"A Place Like Tomorrow," part four
Jun. 30th, 2009 10:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thrihyrneContinued from here
Ron woke up the next day with a sour taste on his tongue and a sense that he'd forgotten something terribly important. He pushed the thoughts aside as he and Draco went through their morning routine. It wasn't until Draco was nearly to their fireplace when he grabbed a handful of Floo powder and then glanced back over at Ron. "Don't forget, we're meeting Blaise for dinner at seven-thirty. I'll owl you where we're eating once he settles on a place."
"Oh. Right." Ron sipped his coffee— he'd not wanted to risk having tea. "Let me know if it's somewhere I'll have to dress up for or something."
A sympathetic smile graced Draco's features. "I will. Fuck. I've got to go. Love you."
"I love you too," Ron said as Draco vanished in a tower of green flame.
Alone again, Ron found his fingers itching to hold a cigarette. He hated how easy it was to be under their sway again, but as long as he kept it to one or two a day, and kept working out… He put on a proper coat and cast a heating charm on his mug of coffee before going to the porch. Ron smoked without the phantasm showing up. In fact, Hashmal didn't make an appearance until Ron walked into the bedroom after his shower.
"Fuck! Stop doing that," he said irritably, rubbing at his damp hair with a towel.
"I need you to take me seriously," Hashmal said. He seemed to have a soft aura around him, making him look even more otherworldly. Ron tried not to let his feelings be swayed. He was a manifestation Ron had created, full stop.
"Look," Ron snapped. "I'm going to St. Mungo's, as I'm sure you know. If you really are some kind of creature from the spirit world, then you'll have to prove it to me. I want you to manifest yourself so a Healer, one of these Astralogists, can test the area where you are with her wand. If she, or he, doesn't pick up on you, that's all the proof I need that you're an annoying part of my mind that for whatever reason is really fucking with me."
"Ron, listen to me."
Hashmal walked near to him, and for the first time Ron thought he felt a shimmer of contact, a tingling like when he'd been sitting funny and his foot went to sleep, and he had to massage the life back into it. Hashmal's handsome, vaguely exotic features reminded Ron of some of the memorable young men he'd seen during his family's trip to Egypt, many years before.
"Your Healers won't be able to register my energy with their equipment or wands. I'm not a spectre, and most importantly, I was never human. I've only ever been like this. The only kind of person who would be able to see me, besides you, of course, is a shaman. Somebody who's open to beings that exist and travel in the Luminaries, non-terrestrial realms."
Ron nodded absently, pulling on a pair of y-fronts and choosing some comfortable jeans and a Green Knights long-sleeved t-shirt. "You're a figment of my imagination. You can't even touch me, can you?" he challenged, both confident and scared shitless that was about to be proven wrong. Far better to be talking to himself, ultimately, than to have really been singled out by… something.
Hashmal closed his eyes, his hands balled into fists before relaxing, defeat radiating from him. "No, I can't touch you, not directly like you're meaning."
Ron let out a breath and finished getting dressed. "Okay then. Hang out all you want. I'll see what they say at hospital."
"Ron, I really don't want to torment you, that's not why I was sent!" Hashmal was wringing his hands, obviously distressed.
"Good! Then bugger off," Ron said through a clenched jaw.
The entity scowled, gave Ron a hard look that pierced him with a stab of fear, and then vanished.
"This has got to stop," Ron muttered.
After cleaning Pandemonium's litter box and making sure she had plenty of food and water, Ron Apparated to a location near the phone box to get him into St. Mungo's. He was greeted by a cheery receptionist and was asked to take a seat after Ron explained he didn't have an appointment and didn't really know whom he needed to see. He'd brought Fang and Fury with him but only read a few pages before someone in dark orange robes delicately cleared her throat. Ron looked up and saw an older witch who'd obviously been quite beautiful in the day, a silk purple eye patch covering her left eye.
"Mr. Weasley?" she asked.
"Yes." He closed his book and stood up, towering over her by a foot.
"I'm Healer Westwind. Xanthia Westwind." She shook his hand.
"Ron."
"Delighted. Please follow me."
Ron walked just behind her, wondering whether or not he should attempt to make small talk, when the Healer stopped in front of an exam room. She gestured for Ron to enter, so he did and she followed behind him, pulling the door to but leaving it slightly ajar.
"So!" she said brightly, summoning a dicta-quill and parchment so that they hovered above the counter. "Please, have a seat. We'll just talk for a little bit so that I have a better understanding of what's disturbing you."
Ron felt very much at ease around her and gave her an abbreviated version of the events of the previous few days, her dicta-quill scratching down what he said. She nodded and didn't interrupt. Once he was done, she steepled her fingers, tapping her index fingers gently together.
"I'll be candid: there's a lot we don't know or understand about the astral realms. That said, each time we're able to make contact with a being, or develop photographs of a sort that capture the energy of one, we make great strides in helping those witches and wizards that are being harassed or receiving unwanted attention. Is Hashmal here?"
