Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Harry Potter or have any relation to its publishers or distributors and I do not profit from writing fanfiction.

Rating: T for violence, innuendo, and swearing.

Some more info: Post-Battle. General. Ron. Canon with an AU twist. A story of creatures of the night.

With the familiar entrance hall of Hogwarts crumbling to ruin all around him, Ron Weasley could just make out the squealing voice of a young girl through a soundscape of shrieked incantations and explosive curses.

Ron was able to trace the scream back to the east end of the hall, to a kicking pair of legs sticking out from behind a vacant stone plinth whose statue of a clever boar had been rendered to dust. Squinting, Ron saw the scene more clearly; the long black socks, brown shoes, and uniform robes with red Gryffindor trim told him it was one of their own being attacked.

"No! Stop—STOP!"

Ron recognized the voice immediately, and his throat clenched up at the sound of it. He was currently hidden under an Invisibility Cloak and on a mission to kill a snake — and on a personal mission to kill Death Eaters — but Fred had already been killed, and more were going the same way.

Before his companions could stop him, Ron emerged from the protection of the cloak and sprinted towards the screaming girl. It was a benefit of not being the Chosen One, Ron thought, to be expendable. Ron, unlike Harry, had every right to risk his life before the mission was accomplished.

His nerves on fire, Ron darted through the skirmish like a squirrell through traffic, evading hollow suits of armor, flying debris, and green flashes of death materialized. When he arrived at the plinth, he froze in place, registering the image before him with his wand raised feebly.

"Oh no..."

It was Lavender Brown, her legs still thrashing madly, her upper half obscured by a big grey shadow. Flashing green and red lights illuminated Lavender's assailant, a long, slender creature with a hunched back.

Ron only hesitated for a second, but it had cost him, as the creature removed itself from Lavender and struck swiftly. Ron took aim with his wand, but halted his attack at the last second when the creature ducked under the line of fire, leaving Ron's wand pointed directly at Lavender — Ron adjusted his aim, but it was too late — a sharp pain tore through Ron's calf, and he let out a howl that was drowned out by the atmosphere of chaos all around him.

Then, the creature was torn from Ron's leg by what felt like a gust of hot wind. Ron's breath hitched as he checked his wounded leg and saw a puffy, bleeding rend, but felt only the brisk sensation of the breeze that tickled the wound.

When Ron looked back at the creature, his face contorted with disgust. Whatever it was, it had been mangled beyond recognition. Its head was bloodied and bashed and seeping blood onto the flagged stone floor. Smoky shards of glass splayed about its shoulders told Ron that the creature had been bombarded with several of Trelawney's crystal balls.

Hermione Granger sprinted into view, and, aided by the constant flashes of emerald and scarlet, Ron noticed the sparkling of tears pooling in her eyes. Ron could barely stomach the concern he saw in those big dark eyes, but he managed to nod encouragingly to her.

Hermione grabbed him around the middle and pulled him to the end of the hall. The injury in his leg was beginning to sting, but none too deeply, and did not command a limp. Just as he was pulled back under the Invisibility Cloak, Ron heard a very faint clicking. His ears had long since trained themselves to recognize this sound through fear, and this fear was scurrying in his direction.

The clicking noise, which Ron knew to be the chomps of Acromantula pincers, was joined by the thunderous thuds of heavy footsteps from the other end of the hall. Ron pulled Hermione closer and braced himself, but before any troll or giant or spider could find him, he found himself somewhere else entirely.

Ron jolted awake in his bed, huffing quick and shallow breaths, his skin moist with sweat. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, as though he hoped to wipe the images of his nightmare from them. When he opened his eyes, he remembered that he was in his bedroom at the Burrow. Still panting, he glanced around at the wooden floor near his window, which had collected dust in his absence, to see a shard of moonlight shining through an opening in the curtains, then looked to his other side to see her.

Lying beside him in his bed, sound asleep, was Hermione Granger. Ron exhaled a sigh as he recalled arriving at the Burrow earlier that night with his friends and fellow soldiers, most of whom had slept through the day at the castle. He had eaten a bountiful amount of his mother's legendary cooking, which she had prepared vigorously in quiet tears while shooing away any assistance, though she had talked to Ron and Ginny all day. After dinner, Ron had followed Harry up the stairs to their room.

"Are you alright, Harry?" asked Ron, slapping a hand onto Harry's shoulder. "Y'know, what with... d-dying and all that?"

"Never have had good etiquette speaking to dead people, have you?" joked Harry, but Ron looked mortified at the thought. "Honestly, Ron, I'm glad... it's all over..."

"But I've lost my brother... you've lost Dumbledore, Sirius, Lupin—"

"I'm aware, thanks. Can't dwell on that, Ron. Pity the living, not the dead."

Ron didn't reply.

"Think of it this way: Fred died on what most people in the Wizarding world will consider to be the happiest day ever—the day it was all over—and he died to make it that way," Harry added nervously after a few moments of silence.

