk, who took his slip and passed it through the scanner before signing him in. He took it back as the boy saluted. 

 

“Good day to you, sir!” 

 

He nodded and then kept moving through the bustling halls, spotting a familiar figure moving with purpose down one of them. Well, he thought that certainly made his life easier, his stride lengthening to catch up to Ibram Gaunt. 

 

The senior Commissar paused, as he approached and glanced at him.  His eyes shone with a flicker of surprise so small Hark would have missed it if he didn’t know the man so well. 

 

“Where did you come from?” Gaunt raised brow. 

 

Hark salute. "I've just gotten here.” 

 

Gaunt studied him, seeming to pick up on how tired he looked. 

 

“It must be bad.” Gaunt offered more consolation than question. 

 

Hark grinned wearily. “I think you would prefer not to know.” 

 

Gaunt raised his eyebrow a little higher and waved at a small alcove to their left to get them out of the flow of traffic. 

 

“Who is it?” Gaunt's voice was calm, but Hark could tell he wished he wasn’t having this conversation with whatever else brought him to Section; he probably didn’t want another problem to deal with. 

 

“A little team of hustlers. One that included two captains and a major.”

 

“Rawne?” 

 

“I’m afraid so.” 

 

Gaunt lips tightened. two years the Tanith had idled away on Balhaut, Major Rawne had seemed to degrade back to the venomous malcontent that had left Tanith all those years ago. 

 

Gaunt leaned back on his heels. “And Meryn too? If Rawne was involved, she wouldn’t be too far.” 

 

Hark gave a slow nod. Gaunt glanced at the flow of people, probably calculating what favor he would have to call this time. 

 

“Who’s the other captain?” 

 

“You're not going to believe this." Hark grimaced. "Ban Daur.” 

 

Gaunt eyes snapped to Hark. “Well, that’s got to be a mistake, Daur's not the type.” 

 

Hark shrugged. 

 

“So it's bad?” 

 

Hark nodded again. “It’s a genuine mess, and worse, they had a civilian with them, an adolescent at that.” 

 

Gaunt fingers twitched. “What?” 

 

“They all claim the kid wasn’t with them." 

 

Breath hissed through Gaunt's teeth. 

 

“A military tribunal won’t care either way, if he were a civilian or guard, they'll shoot him with the rest of them if they're not careful.” 

 

Hark nodded grimly. Gaunt drummed his fingers on his leg.

 

Finally, he glanced back at Hark. “Write the kid up on a minor misdemeanor and put my name under his discharge. No one will care one way or another. Send the kid to my car. Scout Maggs is my driver for the day, tell him to keep an eye on the boy. I’ll scare him enough to have some sense not to be mixed up with criminals and drop him home once I’m done here.” 

 

Hark raised an eyebrow. “That's generous of you.” 

 

Gaunt gave him a look. “A boy doesn't deserve to die for my major's mistakes.” 

 

Hark nodded and turned to go, but Gaunt raised his hand, stopping Hark in his tracks. “So why was I only called in this morning if you’ve been here since last night?” 

 

Hark paused. “Someone told me you had been summoned when I went to send a missive. I thought I would talk to you when you arrived.” 

 

Gaunt lips pressed together in a thin line. “You didn’t send for me?”  

 

Hark shook his head. “No.” 

 

Gaunt fingers stopped twitching. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip. 

 

Hark studied it. 

 

“Damn, Ibram. This has nothing to do with Rawne’s latest disgrace.” 

 

Gaunt slipped the piece of parchment back in the pocket of his vest and nodded, his face setting in a grim mask. 

 

“You're going to see them?” 

 

Hark tilted his head and gave Gaunt a long look. “Be careful.” 

 

Gaunt lips twitched, the only movement in his long, solemn face. “I'm a political animal, Hark. We are careful by nature."

 

Hark snorted, shaking his head as he started to move toward the elevators. For a Colonel-Commissar, the man was remarkably astute at some things, self-delusion being at the top of the list. 

---

Ron glanced at the man walking through the cell block. He wore the same thing as the Rawne bloke, but he looked far more official. He scanned each cell, bags under his eyes, when he meet someone's eye they looked away. He stopped at Daur's cell and didn't move. 

 

The man raised an eyebrow, and Daur lips threaded into a thin line. 

A breath passed between them. 

 

“Sir.” He gave a sharp salute. 

 

“Captain Daur.” The man's voice rumbled a low, deep baritone like a giant’s snore. 

 

Daur did a remarkable job at not wincing, but Ron could see he was dreading the man. 

 

He felt a cold chill of his own. 

 

“I see you have found yourself in unique accommodations." Ron almost laughed, but choked it down. 

 

“Yes, Sir.” 

 

The man's eyes tracked to Rawne and Meryn. 

 

 “Another accident, Major?” 

 

Rawne pressed his lips together, not quite looking scared. In the short time Ron had been stuck with the jerk, he didn’t think he could look terrified, but he certainly looked unsettled. 

 

“Sir.” Rawne saluted a little more sloppily than Daurs but still sharply. Meryn did as well, his eyes flicking to Leyr, Varl, Cant, and Banda in turn, who all shied away from the withering glare. 

 

Then the man's eyes fell on Ron, who unconsciously straightened under the attention. He was like a very muggle, very militant Professor Snape. He tried to assure himself, pressing his hand to his side to feel his wand in its holster. They hadn’t taken it; he had lied and said it was a lucky charm when they searched him. 

 

“So.” The man's eyes swept over him from his ratty jeans to the T-shirt he borrowed from Harry that hung too loose on his frame. “You're the idiot civie that decided it was a good idea to what? Play as a fall guy for guard officers?” 

 

Ron tried to meet his eyes and failed. If he could face a troll, he could face this. He might not be Harry, but one muggle wasn’t going to make him cower. He didn't look away from his nose. 

 

The man narrowed his eyes. Ron gulped. 

 

“Look, I just got caught up in it. I had nothing to do with whatever mess this is.” 

 

The man tilted his head, his lips twitching. “I don’t think we have been introduced. I am Commissar Hark of the Tanith first and only.” 

 

Ron bit his lip.

 

Hark took a step closer to his cell and studied him with something like surprise on his face. 

 

“Do you know what a Commissar is, boy?” 

 

Ron shrugged. “No?" He tried not to shutter. 

 

Hark narrowed his eyes further. It should have looked silly, but it didn't. 

 

“Lovely.” Banda snapped, “He's a ignorant noble.” 

 

Ron's head snapped to her. He didn’t know what she meant, but he knew it was an insult. “Hey!” 

 

“Enough.” Hark said, and they all shut up. 

