Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Fandom:
Relationships:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Series:
Part 6 of Kirinin's HP Fic
Collections:
AYee time travEL, Time Travel Fix It HP Only, Well-Written HP Fanfiction Collection, Shining Stars Across Fandom, Weasley Appreciation, Crow's Readables, Hp random love, We Scream Into The Void, fics I'm making my entire personality, fics so detailed they could be paintings
Stats:
Published:
2018-12-08
Completed:
2019-06-15
Words:
128,378
Chapters:
26/26
Comments:
1,357
Kudos:
2,045
Bookmarks:
746
Hits:
75,151

A Game of Chess

Chapter 11: Hanging

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

All things considered, it was the best Ron had slept in weeks.

It didn't surprise him, therefore, that he didn't awaken until late in the morning. Ron made his way down into the Great Hall to find that he was amongst the last of the stragglers to eat breakfast; Harry and Hermione were long-gone.

He found them later in the library, Hermione babbling.

"Well, there are Switching Spells... but what's the point of Switching it? Unless you swapped its fangs for wine-gums or something that would make it less dangerous... The trouble is, like that book said, not much is going to get through a dragon's hide... I'd say Transfigure it, but something that big, you really haven't got a hope, I doubt even Professor McGonagall... unless you're supposed to put the spell on yourself? Maybe to give yourself extra powers? But they're not simple spells, I mean, we haven't done any of those in class, I only know about them because –"

"Hermione!" Ron exclaimed, and Hermione looked up in shock before her jaw snapped shut with an audible crack. He sat at the table next to her, across from Harry, who looked up at Ron with an open, relieved sort of grin that Ron returned.

"Have... have you two made it up?" she whispered.

Harry shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

Ron vividly recalled Hermione's original reaction to their reconciliation, so he was surprised when she snapped, "well, it's about time! All the back-and-forth between the two of you, it's made me positively dizzy! Anyone'd swear you two had nothing better to do than pick at each other! Oh, wait – we're trying to stop Harry from getting killed! And you say I'm the one who needs to sort my priorities!" she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, I think you need to make it up to someone else as well as each other," she added.

Ron cleared his throat. "I'm sorry we put you in the middle, Hermione."

"Well!"

"Sorry, Hermione," Harry echoed. "You're so brilliant. I've no idea why you put up with us at all."

Hermione let out another huff of air but seemed mostly mollified. "Very well, only don't do it again," she ordered. She slammed her book closed. "I don't even know why we're searching in the library," she admitted. "No one is going to have suggestions for how to fight a dragon."

"Fight one," Ron echoed.

"Well, I assume."

"Well," Ron said slowly, trying to appear as though he were putting a great deal of thought into it and reminding himself that it wasn't cheating since in the other timeline, Harry had won – "dragons are rare creatures and they're expensive to keep up, or so Charlie says. I don't imagine the First Task is to kill a dragon. Pretty awful and pretty expensive, wouldn't you say?"

Hermione was nodding as though this made a great deal of sense to her. "Sometimes the Wizarding World seems a bit barbaric to me," she admitted. "I did think it was awful, but no more awful than the Tournament as a whole."

"So, if I'm not killing a dragon..." Harry murmured. "Wait! Charlie said that they were all nesting mothers."

Ron knew of Charlie's involvement, but since Harry hadn't mentioned that last night, he evinced the expected surprise that Harry had met up with his brother.

"So anyway," Harry went on, "maybe I have to steal an egg!"

Hermione sighed. "How is that less barbaric?"

"No, an egg makes sense. Or something else that can stand out in a nest," Ron replied. "So you don't need to fight a dragon, Harry. You just need to get something from a dragon's nest."

"Oh, is that all?" Harry said.

"I always wondered why you didn't just ask it," Ron said. "I mean... I mean I was wondering if you could just ask the dragon nicely. Would it understand Parseltongue?"

Hermione and Harry stared at him.

"Always the tone of surprise," Ron sighed, though they hadn't said a word.

