Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

You Can\'t Always Get What You Want	By : tambrathegreat Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > General Views: 3319 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I make no profit from this endeavor. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter List
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5 February, 1998 01:35

One month was all the time it took to change the course of Ronald Weasley’s life forever.

Ron rolled over on his side, his hand automatically latching onto a breast through a filmy confection of silk and heavy Bruges lace, borrowed from a much larger Bulstrode, no doubt. Hannah moaned, “Not now, Ron, I just got to sleep...”

He chuckled darkly, his breath huffing against sweat matted blonde hair as he slid his hand to her hip. She grabbed his fingers, her newly placed wedding ring jarring against his as she moved his hand back to her swollen breast. “Have I told you how much I appreciate that you’re a proper, old-fashioned wizard? A Muggle bloke wouldn’t have... well thanks for marrying me Ron, even if it was at wand point, so to speak.”

Ron pulled Hannah tighter, his voice gruff and only feeling a little guilty that he hadn’t been able to tell his parents about the sudden nuptials. As it was, the only Weasley that knew, aside from the two currently in the room, was Percy. He had been able to contact him, and good ol’ Perce had stood up for him, after a lecture on contraceptive charms and something that Muggles took to control birth. “Aw, Hannah...”

“No, I mean it. Most blokes, even wizarding ones, would have told me to get rid of it or take care of it myself.” Hannah’s voice had taken on a strained quality, as if she were holding back tears. “As if a baby were a thing to be put out with the rubbish...”

Ron kissed the back of her head and down her neck, a strangely protective surge of emotion cresting as he answered, “Shh. Love, it doesn’t matter how we got together, just that we did. It’s our wedding night. Let’s not waste it on talk.”

“Ronald!” Hannah flipped over, thumping her fist against his chest before dissolving into a fit of giggles. “Mum was right about you Weasley men and your one track minds.”

“Naw, that’s just me. Percy’s a proper prig, and I don’t think Charlie’s interest is in women.” Ron pulled her onto his chest. “Wait, how would she’ve known about Weasley men? Or, do I want to know?”

Hannah kissed him full on the mouth , no doubt to shut him up. He giggled unmanfully as her thick hair slid down his side, sending shivering tickles up his neck. Later, when they had thoroughly exhausted themselves, he said, “I know we didn’t start out the proper way, but I swear to you, Hannah, I’ll make you a good husband. Weasley men are very domesticated.”

“You make it sound as if I’ve bought a prize bull.”

“Oh, you have. Remember, there are seven of us in our family. We are a fertile lot, us Weasleys,” Ron said with a little chuckle and then added, “How do you think I got you up the duff so fast?”

Hannah sat upright, as if she had been loaded with springs. “Ronald Weasley, that is not funny at all!”

Even as she said the words, a small hiccough of a laugh escaped her and soon Hannah was draped across him again, her fingers curled against his neck as she drew him to her laughing lips. Later they slid into exhausted slumber, their bodies entwined in sated somnolence. Ron was sure it was only wistful dreaming that caused him to think he heard Hannah’s whispered confession as he slipped into that twilit world. “I love you, Ronald Weasley. I always have.”

&*&*&

“Sodding, merciful, tit-wanking hell!” Ron said under his breath as he rolled over on his side to switch off the alarm, a Muggle concession he had made to his new military life. Spells were fine and good, but didn’t always wake him at four in the morning after an evening of strenuous activity. He slapped at the offensive noise, knocking the wind-up clock over the side of the table, where it jangled intermittently as its clapper caught in the red, shaggy carpet, a remnant from the days when the enlisted men’s flats were part of a brothel or something equally seedy. Hannah mumbled and kicked him in the shin as he scrambled over the side of the bed to fetch the clock, pulling half the bedclothes with him and onto the floor.

It was to be his first day in the field hospital.

He slid all the way out of bed once he caught the clock and turned it off. PT came first thing and then he would make his way through Liverpool to a Portkey office which would give him his bit of rubbish that would take him to his new billet in the north of Dorset; close enough to Wiltshire where intelligence had You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters, and where many of the battles so far had taken place. It wasn’t much of a stretch for Ron to guess whose family had opened their doors to Him. It had to be the sodding Malfoys and their poncy manor house. Ron would only return to his flat at HQ on his days off.

