"A Place Like Tomorrow," part two

[thrihyrne]

Continued from here


"Horace, do you see why that move could be a frightfully bad idea?" Ron asked the student. The third year's rook hovered over the white square while his dark eyes flickered back and forth between the chessboard and Ron's face.

"Um…"

He focussed on the board, tawny eyebrows knitted together. Ron could nearly see the gears turning in the Hufflepuff's mind, jumping several potential moves ahead to figure out what Ron was seeing. At last, his face beamed.

"Yeah! It'd end up leaving my king at risk if my opponent decides to sacrifice his castle." He was flushed with pride, and Ron was pleased for him.

"That's right. So play what would be a better choice, and I'll write down where we left off. You're due at Herbology next, aren't you?"

Horace nodded, scooting back away from the table after he'd placed the rook in a far superior strategic position. Ron waved good-bye to his budding chess master as he scribbled the most recent play on his parchment. It had surprised him at first how much he enjoyed having multiple roles at Hogwarts: Quidditch coach as well as chess club founder and mentor. He also helped George and Lee out at Wheeze's a couple of days a week, and he'd even been asked by the European Youth Wizarding Chess Federation to serve as a referee and instructor at a proposed international tournament. Really, things were going pretty well for him.

He aimed his wand at the board and pieces which, after sending up tinny cries about having to go away, marched sulkily off to their respective boxes. The boxes shut and locked themselves, and Ron shelved the board and blew out the candles in the small office. He decided a quick trip to the Hogwarts kitchens to get a nosh was in order, but he needed to go by the loo first. After he'd taken care of business and was washing his hands, he glanced up into the mirror. A tall, dark-haired figure stood not far behind him. Startled, he turned around— he could have sworn he was alone.

No one was there.

"Get it bloody together, mate!" he swore under his breath. He faced the sink again, and the young man was still there, not in Hogwarts robes, and mouthing something that looked a lot like Ron's name. Ron froze, his skin crawling and icicles running up and down his spine.

"What the fuck?" he whispered harshly, gripping the cold sink, looking behind him once more for good measure. The boy's lavatory was empty. Back in the mirror, the youth was closer behind him, a melancholy smile on his lips. He looked as if he was going to speak again when the door banged open. A gaggle of very short boys came in, their animated conversations screeching to a halt when they saw Ron. He looked at them, then realised the water was still running, and he looked petrified. With shaking hands he turned off the taps, shouldered his bag and left, refusing eye contact with mirror and students alike.

Twenty minutes later, he was scarfing down a roast beef sandwich, washing it down with pumpkin juice. Hogwarts was not a place to be unnerved by a ghost! He hadn't used that particular lavatory when he was a student himself, as it was near the Hufflepuff dungeons anyway. If he saw it again, he'd just ask the Head of Hufflepuff House who the spirit was. Doubtless he was like Myrtle or one of Merlin only knew how many spectres that haunted the castle and grounds.

"Thanks, Flissy!" he called to the house-elf who'd made the sandwich for him.

"Flissy enjoys making food that's appreciated," she said, her large head bobbing as she stroked one of her ears. "Ron Weasley should eat good food while he can."

Ron's smile melted from his lips. "What?"

The house-elf looked shocked, then frightened. "Flissy— Flissy doesn't know why she said that!" she said in a tremulous voice, her eyes darting toward a drawer. "Those weren't Flissy's words!"

Ron couldn't stand to watch her hurt herself, so he quickly said, "Don't worry! We all say things we don't mean. I promise I'll come back soon, but only if you don't hurt yourself." The words were emphatic, and panic seemed to lessen its grip on her.

Walking away from the kitchens, he decided that he was definitely going to have as normal a night as possible, with a couple of tumblers of Old Ogden's which would put him right out but not mess with his stomach… or his head. Cheered by that thought, he stopped by his office near the Gryffindor team's changing rooms, got his broom, and flew to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes.

At a lull in the parade of mostly-young customers, Ron helped Lee restock a shelf of tongue-tying toffees.

"You're a bit preoccupied," Lee commented as Ron neatly arranged the levitated boxes.

"Am I?" Ron shrugged. "I guess I've just had a few weird things happen to me in the past week. No big deal."

"What kind of weird things?"

"No symbols in the sky, or anything exciting. I thought I was seeing things, but that was just a right awful hangover. And I saw a boy in the mirror at one of the Hogwarts bathrooms this morning. No doubt he's a regular, just like Moaning Myrtle."