"It... it might," Hermione said, eyes flashing. "Harry. Harry! Fetch me Men Who Love Dragons Too Much, it might say! What language do dragons speak?"

"Maybe try looking for a book on languages," Ron said idly, amused to see Hermione in full Research Mode. "Or on snakes. I don't think people try to talk to dragons, much; not since Merlin, anyhow. Can't imagine why," he added.

"You're enjoying this," Harry accused. "You had that all chambered and ready to let fly. You were just waiting until I came to ask you."

"Just proving my worth, aside from the comic relief," Ron said.

Harry muttered something under his breath.

Ron eyed him seriously. "But now it all depends on your powers of persuasion," he said. "You can't just assume that because you can speak its language it's bound to obey you. The Basilisk didn't."

"The Basilisk was being controlled by Voldemort," Harry said, gaze faraway. "I think if I'm just polite... and I just explain it clearly enough..."

"Yeah," said Ron, "though it's probably also good to have a backup plan." Ron knew he wouldn't have to say anything about the Summoning Charm; Moody's doppelganger would, regardless. Still, it gave him the shivers, the idea that Crouch and Harry would spend any time alone together, ever.

Ron spent the rest of Sunday and part of Monday organizing the Room's books and exchanging a few moves with his unknown chess opponent; he'd found enough furniture that he could begin to create rows on rows of shelving almost like a library or a bookstore at one corner of the room, penning meticulous labels and casting preservation charms when he was through. He was into handicrafts, which was a weird sort of thing to wish to hide: books on woodworking, and knitting, and sustainable farming, whatever that was.

Maybe they were from Slytherins embarrassed of their desire to create anything, or Ravenclaws whose peers disdained any venture apart from study; maybe they were stolen from students who wanted them back, Ron reflected as he dusted a thick tome on crochet that might have belonged to Luna.

He also clocked hours of moral support: playing Gobstones and discussing Quidditch and going for bracing walks around the Lake with Harry, who was beginning to unravel a bit at the seams. Ron and Hermione made a marvellous tag-team, Hermione giving Harry brisk talks about the Task, and Ron avoiding the subject altogether, to get Harry's mind off things. Ron hadn't experienced that sort of camaraderie with Hermione in awhile, the sort where they communicated full sentences with their eyes. It was warming and lovely and quite a relief after his and Hermione's unsettling, romantic moment the week before.

But when the Task approached on Tuesday, Ron could barely think. He'd already taken three sips of his Aequus Aquas, and he fully expected he'd be sipping as oft as Moody before the day was through. Harry was a pale ghost beside him; nothing Ron or Hermione said seemed to have any effect at all...

When McGonagall came to the Great Hall to claim Harry, Hermione and Ron followed him until they'd reached the main entrance, Ron's panic clawing higher and higher in his throat.

"How about 'no'," Ron interrupted as McGonagall looked on, anxious but clearly impatient to be gone. "How about you tell them 'no', Harry? You're too young! They can't fault you for –"

"The Triwizard Tournament is a magical contract," said Hermione, looking green.

"Sod magical contracts! It's not an Unbreakable Vow!" Ron shot back.

"A what?" Hermione stammered.

"It's all right, Ron," Harry said, blank-eyed, clapping a hand to his shoulder. "I'll be all right," he said, and strode off down the hall, McGonagall trailing in his wake.

The last words Harry Potter had ever spoken to him. Ron reeled.

"Ron. Ron. Ron," Hermione said, tugging him backwards. She laced her fingers together over the top of his shoulder and leaned her body weight against his. "It's fine, really. It's Harry, he's always come through before..."

Merlin, if that wasn't the worst thing to say.

"You've got to pull it together," she urged him. "Come on, Ron, for Harry. If he sees you're scared, he'll forget Parseltongue. He'll forget everything. Come on, Ron, you can do this."

Ron took in a hitched breath and nodded. "Yeah, all right," he said, running his hands down his robes as though adjusting them after his panic, but in reality feeling the outlines of the hard, glass bottle tucked in the inner pocket. "You go on ahead... get us a seat..."