Ron slowly turned his head to the corner behind him where, sure enough, the young man stood, looking both peevish and sorrowful.
"He certainly is." Ron pointed to the corner. "But like I told you, I don't think you'll be able to detect him at all."
The Healer rose from her chair, turning and walking just in front of Hashmal. "Did you say he looked Middle Eastern?" she asked, and Ron's breakfast began to turn to lead in his stomach.
"Yes, I guess. Can you see him?" he asked, his words fading to a whisper.
"No, I can't see anything out of the ordinary. I wouldn't expect to, necessarily. I would like to try a few conjuring spells and thought his ethnicity could help me along that path."
"Oh. Of course." Ron still felt queasy, especially when Hashmal said, "This is a waste of time! You need to go warn your government, warn somebody! We don't want there to be a senseless waste of your kind."
"Excuse me for being an idiot," Ron replied angrily, "but why do you care so much about us, anyway? What about all of the Muggles who are going to die, according to you? Why not just stop them from causing mass destruction in the first place?"
"Beg pardon?" The Healer was looking at him with a puzzled expression.
"Sorry, I was talking to Hashmal. He's not making any bloody sense. Not that that's a first."
"Well…" She regarded him with concern, then turned back to the corner and began casting a spell in a language Ron was certain he'd never heard before.
"It's not necessary for you to know our reasoning," Hashmal stated. "And I can't make your Healer conjure me because I'm already here. She's too logical. For all of her studies of the ethers or whatever it is she's focussed on, I can't manifest myself in a way for her to pick up on it."
"You're such a bloody nuisance!" Ron fumed. "You can talk around any suggestion I put out there for me to believe you exist."
"Mr. Weasley?" Healer Westwind was looking at him again, evidently displeased at having been interrupted once more. "It's not that I doubt you; you're quite convincing that you see someone. But could you please remain quiet for a few minutes while I run through a short set of spells? They're delicate and require concentration."
"Yes. I'm sorry. He's just… he's driving me mental."
"Ron, I've had enough of this." The spectre let out a large huff, stared at Ron, and then walked straight toward him, through the Healer, who didn't react in any way whatsoever. He stopped a few feet away, quirking his lips to one side. Ron was suddenly nauseous, flashes of hot and cold crashing through him. What the fuck was going on?
"No," he said, his voice trembling. "I've had enough of you."
"Mr. Weasley." The Healer strode toward him, her expression of ire transforming to concern when she saw the state he was in. "I really don't know what to say about the existence of this being, but I'm beginning to believe that a psychiatric evaluation is in order."
The ramifications of what she was saying hit Ron with the force of a Bludger. "You, too," he said, gripping the counter for assistance as his legs weren't supporting him very well. "No. I'm not crazy. I may be seeing things, but I'm not going insane. You." He jabbed his finger at Hashmal, who was rubbing at his temples with his fingers before resting them against his lips. "You leave me the hell alone. I'm not telling the Ministry anything. You can follow me around like a shadow, but I'm ignoring you. Four days and then it'll be over anyway, according to you."
Ron felt a hand on his bicep, and he jerked his arm away, startled.
"Mr. Weasley, I think for your own safety and peace of mind—"
"No. No offence, Healer Westwind, but I've got to go. Thank you for trying." He snatched up his book from the chair and stormed out of the room, not pausing when he heard the Astralogist calling for him. He jogged out to the exit and Apparated to a part of Wizarding London he knew reasonably well; he knew where the pubs were, anyway. He practically pulled the door off the hinges at The Belligerent Badger, and drank three shots of Firewhiskey in quick succession before his pulse started to slow down.
"New plan of attack," he said to himself. Hashmal wasn't there, but Ron didn't doubt he'd only been granted a short reprieve. "Ignore him, and for fuck's sake, quit talking to yourself. Just act normal."
He took a deep breath, begged a cigarette off the wizard next to him, and sat quietly as he nursed a Vampire's Kiss.
"Just act normal."
* * * * *
The dinner with Blaise was much like the other Ron had experienced; he and Draco chatted with the kind of informal camaraderie Ron had with his friends, Draco occasionally trying to bring Ron into the conversation. Mostly Ron was quite content to enjoy the food and blend into the background. He managed not to put his foot in it and even had a brief conversation with Blaise about the French fencing witch who was doing so well. Blaise didn't share Draco's and Ron's preferences for their own gender, but even Ron recognised that Mademoiselle Guillemain was sexy as well as skilled with a blade.
Later that evening, Ron sat by the fire in what was ostensibly Draco's study. He was nearly finished with Fang and Fury, and he read avidly while Draco dealt with some legal paperwork he'd been putting off. It was something to do with a winery to which the Malfoys had a distant and challenging relationship.
"How was St. Mungo's?" Draco asked, turning his head and fixing his gaze on Ron.