 

Hark studied him a moment longer before pressing a card to the barred door of Ron's cell. It slid open with a hiss. 

 

“You’ve been released; consider yourself lucky. Now follow me.” 

 

Ron frowned and glanced back at the others in the cells. 

 

“What about them?” Hark raised an eyebrow and looked at the group of guilty adults, his gaze like the below-zero ice only made by the wizards of the upper hemisphere. Ron was glad he wasn’t on the other side of it. 

 

“They need to learn not to mess with civies.”

 

Ron frowned.  Muggles, he thought, were bloody intense.

---

Wes Maggs drummed his fingers against the edge of the rolled-down window. Leaning back as he watched cars enter through the security gates and beyond. He was bored, but he had enough experience being bored not to complain. 

 

Gaunt had left him with the ideal car and told him to wait, so that was what he was going to do. Even if it felt like watching metal rust. Out of all the punishment duties he could have gotten, this was probably the worst. 

 

He heard a knock on the roof and glanced up. Commissar Hark was standing outside his door. He straightened at once, his spine going stiff as he saluted sharply. 

 

“Sir.” His voice came out surprisingly calm, considering how startled he was. 

 

“Trooper Maggs.” Hark drawled and then stepped aside, and Wes had to blink a few times to confirm what he was looking at. It was a kid with his hands stuffed in his pockets like some kind of grumpy puppy. 

 

His hair was bright red, and his pale skin was healthy-looking, covered in a scattering of freckles. His green eyes flicked to him and then away as he scuffed his sneakers. 

 

“This is your charge until Colonial-Commissar Gaunt returns. Ensure he doesn't go wandering off.” 

 

Maggs glanced at Hark, making sure the Commissar wasn’t throwing a strange joke at him. 

 

“Sir?” He asked as cautiously as he could. 

 

Hark glanced behind him at the kid and narrowed his eyes, causing the kid to straighten. 

 

“This is Ronus Weavik.” 

 

“Ronald Weasely.” The kid corrected, but Hark ignored him. 

 

“A civilian that some of your fellow Tanith accidentally dragged into their scheme, for the sake of convenience, Gaunt will return him home. Where he will be safe, sound and-” He gave the kid a sharp look. “Out of my throne, damned way.” 

 

The kid snuck out his tongue when Commissar Hark turned back around, and Maggs almost laughed. Almost, he still had some sense of self-preservation. 

 

“Major Rawne, sir?” Maggs asked, and Hark's face didn’t so much as twitch. 

 

“That is not your concern, trooper.” Which Wes knew meant it was. 

 

“Yes, sir.” He gave a sharp salute, and Hark turned away, giving the kid one last withering look before he started to head back toward Section. For a moment, the kid looked like he didn't quite know what to do when Maggs waved to the passenger's seat next to him. The kid went around the car and scrambled in. 

 

“Are all you guard types so stiff?” He asked as he settled into his seat. Wes barked out a laugh and grinned. 

 

“Only the officers.”

 

Ron's lips twitched. “Same officers wanting to rob a gambling den?” 

 

Maggs blinked, and then he actually laughed, his shoulders shaking. "So that's what this is all about?”  

 

The kid shrugged, glancing away as he frowned. “I didn’t do anything; it was that Major of yours." 

 

Maggs gave him a flat look. “And I’m Saint Sabbet's long-lost son." 

 

Ron bit his lips and sighed. “I may have thought they were hitting one of the call girls, and then I may have tried to punch him.”

 

Maggs' lips stretched over his teeth. “Rawne?” 

 

The kid's face twisted. “Yeah.” 

 

Wes just held out his hand. “Wes Maggs, Tanith first and only.” 

 

The kid took his hands, surprisingly soft for a hive rat. “Ron Weasley. Idiot extraordinary, it seems.” 

 

Wes offered the kid an Iho stick; he frowned at it like he had never seen one before. Wes raised an eyebrow but showed him what to do, lighting the stick and puffing out a breath of smoky air. Ron took the stick and tried to copy the motion. He started choking. 

 

Hard. 

 

Wes snorted and thunked him on the back a few times. 

 

“You know you should join the Guard; it might be fun having an idiot extraordinarily around.” 

 

The kid gave him a side eye, finally catching his breath. “Oh, Bugger off.” 

 

Wes paused, frowning. He didn’t know the curse, but shrugged to himself, probably just a Balhaut hive thing. The kid gave him an even nastier glare when he offered the rest of the stick. He shrugged and lined it up for his next smoke. 

 

He was starting to like the kid. 

 

---

 

Ron was starting to like the Muggle soldier. 

 

He treated him better than half the adults in his life and seemed to respect him. The Iho tasted like burnt herbs in his mouth, but the man would suck on one his next in hand. So he must like them.

 

The muggle solders weren’t like Harry’s aunt and uncle, who seemed fat and stupid, though he knew his mum would cuff him if he ever said that out loud. These men were all lean, hard, wiry muscles and dark, sunken eyes. 

 

It made him afraid to ask why they all looked so lost. 

 

Both of them enjoyed each other's company in peace as they waited for Maggs' commanding officer. Whatever that meant. He had told him, he had gotten into a fight, and now he was on chauffeur duty. 

 

Ron didn’t mind; he had only ever ridden in a magical Muggle car, but never a Muggle Muggle car. He hadn’t even spoken to that many muggles before; it was exciting like he was a secret all for himself. 

 

Wind picking up the drift along the gravel street. 

 

Maggs jolted beside him. 

 

“Wha-”

 

He was thrown back into his seat by the force of Magg suddenly accelerating the car. They turned hard, nearly losing control before it corrected. 

 

“Hold on!”

 

Ron's fingers scrambled to buckle his seat belt. His heart in his throat as it snapped shut.  

 

“What is it!” He tried, but Maggs didn’t respond. 

 

His stomach sank as he realized something. The courtyard, only minutes before, full, was empty. 

 

They slammed to a stop next to a tall building. He was half thrown in his seat, almost going through the window. His seat belt constricted around his chest.  Stopping him dead, but leaving the skin a pulsing bruise. 

 

Light from the street lamps flooded in. He tasted something buzzing on the back of his tongue, through his teeth. He reached for his wand, the holster slipping it into his hand as he held it stiffly, tucking it under his legs so Maggs couldn’t see it. 

 

The back seat door opened, and two men shoved in one of them, manhandling the other,. One a prisoner the other commissar with sharp eyes. 

 

A shot went through the window behind him, shattering the glass. Ron ducked as his pulse spiked faster than a Hippogriff sprinting. Another took out the mirror to his left. 