Hermione eyed him worriedly, but drew back, patting him on the shoulder, and, after a quick scan of his features, darted away in a flurry of dark robes.

"He's everything to you, eh?"

Ron whirled to find that Moody – Crouch – was standing just behind him, half in shadow. Ron's pulse kicked like a rearing horse. "Best mate," Ron said, mouth dry.

"But it's more than that, isn't it?" Crouch said meditatively. "Potter's all that's good in the world, hmm?"

Ron wasn't sure what Crouch could gain from this conversation... or what he, in his guise as Moody, meant for Ron to think of it.

Maybe it was only that he was a man, nervous before watching the next stage of his plan unfold – just like Ron.

"Harry represents everything good in the world to a lot of people," Ron said. "To me, he's my friend. And that part's worth more to me than a dozen Saviors."

"Then I'm sorry," Crouch said, clapping his – Moody's – broad hand against Ron's shoulder, the same shoulder that Hermione had leaned her weight against to calm him.

Perhaps that was why Ron experienced a flash of accord. "Do you play chess, Professor?" he asked, dry-mouthed.

"I like a good game," Crouch agreed. "My father and I played often. But you haven't asked, yet, why I've apologized."

"I thought it was obvious, Professor," Ron said steadily. "Harry's always in trouble, isn't he? He doesn't mean to be, there isn't much he can do about it, but he is. I'm always going to worry for him. And because he's the Saviour, everyone's always going to want a piece of him."

"Well," said Crouch. "You just stick by his side, lad, and it'll all come out right in the end."

Ron stared after him as he clumped down the staircase. Could that have been the real Mad-Eye? But no – surely Professor McGonagall would've said, if –

Would she? Ron wondered. He'd given Snape all the pieces of the puzzle days ago, which was plenty of time for him to draw his conclusions; but if a Death Eater had been teaching at Hogwarts for ten whole weeks, maybe Dumbledore wouldn't want the public to know... especially in light of the bad press about Hogwarts being so dangerous. The only person Ron could ask was Snape, so he moved out into the shifting crowd to search for him.

The crowd was like a living, breathing creature, hefting and shifting its enormous bulk as everyone jockeyed for the best view. With the entirety of Beauxbaton and Durmstrang out in the stands, not to mention certain members of the community who had paid for tickets, it was probably more people than Hogwarts had seen on its grounds in generations. The roar of the crowd was like the vocalizations of the very dragons that the Champions would soon face.

Ron drew. "Point me Severus Snape!" he incanted, and strived forward, through the press of bodies, the noisome smell of thousands crowding his nostrils, his pulse thundering in his ears. "Point me Severus," he incanted again, and someone knocked into his arm, jouncing him so hard he nearly lost his grip. He feverishly scanned the stands, knocked this way and that by impatient tall people who'd come to watch his best friend fight for his life. Ron pushed his way through until he was nearly breathless with panic, unwilling to reach for his potion for fear it would be knocked out of his hand.

But the crowd, for all its awfulness, wasn't infinite, and eventually he caught sight of a dark head, taller than the students around him, and pushed through the sea of people with renewed determination.

"Mister Weasley!" said Snape, a bit louder than even his normal, booming speaking voice.

"Professor!" Ron greeted him, then wondered how he was going to ask, surrounded by all these people. "That situation we discussed on Friday... is it resolved?"

"As I said, I would let you know if it were," Snape replied.

Ron worried his lower lip between his teeth. It seemed that he'd had that conversation with Barty Crouch, Junior. But he still couldn't make it fit, either with Crouch himself, or the Moody he was pretending to be. It almost sounded like Crouch intended to warn him of something – something for which Crouch wasn't responsible? Something Crouch didn't want to happen?

Or maybe, Ron thought with a chill, he was simply offering his condolences to a boy to whom he meant no harm. To a boy whose world he knew was about to crash down around him.

Ron slipped the Aequus out of his pocket, concealing it with his hand, and took a swig of the potion, Severus's eyes following the motion. What if he'd been wrong to give Harry new advice? No matter how brilliantly Harry had flown last time, Ron knew that he was a foot away from being speared through the chest with tooth and claw over and over again, and that some element of luck had played a part in his previous success. There was nothing to do now but wait.