Ron huffed out a heavy breath, noting the page he was on and closing the paperback. "Pointless. Well, not entirely pointless— the Healer couldn't see him. But he was there. Or I manifested him there. I don't know," Ron said, now disgusted with the situation rather than wracked with anxiety. "Haven't seen him since. Maybe that was it."
"Maybe. What's he on about, again? And his name?"
"Hashmal. I'd rather not say it aloud," Ron admitted, the words gritty in his mouth. "Could be like some of those bog spirits Seamus used to talk about. Once you say their name, that gives them power."
"If he really exists," Draco reminded him, his expression oddly businesslike.
"Right. He says London, Glasgow and Edinburgh will be bombed. Terrorists. Didn't say who, or why. Quite vague about it all, really."
Draco tapped his long, thin fingers against the wooden secretary. "And he wants you to tell our Minister so the wizarding population has a heads up."
Ron nodded and grimaced, knowing it sounded almost exactly like the plot of some of the books he'd read over the summer when he'd been on a post-apocalyptic jag.
"Didn't you read a novel like that?" Draco asked as though reading Ron's mind.
Ron gave a defeated shrug. "Probably in my head. Maybe it's a delayed curse, or some chemical-induced hallucination that's using my imagination."
Draco caught his upper lip with his teeth, sucked briefly, then looked resolved. "Time to try a different tactic, then. Hypnosis, perhaps. A good hypnotist could purse that from your mind, I suspect. It may resolve itself, though. Maybe going to St. Mungo's was enough reality to force it away."
"I hope so," Ron said fervently. "I'll just expect things to be normal until proven otherwise. That's the plan."
That plan worked for all of seventy-two hours.
Ron had just started to believe that Hashmal had given up on him when he noticed something odd in one of the trees during a morning run through the no longer Forbidden Forest. Hashmal stood on a branch reaching over the path, perfectly balanced, his hands hidden inside the long sleeves of his tunic. Ron slowed to a jog, breathing heavily, but kept going after giving the entity a two-fingered salute. He brought his pace back up to speed only to feel he was being followed. Seconds later, Hashmal was at his side, running, but not at all winded.
"Nothing's changed," Ron huffed. "I'm still ignoring you."
"Come on!" Hashmal pleaded. "Is it really too much of a risk to give your people a warning? What do you have to lose?"
"Any credibility at all," Ron said as his feet pounded against the earth. "This conversation is over. I've got to find a Wizard to get rid of you," he said to himself, getting more irritated by the moment as his stride wasn't his usual speed. "Should owl Bill. I'll bet he'd know who to talk to."
"I can't leave you alone anymore," Hashmal stated. "I don't want you to harm yourself, but this is too important. You must—"
"The only thing I must do is get you out of my fucking head!" Ron yelled. "Goodbye!"
He was at the edge of the Hogwarts grounds. Fuming and irritable, he sprinted toward the castle and the Quidditch changing rooms where he would shower and change. His eyes stung with sweat. He raised his shoulder to wipe at his face and stumbled a bit, overcompensating as he tried to get back in rhythm. His left ankle twisted and a jolt of pain shot through his leg. Hashmal seemed to fade a bit, but Ron's concern with him flew away as he hobbled and hopped to a stop, favouring his right leg.
"Fuck, fuck, oh fuck that hurts," he moaned, limping and trying to shake his ankle to keep it loose.
Hashmal was still as close as a shadow, but looked distressed, and less substantial than he had been.
"Why don't you help me?" Ron asked through gritted teeth, limping across the grass. "Oh wait, you can't touch me. Merlin! I'm going to go crazy and it'll all be your fucking fault."
"I wish I could!" the spectre insisted, reaching toward Ron before dropping his hands back at his sides. "It's one of the rules. Breaking them is anathema to me."
"So I'm done with you," muttered Ron, grimacing with each step and wishing he'd taken his wand on his run. At least Poppy would be there and she could put a bandage and ice on it. That and a pain potion would be enough for him to be able to meet with the chess club, or maybe he'd cancel, depending on what Madame Pomfrey said.
"Now probably isn't the best time for me to bring this up," Hashmal said, craning his neck into Ron's line of vision as they neared the changing rooms. "I can't make you do anything— only a Dark One could, or would. But I can affect your dreams, and the way you see things. I don't want to see you harmed, or doubting yourself."
"You're really a passive-aggressive bastard, aren't you?"
Ron's ankle throbbed and now he was chilled, his sweat cooling him overmuch in the brisk morning weather.
"If that's how you want to see things," Hashmal said, resigned. "You'll be heading home soon. I'll be there."
"How delightful," Ron snapped, the words dripping with sarcasm. "You can have tea ready, and scones. With raspberry jam. And cream. The works."
He was alone in the changing room; Hashmal had vanished. Ron leaned against one of the lockers for support, Accio'ed his wand and duffel from his office and began his slow ascent to the infirmary.
"Coach Weasley," Poppy tut-tutted when she inspected his ankle a while later. "Why ever did you decide to take a turn like that? You're lucky you didn't break it."
