[Castling] Chapter 71

Fuming like a blasted manticore, I stormed down the stairs, nearly bowling over Hermione on the landing, and slammed into the bedroom.

First thing I did was yank on my hoodie, drag my bag out from under the bed, and start shoving things into it without even looking. Really, I should’ve taken off the bloody locket to ease the pressure, but there was a painting on the wall. Empty, sure, but now and then I’d hear a faint cough, a rustle of fabric, or some soft snickering from behind the frame — we weren’t being left alone. The few portraits that hadn’t been burnt were keeping quiet watch over the guests. I wouldn’t be shocked if Phineas was reporting straight to Dumbledore — like the headmaster would ever leave all this unsupervised. And I didn’t need questions. Or attention.

They probably wouldn’t search me, but they might take the bag if they tried to stop me — no way they’d let me just waltz out. That Horcrux had to go. I didn’t spend all this time rotting in this bloody madhouse just to lose it at the finish line. Whatever, Harry and Hermione lugged it around for six hours a piece in the book and didn’t go completely mental. I’ve only had it on two. I’ll survive another hour.

Harry barged in just after me, staring in disbelief from the doorway.

“What are you doing, Ron?” he asked, properly baffled as he looked at the heap of clothes on the bed.

“Something I should’ve done ages ago,” I shot back, not stopping. “I’m getting out of here.”

“Erm… Ron,” Harry hesitated, “Sirius noticed you liked the ornaments. He said you could take them. He’d be happy to give them to you.”

He said it all cheerful, like that’d fix everything. Poor sod thought it was that simple.

“Tell Black he can shove ’em,” I snapped, stuffing another pile of robes into the bag.

“Ron, come on,” Harry said, looking a bit lost. “He’s trying to do something nice. Don’t be daft — just take them. Why make a scene over it? You could’ve just asked. He doesn’t even want them.”

“You seriously think I care about some fancy baubles?” I barked. “You really think I’ve gone off the rails over a bunch of—”

Hermione slipped in just then, wide-eyed and anxious, cutting me off mid-rant. Brilliant. Now I had to watch what I said so I didn’t wreck her delicate inner peace.

“What’s going on? Harry? Ron? Did you two have a fight?” she asked, glancing between us with growing concern. I just waved her off and turned back to the bag, while Harry stayed quiet, still frowning at me.

“Ron, are you leaving?” she gasped, taking in the half-packed bag. “Where are you going?”

“The Burrow,” I muttered without looking, zipping the bag closed and slinging it over my shoulder.

“Wait, Ron — it’s dangerous!” Hermione protested, stepping in front of me. “Be reasonable! You could be kidnapped — they might use you to get to Harry!”

“Then don’t bother saving me,” I said flatly, gently moving her aside and heading for the door. “I’d rather die free than spend another bloody day in this mausoleum.”

But Harry grabbed my arm hard, stopping me in my tracks.

“So that’s it? You’re just gonna run off without a word?” he snapped, properly angry now. “You’re really leaving over nothing? What the hell’s got into you?”

I could tell he wasn’t letting me go without answers, so I flung my bag down with a dull thud, a puff of dust rising around it.

“I’m sick of it all, alright?” I exploded. “Living in this madhouse. Doing disgusting work that turns my stomach. Playing along with that lunatic Black and pretending I don’t notice he’s lost the bloody plot. He’s as nutty as his barking mad mother.”

“He’s not mad,” Harry shot back, clearly shaken, glancing at Hermione for backup — but she looked away. “He’s not,” Harry mumbled, less sure now.

“Oh, really?” I said, voice dripping sarcasm. “You think it’s normal for a grown man to spend his days screaming at a dead woman? What he’s doing — it’s like pissing on a corpse, spitting on a grave. I don’t even know how else to describe that twisted obsession of his. Whatever she was like, she’s dead. It’s over. He won. They’re in the ground, and he’s still breathing. What more does he want? He can shout at her portrait and burn every last box in the house, but it won’t change the fact he’s still a Black — in blood and magic. Don’t you get it? He’s not fighting his family. He’s running from himself. All that rage? It’s a breakdown, plain and simple.”

“You don’t know the full story, Ron,” Harry argued. “Sirius has reasons for acting the way he does. He’s not handling things well, yeah, but he grew up in a house full of Dark wizards. It was a miserable childhood.”

“Oh, please,” I scoffed. “You had a miserable childhood, thanks to the Dursleys. Black? He was born with a silver spoon up his arse. Had house-elves wiping it for him till he was eleven. Then he went off to Hogwarts, only saw his family on holidays — if that. Probably stayed with mates instead. And when he’d had enough, he left. Tragic, isn’t it? What, you think just because he had pure-blood rubbish rammed in his ears as a kid, he’s got the right to go mental now? As if all pure-blood kids grow up sacrificing virgins and roasting babies? Give me a break. Don’t try and excuse his behaviour.”