 

His hand curled into a death grip around his wand. The door shut with a thud, and they were off. The car serving as Ron glanced behind, seeing a bunch of Muggle men. Their skin panted with dark symbols. 

 

The blond man fired back, turning and shooting through the rear window. The sound was too loud in Ron's ears. He smelled burnt rubber and sweat. 

 

“GO!” The man bellowed, and Maggs leaned forward in the car, shooting forward again. Ron clung on, tumbling violently around in his seat. Choking back vomit. 

 

The big Limousine wheels slipped. 

 

It stalled. 

 

“For feth’s sake, Magg!” The man pounded. His gun barrel was bursting with red light over and over again. 

 

More rounds thumped through the body of the car. Two passing clean through Ron's seat. Mere inches from his head. He curled tighter, trying to make himself as small as possible. Little dots of daylight shining through the door as Maggs frantically turned the engine over. 

 

Once, twice, then it rumbled to life, and they lurched forward once more. The gear groaned as if crushed as they sped forward. 

 

The limousine clipping one of the mechanics' blazers.  

 

“The gate! Head for the gate!” The blue eyed man shouted. 

 

Maggs shivered hard exposing their right side. the side Ron was on. A sharp pain in his leg. 

 

Three more rounds tore through the back canopy as the gate started to approach, nd

 

 Two shots embedded in the dashboard. One creased Magg’s skull, slicing off the top of his right ear. He howled in pain but pressed harder on the gas. The car  lurched and wallowed. It had no grip.

 

A man in a silver mask from behind, moving faster than any human is supposed to move. Landed on the rear of the car. It bounced as his weight smashed down. 

 

The other side mirror exploded, cutting into Ron’s cheek. He gasped, but couldn’t make a sound, with the breath punched out of him. The man in the back braced his feet on the fender and the rear mudguard, and with the other hand, clung to the roof. His hand was clawing at the back door. 

 

“Scared feth!” Magg gasped as they smashed into the outer courtyard. No guards here either. 

 

Ron got a glimpse of his symbols.  Muggles weren’t supposed to have dark magic. 

 

Maggs aimed the car's nose at the narrow gateway linking the main yard to the street beyond. The man wrenched the side door open, finally, and Ron almost pulled out his wand. He began stabbing at them widely with a cursed knife. A genuine dark artifact straight out of the Malfoys' manner.

 

The car ran through the narrow gate, the open door splashing into its side, slamming closed. It should have cut off the man's arm, but it bounced off instead. A wicked bruise already darkening the skin, but no blood. 

 

Ron scrambled around, weary of the knife, as he started to try to kick him out. 

 

The dark magic man ignored him entirely for the two other men in the passenger's seat. 

 

Maggs raced the car into the street; it suspended in the air for a moment as it left the raised arch to the mansion. Oher men with cursed runes carved into their skin, racing behind.

 

The street was littered with the dead. 

 

Ron heaved. 

 

Snow falling on the pale corpses, every color of humanity being buried under it. Greasy smoke foamed out of one of the wings of the building beyond into the street. The folds of it like fat jiggling in the heat.

 

Part of the roof in the distance was ablaze, tongues of vivid yellow flames dancing in the crowded sky. Casting everything in a sickly warm light. The car roared through the final incline to the main street beyond, the man in the mask made one last desperate attempt to get inside. 

 

The other man in the Commissar's coat had drawn his pistol. He aimed it through the door at the masked man's head. The bolt-round punched through the canopy and split the armored roof open.

 

Ron glanced behind him one last time as he panted, his leg still burning. The masked man rolling in the street where he fell. 

 

The staff car hurtled under the final central arch, and Ron lost sight of him.

 

“Which way?” Maggs yelled, his voice thrumming with suppressed panic. He was steering with one hand and pinching his wounded ear with the other. His entire upper body was covered in a thick sheen of blood. It made him look like half a man and half a statue. 

 

“Just keep going.” The other man snapped. 

 

“But-” 

 

“Just keep going. Anyway you like, just make sure they're squarely behind us.” 

 

Maggs glanced at Ron, curled up in the seat next to him, clutching his leg. Their eyes met before he heard Maggs curse. 

 

“What about the kid?” The officer glanced at him, seeming to notice him for the first time. 

 

“Emperor's bones.” The officer cursed. “We keep him with us, we can’t slow down now.” 

 

Ron's head snapped to him. “Like Merlin, you are! I don’t like being shot at, let me out.” 

 

The officer met his glare. 

 

“Stay in the car, boy, that’s an order.” 

 

Ron reared back, showing his teeth. He heard the other man in chains wheezing, laughing, either at him or the absurdity of the situation. 

 

“I don’t answer to you.” He started tugging at the doors; it was locked, and he glared at Maggs.  

 

The man moved before he could react, grabbing his collar and pulling him, hard. Ron stared directly into his face. E like frozen water piercing into his skull. 

 

“You step out of this car, you’ll last five minutes. You understand that?” 

 

Ron glared, huffing, but shut up. 

He didn't want to look at his shaking hands. 

 

“Fine, but if I die-" His voice cracked. "It's on you.” 

 

The officer grunted and leaned back in his own seat. 

 

“It already was.” 

 

 Maggs looked at the mirror and the officer working on the prisoner in the back. 

 

‘Gaunt, what is it?” Maggs turned onto another street. 

 

“His hit,” Gaunt growled, pressing a torn-off piece of cloth to the other man's wounds. Ron rolled his wand between his fingers. He could save him. But he couldn’t break the statue. 

 

“Who is he?” 

 

Gaunt glanced at Maggs and pressed on the bullet wound harder. “It doesn't matter. All you need to know is that we need to keep him alive.”

 

Ron bit into the side of his cheek. Pressing harder on his own wound. 

 

“You have to stay awake.” Gaunt propped the prisoner up. The man nodded his lips slowly draining of color. 

 

“I mean it.” Gaunt leaned in, pressing harder on the makeshift bandage, making the prisoner hiss. His eyes started to close. Gaunt slapped him. 

 

“Stay awake, throne damn you. You need to live.” 

 

The prisoner opened his eyes.

 

“I will.” He coughed, he had a deep, gravely voice that thrummed through Ron's bones.  

 

The streets were strangely empty, the same ache behind Ron's teeth. Someone was casting a spell, a potent spell. The snow was falling in waves, and a few cars were idling along.

 

One delivery driver clipped a tree when they slid too fast through a junction. Ron was silent as he curled into himself. 

 

“Get off the road.” The prisoner was sitting up now, alert and bright-eyed. His voice a command.

 

“Get off the road. It isn’t spent.” 