Ron made a vague noise.
"A sprain will take longer to heal. I've put an herbal bandage on it, and take this." She handed him a low-grade pain potion. "I want you to go home— take the Floo from my office. I'll open it up so you don't have to go downstairs to the kitchens. Once home, elevate it for a few hours. Keep your weight off of it as much as possible."
"I will. Thank you. This wasn't the way I'd planned to start out my day, for sure!"
"No, I suspect it wasn't," she said in her brisk, efficient manner. "Go on. I need to check up on the Tanner girl. Thought it would be a good idea to try a hair growing spell, but it went a bit wrong."
Ron smiled. "You always have your hands full. I'll be off, then."
He expanded the crutches and hobbled to her fireplace. It was awkward, but he managed to get to his own house without falling over. Ron manoeuvred into the kitchen to make some tea, and once the kettle was on, he turned around and saw Hashmal leaning against the counter. Ron silently regarded him; oddly enough, Hashmal was quite handsome. This was the first time Ron had been so close to him and not been panicked or boiling with anger. There was something off about Hashmal, his large sloe-eyes too far apart, perhaps; his gestures smooth, unnaturally so, as though learned at a school or by watching, and watching…
"Accio parchment," Ron said brusquely. Under Hashmal's gaze, he penned a quick note to Bill, asking his advice about seeing things and/or an exorcism. Where are you now, anyway? he wrote. Firecall me if you want.
Ron's hasty anger, so long his companion, stopped by again. He turned away from Hashmal with a growl of displeasure, hopping on his good foot to get his tea ready. Once the kettle boiled, he fixed his cup, pocketed the dwindling pack of fags and matches, and levitated the tea to the porch. Outside he took in the leaden sky, pulling his jacket closer around him.
"Pig!" he called and the owl swooped down, chipper and indefatigable as always. He tied the note to Pig's leg and stroked his head affectionately for a short while before the owl flew off.
Hashmal stood, looking at Ron with an expression Ron couldn't place. Ron lit a cigarette, pulling his right leg to his chest, the leg with the sprain stretched out and propped on a small table. His ankle still ached, but it was nothing like how it had been before he saw Poppy. He drank his tea and smoked, eventually looking Hashmal squarely in the face.
"You can make your own tea," he said snidely. "I'm sure that's in your bag of tricks."
Hashmal became incensed— he seemed to grow, or the energy around him did, crackling and sparking; there was a strong smell of incense and ozone. The air thundered around him and he rose with two smooth sweeps before languidly sinking back down to the porch. The haze around Hashmal was a violent furore; Ron had to turn his eyes away, though the image of a voluminous cape, or something wide and expansive behind Hashmal's back was seared into the mind's eye.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley," the entity said, his voice an angry chorus. "I will no longer put up with your disrespect and insolence. See me for what I am!"
"NO!" he said through a syrupy hiccough. "You're not real!"
Eyes clenched shut, blindly he got up and tried to hurry into the house. He stumbled and pain seared his ankle. He crashed against the sliding door, his eyes flying open. Hashmal, too, was grimacing in pain, far more insubstantial and ghostlike than before.
"That hurts you?" Ron said, his eyes shamefully burning with tears. "When I'm in pain, that affects you? Oh, that's bloody brilliant, not to mention totally fucked up," he said harshly.
Hashmal's pyrotechnics were gone; he trembled but appeared to regain his usual substantiality as Ron's ankle returned to its low aching pulse.
"Beloved, chosen one. Don't, for the love of all things holy follow that line of thought!" Hashmal said. Desperation was stamped on his elegant features; anxiety shone from the depths of his eyes.
"Oh, just you wait," he threatened, but his stomach clenched with fear.
Ron felt like he was sleepwalking, or once again under the influence of some of the hallucinogenic potions he'd dabbled in when he was crumbling under the weight of his self-perceived failure. He limped into the house, intent on finding one thing: a hand-held mirror. He didn't have time to dick around, so, wand out, he yelled, " Accio mirror!"
Several came hurtling downstairs; the crescent-shaped one from the wall behind him sailed to his feet. He picked it up, almost unable to keep a hold of it, his hand shook so much.
"Fuck," he whispered, and then let out a wild half-sob at what he was about to do. If he was any good, he was about to hurt like hell, but Hashmal would be gone— maybe not forever, but for a while. He propped up the mirror against the counter ledge, seeing Hashmal standing behind him in the reflection, grief and shock written on Hashmal's face. Ron summoned every bit of anger and all the feelings of injustice at being put in the situation he found himself. Wand pointed at the mirror, he focussed how much he hated whatever Hashmal was or represented, then stared into his own wild-eyed face and roared, " CRUCIO! "
Pain lashed through him with the wild ferocity of Fiendfyre, tore and gnawed at his bones, his guts, his teeth. It was agony; it feasted on him, gorging on his spirit, ripping him apart and grinding him into the ground.