There was nothing to do, now.

Ron felt someone bang into him with more force than usual, sending him sprawling into Professor Snape, who caught him under the elbows, expressionless. "Perhaps you should –" Snape began, before they both realized that the person who had launched into him was Hermione.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, white-faced. "Oh, hello, Professor," she added politely, before rounding on Ron. "I've been looking all over for you. I think I'm going to be ill. Dragons, what were they thinking? Professor McGonagall said that there are safeguards in place, but I've no idea what that means. Surely if the dragon stomps him, nothing they can do will reach him fast enough –"

"Miss Granger!" Snape barked.

Hermione subsided, shoulders slumping. Ron patted her arm carefully.

"We've prepared him as well as we can," Ron said, knowing it was true.

The next half-hour was absolute agony. Hermione and Ron clasped hands as first Cedric, then Fleur floundered about on the field. Ron's left hand was going numb, but he dared not release Hermione, who looked as though she might shake apart at any moment.

Ron's stomach dropped and swooped as each of the children fought to acquire their egg. If this was how the Triwizard Champions performed when they had advance notice, it was amazing any of them had gone on to survive the second challenge at all.

The crowd certainly appreciated the show: they oohed and aaahed and gasped at all the right moments, as though it were a hotly-contested game of Quidditch or a show-duel.

Surely, Ron thought, surely this was worth bringing to an end: these complacent, heartless idiots, happy to watch these children put through their paces, just as happy to return home to their House Elves and their warm fires and their rich food, and hash over the best bits, sharing the most savoury morsels with their friends. If this was the world, truly, then the world could burn. Deserved to.

"I think I'm gonna," said Ron, and clambered down the stands, Hermione's hand clinging to his briefly before he escaped her reach. Onlookers cursed him as he jostled them, temporarily blocked their view – Merlin forbid they miss a moment of the spectacle, Ron thought, with another vicious stab of feeling, like his stomach were on fire and the flames were licking up his throat. Behind the stands, Ron could still hear the crowd gasp as one entity, though one woman screamed: the delicious sort of scream Hermione issued when she read a good horror novel.

Ron had a series of disjointed thoughts about maggots devouring dead things, and carrion vultures and Harry, Harry standing unbowed after the second task, as everyone applauded that he'd managed to save Ron's life, that he'd done the honourable thing and gone back into the dark water for Gabrielle...

Ron shook himself, pacing, and shook his hands out at the wrists; maybe that would banish the need to throttle something. For a brief, intellectual moment he wondered if he'd actually managed to overdose on the Aequus – or if his agitation had to be expressed, somehow, that he'd pushed the potion to its limits and beyond, and what had emerged from underneath the panic was fury.

"Mister Weasley," said Snape.

Ron looked up to see that Severus Snape stood several feet away, that they were out by the Quidditch equipment shed, but he did not stop moving. He felt if he stopped moving, he would explode. "Don't," he said. "Don't, if you come near me, I'm going to scream," Ron bit off, "or start a punch-up."

"In that case, I shall stand here," Snape said, leaning against the shed and crossing his arms.

Ron shook his hands out a few times again, as though they pained him, though they didn't, and looked up at Snape out of the corner of his eye. Ron opened his mouth to speak; closed it; opened it again. "What is it?" he finally barked. "Why are they – what do they think – is it just entertainment to them?"

"Yes," Snape said, lip curled. "I believe so."

"Are people like that?" Ron demanded. "Are they really?"

Snape stared at him and said nothing.

"Right, you think they are, but you think – you think you shouldn't say to me –"

"I think it's a lot more complicated than you imagine," Snape returned. " 'Are people good?' is not a yes-or-no question."

Ron pushed a breath out. "I like that. Neville said I know how to say things simply. You know how complicated it all really is, though, don't you?"

Snape huffed. It sounded like a stillborn laugh.

Ron felt a bit calmer, now. "Krum up?" he said.