 

“What in the God-Emperor’s name are you saying?” Gaunt growled. 

 

The prisoner didn’t answer, and Ron glanced back. He was in some kind of trance; he could tell whatever dark magic was bleeding into the world had seeped into him, too. Ron's head snapped up, his hand digging into his wand as a low keening sound started to echo throughout the car. 

 

Something was getting closer. 

 

Gaunt roared. “Get off the road.” 

 

Magg cursed under his breath, hauling on the steering wheel and swinging the heavy car around into a narrow side street. Ron was turned into his side door and hissed as he landed wrong. 

 

The walls around them blackened with age. Streetlamps their only light. A sliver of sky above them, and dark walls caging them in. Ron glanced up, his breath catching as a shape bloated in the sky. Gaunt shoved open the door, his gun in hand. 

 

It was dark magic, so foul Ron could feel it in his bones. For just a second, the shape skidded over the pavement in front of them, a human body infested with something else. Dark glowing runes bending reality like heat wash around its shape. Gaunt raised his gun. 

 

Ron reached for them. It wasn’t so much there as un-there. A shattered splinter in the thread of the universe. Corrupted air leaking into a perfumed room. It was a job for the Aurors; for the unspeakables, it howled, and Ron's nerves popped. Its twisted body was both animal and man at once, as its teeth gleamed so white they looked like they were bleeding into the air. It leapt, and Ron lunged, grabbing hold of all three men in the car. 

 

He didn’t think of the statue, didn’t think of what this could mean. He closed his eyes and thought of one single throat. 

 

Safety.

 

With a snap of reality, they were gone. The blood wolf crushed the car under it as its strength shimmered, dissipating in the air. 

 

With another snap of reality, Ron crashed into the floor of Borrow, three men tumbling with him as they rolled across the floor. Ron, for a moment, just lay there panting, his breath coming in and out. 

 

His whole body was shaking. Something didn't feel right in his chest. He felt a spark of awareness, he glanced down. He was bleeding. 

 

Oh. His pinky finger was gone. The pain hit him all at once. Like a rush of fire through his veins. 

 

He felt the muzzle of a bolt pistol press into his cheek. Glancing up to see the cold, hard eyes of Gaunt staring at him. 

 

“What did you do?” His voice commands. 

 

Ron gasped. curling his hand were his finger should be. 

 

He opened his mouth. Closed it. 

 

Gaunt pressed the barrel harder into his cheek.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Gaunt was breathing hard; he tried to calm down. He wasn’t panicking; he had been in too many wars to panic, but his mind was racing. A broom was sweeping by itself mere feet from him. Dishes were being washed in a sink.

 
He was in a farmhouse when he should have been in a cold, snow-covered street. The witch stared at him as if he were the monster.

 

He wanted to make him shut his eyes. He didn't want to see the child, didn't want to see the domesticity of it. Witches weren't meant to look like boys. Warp craft wasn't meant to be sweeping brooms and dishes being done. 

He should kill him now and be done with it. No, he needed information first. 

He pressed the gun harder into his cheek, his voice a low growl. 

The kid's blood pooled by his hand as he whimpered. 

“What did you do?” He hissed. The boy flinched.

Good Gaunt thought, he should feel afraid. He looked less young. 

His wide blue eyes meet Gaunts. Breath stretched thin between them as the boy tried to think. 

Thick silence smothered all sound. 

"I-"

“What do you think you're doing?” A voice snapped, a matronly clap of authority. Gaunt glanced over. He hadn't even heard her approach.  A fuming red-headed woman, hands on her hips and apron around her waist, stood feet from him in the doorway. For a moment, Gaunt thought he saw steam leaving her ears before he blinked and raised his gun. Holding the boy down with his other hand. 

Another witch. His thoughts raced. By the throne, there was more than one. 

“Do not move.”

Her eyes went to the gun pointed square at her head. Her lips pinched together. 

Her finger twitched, a wooden stick moving in the air. Without hesitation, he moved to press the trigger, but there was no bang. He stared for a second; there was a carrot in his hand.

 

The skin was rough with little white hairs on it, it didn't feel blasphemous. 

 

That was impossible; that should be impossible. He stared at the orange vegetable before he felt movement. He was surrounded by witches.  

He hadn't felt this powerless since he was a cadet. 

He cursed, reaching for his knife when the woman flicked her wrist. 

Beside him, he heard Maggs grunt. Gaunt only had a second to turn to face his attacker, knife in hand, when he was enveloped. 

His vision went black for a moment, and he thought he would suffocate. Something like liquid smothered him. Light in his eyes, he was able to breathe. He shifted slightly and found resistance. 

A wooden chair was restraining him. Next to him, Maggs cursed and shifted, another impossible cocoon around him. 

A chair. 

A witch. 

“Ronald Bilius Weasley! What is this!” She jabbed a stick, a focus device? 

The kid whimpered, holding out his hand. Showing him the bleeding stump where his thumb used to be. His mother paled. 

The clock ticking stalled as if afraid to disturb a mother with her wounded child. 

"Ron." She breathed, and then she was at his side, murmuring a spell. 

Her wand moved in delicate motions, swishing through the air. It would have been beautiful if it weren't so unsettling. 

Before his eyes, the blood slowed and thickened, the flesh shifting grotesquely. The boy slumped, exhausted. Then she moved where two bullets had grazed his leg, repeating the process. He sat there stuck in a wooden cage, listening to warp craft performed like it was a nursery rhyme. It was almost absurd. 

Gaunt eyes tracked a woven blanket she lifted in the air without touching it. It dwarfed the boy's small frame. 

 

He tasted something bitter on his tongue, to soft to be disgust. The inquisition would mutilate them.  

Ron curled up and rubbed his eyes before glancing at them. 

“Their-”

"Injured." She moved to Mabbon's side, and she pointed her focus stick at one of the bullet holes. 

“Don't touch him.” Gaunt hissed. She frowned and leaned in. He watched as his prisoner was fretted over, with no way to stop her from touching his mind.
He felt like the air pulled taut against his skin. 

“Don’t worry about your friend, sir, just one flick of the wrist.” Her focus stick glowed for a moment.

“Episkey.” There was the sound of flesh cracking and moving. The slide of something locking into place. His bonds had little give as he tested them. The bleeding slowed and then stopped, and she nodded, repeating the procedure on his other wounds. 

“There.” She smiled at Mabbon as if he were a child with a scraped knee and not a Son of Sek. “All better.” 

“Throne.” Maggs breathed beside him. Gaunt choked down a curse himself. 