Ron blacked out.
Continue to part five
Ron woke up the next day with a sour taste on his tongue and a sense that he'd forgotten something terribly important. He pushed the thoughts aside as he and Draco went through their morning routine. It wasn't until Draco was nearly to their fireplace when he grabbed a handful of Floo powder and then glanced back over at Ron. "Don't forget, we're meeting Blaise for dinner at seven-thirty. I'll owl you where we're eating once he settles on a place."
"Oh. Right." Ron sipped his coffee— he'd not wanted to risk having tea. "Let me know if it's somewhere I'll have to dress up for or something."
A sympathetic smile graced Draco's features. "I will. Fuck. I've got to go. Love you."
"I love you too," Ron said as Draco vanished in a tower of green flame.
Alone again, Ron found his fingers itching to hold a cigarette. He hated how easy it was to be under their sway again, but as long as he kept it to one or two a day, and kept working out… He put on a proper coat and cast a heating charm on his mug of coffee before going to the porch. Ron smoked without the phantasm showing up. In fact, Hashmal didn't make an appearance until Ron walked into the bedroom after his shower.
"Fuck! Stop doing that," he said irritably, rubbing at his damp hair with a towel.
"I need you to take me seriously," Hashmal said. He seemed to have a soft aura around him, making him look even more otherworldly. Ron tried not to let his feelings be swayed. He was a manifestation Ron had created, full stop.
"Look," Ron snapped. "I'm going to St. Mungo's, as I'm sure you know. If you really are some kind of creature from the spirit world, then you'll have to prove it to me. I want you to manifest yourself so a Healer, one of these Astralogists, can test the area where you are with her wand. If she, or he, doesn't pick up on you, that's all the proof I need that you're an annoying part of my mind that for whatever reason is really fucking with me."
"Ron, listen to me."
Hashmal walked near to him, and for the first time Ron thought he felt a shimmer of contact, a tingling like when he'd been sitting funny and his foot went to sleep, and he had to massage the life back into it. Hashmal's handsome, vaguely exotic features reminded Ron of some of the memorable young men he'd seen during his family's trip to Egypt, many years before.
"Your Healers won't be able to register my energy with their equipment or wands. I'm not a spectre, and most importantly, I was never human. I've only ever been like this. The only kind of person who would be able to see me, besides you, of course, is a shaman. Somebody who's open to beings that exist and travel in the Luminaries, non-terrestrial realms."
Ron nodded absently, pulling on a pair of y-fronts and choosing some comfortable jeans and a Green Knights long-sleeved t-shirt. "You're a figment of my imagination. You can't even touch me, can you?" he challenged, both confident and scared shitless that was about to be proven wrong. Far better to be talking to himself, ultimately, than to have really been singled out by… something.
Hashmal closed his eyes, his hands balled into fists before relaxing, defeat radiating from him. "No, I can't touch you, not directly like you're meaning."
Ron let out a breath and finished getting dressed. "Okay then. Hang out all you want. I'll see what they say at hospital."
"Ron, I really don't want to torment you, that's not why I was sent!" Hashmal was wringing his hands, obviously distressed.
"Good! Then bugger off," Ron said through a clenched jaw.
The entity scowled, gave Ron a hard look that pierced him with a stab of fear, and then vanished.
"This has got to stop," Ron muttered.
After cleaning Pandemonium's litter box and making sure she had plenty of food and water, Ron Apparated to a location near the phone box to get him into St. Mungo's. He was greeted by a cheery receptionist and was asked to take a seat after Ron explained he didn't have an appointment and didn't really know whom he needed to see. He'd brought Fang and Fury with him but only read a few pages before someone in dark orange robes delicately cleared her throat. Ron looked up and saw an older witch who'd obviously been quite beautiful in the day, a silk purple eye patch covering her left eye.
"Mr. Weasley?" she asked.
"Yes." He closed his book and stood up, towering over her by a foot.
"I'm Healer Westwind. Xanthia Westwind." She shook his hand.
"Ron."
"Delighted. Please follow me."
Ron walked just behind her, wondering whether or not he should attempt to make small talk, when the Healer stopped in front of an exam room. She gestured for Ron to enter, so he did and she followed behind him, pulling the door to but leaving it slightly ajar.
"So!" she said brightly, summoning a dicta-quill and parchment so that they hovered above the counter. "Please, have a seat. We'll just talk for a little bit so that I have a better understanding of what's disturbing you."
Ron felt very much at ease around her and gave her an abbreviated version of the events of the previous few days, her dicta-quill scratching down what he said. She nodded and didn't interrupt. Once he was done, she steepled her fingers, tapping her index fingers gently together.
"I'll be candid: there's a lot we don't know or understand about the astral realms. That said, each time we're able to make contact with a being, or develop photographs of a sort that capture the energy of one, we make great strides in helping those witches and wizards that are being harassed or receiving unwanted attention. Is Hashmal here?"