Lee gave him a sceptical look, but then his face relaxed into his usual amiable expression. "If you say so. Probably nothing, just like you said."

"Yeah, I'm not superstitious, and it's not like I'm somebody who would capture the attention of anybody special."

"Malfoy would take offence at that!" Lee said dryly, motioning for Ron to come down the ladder.

"I meant anybody otherworldly, or some other rubbish," Ron said, now uncomfortable at having brought up the odd experiences he'd recently had. "Look, just drop it." He got to the bottom two rungs of the ladder and hopped off. "Are you and George going to the Leaky after you close?" he asked hopefully.

"No— there's that gallery opening where they're going to be showing some of Dean Thomas' stuff. I thought you and Malfoy were going to that?"

"Damn! I'd forgotten. Yes, of course. Good. I can tell Seamus that vodka he was serving nearly made me mental."

"I'm sure he'll think that's rich, coming from you," George drawled, striding over to the till from the stockroom. "It's pretty quiet here, Ron. It may pick up just before close, but I think you can go if you want. Thanks so much for helping out. See you at this art thing?"

"Yeah. Glad I got a reminder." He ambled over to a robe and coat rack to retrieve his robe and broom. The day's neatly folded Daily Prophet was on the floor under George's distinctive blue paisley robes. "Hey George, are you done with your paper?"

"Yeah. Take it with you if you want."

"Thanks! I'll use your fireplace back in the stockroom. See you later!" he called into the shop and both George and Lee waved their goodbyes. Ron had to navigate through a near-maze of stock and projects in the works to get to their connection to the floo network; George and Fred hadn't intended to use it very often and it was blocked to all but a few people who knew what it was called. Ron grabbed some Floo powder and threw it down, saying, "The Chimera." Fireplaces whirled past him until he was looking into his own living room. Pandemonium trotted over, meowing loudly at him as he shook the soot off of himself.

"Out of food? Sorry, mate," he said, tossing the newspaper on the dining room table. Once the cat was crunching loudly on the food in her newly filled bowl, Ron glanced at his watch, which read four forty.

"It's the start of the week-end, anyway," he said to the cabinet as he got down a glass and made a firewhiskey sour. He took his drink to the table and sat down, opening up the newspaper and scanning the headlines before flipping to the sports pages. He'd just taken a healthy swallow of his drink when a small picture caught his eye— it was the same dark-haired wizard he'd seen in the mirror of the boy's bathroom. Ron choked, spluttering and coughing as the young man gazed at him, pointing downward.

"What the—"

The caption read RON. THIS ISN'T A TRICK.

Feeling his eyes bulge, Ron stared at the column underneath.

There's going to be an apocalypse put in motion by those you call Muggles. You need to warn your kind. Tell your minister that you need to shelter yourselves, hide in caves or places protected by magic. We've chosen you as our messenger, our speaker.

"This is not happening," he said, hating the quaver in his voice. He clenched his eyes shut so tightly he saw phantom sparks. Slowly reopening them, he looked at the top of the page, which was perfectly normal. There was an editorial discussing the up and coming Quidditch players and an article on a young witch from France taking the fencing world by storm. His gaze was irrevocably dragged back down below the fold, where the wizard with fierce eyes and a sorrowful mouth still occupied a photo space, his arms now crossing his chest.

I DON'T MEAN TO STARTLE YOU. the caption read.

"Too fucking late for that!" Ron said, stifling a rising hysteria in his chest.

You can't run from us, but please don't be afraid. We're trying to give you advance warning so you can protect others. It's that simple. And no, you're not going crazy.

Ron barked a laugh and promptly folded the paper shut. The front seemed ordinary enough; surely he'd just imagined that. He slammed back his drink, keeping a wary eye on the headlines and stories on the front of The Daily Prophet, which didn't change.

"This is bollocks," he muttered, his mind racing frantically to come up with any way to make the youth in the picture make sense. "You must know what it is, think about it," he said to himself, the logical explanation falling into place with the satisfactory snap of a last jigsaw piece. He let out a long, shaky breath, the hand of fear that had been gripping his heart loosing its grip. "George is trying out a new product! Something that looks like The Prophet, but it changes one of the stories to be about whoever's reading it, and it picks the barmiest stories ever for that person. Oh, brilliant one, George!"