He hurriedly dressed in the dark, a thing he had to learn early on in his friendship with Harry. As he sat on the edge of a wooden chair, he pulled on his trainers and then slung his rucksack over one shoulder. He’d packed it the day before and he still worried that he might have forgotten something, even though he’d made a list. His gaze strayed to the slumbering lump on the bed in the bedroom area; not so much another room, but a space separated by a curtain. Hannah’s gleaming hair was sexily tousled, spilling down her back, her knees childishly curled under her belly, her bum in the air. All Ron really wanted to do was crawl back into bed and start the day off with a proper shag, but duty awaited, and so he settled for a quick trip across the room and a soft kiss to her shoulder. She stirred, but didn’t wake.

5, February, 1998 09:12

Severus was not without contacts in the school who would provide him with much-needed information when necessary. The Bloody Baron was one such contact, a useful one, who had in the past given crucial information on the goings on in the Slytherin common room that would have otherwise escaped his notice.

One recent bit of intelligence was the defection from the Dark Lord’s camp of both Marcus Flint and Millicent Bulstrode. Bulstrode, always a quiet girl who cultivated an air of brawn over brain, was actually the author of Flint’s defection, as they had become involved over the summer holidays, a surprise in itself for several reasons, one of which was Bulstrode’s parentage. Not many knew of Miss Bulstrode’s half blood heritage, her Muggle mother long since fled to parts unknown. It was a topic she had learned early on to keep to herself, just as Severus himself had years before. There was a great deal of substance to Miss Bulstrode, academically as well as magically. Severus had concerned himself in particular with the girl’s treatment in Slytherin, though he could do nothing about the perceptions she fostered in her associations with other houses.

The other information which the Baron had willingly supplied was in conjunction with Draco’s recent rescues and subsequent care of victims of the Carrows’ specialised lessons. Young Malfoy, it seemed, had cultivated, if not a friendship, at least a healthy respect for the youngest Weasley, who had directed him to the makeshift infirmary in the Room of Requirement. The Baron had, on more than one occasion, seen Miss Weasley and young Malfoy in earnest discussion, always out of sight of corporeal prying eyes. Severus was at once relieved and frightened by the boy’s nominal participation in the ongoing rebellion at Hogwarts. He drew solace from the fact that he himself had taught the boy Occlumency and thus he was as close to being a master as one can be at seventeen, but was alarmed by the thought that a precipitous action on the boy’s part could end Severus’ existence. The terms of that damnable Unbreakable Vow still held Severus’ life in the balance.

It was slightly ironic then, that Severus was going to use the boy to clear out the Room of Requirement to aid Potter on his quest. Not that Severus had planned to give so very much away to the boy of his own double role so soon, but the need was pressing. He was no fool. A Malfoy could be taken at their word only so long as it was expedient for them to follow a course of action, yet it had been a fortuitous bit of theatre that had allowed Severus to stage that late-night conversation between Granger, Potter and himself. It was a test of sorts, demanded by the portrait Albus to take the measure of Malfoy’s resolve, and Draco had passed with flying colours. Not a single mention of the special guests had made the rounds of the gossip network that was the student body. There had been no doubt in Severus’ mind that the boy who had been teetering on the edge of defection had passed that point the night he saved Miss Lovegood from further torture. Severus would have never taken the chance otherwise.

Albus, of course, was at first against using the boy in that manner, wondering if the boy’s actions before the former Headmaster’s death warranted trust, or if the boy’s soul were too tainted. Another bit of irony, given that it was the state of Draco’s soul that had supposedly concerned the old man before his death, and that Draco’s involvement in this plan was certainly a smaller penance for the boy to pay for taking the Dark Mark than was demanded by the former Headmaster for Severus’ own youthful indiscretion. Of course, the boy did not have the death of his only love on his conscience, but the various victims of his botched attempts on Albus’ life certainly required some atonement. The Bell girl had not been the same since her run in with the cursed necklace. No, Albus had used the boy’s soul as a carrot and stick to push Severus toward the role he now played as titular head of this crumbling institution of learning in the madhouse that was the Dark Lord’s utopia. That fact was quite evident in Albus’ views on the boy’s usefulness at the moment.

A soft knock on the door to his office interrupted Severus’ meditations. It was time for his very important conversation with Draco Malfoy. If the boy wanted to take on the role of hero, Severus would give him the opportunity in spades.