I glared at both of them.

“I don’t give a toss about Black, or his messed-up head. I kept my mouth shut while he spiralled, but now he’s dragging us into it — forcing us to help him destroy everything in this house. Stuff that belonged to people long dead, stuff that’s got nothing to do with us. I don’t want any part of it. You lot keep pretending it’s normal — I won’t.”

“That’s not true, Ron,” Harry said quietly. “I’ll admit, he’s struggling. But it’s not as bad as you’re making out. This is about hate, yeah, but—”

“Yeah?” I sneered. “How many times has he slipped up and called you James, eh, Harry?”

The lad deflated instantly, couldn’t even find a comeback.

“But don’t forget, Ron, Sirius survived Azkaban… and dementors,” Hermione said gently, stepping in for him. “He’s truly miserable, and he’s suffering. He just needs time—to rest, to heal in a safe place. And if what he’s doing now helps him feel—”

“He’s losing his mind, Hermione,” I cut her off sharply. “And it’s getting worse. Once we all leave, stuck here alone, he’ll crack completely. Wouldn’t surprise me if he slashed his wrists or drank himself to death. And everyone here’s just pretending nothing’s wrong instead of actually helping him.”

“That’s not true!” Hermione protested, shocked.

“It is true,” I said bluntly. “Sirius needs to be in a bloody clinic. Sooner the better. Preferably somewhere sunny. Right now, he’s just swapped one prison for another, and who’s to say which one’s worse?”

“But wait, Ron,” she said, clearly rattled. “If Mr. Black were really that unwell, someone would’ve done something. There are loads of adult wizards here—don’t you think they’d notice?”

“And who the hell would care, Hermione?” I snapped, tightening my grip on the bag. “Everyone’s too busy worrying about themselves. They don’t give a toss about Sirius. The Order needs a safe meeting spot, and this place is perfect—close to the Leaky, all charmed up. No one’s gonna bother sorting out his issues. It’s convenient to keep him locked up in here, even if it drives him mad. At least he’s occupied. Makes him feel useful. He’s not allowed out anyway. With his temper? Left idle, he’ll either go berserk or be totally useless. Happens all the time. Look at Harry—he rots on Privet Drive every summer, and no one’s asked him once how he’s holding up. And me? I’ll go off my nut just like Black if I stay here much longer—but who gives a damn? In the wizarding world, Hermione, it’s every man for himself. Anyway—see you at King’s Cross.”

I walked past them and started down the stairs.

“Ron, wait—” Harry called after me. I paused just long enough for him to catch up and step in front of me, his face set with grim determination.

“They’re not gonna let you leave that easy,” he said, pulling out his wand. “I’ll help you. I’ll cover you.”

Didn’t expect that. I nodded silently—then noticed Hermione trailing close behind me like a shadow, wand in hand, eyes blazing. Somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

But not for long.

We’d almost made it to the door when Moody and Lupin stepped out of the kitchen. They stopped talking the moment they saw us. Lupin looked a bit thrown, but Moody clocked what was happening right away.

“Where d’you think you’re off to, lad?” Moody growled, raising his wand. “No one gave you permission to leave. Don’t be stupid. Get back to your room.”

“I’m not staying here. I’m going home,” I said flatly, anger bubbling up again. “You’re not family. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m in the Order, and I’m responsible for security!” he barked, wand twitching.

“I don’t know anything about the bloody Order, I’m not part of it!” I snapped, my voice rising. “You’ve got no right to stop me!”

“It’s dangerous out there, boy,” he said, switching tack. Normally, I reckon he would’ve stunned me and dragged me off—but Harry was standing between us, and Hermione blocked the corridor like a human shield. “You’re a target now. The Death Eaters’ll come for you to get to Potter. Use your head. You’re not stupid.”

“You should know better, sir—if they really want us, they’ll get us even at Hogwarts.”

“What’s going on here? What’s all the noise? And have you forgotten the portrait?!” came a voice from the kitchen—and Mum appeared, scowling. “Ron?” she blinked at the sight of my bag, then glanced at the others. Took her all of two seconds to piece it together.

“Mum, I can’t stay here any longer. I’m sorry…” I said, lifting my eyes to hers. “I’ve done my bit, but I just want to go home now.”

She looked thrown for a moment. Then her eyes locked with mine, sharp and searching. Her brows drew tight—and then she turned on her heel and went straight back into the kitchen. My heart sank—if she asked me to stay, I wouldn’t be able to say no.

“Tonks!” Mum shouted. “Sweetheart, could you come here? I need a favour.” There was a crash and a clatter of plates.