Ron slowly turned his head to the corner behind him where, sure enough, the young man stood, looking both peevish and sorrowful.
"He certainly is." Ron pointed to the corner. "But like I told you, I don't think you'll be able to detect him at all."
The Healer rose from her chair, turning and walking just in front of Hashmal. "Did you say he looked Middle Eastern?" she asked, and Ron's breakfast began to turn to lead in his stomach.
"Yes, I guess. Can you see him?" he asked, his words fading to a whisper.
"No, I can't see anything out of the ordinary. I wouldn't expect to, necessarily. I would like to try a few conjuring spells and thought his ethnicity could help me along that path."
"Oh. Of course." Ron still felt queasy, especially when Hashmal said, "This is a waste of time! You need to go warn your government, warn somebody! We don't want there to be a senseless waste of your kind."
"Excuse me for being an idiot," Ron replied angrily, "but why do you care so much about us, anyway? What about all of the Muggles who are going to die, according to you? Why not just stop them from causing mass destruction in the first place?"
"Beg pardon?" The Healer was looking at him with a puzzled expression.
"Sorry, I was talking to Hashmal. He's not making any bloody sense. Not that that's a first."
"Well…" She regarded him with concern, then turned back to the corner and began casting a spell in a language Ron was certain he'd never heard before.
"It's not necessary for you to know our reasoning," Hashmal stated. "And I can't make your Healer conjure me because I'm already here. She's too logical. For all of her studies of the ethers or whatever it is she's focussed on, I can't manifest myself in a way for her to pick up on it."
"You're such a bloody nuisance!" Ron fumed. "You can talk around any suggestion I put out there for me to believe you exist."
"Mr. Weasley?" Healer Westwind was looking at him again, evidently displeased at having been interrupted once more. "It's not that I doubt you; you're quite convincing that you see someone. But could you please remain quiet for a few minutes while I run through a short set of spells? They're delicate and require concentration."
"Yes. I'm sorry. He's just… he's driving me mental."
"Ron, I've had enough of this." The spectre let out a large huff, stared at Ron, and then walked straight toward him, through the Healer, who didn't react in any way whatsoever. He stopped a few feet away, quirking his lips to one side. Ron was suddenly nauseous, flashes of hot and cold crashing through him. What the fuck was going on?
"No," he said, his voice trembling. "I've had enough of you."
"Mr. Weasley." The Healer strode toward him, her expression of ire transforming to concern when she saw the state he was in. "I really don't know what to say about the existence of this being, but I'm beginning to believe that a psychiatric evaluation is in order."
The ramifications of what she was saying hit Ron with the force of a Bludger. "You, too," he said, gripping the counter for assistance as his legs weren't supporting him very well. "No. I'm not crazy. I may be seeing things, but I'm not going insane. You." He jabbed his finger at Hashmal, who was rubbing at his temples with his fingers before resting them against his lips. "You leave me the hell alone. I'm not telling the Ministry anything. You can follow me around like a shadow, but I'm ignoring you. Four days and then it'll be over anyway, according to you."
Ron felt a hand on his bicep, and he jerked his arm away, startled.
"Mr. Weasley, I think for your own safety and peace of mind—"
"No. No offence, Healer Westwind, but I've got to go. Thank you for trying." He snatched up his book from the chair and stormed out of the room, not pausing when he heard the Astralogist calling for him. He jogged out to the exit and Apparated to a part of Wizarding London he knew reasonably well; he knew where the pubs were, anyway. He practically pulled the door off the hinges at The Belligerent Badger, and drank three shots of Firewhiskey in quick succession before his pulse started to slow down.
"New plan of attack," he said to himself. Hashmal wasn't there, but Ron didn't doubt he'd only been granted a short reprieve. "Ignore him, and for fuck's sake, quit talking to yourself. Just act normal."
He took a deep breath, begged a cigarette off the wizard next to him, and sat quietly as he nursed a Vampire's Kiss.
"Just act normal."
* * * * *
The dinner with Blaise was much like the other Ron had experienced; he and Draco chatted with the kind of informal camaraderie Ron had with his friends, Draco occasionally trying to bring Ron into the conversation. Mostly Ron was quite content to enjoy the food and blend into the background. He managed not to put his foot in it and even had a brief conversation with Blaise about the French fencing witch who was doing so well. Blaise didn't share Draco's and Ron's preferences for their own gender, but even Ron recognised that Mademoiselle Guillemain was sexy as well as skilled with a blade.
Later that evening, Ron sat by the fire in what was ostensibly Draco's study. He was nearly finished with Fang and Fury, and he read avidly while Draco dealt with some legal paperwork he'd been putting off. It was something to do with a winery to which the Malfoys had a distant and challenging relationship.
"How was St. Mungo's?" Draco asked, turning his head and fixing his gaze on Ron.