Medicine as a parlor trick. As if a bullet hole was no more troublesome then a bug bite. He had watched men bleed for less. 

 

“Now,” she smiled at the man, “that should help, but I imagine you'll want to see a proper med-witch.

“Thank you.” Mabbon inclined his head and leaned back. “You're no hedge-witch,” his eyes darted to the boy. “And your son isn’t one either.” 

The woman blinked for a moment and then blushed faintly. “Oh, you're quite a charmer.” 

“Mom!” Ron snapped. Gaunt could feel Maggs' eyes boring into all their faces, half in shock, half in some kind of incredulous despair. 

Gaunt voice cut through the domesticity like a laser knife through orc flesh. “You’ve made your point. I know you are more than capable. But if you wish to talk like anything but captor and captive, you would unbind me.”

The woman's eyes shifted to him. 

“You tried to shoot my son.” 

“Yes,” Gaunt didn’t even try to deny it. “But I am not asking for my gun, nor do I intend to hurt either of you. Show me you can be trusted, and I can extend the same courtesy." 

There was the sound of a teapot hissing. The smell of flour in the air. 

She gave him one long look, her eyes sharp and searching.

A flicker of hesitance. Then her eyes caught the bullet hole through his upper arm, and her eyes softened. 

She nodded, and with another flick of her wrist, the chairs snapped back into place under them now. 

Like liquid melting back into place, he forced himself to be still. His instincts were almost overwhelming to make her stop. 
He rolled his shoulders, getting up slow enough not to alarm them. 

The woman held out her hand. 

“Molly.” Gaunt stared at it a moment. Callused from housework, but not hard. After a long moment of silence, she dropped her hand.
Maggs was still shifting beside him like he wanted to gut them. Gaunt didn't blame him. 

Her gaze was sharp enough to cut. “Ronald. Explain why three Muggles are in my kitchen.” The child rubbed the back of his head, looking down. 
Gaunt noted the word muggle. 

“I... ok.... so I may have, or I may not have.”

“Ronald.” Her warning was enough. 

His shoulders slumped. “Ok, so Fred told me about this Muggle bar, and I wanted to go, but then this man pretending to be the commrat, commiste, something like that.” 

“Commissariat.” Gaunt corrected almost on instinct. 

The boy flinched. "Right, they took off, and I got caught. Some stuff happened, but I was in a car with them when this demon thing was chasing us, and I didn’t know what to do. I... I..." he looked at his hand where the stump was. "I apparated.” 
She studied him a moment longer.

 
Gaunt felt himself relax despite himself. A fretting mother felt like no threat.

"Go by the fire, Ron." 

The boy's face fell in relief as if he had just avoided a lemon russ tank.

He scrambled up.

“What the feth,” Maggs whispered beside him. Gaunt wished he could tell him how much he agreed with the sentiment. 

“Now.” She turned back. “Drinks,” she nodded, eyeing them. “You must all be cold,” She waved her stick again, and Gaunt stared as something warm was poured into three mugs for them and floated to his hands. Maggs didn't touch it. Etogaur sipped it slightly. 

The fire crackled and popped. 

He needed control. He glanced at a picture on one of the walls. He didn’t think about the fact that it was moving. More than one child, they were all possibly witches; the husband looked like the wife. 

Possibly a provincial in-breed witch line? Hidden from the imperium. They obviously didn’t recognize what a commissar was. But that wasn’t his concern right now; information was. 

“Where is this place? What do you intend with us?”

Molly blinked at him.

“Right, of course. This,” She waved her hand. “Is the Burrow, our home, and what I intend with you is… well, I” she bit her lip, “I suppose I’ll have to get you warmed up, and then we can figure this mess out together.” 

“Mum!” A different voice shouted. Gaunt eyes snapped to the stairs out the door from him as something tumbled down them, before a head shouted out a girl younger than the boy, but not by much. “I forget how to do the extension cha-” Her eyes caught sight of them in the kitchen, then at Ron, then at her mother. 
She was small, red-haired like her mother, with sharp pale features and bright blue eyes.

She looked like the rest of her family, simple, normal, civilian. He didn't doubt she was a witch, too. Something told him they weren't the only ones. If that was true, then the imperium would burn his planet to the ground hunting them. He felt a cold weight sink into his stomach. 

The wind rattled the window frame next to him. 

“Blimy,” she breathed. “Your muggles.”

 

She said it as if they were a different species entirely. As if humans were some lesser category of animal and she wasn't even trying to be rude. 

 

Ron groaned by the stove, and Molly frowned, but the girl was already before them, looking them over with keen, curious eyes. “How did you get here? Who are you? Did Ron bring you? No, you're too cool for Ron?” 

“Hey!” Ron snapped.

“What are your names? Did Ron break the statue to bring you here?” 

“Ginny,” Molly warned, and the girl fell silent.

 
“Sorry,” she said, “we just don’t get a lot of muggles.” 

“The statute?” Maggs asked, seeming to latch onto the word. Gaunt eyes flicked to him, then back at the girl. 

“The statute of secrecy, of course. Don’t you know about it? If you're muggles inducted by the ministry, then you must.” 

Molly let out a long sigh. “Ginny, your brother brought them here by accident.’ She glanced at Gaunt, who had gone tense. His whole body was rigid. 

“Ron.” She breathed. “You could get expelled!” 

Ron hunched further in on himself and glanced at his feet. “I didn’t have a choice, ok?” 

Gaunt's mind was starting to connect dots. His head tilted, he could feel Mabbon's eyes on the girl, and even Maggs could sense the tension in the air. 

 

Gaunt pulse settled into a cold rhythm. This civilization had rules, and where there were rules there was power, there was division. 

“The statute?"

Molly gave Ginny a sharp look but waved her hands as if dismissing the thought. 

“Local laws, things like that, nothing you need to trouble yourself with now, let's get you all warm. Why don’t you take a seat, and I can scramble up something for you to eat?” 

His face went hard. “I trouble myself with all laws, madam. Local or otherwise. Humor me for a moment. What is the statute and the ministry?” 

“It's not your concern." Molly's voice was weary; she turned to her daughter as if to escape them. "Young lady! Don't you have packing to do?”
Ginny frowned. “Fine,” she grumbled and turned toward the stairs, irritated. “I'll figure the expansion charm out by myself.” 

Maggs breathed through his teeth, “This is heresy, sir, isn't it?” his voice was faint. Gaunt gritted his teeth as Mabbon leaned closer. 

Molly was waving Ginny half out the door. 

“Tell me, Ronald.” The boy glanced at him.

“I prefer Ron.” He said, and Maggs half laughed. “The witch prefers Ron.” Gaunt gave him a sharp look. Maggs, shut up.