“What’s up?” Tonks burst out, half a pie still in her hand.

“Be a dear and Apparate Ron to the Burrow, would you? He can’t do it himself yet.”

“Molly!” Moody growled.

“And you, boy—get back to your room and stop making a scene or I’ll give you a hand with it,” he added, raising his voice.

Wrong move.

Mum rounded on him, hands on hips, eyes narrowed like a thundercloud.

“Don’t you dare threaten my son,” she hissed. “I’ll hex you into next week. You want to shout? Shout at your own kids—oh wait, you haven’t got any. So leave mine the hell alone. You heard him, Alastor—he’s miserable. You lot should’ve let him go days ago. Tonks? We’re waiting, love. Or shall we stand in this hallway till Christmas?”

Tonks gulped the rest of her pie and wiped her hands on her skirt, throwing a glance at her superior. But Mum caught the look and narrowed her eyes in a way that meant don’t even think about crossing me.

“You can explain this to Dumbledore yourself,” Moody muttered darkly and stomped off, his leg clunking. Lupin followed, giving Mum an apologetic look. Harry gave me a grin and a pat on the shoulder, then led Hermione after them.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Mum said, hugging me tightly. “I’ll owl Percy, he’ll keep an eye on you. Just stay close to the house, alright? Don’t go wandering off and giving me heart failure.”

She kissed my cheek, wrapped me in one last hug, then stepped back.

“Alright, Tonks. I’ll close up after you.”

The girl appeared at my side in a flash. She grabbed my arm and reached for the doorknob.

“Apparate from the top step,” she said quickly, yanking the door open and tugging me after her.

The sunlight hit me like a punch after the dim corridor, and before I could blink it away, there was a jolt, and my legs slammed into the ground hard.

“Bloody hell,” I hissed through my teeth.

“Sorry,” she replied, and her hair shifted from pink to jet black. “I’m not the best at Apparition. But hey—never Splinched. Let me check—” she reached out to feel for injuries.

“Er… no need,” I pulled away. “Most of me’s still with me, and that'll do. Anything left behind, feel free to bin it on your way back.”

“You’re funny,” she giggled, hair flicking green now. “Right, I’ve gotta shoot. I’m on duty today.”

“Thanks!” I shouted after her, but she was already gone, vanished after taking just three steps.

I flopped into the grass, stretched out, and shut my eyes with a blissful sigh. It wasn’t exactly comfortable—sun still warm, but the ground a bit damp and the breeze carried a bit of chill. Still, the scent of late-blooming flowers drifted over from the house, and bees buzzed lazily overhead. I hadn’t felt this good in ages. The anger had faded—but the tension, not so much. Time to ditch the Horcrux.

Tonks had dropped me off in a field near the bridge, and I stashed the locket in the hidey-hole on the way home. Then, finally free, I headed into the house, where I was met by a jittery Percy. After the greetings and congratulations, things calmed down, and by the time we sat down for tea, it felt like I’d never left. The whole Grimmauld Place business may as well have been a bad dream.

“I’m so proud of you, Ron,” Percy beamed. “You’re responsible, serious—you’ll make a real Prefect. Not quite as polished as I was, of course, but I’ll help you. I’ll teach you the ropes. You’ll be a great asset to me when I become Head of House.”

Unfortunately, I found a note from Luna in the hallway—she wouldn’t arrive until four days before term started. Bit of a letdown, but I had things to do. I wrote to Snape to let him know I’d got the locket, and three days later, he arranged to meet me at our usual spot by the ruins.

I didn’t do much in those days—just lazed around outside, flew on my broom till my arse went numb. I’d already passed the latest tests for Flitwick, read all the books I’d been given, and mostly just slept in and stuffed my face—Dad kept bringing food for Percy and me every morning before work. Had a bit of a tense chat with him, too. But he didn’t lay into me—probably Mum had a word. He just said he understood but that running off like that wasn’t the way to handle things. Time to grow up, he said. Be a man. Life’s full of moments where you’ve got to do what’s needed, not what you want.

I nodded with my best guilty face, just to avoid another lecture. But in my head, all I thought was: just a couple more years and I’ll be out of here. I can wait.

Anyway, after being stuck inside, I roamed around a bit—hung around Muggle cafes, went to the cinema, got a haircut, even dragged Percy to Diagon Alley for a shopping trip. Mum had already bought most of our stuff for me and Harry, but it’s always nice to browse the new gear and splash out on a few things yourself. Percy stuck to me like a watchdog—something about security—but I still managed to load up on sweets and supplies.

That morning, right after breakfast, once Percy left on errands, I chucked the locket, the vial of leftover venom, and the fang into my school bag, grabbed my broom, and headed out to meet Snape.

He was already waiting. In the short time we hadn’t seen each other, he looked even grimmer and more on edge than usual.