"Yes," Snape replied without looking. "You know," he went on, "it's pure entertainment to most of them. But not to everyone."

"Obviously not," Ron barked before checking himself. Snape never stated the obvious, so he couldn't have been referring to Ron and Hermione. "So what is it to everyone else, then? Why would they do this, take young witches and wizards and –"

"Come, Mister Weasley, you know better."

Cold shot down Ron's spine. "Training," he rasped. "It's playing at war."

"Fleur Delacour may fight at your side, one day, or perhaps head a regiment. Wouldn't you feel more confident knowing that she took on a dragon when she was only seventeen? Would that not inspire her foot soldiers to leave their families, to fight against an implacable enemy, knowing they may never return?"

Fleur had Ron's back once or twice, and yeah; knowing that had helped.

"I hate it," Ron said.

"Yes," Snape replied.

"I hate them all," Ron spat, "but I think I understand Voldemort, now –"

The colour shot from Severus's face. "Do not say the name!"

"I understand," Ron tripped on, "wanting to think the world would do best with a clean slate. Let's start from scratch, eh? See if we can do better, next time –"

"Mister Weasley!"

Ron clattered to a halt with a feel that was almost like an out-of-body experience. He rubbed at his eyes. "When's Malfoy coming back?"

Severus eyed him warily. "He already is back," he said. "He was forbidden from watching the First Task; he is spending some time getting caught up on the schoolwork he missed."

"Did he tell you why he used that curse?" Ron pressed, peering up at Professor Snape through his fingers.

"He despises Potter," Snape offered.

Ron realized that it probably wasn't a stretch to think that Malfoy could cast such things at Harry without a second thought, never mind that he hadn't ever before; after all, Malfoy could spit poison better than anybody but Severus Snape. He did it so well that it was easy to forget he'd never hurt anybody in his life... that, apart from saying dreadful things, the only physical altercation Malfoy had been in up to this point was Hermione Granger slapping him, and Crouch banging him about the hallway...

And no one but Ron knew that he'd cast a tooth-growing curse at Harry the first time around, rather than one meant to split him stem-to-stern.

The roar of the crowd brought Ron back to himself. "That's Harry," Ron said. "I'd better go back to Hermione... she'll be having kittens." He paused. "I'm sorry I said I was going to hit you," he muttered in lieu of thanks.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor for threatening a professor," Snape mildly replied.

Ron laughed. "Yeah, reckon that's fair. But just so you know, I never meant it."

"Perhaps in the moment..." Snape muttered as Ron passed him and began the jog back towards the arena. It was then that a different sort of gasp emerged from the crowd: the scandalized, horrified sort. Ron broke into a run.

The Hungarian Horntail's head was ducked down to Harry's level, and Harry was hissing at it in snake-language, his broom held tightly in one hand. It was one of the most incredible things Ron had ever seen, the dragon staring at this small boy in consternation as though it were attempting to determine whether or not Harry was some strange species of snake. It blinked huge, golden eyes at Harry with the most sceptical look on its face that Ron could imagine on a dragon, and then hissed back at Harry, who stood in the path of its breath, his hair and robes billowing behind him as though he stood in the midst of a hot summer storm.

Ron wanted to cheer: it was clear that the dragon not only understood Parseltongue but could respond in kind.

Ron had never before seen an audience so silent. They held their breath while Harry conversed with his dragon, until the vicious creature lifted its haunches and rolled a golden egg forward. Harry said something to the dragon in turn – probably a thank you – and picked it up with his free hand.

Displeased murmurs broke out among the crowd.

"Three minutes!" boomed Ludo Bagman's voice. "That... that really is, er, something, isn't it?"

The murmurs rose into a roar. The audience wasn't just angry, Ron realized – they felt cheated, cheated of the fight the other Champions had given them. They'd expected really death-defying feats from Harry Potter, and instead, Harry had a civil conversation with the enemy and asked it nicely. To Ron, who liked things simple, it'd seemed the most obvious choice all along, even back when he really was fourteen. To everyone who liked complications, it probably seemed –

"Cheat!" one member of the audience shouted. "Cheater!"

