Chapter Text
Prologue: 1989 (One year before Philosopher's Stone/Sorcerer's Stone)
Charlie jolted at the unmistakable flare of a floo, of footsteps and the voices of several alarmed Aurors echoing down the corridor to the cells. Tiles on the walls, tiles on the floor - all the better to hose away all the blood. It was the summer between 6th and 7th year that he found himself there on the floor of a holding cell, running his thumb along a crack in the tile, the jagged edge raw and sharp against blisters that weren't yet the callouses that they would become. Back and forth, back and forth.
He had been such an innocent in the beginning.
Dumbledore arrived in a swish of cloaks, all purples and stars in the dim light. Charlie tore his eyes from the gutter set into the middle of the floor to look up into the face of the Headmaster, his eyes glittering in a way that made Charlie nervous. He couldn't read the Headmaster's expression, but given this situation, it was good see a face he recognised. Wasn't it?
'This boy, I will need to speak to him privately.'
The guard replied in Romanian, a rapid stream of words, clearly affronted. Dumbledore directed his full attention to the sergeant, his terse response cutting off his protests. Charlie was too numb by then to be surprised that the Professor could speak the language.
'The boy.'
The door was opened and Charlie shoved roughly out into the dim light, his bare feet cold on the ceramic, his compatriots glaring holes in his back.
Charlie was filthy, covered in blood that was already starting to flake off of the downy hair of his forearms. It was the middle of the night.
Dumbledore didn't look at him until they were left alone in what must have been an interview room, bare except for a scrubbed table and a couple of chairs that didn’t match. The Headmaster conjured a tea service from nowhere and sat down, gesturing for Charlie to sit. Palms crossed, one over the other in his lap, as a bone china teapot poured weak tea into the waiting cups. Waiting. Charlie hadn't learnt that tactic yet. Such an innocent.
Charlie’s voice rasped in his throat as he spoke into the silence.
'It was supposed to be a simple ritual, Professor. The dragon – it was dying. I thought they could help.'
His headmaster sighed, shaking his head at his hands.
'Youth makes fools of us all, Mr. Weasley.’
Dumbledore lifted his tea to his lips before leaning forward, his eyes blazing briefly behind his glasses before his expression cleared.
'The authorities here,' he swept his hand dismissively at their surroundings, his resonant voice sombre in the bare room, 'wish to send you to Nurengard. It seems they would have a reason. Blood magic is used by the Darkest of wizards, my boy. It is not to be trifled with.'
Charlie bowed his head, swallowing around nothing and squeezing his bloodied hands between his thighs. His jeans were stiff with it - blood, so much blood - that had soaked through the cloth and stained his skin.
'I don't know what happened… I went with Tasia, she said the others would know what to do. When they cut their hands with the knife - the blood, sir, I panicked. My wand, it didn't…'
'The knife, what was it made of?'
Dumbledore was leaning forward in earnest now, and Charlie found he couldn't look away.
'Onyx, obsidian maybe? I don't remember.'
'And your wand, you inherited it, did you not?'
'I, uh…'
Charlie's brow crumpled. Why was he asking about his wand?
'We shall have much to discuss later, I should think.'
Dumbledore's cup clinked as he replaced it on its matching saucer; a milkmaid picked out in blue on a cloud-pearl background. Charlie pulled his attention to what had been said.
'Later, sir?'
'Though the girl has, most unfortunately, met a tragic end through Dark means, your wand will show that your intentions-’ The professor steepled his fingers and tipped them forward to indicate to him, 'Yes, that will work. You are still underage after all.'
Charlie's mind couldn't keep up. He wasn't going to prison? Dumbledore was already speaking again, peering at him over his spectacles, a kindly grandfather figure once again.
'You did the right thing owling me about Quirrell, and I'd like to give you the opportunity to do the right thing again, hmm?'
'Of course, Professor. Anything.'
***
He had scrubbed his nail beds free of blood and went back to work, mucking out the dragon pens and taking readings for the gestational study, but for the rest of the summer he didn't look anybody in the eye.
Charlie didn't ask how Dumbledore had smoothed things over with the Romanian authorities, and no one ever spoke to him about the ritual again. It was almost as if Tasia herself had never existed. She wouldn't be going home to Lithuania, and it was all his fault. A girl, a bright, outgoing, popular girl had died, and he was responsible. If he hadn’t agreed, if his wand hadn’t backfired, if, if, if.
He completed his internship, shook hands with the sanctuary director, making his way back to England with lead in his stomach, only to find a Head Boy badge tucked into his school letter and a huge cake baked by his beaming mother to celebrate.
At night, he mulled over the conversation and the bargain that had been struck. He was in debt to the Headmaster, and the Captain's badge - the honour - was simply a reminder of that. He was Dumbledore’s man now, and he would have work for Charlie to do that wasn't just dragons and flying his broom. Real life had started and he would just have to grow up.