Ron huffed out a heavy breath, noting the page he was on and closing the paperback. "Pointless. Well, not entirely pointless— the Healer couldn't see him. But he was there. Or I manifested him there. I don't know," Ron said, now disgusted with the situation rather than wracked with anxiety. "Haven't seen him since. Maybe that was it."
"Maybe. What's he on about, again? And his name?"
"Hashmal. I'd rather not say it aloud," Ron admitted, the words gritty in his mouth. "Could be like some of those bog spirits Seamus used to talk about. Once you say their name, that gives them power."
"If he really exists," Draco reminded him, his expression oddly businesslike.
"Right. He says London, Glasgow and Edinburgh will be bombed. Terrorists. Didn't say who, or why. Quite vague about it all, really."
Draco tapped his long, thin fingers against the wooden secretary. "And he wants you to tell our Minister so the wizarding population has a heads up."
Ron nodded and grimaced, knowing it sounded almost exactly like the plot of some of the books he'd read over the summer when he'd been on a post-apocalyptic jag.
"Didn't you read a novel like that?" Draco asked as though reading Ron's mind.
Ron gave a defeated shrug. "Probably in my head. Maybe it's a delayed curse, or some chemical-induced hallucination that's using my imagination."
Draco caught his upper lip with his teeth, sucked briefly, then looked resolved. "Time to try a different tactic, then. Hypnosis, perhaps. A good hypnotist could purse that from your mind, I suspect. It may resolve itself, though. Maybe going to St. Mungo's was enough reality to force it away."
"I hope so," Ron said fervently. "I'll just expect things to be normal until proven otherwise. That's the plan."
That plan worked for all of seventy-two hours.
Ron had just started to believe that Hashmal had given up on him when he noticed something odd in one of the trees during a morning run through the no longer Forbidden Forest. Hashmal stood on a branch reaching over the path, perfectly balanced, his hands hidden inside the long sleeves of his tunic. Ron slowed to a jog, breathing heavily, but kept going after giving the entity a two-fingered salute. He brought his pace back up to speed only to feel he was being followed. Seconds later, Hashmal was at his side, running, but not at all winded.
"Nothing's changed," Ron huffed. "I'm still ignoring you."
"Come on!" Hashmal pleaded. "Is it really too much of a risk to give your people a warning? What do you have to lose?"
"Any credibility at all," Ron said as his feet pounded against the earth. "This conversation is over. I've got to find a Wizard to get rid of you," he said to himself, getting more irritated by the moment as his stride wasn't his usual speed. "Should owl Bill. I'll bet he'd know who to talk to."
"I can't leave you alone anymore," Hashmal stated. "I don't want you to harm yourself, but this is too important. You must—"
"The only thing I must do is get you out of my fucking head!" Ron yelled. "Goodbye!"
He was at the edge of the Hogwarts grounds. Fuming and irritable, he sprinted toward the castle and the Quidditch changing rooms where he would shower and change. His eyes stung with sweat. He raised his shoulder to wipe at his face and stumbled a bit, overcompensating as he tried to get back in rhythm. His left ankle twisted and a jolt of pain shot through his leg. Hashmal seemed to fade a bit, but Ron's concern with him flew away as he hobbled and hopped to a stop, favouring his right leg.
"Fuck, fuck, oh fuck that hurts," he moaned, limping and trying to shake his ankle to keep it loose.
Hashmal was still as close as a shadow, but looked distressed, and less substantial than he had been.
"Why don't you help me?" Ron asked through gritted teeth, limping across the grass. "Oh wait, you can't touch me. Merlin! I'm going to go crazy and it'll all be your fucking fault."
"I wish I could!" the spectre insisted, reaching toward Ron before dropping his hands back at his sides. "It's one of the rules. Breaking them is anathema to me."
"So I'm done with you," muttered Ron, grimacing with each step and wishing he'd taken his wand on his run. At least Poppy would be there and she could put a bandage and ice on it. That and a pain potion would be enough for him to be able to meet with the chess club, or maybe he'd cancel, depending on what Madame Pomfrey said.
"Now probably isn't the best time for me to bring this up," Hashmal said, craning his neck into Ron's line of vision as they neared the changing rooms. "I can't make you do anything— only a Dark One could, or would. But I can affect your dreams, and the way you see things. I don't want to see you harmed, or doubting yourself."
"You're really a passive-aggressive bastard, aren't you?"
Ron's ankle throbbed and now he was chilled, his sweat cooling him overmuch in the brisk morning weather.
"If that's how you want to see things," Hashmal said, resigned. "You'll be heading home soon. I'll be there."
"How delightful," Ron snapped, the words dripping with sarcasm. "You can have tea ready, and scones. With raspberry jam. And cream. The works."
He was alone in the changing room; Hashmal had vanished. Ron leaned against one of the lockers for support, Accio'ed his wand and duffel from his office and began his slow ascent to the infirmary.
"Coach Weasley," Poppy tut-tutted when she inspected his ankle a while later. "Why ever did you decide to take a turn like that? You're lucky you didn't break it."