"Dark Wizard," muttered another.

Harry didn't let any of it show, of course. He hitched his head higher and then hefted the golden egg over his head – a big fuck you all of which Ron could not help but approve.

And then he disappeared.

The audience fell silent as the grave. Ron stood, his gaze darting around to see that Fleur and Cedric were missing as well.

He made every egg a Portkey, Ron realized. He didn't know which dragon Harry would get, so he did it to every egg...

He'd been so stupid. He'd been so stupid. He should've told Severus from the start who was drinking Polyjuice. He should've told Severus where he was from straightaway. Severus would've seen that stealing the ingredients from Crouch would only accelerate his timetable, not prevent him from being successful. Merlin, Crouch had warned him for whatever mad reason of his own, and Ron hadn't listened, hadn't understood...

The stands were in chaos, now, people screaming, stampeding away, as though they expected a repeat of the match between Bulgaria and Ireland the summer before... it would be impossible to escape, unless...

"Accio Harry's broom!" Ron shouted... but it had disappeared with Harry...

Two hands grabbed onto Ron painfully. Ron blinked to find that Hermione was clutching his left sleeve, and Severus Snape had hold of his right arm. He'd forgotten their existence entirely.

Hermione slammed into him and Ron automatically brought his arms up to protect her... the elbow of a fleeing student slammed into her head and she slumped in his arms. "Bloody hell!" Ron shouted. "Protego totalis!"

A bubble sprang up around the three, though Hermione still looked dazed. Ron looked up at Snape, and around himself to the fleeing students, and made his decision.

"Professor Snape," he said urgently, the Protego insulating them somewhat from the noise, "they're at a graveyard," Ron went on. "Voldemort's father's grave, they're going to try to resurrect him using Harry's blood. The other Champions are there by chance, he'll kill them all, if no one stops him."

Snape stared at him, and Ron lowered his Occlumency shields for the first time, pushing forward the memory of Harry haltingly describing Cedric's death.

"I'll tell McGonagall where you've gone. And we can discuss it all later, apart from how you're going to have to say it was you who figured it all out and not me."

Hermione stirred in Ron's arms.

"Professor!" Ron shouted.

Severus stared intently into Ron's eyes, then took off without another word.

When he departed, it was as though Ron's senses had acquired permission to receive information again: the shouts and frantic scrambling of the crowd pressed in from all sides. Knowing there was no way he could push past them all with Hermione tucked under his arm, Ron cast a Cushioning Charm on the ground, and jumped free of the crowd, Hermione clamped close. By then she had revived enough to be on her feet, though she still seemed dizzy; together they limped towards the Castle, where Ron found Professor McGonagall and conveyed 'Snape's' message.

From there it was a waiting game. Ron's bottle of Aequus had long since emptied, and he began to feel that, with all the doses he'd taken over the course of the day, he was in for a serious backlash when his latest slug wore off. Hermione was beside herself, sobbing into Ron's shoulder and gripping his robes, and Ron wasn't sure why he hadn't joined her. He'd even stopped castigating himself over his failures: the only thing left was emptiness, as though someone had scooped out his insides and laid them out to dry in the cold November sun. They were in the Hospital Wing, though Ron couldn't really remember making his way there.

Madam Pomfrey gave him and Hermione both a Calming Draught, but that only made Hermione's sobs less wild and more despairing, and increased the queer feeling of hollowness behind Ron's breastbone. It was only once her tears had dried that Severus Snape stumbled into the Hospital Wing, blood dripping down his chin; he had Harry Potter tucked under one arm, half-hidden in his cloak. Krum and Fleur stumbled in after, each supporting the other.

Ron vaulted to his feet, Hermione beside him, and together they drew Harry into their arms and clutched at him until Harry swatted at them with one, bandaged arm, and they subsided. Pomfrey set everyone into a bed; moments later, Gabrielle Delacour flew into the hospital wing and launched herself at her older sister, who patted her hair while she sobbed into Fleur's bedclothes; eventually Fleur gave in, her polished demeanour slipping, hugging her little sister to her chest desperately, singing to her in broken, tearful French.