5, February 1998, 15:46

Ron arrived at the field hospital, only to be immediately ordered by an Asian woman with a delicately pretty face and an American accent, to suit up and help. She’d shoved him towards a closet where a clerk gave him a yellow paper smock and some blue things to cover his feet, latex gloves, a face mask, goggles, and something to cover his hair. Ron felt ridiculous donning the items over his clothes, but did so and was directed to an area of intense activity by the clerk while he handed out the same to the next person in line.

Ron surmised that there had been a Death Eater attack in the area and that Muggles were involved. Those patients who were obviously not magical were being shuttled to a different area of the tent hospital, to be treated by a team of physicians who would better be able to preserve the statute of secrecy. If it had indeed been a Death Eater attack, Ron didn’t much see the point. He was set to carrying those victims on a gurney with another corpsman, a West Indian bloke who wore a UN blue ascot. The fellow didn’t seem to have any magic, so Ron helped him trundle the gurneys with brute force. He had spent much of the day fetching, carrying, and being ordered about as if the were a house elf. If Ron hadn’t had his military training, he might have got his back up, but things had changed for him.

It was all so overwhelming, the blood, the noise, and the stench of burnt flesh. He tried to become numb to the trauma and screaming all about him, but Ronald Weasley had always been a little on the sensitive side when it came to suffering. He’d been tested as a child and was found to have a large physical empathy quotient. That was the reason he had been put in the medical corps in the first place.

The injured and dying had slowed to a trickle, but there were still those few who had waited all day to have their minor wounds healed. A short female wearing both a Healer’s and physician’s caduceus on her scrubs stopped Ron as he plodded towards the next body to lug. She had warm greenish-hazel eyes, and a tumble of auburn hair, stuffed back indifferently into one of those claw clips that he had seen Hermione sport over the summer. The woman looked done in, with dark circles under her eyes, and strain lines around her mouth. She looked to be no more than thirty, though perhaps Ron was wrong. She asked, “You’re Weasley, right? The new guy?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Ron’s conditioned response was to salute, and he did so smartly.

She laughed, even if it sounded a bit tired, and with her hand held out said, “I’m Dr. Dance, with the World Health Organisation, not military. Don’t salute me, and don’t call me ma’am, it makes me feel old. Off-duty, I’m Toni.” As Ron shook her hand, firmly, in a manner he’d been taught that Americans liked, she moved her head in a deprecating manner to indicate the general disorder of the area. ”Sorry about the chaos. You’ll get used to it, unfortunately. Come with me, and we’ll get a cup of joe and some grub in the mess, then I’ll show you what you haven’t seen already.”

Ron sputtered, “But...I was told...there are still patients...”

“Just get rid of this in the trash,” she said, pulling the sleeve of his paper smock. “Don’t worry about them. Your shift wasn’t supposed to start today. It was just shit luck that you showed up after a battle.”

Ron followed her across the compound into a tent. It smelled of coffee and food. His stomach rumbled and he blushed as she headed towards the serving line. “I’ve starving too. Let’s eat, and then I’ll fill you in on your duties.”

They went through the line and he followed Dance, whose plate was piled as high as his, to a long table that had a few other personnel seated at the other end. Dr. Dance didn’t wait for Ron to sit before she started ploughing through her food. She looked up as a sallow-skinned, though handsome, man entered the room. Ron immediately didn’t like him, even though Dr. Dance waved him over with a smile. He grabbed a cup of coffee and came over to the table. Once there, he bestowed an absent kiss on the doctor’s cheek.

She said, “This is Dr. Thierry Bertrand. He’s with WHO too, and my fiancé, right, Honey?”

The man gave a condescending nod, reminding Ron of both Snape and Lucius Malfoy. Dr. Bertrand excused himself, “Cheri, I must attend an unexpected meeting. I will be late.”

Ron watched the woman’s face cloud and she said something sharp in French. Bertrand coloured, and his dark eyes flashed as he gave a sharp bow. “Private Weasley, Antonia, my apologies.”

Ron half-stood and made an equally swift bow. He sat again and Dr. Dance said, with forced cheer, “So, I guess you need the lay of the land. That runty Asian woman in line is Dr. Phuong Nguyen. She’s from my home state of Oklahoma by way of Vietnam. She’s practices holistic Eastern medicine—you know acupuncture and the like—she is also a Healer and holds a medical degree. She’s absolutely brilliant, but she’ll never let you know it. Behind her is our Potions Master Osman Yildirim. He’s with NATO and so is his wife, Marie Claire. She’s a Muggle Belgian and our pharmacist. I think she’s still filling scrips right now.”