Ron made a vague noise.
"A sprain will take longer to heal. I've put an herbal bandage on it, and take this." She handed him a low-grade pain potion. "I want you to go home— take the Floo from my office. I'll open it up so you don't have to go downstairs to the kitchens. Once home, elevate it for a few hours. Keep your weight off of it as much as possible."
"I will. Thank you. This wasn't the way I'd planned to start out my day, for sure!"
"No, I suspect it wasn't," she said in her brisk, efficient manner. "Go on. I need to check up on the Tanner girl. Thought it would be a good idea to try a hair growing spell, but it went a bit wrong."
Ron smiled. "You always have your hands full. I'll be off, then."
He expanded the crutches and hobbled to her fireplace. It was awkward, but he managed to get to his own house without falling over. Ron manoeuvred into the kitchen to make some tea, and once the kettle was on, he turned around and saw Hashmal leaning against the counter. Ron silently regarded him; oddly enough, Hashmal was quite handsome. This was the first time Ron had been so close to him and not been panicked or boiling with anger. There was something off about Hashmal, his large sloe-eyes too far apart, perhaps; his gestures smooth, unnaturally so, as though learned at a school or by watching, and watching…
"Accio parchment," Ron said brusquely. Under Hashmal's gaze, he penned a quick note to Bill, asking his advice about seeing things and/or an exorcism. Where are you now, anyway? he wrote. Firecall me if you want.
Ron's hasty anger, so long his companion, stopped by again. He turned away from Hashmal with a growl of displeasure, hopping on his good foot to get his tea ready. Once the kettle boiled, he fixed his cup, pocketed the dwindling pack of fags and matches, and levitated the tea to the porch. Outside he took in the leaden sky, pulling his jacket closer around him.
"Pig!" he called and the owl swooped down, chipper and indefatigable as always. He tied the note to Pig's leg and stroked his head affectionately for a short while before the owl flew off.
Hashmal stood, looking at Ron with an expression Ron couldn't place. Ron lit a cigarette, pulling his right leg to his chest, the leg with the sprain stretched out and propped on a small table. His ankle still ached, but it was nothing like how it had been before he saw Poppy. He drank his tea and smoked, eventually looking Hashmal squarely in the face.
"You can make your own tea," he said snidely. "I'm sure that's in your bag of tricks."
Hashmal became incensed— he seemed to grow, or the energy around him did, crackling and sparking; there was a strong smell of incense and ozone. The air thundered around him and he rose with two smooth sweeps before languidly sinking back down to the porch. The haze around Hashmal was a violent furore; Ron had to turn his eyes away, though the image of a voluminous cape, or something wide and expansive behind Hashmal's back was seared into the mind's eye.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley," the entity said, his voice an angry chorus. "I will no longer put up with your disrespect and insolence. See me for what I am!"
"NO!" he said through a syrupy hiccough. "You're not real!"
Eyes clenched shut, blindly he got up and tried to hurry into the house. He stumbled and pain seared his ankle. He crashed against the sliding door, his eyes flying open. Hashmal, too, was grimacing in pain, far more insubstantial and ghostlike than before.
"That hurts you?" Ron said, his eyes shamefully burning with tears. "When I'm in pain, that affects you? Oh, that's bloody brilliant, not to mention totally fucked up," he said harshly.
Hashmal's pyrotechnics were gone; he trembled but appeared to regain his usual substantiality as Ron's ankle returned to its low aching pulse.
"Beloved, chosen one. Don't, for the love of all things holy follow that line of thought!" Hashmal said. Desperation was stamped on his elegant features; anxiety shone from the depths of his eyes.
"Oh, just you wait," he threatened, but his stomach clenched with fear.
Ron felt like he was sleepwalking, or once again under the influence of some of the hallucinogenic potions he'd dabbled in when he was crumbling under the weight of his self-perceived failure. He limped into the house, intent on finding one thing: a hand-held mirror. He didn't have time to dick around, so, wand out, he yelled, " Accio mirror!"
Several came hurtling downstairs; the crescent-shaped one from the wall behind him sailed to his feet. He picked it up, almost unable to keep a hold of it, his hand shook so much.
"Fuck," he whispered, and then let out a wild half-sob at what he was about to do. If he was any good, he was about to hurt like hell, but Hashmal would be gone— maybe not forever, but for a while. He propped up the mirror against the counter ledge, seeing Hashmal standing behind him in the reflection, grief and shock written on Hashmal's face. Ron summoned every bit of anger and all the feelings of injustice at being put in the situation he found himself. Wand pointed at the mirror, he focussed how much he hated whatever Hashmal was or represented, then stared into his own wild-eyed face and roared, " CRUCIO! "
Pain lashed through him with the wild ferocity of Fiendfyre, tore and gnawed at his bones, his guts, his teeth. It was agony; it feasted on him, gorging on his spirit, ripping him apart and grinding him into the ground.
Ron blacked out.
Continue to part five