Ron did a headcount and froze. His gaze darted to Snape's.

The grim man shook his head, once.

Still? (Again?) Merlin, he hadn't done any better. If anything, he'd made everything worse. All the Triwizard Champions could've died, couldn't they? All because Ron thought he was so clever...

(You don't know a bloody thing, and yet here you are, talking like you have all the answers! Well, you don't, that's all, you don't and you never did...)

Amos Diggory entered the Hospital Wing, eyes wild. "Oh, thank Merlin!" he exclaimed. "You're all back, safe and sound!"

And then, he looked around the Wing.

"Where's my boy?" he said. "Where's Cedric, where's... where's my boy? Cedric!" he called. "Cedric, where are you?"

"Mister Diggory," Snape said, "I am so sorry to say that your son is no longer with us."

"No longer – with us?" Amos repeated, with a sick, half-grin on his face as though he were sure Severus was making some kind of terrible joke and he felt obliged to humour him. "He was here only a moment ago, I wished him good luck... he was so proud," Diggory said, and for a moment his certainty was so solid that Ron nearly gazed about the room, just to double-check.

"Mister Diggory," Madam Pomfrey said, "perhaps you should sit down. I have a Calming Draught here, we've been passing it 'round," she said in a mild bid for lightheartedness. "Perhaps you could use some, too. Professor Sprout is on her way –"

"Sit down?" Diggory shouted. "What good will that do? A Calming Draught? My son – you're saying my son is dead?" he said, and the desolation and disbelief painted across his features made Ron want to stop looking, made him want to duck his head.

Look at that, Ron ordered himself. Take a good, hard look, Ronald Weasley. That's down to you.

"Cedric was very brave," Fleur said unexpectedly, her soft voice breaking through Mr Diggory's sobs. " 'E pulled me behind him, 'e cursed the Death Eaters. You should be so proud."

And even though this seemed to bolster the older man, Ron felt a brief flicker of the same fury he'd felt out on the Quidditch Pitch, listening to the stands cheer. Amos Diggory should not be proud of his son's death, no matter how brave he'd been. And Ron knew Voldemort had said, kill the spare – or was it kill the spares this time? – and that was that... Cedric couldn't have had a chance to be brave…

Cedric was just a boy who'd not been important enough to use, and so Voldemort had snuffed him out like a candle.

Yet Ron felt sure the Light would put his death to use soon enough; that his name would be a rallying cry. It was already happening, right before his eyes.

Madam Pomfrey led Mr Diggory into her office and plied him with strong brandy, but he screamed and wept until she cast a Silencing Charm at the office door.

Then there was only the quiet.

Notes:

...

...

There's our moment of silence for Cedric... again.

Problematic trope: War is Glory.

War is ugly death: scared young men and women aimed at each other by larger hands.

All storytelling is exploitative by nature, but this trope feels doubly so, perhaps because it speaks to our darkest, most primitive selves. It whispers that violence is romantic and beautiful and we may kill each other, sure, but it's okay because it's always for super-important reasons. It leans towards our collective ear, Wormtongue-like, and tells us that death can be good, death can be inspiring, death can be useful. The ultimate sacrifice.

Even as a soldier in a righteous war, Ron knows there is no hidden meaning in Cedric's death or in the romanticization of violence. You hear this in his conversation with Severus during the Task, where Ron realizes that he understands why Voldemort wants to wipe out society and start from scratch.

But this is no solution. How could humanity escape itself? Our endless quest for more power, crafting subdivisions and bias to justify our greed, and our persistent fear that some foreign Others will take our things or supplant us - these are all deeply human errors written into our code. That means we will brew war until we can as individuals can confront what confounds us, culturally.

We could start by dropping this particular trope, or inverting it.

In chess, hanging a piece means you left it unprotected, either because you did not notice it was in danger in time, or because a particular move you made exposed it to danger - and it is taken.