"Small comfort that is," sighed Ron, but he was very grateful that Harry was trying to console him. It was unusual for Harry to do so, and Ron took it as a good sign.

They had reached the landing at the top of the stairs before Ron spoke again.. "Even Ginny's broken up... says she's going to sleep with Mum and Dad tonight."

"D'you reckon they'd mind if I slipped in there as well?" wondered Harry with a weak smile. Ron recognized the joke as another attempt to break the tension and appreciated it.

"'Course not—in fact, they'd probably kick Ginny right off the edge to make room for you," said Ron distractedly, glancing down to the foot of the stairs; Hermione was approaching. "Sorry, mate, looks like you won't have anyone to share a bed with. I would suggest you try George but you should know he likes to cuddle..."

"What on Earth are you talking about?" asked Hermione as she reached them, her eyes puffy and red, which was a common sight in the Weasley household that night. Harry simply shook his head and entered Ron's room.

"I can't," said Hermione as Ron gestured for her to follow. "Your mum's said I have to sleep in a room with Ginny tonight, per usual. I think she's heard about our—er—our kiss," she added, her cheeks growing even more red.

"I won't have it in my house!" Ron feebly mimicked his mother's high voice, and Hermione smiled weakly.

"That was my doing," said Harry, popping his head out through Ron's doorway. "Sorry about that. I thought it would lighten her mood. I think it worked."

"Wait until everyone's asleep, then come up." suggested Ron. Hermione nodded.

Ron sat in his bed contemplating this memory while looking Hermione up and down. He leaned down to plant a kiss just above her eyebrow and noticed the corner of her mouth curling into a smile. Ron returned it, and his thoughts wandered. She was so perfect, so elegant, so delicious. At that last thought, he winced. What's wrong with me? he thought. He shook his head lightly to rattle some sense back into his skull, then turned, laid back down, and dozed off.

He must have enjoyed the night's dinner, he thought, if he were dreaming about it. He mindlessly gnawed on a large rib for whatever morsels he could scavenge. It was so dry and tough that Ron equated his efforts to an attempt at absorbing nutrients from a cigarette butt. However, he didn't want to stop. He heard nothing but the clacking of his teeth on the bone for a long time, then he felt a surge of strength, and the bone cracked under the force of his chomp, much to his surprise.

Ron fluttered awake once more and sat up dizzily. Taking another glance around his room, Ron found that not much had changed; it was still dark outside, and there remained a long, glowing polygon of moonlight shining onto the pale brown floor. Ron found the light rather captivating with its solid white glow, and stared for a moment before turning back to Hermione. She was lying still on her side, her only movement the slow expanding and shrinking of her chest as she breathed.

He eyed her light, pale pink lips with interest, and moved down from there, scanning her entire frame until he ended at the tip of her foot. She has small hands and feet, he thought to himself with a smile. He leaned forward to investigate her smooth shins, swallowing the excess of saliva that was pooling in his mouth. Her skin is so soft, and her muscles are tender... He felt like prodding her calves to test their firmness. Wait, what am I doing?

Ron shook his head roughly to snap himself back into consciousness. He looked down to see that he had clamped her knee in one hand and her ankle in the other, and his mouth, now seeping with drool, was inches from her calf. He almost swore with shock at his own actions, and quickly turned to see if she was awake. He observed her, once again, in peaceful slumber. She had not slept in nearly two days, after all.

Ron inched off of the bed, careful not to rock it too much, then tip-toed out of his room and down the stairs towards the toilet on the floor below. In his stride, his mind raced. He could not explain to himself why he was so hungry after a large meal, why the memory of grinding scraps of meat off of a thoroughly cleaned bone was gracing his dreams, and why he was just holding the leg of the nearest living thing as if it were that bone.

Ron arrived at the loo and gently eased the door open, cursing its loud squeak. He stalked forward on the edges of his feet and was careful to shut the door just as softly as he had opened it. Then he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror over the sink and flinched; he looked terribly ill. He had shadows under his bloodshot eyes, and his clammy skin was sunken in dimples at his cheeks, but he attributed this to fatigue, stress, and grief.

A distraction came when Ron heard voices down the hall. He moved away from the mirror and peeked out of the loo to see his father entering the room where George was staying.

Concerned, Ron crept down the hall and pressed himself against the wall, shifting very slightly so that he could see into George's room with one eye. George sat very still in his bed, staring blankly at the wall opposite him. Ron winced at the sight of his brother; George wore the scars of battle, most abundant on his hands, with shiny pink burns and open cuts where he had been clipped by a rogue shard of glass or grazed by a Dark spell.

Ron did not expect George to sleep well that night. He too had had trouble sleeping, no matter how tired he was. Ron remembered laying in his bed, talking to Harry, unable to fall asleep and unwilling to stay awake until Hermione arrived. Ron felt his insides twist just thinking about how George had lost the one person who could have helped him.

"George?" Ron heard his father say in a tentative tone that was usually saved for when his mother was angry. "Do you mind if I come in?"

