Hopelessly Devoted

A tall figure in a dark cloak walked quickly down a darkening street. Wind whipped silently at the few leaves littering the ground. The moon peered evilly down from the sky, where it was half-shrouded in Halloween clouds. A light flickered in one of the many streetlamps, feebly attempting to stay alight.

The man in the cloak noticed none of this and walked on. He didn’t particularly care about the night that was falling fast on the London suburb he was currently prowling. He had a job to do there, one that had to be done.

But he was having second thoughts. As he leaned on the doorbell of the house that was his final destination, the man wondered if he could bring himself to do it. It needed to be done, obviously, but why was he the one given the task? He decided to turn back, demand that someone else complete the job, and—

Too late. The door had opened, revealing a young woman with bushy brown hair. She looked irritated, and he soon found out why.

“Andrew!� she screeched into the night, “How many times do I have to tell you? My doorbell is not your personal plaything—oh!� Her eyes had fallen at last on the man standing on her doorstep, who had lowered his hood.

She recognised him in an instant. “Ron,� she breathed, almost to assure herself it was really him. And then she slammed the door in his face.

Thinking that this was already harder than he had anticipated, the man called Ron hammered on the door until it opened again, quite abruptly.

If she had looked irritated before, it was nothing compared to how the woman who once again answered the door looked now. Cold fury burned in her eyes and the hand that she hadn’t used to open the door was clenched into a fist.

“What do you want? Why are you here? How did you find me?� she asked, her voice sounding increasingly desperate with each question.

Ron sighed. “Hermione, I came to talk to you! But I’m not going to do it out here. People could be listening…� He had a few other things in store for her too. But she didn’t need to know that. Not yet.

The use of her name shocked Hermione. How dare he come here, of all places, and address her so? But she admired him still, after all that had happened between them, and that was why she gave in.

“All right, come in. But you had better talk fast.�

Ron stepped casually across her threshold, taking in the simple décor that quite blatantly stated that whoever lived there did not plan to stay too long.

Hermione stared at him, arms folded, fury still burning in her eyes. A thousand questions crossed her mind, and she longed to shout them at him, longed to make him show some emotion other than the icy cordiality he had been displaying thus far, and longed to prove to herself that he wasn’t just some figment of her overwrought imagination…

Instead, however, she waited for him to speak, knowing there was something he had traveled all that distance to say.

“Hermione,� he began, rather feebly. “It’s, er, been a while.�

“It’s been over three years, Ron,� she countered, sending a burst of that icy cordiality right back at him. “I hardly call that a while.�

“Well, a long while, then.� Ron gave a half-hearted laugh, but stopped when he realised Hermione didn’t see the humor in this statement. Of course, he hadn’t either, but this was another thing she didn’t need to know. He instead tried another tactic, though he already knew that it, too, wouldn’t work.

“So, er, how have you been?�

“Fine, thank you, Ronald,� she said, reverting to her old habit of using the name he hated, “but I highly doubt that your sole reason for coming here was to interrogate me about my welfare. You’ve got something to say, so get on with it.�

“All right, Hermione! Can I sit down?�

“If it’ll make you start talking then yes, anything!� Hermione sank onto the beige sofa in her sitting room and waited for him to join her. He did, but only after closing all the curtains in the room with a flick of his wand. “People could be listening…� he muttered again, and then, when he had sat down, he said, “I’m a double agent.�

Whatever Hermione had been expecting to hear, that wasn’t it. “You’re a what?

“A double agent. You do know what that is, don’t you?�

“Of course I know what a double agent is! I want to hear your explanation, though.� Hermione was trying very hard to keep from screeching again.

Ron shifted uneasily in his seat. This was the hardest part, giving her all the general details without telling her more than she needed to know.

“Well, you see, I serve two— masters, both of whom I’m—� Ron paused, searching for the right words—“hopelessly devoted to.�

“Hopelessly devoted?� asked Hermione.

“Hopelessly devoted,� agreed Ron.

“And,� ventured Hermione, “are you going to tell me who these two ‘masters’ are?�

“No—yes. Yes.� Ron had suddenly realised that what he had thought she didn’t need to know was actually what he didn’t want to tell her. Knowing this seemed to give him new heart, so he leaned across the sofa and kissed her.

Hermione started, shocked, but then she was kissing him back and oh, this was wonderful, this was bliss! A passion she had nearly forgotten existed was thundering through her veins once again, obliterating all thought, setting her heart on fire and making her feel not quite so alone.

“And that,� said Ron, as they broke apart, “should tell you who one of my masters is.�

“Me,� she said, and he nodded.

“Then why,� she continued, “did you leave? Why, if you loved me?�

“Because I was naïve and stupid. I saw a shred of evidence, and I didn’t wait for proof.�

“Proof of what, Ron?� All traces of anger had vanished from Hermione’s voice, melted, she suspected, by the heat of the fire alight in her heart.

“Proof that—bloody hell, this is difficult—proof that love wasn’t enough. It can’t save everything, Hermione, it just can’t.�

“Why not?� asked Hermione, moving closer to him on the sofa.

“Come on, Hermione! You were there! Dumbledore always said that the only weapon Harry really had was love, but…� Ron broke off, afraid to finish the sentence, but Hermione did it for him.

“But when Harry died, you thought that love couldn’t save us either.�

Ron nodded. “So… that’s where my other master comes in. I was eighteen, stupid, and alone—my best friend was dead, and I had no idea what had happened to you—and I saw no way that the Order could actually win the war. So I joined up.�

“Joined up? Joined what, Ron?� Hermione, famous at school for being an insufferable know-it-all, was suddenly slow to comprehend.

Ron didn’t answer. He just rolled up his left sleeve. There, burned into his forearm, was an insignia Hermione knew all too well. She had seen the Dark Mark in the sky on many occasions, and even more often on the arm of a captive Death Eater, but she had never suspected that Ron would become one.

“Why are you telling me this?� Hermione’s voice shook. Everything she had known had suddenly been plunged into darkness, and her heart was no longer on fire, rather, it seemed to have been pierced and was slowly deflating.

Ron faltered, his right hand still on his sleeve. “I—you—you have a right to know. Do you really think I’d be sitting here like this if I’d been given the choice?�

Hermione shook her head. Ron continued, “But I was given the choice, I suppose, and I blew it. Harry was right and I was wrong. Love can prevail, Hermione! It—it just—� Ron broke off and seemed to steady himself. “It just can’t save us.�

Hermione managed to smile. “I guess it is just hopeless devotion, then, and you can’t do anything about it.�

Ron started to smile too, but caught himself. “Actually, darling, I’m under orders to make it even more hopeless.�

And before Hermione could say another word, before she could even make sense of what had just happened, Ron had raised his wand. Hermione noticed a look of deepest sorrow in his eyes as he pointed his wand straight at her.

“ Avada Kedavra! �

His deed done, Ron pocketed his wand and raised his hood once more. Before departing, however, he glanced over his shoulder and whispered three words to the settling dust and lifeless wreckage in the sitting room behind him.

“I love you.�

Finite Incantatem