“Explain to me this ministry in your own words,” he could hear Molly talking to the girl, shooing her up the stairs. He knew he didn’t have much time.
The boy frowned. “I don't know why you're so interested." It wasn't a question. 

Gaunt let his shoulders lift in a shrug. "Can you blame me?" 

Ron swirled the liquid in his cup before taking a sip. “It’s just the government, I mean, my government.” He corrected “You know it writes laws, like they have this really annoying one where werewolves can’t be around students, which is just dumb because werewolves are only dangerous during the full moon, so I-”
“For breaking this statute?” Gaunt asked. 

Ron's blue eyes met his. For a breath, they watched each other. 

"Muggles." His voice grew tight. “You're not supposed to know."  

“And there are many of you then?”

Ron stared into the dancing flames. His fingers are flexing against his Maggs. A weary light behind his eyes. 

"I'm not answering that." 

“Careful, boy.” Maggs' voice was low. 

The fire sparked, and a piece of ash burned into the wood. 

“Enough.” Gaunt's voice was soft. “A school. So there are enough of you for institutions. Not just families. How many students study at this school?”
Gaunt watched Ron stare at his Mug. “I don’t know."

His hands were shaking. 

Molly's footsteps quieted them. 

She paused by the door again. What’s going on?” 

“Nothing, ma’am,” Maggs rasped. “Just learning.” 

Her eyes narrowed.

The world seemed to close in. 

Her shoulders fell. 

"You must all be half-starved. Let's get some food for you."

By the throne, he thought, they would all burn for this. 

---

Ron glanced at the men; they looked pale and withdrawn, as if in some kind of lucid dream. 

“You guys ok?” 

The leader looked at him, his face tight but his eyes like two blue stars in his skull. 

“Yes,” Gaunt said before shifting. “Are you packing?”

“Yes. We’re…”

The floo flared to life. Med-wizard Kolding stumbled, the albino man juggling three bags behind him. He spotted their guests almost immediately.
He froze. Something like fear flashed across his narrow features. It made Ron's stomach turn. 

"Guard." 

"Is that what they're called?" Ron shifted in his blankets. 

Kolding slowly moved again. Not answering. Gently placing his instrument bag down next to Mabbon. 

“Kolding,” his mum smiled, “is one of the best in the field. A muggle-born, I thought he might be of some help.”

“What does that term mean, muggle-born?” 

Kolding licked his lips, his voice a low chant. After an awkward moment of silence, Ron decided to spare the poor man. “It means he was uh… born to Muggle parents." 

“Ron.” His mother warned. 

“What?” 

Gaunt, keen eyes settling on Kolding. “You were born to imperial parents?” 

Kolding's lips thinned, closing one of the bullet holes and then moving to warp it, the skin still fresh and pink.

“Yes, sir.”

Ron saw the look on Gaunt face, a cold chill slipping down his spine. 

 

The moment the older man realized they weren't alone. That to him this was a corruption from within. They had bred into the Balhuat population. His mind tried to balk at that. He almost wanted to tell the man he was lying, that they couldn't have been that blind. But he knew better; his shoulders felt heavy, and it was hard to hold them straight. This was no longer about a single secret. This was about a civilization of theirs. 

His eyes turned cold as Ron stared at him, he saw him swallow the horror swelling in his throat. 

Saw a realization take hold. They had missed this on Balhuat. His face whispered. They wouldn't again. 

Gaunt watched him work his wand, weaving incantations. “Do you know what I am?” 

“You are an imperial commissar, Sir.” 

Ron frowned into his hot chocolate. He didn’t know why the man was so afraid. 

Gaunt stepped forward, his shadow falling over the hunched man. 

“Were you born like this, Kolding?” 

The man whimpered. “I… you're not supposed to know about this, Sir.”

“Oh, don’t scowl over the man!” Molly hissed. “Let him do his work.” 

Gaunt stepped back. “My apologies." 

"Yes." A weight pressing down on all of them like Hogwarts itself had fallen onto their backs. "Sir."

His mum floated a bowl of stew over to each of them, and the tension broke like a troll dead in a dungeon. 

For an hour, they existed in silence, eating slowly and watching each other. Ron curled tighter as Kolding warped his finger. The taste of bitter oranges on his tongue forced him to swallow a finger growth potion. 
Kolding stood. 

“I’ll be leaving now.” 

Gaunt grabbed his wrist before he could pass. “I think, doctor,"

Kolding's eyes were wide behind his sunglasses.

“I…”

Gaunt tightened his grip.

 
“You should sit.”

Kolding sat. 

Ron felt a cold chill crawl down his back.

His mum watched quietly. 

“It was powerful?” Her eyes moved to Ron. 

"What was?" 

“The dark creature?" 

"Yes." Mabbon shifted again like a snake coiling. "A wire-wolf." 

She considered this, her face twisting. 

“You'll have to.” Her back stiffened, “Come with us then. To keep you safe." 

Gaunt fingers drummed on his knee. Then stilled. 

"Are you giving us a choice?" 

His mum's face darkened. 

Ron could hear the clock's tick, tick, tick. 

 

Everyone already knew the answer. 

 

"No." 

---

The women, the oldest with red hair, clapped her hands together. Magg stared at the bar that had suddenly risen as if always there. 
Molly's voice was strained.

“Welcome to The Leaky Cauldron.” 

 

They were on a fething main street. The building hadn't been there just a moment before. 

Maggs was starting to wonder when he was supposed to scream.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Gaunt's hand never left his gun. They sat in a smoky bar, the air tasted of tainted herbs. Tucked away in a little booth pressed shoulder to shoulder. His arm stuck to the table every time he brushed it, the leather seats so worn he thought they would tear when he shifted. 

 

“So anything to drink?” Ron wasn’t looking at them. Gaunt had made sure the boy was close. If this went grox-shit he would be his first line of defense. Molly was frowning at him, she had understood the moment she realized she couldn’t reach her son. Forced to sit across from them. 

 

“No.” Maggs snarled. He took a long draw of his Iho-stick. His hand was shaking. Gaunt met his eye. Magg's lips thinned but he nodded. 

 

Now wasn’t the time for anger. 

 

Gaunt's didn’t focus on the inhuman figures around them. He knew he would start shooting if he did. 

 

Mabbon's body shifted next to him bracketed in by Maggs on the other side of the bench. The man didn’t turn his body away from the crowd. 

 

The others had left soon after, even Kolding had scampered away. 

 

“Describe it to me.” Mabbon waved to a pale man in the corner.

“Him.” Ron corrected automatically. 