“You’re late, Weasley,” he said, brushing off his robes as he stood from the stone.

“Sorry, sir,” I said mildly. “Left a note for Percy so he wouldn’t worry.”

“You should’ve planned ahead,” he snapped, but more out of habit than actual anger. “Hide the broom. We’re Apparating somewhere safe to destroy what you’ve brought. We’ll need the Pensieve and your memories. Then I’ll bring you back. Hurry up—unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of free time.”

I gave a silent nod and stashed the broom in the bushes. Snape cast a Muggle-repelling charm, then grabbed my arm and we Apparated.

The landing was smooth—barely a jolt. Even so, I needed a moment to breathe. But Snape gave me a push before I could take in the surroundings, and I found myself stepping into a shabby old cottage, down a dim corridor, and then into a small but oddly cosy sitting room. A stack of books towered on the telly stand—definitely a Muggle house, probably his parents’. But we moved straight through into the kitchen.

“Sit down, Weasley,” he said, and while I had a quick glance round the room, he disappeared and returned with a small but clearly heavy stone basin.

“If you’re done gawking, get out the locket,” he added dryly, setting the Pensieve on the table.

“Sir, why do we need the Pensieve?” I asked, genuinely curious.

He closed his eyes like my question was physically exhausting.

“If you hadn’t noticed, Weasley,” he said calmly, “this Horcrux is different from the others. In your visions, Potter opens it before destroying it. Can you speak Parseltongue? I can’t. We’ll need your memory of him opening the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.”

“All right,” I said, a bit surprised. “You reckon we need to learn what he hisses and repeat it?”

“Weasley, you’re a dunce,” Snape sniffed. “Snakes are deaf, but they can detect sound vibrations. A Parselmouth communicates with them mentally—forms a connection. The noises he makes, that sound like hissing to us, are just the crude approximation human vocal cords can manage. That’s why Parseltongue can’t be learned—it’s a mental gift, a magical link between snake and speaker. Even if you copied Harry’s hissing perfectly, the snake wouldn’t understand you—most of the message is unsaid. It’s like hearing noise instead of proper speech. Are we clear?”

“Yeah. Just… why do you need the memory then?” I asked, puzzled.

“There’s a spell that allows us to— Never mind. You’ll see soon enough. Get the locket.”

I pulled the Horcrux and the rest from my bag. Snape paused when he saw the vial. He picked it up, held it to the light, swirled the greenish liquid around, then reluctantly set it aside and reached for the fang.

“Careful, sir,” I warned. “There’s still venom on it.”

He gave me a scathing look that said, don’t teach a potions master his trade, and finally leaned over the locket.

“You wore it, Weasley?” he asked, not touching it, but practically sniffing the thing.

“Yeah,” I admitted, wondering what he was seeing. “Felt bloody awful. Doesn’t exactly control your mind—just sort of amps up the worst thoughts you’ve already got. Took everything I had to stay in control.”

Snape shot me an intrigued glance, then turned back to the locket.

“Sir,” I said carefully, bracing myself for a verbal lashing, “can you… feel it through the Mark? That it’s a bit of the Dark Lord?”

“Not exactly,” he said unexpectedly, standing upright. “There’s something vaguely familiar, mentally, like a resonance—but it’s muted by the shell of the artefact. I suspect when we open it, things will get difficult. You’ll be the one to destroy it. Do it fast—before it gets a hold on you. Without the casing, you’ll be vulnerable too. Now, gloves on, and focus on Potter.”

I nodded and recalled that day. Truthfully, I didn’t remember much detail, just the general event. But as the silvery strand dropped into the Pensieve and Snape murmured a spell I didn’t recognise, a ghostly Harry rose from the mist. He hovered in place, full height, then began to speak—silently.

“Ready?” Snape asked, and I nodded, clutching the open vial in my palm.

“As soon as I lower my wand—start. If the venom isn’t enough, finish it with the fang. Go on, Weasley—now!”

He dropped his wand, and Harry began to hiss the same phrase over and over, like a skipping record.

The locket clicked and cracked open—but only slightly. I had to open it the rest of the way by hand. Inside the oval recess were eyes. Brown irises, pupils drifting in opposite directions. They flinched for a second in the light, then focused on me—sharp, curious, alive.

I froze, shocked. It’s one thing to read about it—but seeing it… it was alive. I felt it, like some invisible probe pushing gently but insistently into my mind. Something alien, unnatural, wrong.

“Weasley…” Snape groaned behind me.

I didn’t wait. I splashed the Horcrux with the venom before that thing could start talking.

There was a scream—piercing, dying—and I went cold all over.

This time was different. It felt like I’d poured acid straight into a living man’s eyes…

And I killed… it…