"You're in," said George, who hadn't averted his unfocused gaze from the wall.

Ron watched his father sit down beside George and place a hand on George's shoulder.

"George, son, are you going to be all right?" he said.

"I don't know," George replied, in more of a rasp. "How's Mum?"

"Devastated, of course, as am I."

"Then why aren't you with her?"

"She's worried about you—we all are. We're afraid of what might happen to you," he added, wincing at his own words.

"What?" chuckled George, amused. "Oh, that's cute. What's going to happen, d'you reckon?"

Ron recoiled at George's humorless laugh, and watched as his father made to respond, but stopped and sniffed deeply.

"You've been drinking," he said.

"This is true," replied George, prodding a wobbly floorboard under the bed with his foot. "Our private reserve."

"We're afraid of what might happen if you can't let him go."

"Don't talk about him like that!" George snapped. Ron felt tears stinging his eyes, and quickly wiped them away and kept watching.

"He's gone, son. You have to accept it. But, in a way, he'll never be gone, not as long as we remember him. What's important now is that you don't lose control."

"Who cares? I feel like half a man now. You have no idea—"

"We care. Everyone in this house cares about you. We're afraid of what you might do with yourself."

"With myself?" At this, George finally turned to look at his father.

"Well, that is to say—I mean, you and Fred have always been leagues ahead of your peers. You have potential that very few have shown at your age, and magic can be very hard to control when your emotions are strong enough."

George laughed again, and Ron feared he couldn't listen to much more of this.

"Great, Dad, I'm the next Dumbledore and you're afraid I'll drink myself into becoming the next Voldemort, is that it?"

"No, that's not what I was saying. I'm just saying that you can't bottle this up and refuse to face it. You can't—"

"Sorry, Dad, but I've finished with this conversation."

At that, a gust of wind blew in the direction of the door, encouraging his father to exit the room. Ron backed away from the door and hurried back to his room. As he shuffled up the stairs to his floor, he whiffed an incredible aroma coming from his room; something he had always known, but never noticed.

He found the source of the enticing scent in his room. He was drawn back to his bed where he gazed hungrily at the girl who lay curled peacefully in his blanket. Several thoughts raced through his mind, all concerning Hermione; holding, hugging, kissing, tasting, biting — biting?

Truthfully, Ron had thought about biting Hermione before, but always playful nibbling, not the kind that made his stomach growl. When it did, he realized he had been pacing quietly at the side of his bed for nearly a minute. Ron took a deep breath, and decided he could do with a fly; no one would notice if he returned before daybreak.

Unable to recall where he had left his broom, Ron decided to go grab Ginny's. He dreaded the shed where his family kept their broomsticks as it was infested with spiders, and he knew Ginny was stashing hers in her room, safe from sabotage at the hands of Fred and George. Fred...

Ron cleared his throat loudly and forced the thought of Fred from his mind. He tossed an orange Chudley Cannons shirt over his chest and snuck downstairs. The more stealthy his attempt, the louder the wooden planks seemed to squeal under his weight. When he opened Ginny's door silently, he could only see a head of exuberant crimson hair that resembled his own, which meant she was looking away, and he was free to lurk about her room.

Ron felt the familiar scent from before pass through his nostrils like a ghost as he passed the bed Hermione usually slept in. He tried to ignore it as he stepped into an open closet and rifled through the mess, trying to locate a broom. Several minutes later, all he had found was a small book Ginny had written in.

Ginny's diary? thought Ron. Didn't even know she kept one—never thought she'd be keen on diaries after what happened with Riddle... I'll get caught, but it's worth it.

Eager to lighten his mood, he flipped it open.

"Mum was in a lousy state tonight because of my pea-brained brothers. Why did she have to take it out on me? 'Tend to the yardwork, Ginevra, I won't have gnomes building a city in my garden!' I didn't do anything wrong. One of them should have been made to do it. Or Harry. I love when Harry is on de-gnoming duty. His clothes are always overlarge and sometimes his pants fall down just a bit to reveal his hips—"

So much for that, thought Ron as he clamped the book shut and tossed it carelessly to the ground. Much too late, Ron realized that he had just made a mistake, as the resulting smack of the diary against the wooden floor sounded like a gunshot in the midst of his careful silence. Ron backed into the closet quickly, preparing to have Ginny jump to her feet, wand at the ready, but she only stirred.

"Phew," huffed Ron, crawling out of the closet.

Ron had only taken a few steps out of the closet when he was blindsided by a combination odd sensations. His skin was incredibly itchy, and sweat was beading rapidly on his arms; his bones were throbbing and felt as if they were softening; and his eyesight was degrading until he could only see in splotches of gray. He stumbled over the book, drew his wand and muttered a spell with his last usable breath. His face strained with focus as he concentrated on writing onto a blank page. He ripped the page out, dropped it in the center of the dark room and felt a cold, overpowering chill consume him, and blacked out.