“So, how many are wizards here?” Ron asked, after painfully swallowing a mouthful of half-masticated food.

Dr. Dance gave a quick wave to the Asian doctor who had been the one to press Ron into service that morning. The woman waved back but proceeded to a table on the edge of the tent. “I think there are a few Squib corpsmen, and a couple of Muggles who have married into magic, but everyone here knows about this world, just so there’re no day-to-day Statute problems. You Brits really have separated the worlds quite effectively.”

Ron almost bristled at the comment, but asked evenly enough, “And you Yanks?”

“Oh, we follow the Statute too, it’s just that so many of the framers of the Constitution were wizards,” the doctor answered dismissively. “And then, there’s the whole Native culture, and the African Voodoo in the South... it’s just different at home. Oh, and just so you know, there are Brownies serving here. You’ll want to be polite to them, don’t order them at all. Always ask.”

“Brownies?”

“A freed house elf with attitude. They are an entirely American species.” Antonia took a sip of her coffee, grimacing because it had cooled. She cast a warming charm on it.

“Kind of like Dobby,” Ron muttered. The doctor lifted her brow in question, and Ron launched into an explanation, excluding the relationship he had with Harry, wisely deciding that it would seem like name-dropping. He didn’t want to draw that kind of attention to himself, especially since he had abandoned his friends in their moment of need, though the guilt he had felt earlier was somewhat alleviated by his new duties.

After minutes of silence in which Ron finished his food, the doctor said, “Had enough? It’s time for your official orientation.”

He followed her lead, putting his used dishes in a waiting tub, and they exited the room.

5, February 1998 22:17

Lucius swept through the Manor, his usual cool facade firmly in place. It didn’t matter than his knees felt watery and his guts were clenched in icy fear. He had one mission this evening, and that was to betray every person he had ever claimed as friend and many of his relatives. He was going to actively work against the Dark Lord.

There was no other option for him if he wanted to preserve his family and way of life.

The youngest Flint son, Marcus, had been uncovered as a traitor to their cause. He had been exposed when he attempted to lure Goyle senior to the site of Greyback’s murder. An ambush awaited the older man who, through sheer stupid chance, had been able to escape before the girl who was to kill him could strike the death blow.

Flint and the girl, a Muggle soldier from all accounts, had died at the scene, thus sparing him the knowledge that the rest of his family had been tortured to death by various members of the brotherhood, in front of all assembled. Lucius had been the only one to cast <i>Avada Kedavra</i> on his victim. The others, directed by Bellatrix, had been much more inventive in their approaches. Only Severus and those students who bore the Mark had been excused from the horrifying exhibition. Lucius doubted that he would ever be able to get the reek of blood and bowel out of the Manor’s ballroom. He knew that he would never be able to enter it again.

That thought sent another shaft of white-hot fury through his body.

When he and Narcissa had started their life together, it had not been a love match. They had little in common besides social circles and pure blood. They had bonded over dance during the first years of their marriage. Lucius had always admired her grace, and she apparently had admired his mastery of the complex steps. It was during their first ball as a married couple that Lucius had initially realised he might be able to love Cissy. It was during their last before the first war broke out that he had told her he had come to do so.

He made his way to his chambers where Narcissa waited. She arose from her chaise, her face pale and marred with tears, as he fished in his bureau for the Gryffindor portrait that would hopefully let him contact Order of the Phoenix. That was, if the group still operated. His fingers fumbled over the surface of the ivory, eliciting a small shriek from the Fat Lady as he pulled it out of the drawer. He cast the spells that Narcissa had taught him, only from ordinary caution. The Dark Lord was in Europe and Bella was... doing unspeakable things to several Muggles captured in the morning raid near Avebury.

The Fat Lady peered up at him and squeaked, “I suppose you wish to speak to the Headmaster. I’ll fetch him.”

She disappeared from the portrait and shortly another figure appeared. Dumbledore asked, “Yes, Lucius?”

“I’ve made my decision, old man. I wish to... move.” The words left Lucius’ mouth with an accompanying air of unreality. “If your Order is still active, I wish to become a member.”

“As do I, Lucius,” Narcissa said. “We do this as a family.”

Dumbledore’s portrait smiled beatifically. “I always knew there was goodness in you, Lucius. You’ve made me proud.”

It took a great deal of restraint for Lucius not to hurl the miniature across the room. He didn’t need the man’s pride. He needed to ensure his family’s safety
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You Can\'t Always Get What You Want