He shook his head, resting his sweaty palms on the table and willing them to quit trembling.

"Well, that calls for another drink."

He took that one much more slowly, not wanting to have to deal with any grief from Draco. Staying away from the paper until Draco got home, Ron even managed to find the invitation to the gallery event scheduled to begin in a couple of hours. He was using a pressing charm on one of his few pairs of dress slacks when he heard the front door open and the usual succession of sounds that marked his lover's arrival. Wand in hand, he went quickly down the stairs to see Draco looking over the invitation.

"Is this really tonight?" he asked, although the resigned look on his face belied that he knew the answer.

"Yes. And hello to you, too," Ron said, wrapping his arms around Draco to be able to take a deep breath of his genteel, grounding scent.

"Hello, Ron. Do I smell funny?"

The bewilderment in his voice came across as charming, and Ron kissed a path of dry kisses from Draco's chin up his jaw.

"No, you smell like you. Expensive, ruthless, and sexy."

"Good." Draco softened a bit in Ron's arms. "That means I managed to banish the goblin smell off of me." He flicked his wrist to toss the invitation onto the table and it landed on the newspaper. "I bring one of those home every day; what was so compelling that you bought a Daily Prophet?"

"Oh! I didn't. I'll explain— it must be a prototype of George's. Drink?"

Draco sniffed at Ron's mouth and then looked imperiously down his nose at him. "You've obviously helped yourself. I'll get some wine. No more for you until we're at this opening. You're really not fun to be around when you're blotto."

"I won't, promise. Is yours in your briefcase?"

"Mm hmm," Draco affirmed.

"Well, see, it's quite clever," Ron said, retrieving the neatly folded paper out of Draco's attaché after Draco unlocked it with a spell. "George didn't tell me anything about it being different, but when I looked at the bottom right of the sports page, there was a picture and short column aimed directly at me. Bloody crazy content, too. He must have found a way for the paper to absorb the magical signature of the person holding it… genius, really," Ron enthused, putting the papers side by side. "See?" he said excitedly, trying to subdue the nervous churning in his stomach as to what might happen when he flipped open to the sports page. "They look identical."

Draco took a mouthful of wine and swallowed. Ron was momentarily captivated by the silky movement of his Adam's apple.

"Not to burst your slightly inebriated bubble, Ron, but they are identical."

"No, they're not. This one will have the picture of that odd young man I saw this morning in the mirror talking, well, writing about a Muggle catastrophe, and…"

The pages were identical.

Draco swirled the wine in his glass and took another sip. "It wouldn't surprise me if George came up with what you mentioned. I say this grudgingly, and far out of his earshot, but he's fiendishly good."

Ron just stared at the papers, his disbelief transforming quickly to anger.

"No, Draco, I swear this was different before," he said, blasting his words at the page.

"Why are you getting so upset?"

"Well, it's just that, well," Ron said haltingly. The words dragged unwillingly along his tongue, like trying to coerce a child away from a sunny beach, sand pail still in hand. "You'll think I'm crazy," he finally admitted.

"Most of your family already does," Draco countered, turning his head to kiss Ron firmly on the lips. "You fell in love with me."

"Doesn't count!" Ron insisted, though he ensnared another kiss, this time open-mouthed and fevered, before telling his lover what had happened that day.

Draco evaluated him with the kind of Malfoysian detachment Ron hadn't felt in months, and it made him feel on even rockier ground, sanity-wise. At last Draco's composure eased, and Ron let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

"Take notes," Draco said. "If this even happens again," he said, and that simple acknowledgment that this had been a one-off was enough to fill Ron's heart to bursting with gratitude. But he was still Ron, and he couldn't really articulate his full appreciation for the common-sense advice.

"Okay. I'll do that," he said, and that seemed to suffice.

"And if you're worried about your vision or something like that, you could always get some tests run at St. Mungo's. Maybe then you'd feel better."

"Of course. I'm overreacting— let's drop it." Ron took a swallow of his cocktail. "On a completely different topic, would you look at the shirt and trousers I picked out? I don't want to embarrass myself by looking like a wanker."

Draco's eyebrows raised. "You're actually asking me to help you with your attire?" He clucked his tongue. "That worries me more than you seeing things."

He gave Ron a disarming smile that pierced the bubble of fear growing in Ron's chest. It was all going to be fine.


Continue to part three