 

The man glanced over as if he heard them. Maybe he did, Gaunt had no idea how any of these Abhuman could be killed. But he would find out. 

 

“Yes, what-”

A shape slipped past the wall of their corner, wide if short shape, a cane clacking against the floor. 

 

“So these are the muggles?” The voice was like gravel over concrete. 

 

“Moody.” Molly breathed. 

 

The man's face was ravaged, like a beast had clawed to the bone and it never healed right. His left eye was missing, replaced by an artificial one that spun into the back of his head. He leant on his cane in a way that told Gaunt it wasn’t just a cane. 

 

He knew the moment he saw him, that this won’t end without one of them breaking something. 

 

Gaunt met his eyes and rose slightly holding out his hand. It never hurts to be courteous to the locals. 

 

Moody eyed it as if it was a bomb. 

 

“Charming.” Maggs laughed. 

 

Gaunt dropped his hand and sat back down. 

 

Moody eyes felt like they pierced them. 

 

“So the golden trio is at it again,” His lips twisted into a sneer. “Breaking the statue this time.”

“There was a dark creature!” Ron's voice was thin and high. 

 

Moody huffed but waved his cane and sat as Molly shifted to let him in. He was across from Gaunt, his one fake eye snapping to him like a targeting system locking on. 

 

“Why haven’t you shot them?” 

 

Gaunt carefully schooled his features. “Excuse me?” 

 

Moody showed his teeth it wasn’t a smile. 

 

“You're a commissar, boy. You don’t forgive witches.”

Magg’s fingers twitched to where Gaunt knew he kept his combat knife. He raised his hand under the table and Maggs stilled. 

 

“Do you think I had the chance?” 

 

Moody rested his cane on his knee. A drunk man shouted from two booths down. Moody leaned in. 

 

“Smart mouth.” 

 

“Moody.” Molly sighed but the man didn’t look away. “Our guests were attacked; they deserve more than suspicion." 

 

Moody's hand tightened around his cane but his artificial eye spun away. 

“My apologies.” He tilted his head. “It’s an Aurors job to be wary.” 

 

“You knew what a Commissar was.” Mabbon murmured beside Gaunt.

“A what?” Molly frowned. 

 

The boy's wide eyes were flitting between them. 

 

Gaunt hand twitched to his former pistol. The carrot tucked in his jacket pocket like a prop. He only had one gun left. 

“I am a military officer.” 

 

Moody huffed. “Far more than just that.” 

 

Molly frown deepened but before she could ask further a woman dressed like she was from a feudal world stopped by their table. Long and dark skirts draped under a stained apron. Frills of lace around her color on a rotund frame. 

 

The waitress blinked at them. “Drink?” 

 

Her face held the remains of some private joke. None of them answered. She paused. The laughter drained from her eyes.

 

“A butterbeer?” Ron curled in on himself. 

 

“Tea for everyone.” Moody snapped. 

 

She didn’t write it down. Her eyes were focused on Ron. 

 

She didn’t move for a heartbeat.

 

“Coming right up.” She didn’t turn her back to them until she slipped behind the bars doors. 

 

The world seemed to narrow into only their tiny little booth. 

 

“You have wandered where you don’t belong.”

“You hide from the imperium, it’s not me who doesn’t belong.” 

 

He could taste ale on his tongue lingering in the air and slicking his throat. He could also taste fear. 

 

Moody eyes shifted like a wave about to fall. 

 

“You know nothing.”

Molly's eyes fell onto her son as if feeling how the air had become wire thin. 

 

“I know enough to know this is heresy.”

Mabbon lips twitched as if to say something. But for a breath no one spoke. 

The word heresy sat between them, hot enough to burn. 

 

“You muggles.” Moody spat “It’s only ever heresy with you.”

Gaunt let his gun rest on the table.

“How do you know what a commissar is?” 

 

Ron whimpered. 

 

Moody started to rise. 

 

“Tea?” The waitress's voice cut the tension in the air. She put steaming cups of tea in front of all of them. 

“I asked for a butterbeer.” Ron's face looked strained like he was clinging onto something innocent.

“It’s not the time, Ron.” Molly shifted toward her son. 

 

She didn’t even look at him. Her feet carried her away. 

 

Moody tapped his cane against the ground in a deliberate pattern. 

 

“How did you keep this hidden?” Gaunt pressed. 

 

Molly's breath hissed through her teeth. “You would not like that answer.” 

 

Moody tapped his cane three more times. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. 

 

Gaunt picked up his tea. His throat felt dry as sand suddenly. 

 

“That doesn't answer my question.” 

 

Moody took a sip. Maggs mimicked him. The edges of the world turned fuzzy. Something was wrong. He glanced at his tea again. Licking his chapped lips. One sip that was all. 

 

“We kept watch.” Moody's fake eye kept circling in his head. 

 

“So you're telling us there's a bunch of psykers living in habs? Saying hi to their fething neighbors? That doesn't explain a damn thing.” Maggs' tried to slam his tea down but it slipped from his hands and shattered across the ground. The anger seemed to drain out of him. He blinked slowly watching the liquid seep into the wood. 

 

“What's a psyker?” Ron was leaning away from him, his hands white knuckles on the table.

 

 “A witch.” Maggs slurred. 

 

“But we’re witches?”

 

 “Not the time, boy.” Moody snapped. His fingers kept drumming on his cane. 

 

Ron didn’t drink the tea. He looked from Maggs to Mabbon who was swirling the liquid in his cup. Something like realization flickering behind his eyes.

 

“How?” 

 

Moody face was like a stone. He leaned on his cane. 

Gaunt could hear ringing in his ears, like a church bell tolling. 

 

“You don’t need to know.” 

 

He should be angry, he should force the other man to answer him but he was so thirsty. The tea touched Gaunt’s lips. His hand paused. His mind slowed. 

 

Ron's eyes widened as he watched him. 

 

“You're bewitching them” The boy stood, his face going white. He looked at them, his body shivering and not from the cold. This was about who was prey and the boy was in reach of Gaunt. 

 

Maggs crumbled to the ground. 

 

A chair scuffed the ground. A voice rose in a laugh. 

 

They were among witches. He could never forget that. 

 

He met Moody’s dark eyes flickering with cold thought. 

 

If he didn’t move now, his mind won’t be his own. 

 

He threw the tea at Moody's face.

 

The hot liquid rose in a dark arc. 

 

Moody shouted a word that made Gaunt’s airs ring and the tea stopped dead in the air. Gaunt scrambled for something. The boy, not quick enough to draw, not dangerous enough to fight. But useful enough that Moody would hesitate before discarding him.  

 

Gaunt grabbed his arm and lunged out of the seat. 

 

“Oblivatate!”

 

The spell flew by his head. Missing him by a hair as he tumbled to the ground. Mabbon heaved himself over the booth's walls at the same time. The sound of shocked voices behind him.

Moody snarled. As Molly stood her eyes locked on her son. Moody raised his cane. No, his wand turning to Gaunt. 

 

He only had one way to stop the man. He didn’t hesitate, he had spent his whole life learning to turn fear into something hot enough to burn. 

 

He pressed his gun to Ron's head. 

 

The lights flickered above him as if not willing to see the boy’s death. 

 

For a heartbeat there was just the curling smoke in the bar and the boy's body falling still against him. The clatter of barstools close to them stopping and a woman's confused question. 

 

Gaunt looked up to meet the man’s eyes. The remains of a thousand drinks clinging to him like chains as he lay on the floor next to the booth. 

 

“You drugged the tea.” 

 

The scared man’s face stilled. His eyes narrowed on where his pistol met the boy’s head. His face settling into a grime mask. 

 

“Do not make this more difficult than it has to be.” 

 

The boy choked back a whimper in his arms. 

 

He turned to Mabbon. “Is Maggs dead?” The Etroger slipped from the booth to Gaunt's left where he had landed. A woman with a pale face staring at him as he moved to the floor. Feeling for Maggs' pulse. His feet crunching in the broken pieces of tea cup on the floor. 

 

 “No.” 

 

“Moody?” Ron's eyes were wide. 

 

“Quiet boy.” Moody held his staff steady in front of him. 

 

“I should shoot the boy and you.” 

 

The other patrons were starting to realize something was wrong. Voices rising in confusion around them.

 

“Try and I’ll turn your insides out.” 

 

Gaunt forced the boy to his feet, not taking the muzzle of his head. Shoving him in front of Maggs' slumped body. Moody twitched but didn’t stop them. 

 

“You're going to tell me what you did to my trooper, and then we're going to leave.” 

Moody tapped the ground.

 

His face showed a veiled hesitance for only a moment. Something dark and tired in the lines of his skin. Like he had to make too many decisions with no good answer. 

 

“The boy isn’t worth the statue.” 

 

Ron tensed under his hand. “Moody.” His voice broke. Gaunt shifted his grip, securing him.

“Yet you haven’t tried anything else.” 

 

He could hear Moody's teeth clench. 

 

“That's Ron Weasley.” Someone said behind him. The voices around him were growing in number.

 

“What, is this some kind of joke?” Someone else snapped. 

 

“It will be painless. You won’t remember a thing.” The wooden floor creaked under him as if it in warning. 

 

“You don’t make that choice.” 

 

“Wait.” Ron's voice had become strained. “Moody, what are you saying?” 

 

The older man didn’t even look at the boy. “Men like this don’t simply leave you be.” There was a finality in his voice. 

 

“No.” Ron hissed, tilting his head away from the gun. “No, you don’t just get to write me off.” His hands were curled into fists. The boy's face cracked, something innocent breaking across the dirty ground. 

 

Gaunt considered him; He had no value to Moody now. He knew when a play was coming to a close. 

 

“Are you really going to sacrifice a child of your kind?” Mabbon asked as if almost curious. 

 

Gaunt's hand tightened; he didn't want to kill a child. He tried to look for anything. But they surrendered on all sides, he could try to push Ron into the other man but that would give him seconds at best and Maggs was still out. 

 

He couldn’t run fast enough to avoid his craft and shooting the man would just make one of the things around him attack. 

 

He pressed the gun harder into the boy's skull. 

 

He didn’t have a choice. 

 

 Moody raised his staff. A clock on the wall ticked.   

 

He bared his teeth. 

 

“Obliv-” 

Molly's voice rose like an executioner's blade. 

 

“Expelliarmus!” Moody cane was torn from his hand. Molly was standing behind him, her eyes blazing. Her wand moved and then he was slammed into the seat. 

 

“That’s my son.” Her voice shook but her eyes were cold steel in the dark. 

 

“Molly.” Moody tried to get up but she pointed her wand at him. 

 

“You.” She hissed. 

 

“You don’t understand what’s at stake.” 

 

Her face hardened. 

 

“Don’t you start Alastor.” Her wand snapped to Gaunt.

“Let. Go. Of. My Son.” 

He felt a cold chill down his back. So the boy did have value. 

 

He took a step back. 

 

“Mabbon, Maggs.” The etogaur didn’t hesitate hoisting the tanith man over his shoulder. 

 

“You know my conditions.” 

 

“Let go of my son.” 

 

Molly's wand stopped shaking.

“I can’t do that ma’am.” 

 

“That’s a real muggle gun” Another voice grew, the sound so loud now he knew the whole bar had been awoken to the threat at their door. He took another step forcing the boy with him. 

 

Mabbon beside him, Maggs draped over his shoulders. 

 

For a moment he thought she would really try to attack him but then her eyes flickered to Ron so pale he looked half dead. 

 

“If you hurt my son.” 

 

Gaunt felt a small part of him shift. “I can’t promise anything. But I will try.”

Her wand dropped.

“Thier taking Ron!” A girl whispered but it was like a gun shot in a chapel. Every voice falling silent at once. 

 

“Go.” 

 

Gaunt almost admired the women. If she had been born imperial, she would command men, not kitchens.

“Molly!” Moody snarled. Molly ignored him as he clawed at his bindings. 

 

“I said go.” 

 

The words felt like a noose tightening around his neck. He didn’t hesitate dragging the boy with him as he took note as more and more of the witches watched him. Some standing, some with wands in hand. But no one stopped him. Shock rippling through the room. 

 

The boy was wise enough not to fight. 

 

Mabbon got to the door first, light cutting in. 

 

“I will remember this. Gaunt.” Her voice was a cold threat.

 

“Mum!” Ron called. 

 

She took a step forward. A lioness before a thief. 

“You’ll be back home in no time Ron! Be smart, be brave.” Her voice cracked. “I love you.”

Something bitter curled in Gaunt's stomach. 

 

He forced the boy back one more step. The cold air hit him. 

 

“I love you too!” Ron cried, struggling in his arms. He held firm, until they were in the street proper.

Then he grabbed his collar. 

 

His boot crushed the snow underfoot. 

 

They needed to get out of here. Now. 

 

He ran.  

 

The boy's feet were stumbling beside him. He could still hear Molly's voice ringing in his ears. His grip tightened. 

 

Witches didn’t get a choice. Not even boys who loved their mothers.