A/N: Hello! This was written for the Ollivander's Challenge by simplypotterheads - week one, prompt #5: "I won't stick my neck out for you again."I was not sure whether I wanted to participate in this challenge or not, but then a plot bunny struck me while I was swimming (thankfully I didn't drown), and now I want to write it, challenge or no challenge. :) I certainly don't expect to win anything, but any excuse to write more fic is a good one! This also marks my first fic from Ron's POV in which Hermione doesn't make a direct appearance - though Ron thinks about her enough that she may as well have. Also, apologies for my attempt at Fleur's accent.

Warning: this fic is rated a strong T, but just for swears - it is Ron, after all, and the subject matter is emotional.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the Weasleys. JK Rowling is a genius.

21 December 1997

Ron Weasley sat quietly at a small, wooden table in his brother's kitchen, staring intently at the door. That was all he seemed to be doing lately, staring. That and thinking. He was quite certain he'd never had so much time to think in his life, and he was also certain it would kill him sooner than he could come to any sort of resolution. Staring and thinking were the only things he'd been doing for the past several weeks, because it was all that could be done from where he was, and he hated it. Although, he thought bitterly, it wasn't as though he'd been doing much else in that blasted tent...

Ron shook his head vigorously, determined to stop thinking for a few moments. The problem with thinking was that it always led back to the same thing. He'd left. He'd let that stupid Horcrux get the best of him, and he'd let it come between himself and the two people who mattered most to him in the world. The more he thought about it, the more the self-loathing crept to the forefront of his brain, seeping through the mild comforts of well-cooked food and a warm bed that his stay at Shell Cottage had brought him.

Bill and Fleur had been more than understanding and hospitable. They'd asked few questions, and if they'd made judgments, they had been courteous enough not to voice them. It was a good job, too; Ron was perfectly aware of what a fuck-up he was without anyone else reminding him. But it didn't matter how generally pleasant life was at Shell Cottage, because any life without Harry and Hermione was simply empty.

Since that fateful night so many weeks ago, Ron had entertained only one objective: he needed to find a way back to them. He didn't care how much they hated him, because he doubted it could possibly be as much as he hated himself at the moment. He didn't care if he'd pushed Hermione further into Harry's arms, because at least she'd be happy - much happier than she could ever be with somebody who'd left her, anyway, a useless somebody that'd become even more so when he'd abandoned his friends. And he didn't care how dangerous or uncomfortable the mission was, because he'd rather eat grass for weeks, or take a thousand deadly curses meant for one of them, or face Voldemort himself without a wand...he'd rather do anything than remain here, with only staring and thinking to occupy his time.

Currently, his eyes were trained on the door. He absentmindedly flicked the Deluminator on and off to pass the time while he waited for his brother to return home from the Ministry. After weeks of Ron's admittedly pathetic begging, Bill had agreed to do some poking and prodding around the Ministry to see if anyone had caught wind of Harry and Hermione. If the news came from someone sympathetic to the Order's cause, Ron reckoned he would be able to start tracking their trail in hopes of rejoining them. But if the news came from a source loyal to Voldemort...Ron shuddered at the thought. As much as he wanted to hear something, anything really, he knew it would be better if he didn't. If Voldemort were to find them... Ron lived in constant fear that he would lose them. If they got captured, or worse, and he hadn't been there...he was sure he would never be able to forgive himself.

Ron's train of thought was thankfully interrupted as Bill entered the room, bringing with him the cold breeze from outside. Fleur quite literally seemed to fly down the stairs and into the kitchen, collapsing into her husband's waiting arms. They murmured something to one another (their security questions, Ron reckoned), before sharing a quick but heartfelt kiss. Ron tried not to resent them for their happiness.

"Any news?" Ron asked Bill in a clipped voice as the elder brother threw his cloak across one of the empty chairs. Fleur hastily picked it up ("Eet must be cleaned sometime, William!") and disappeared into the washroom.

"None, except that I'm damn lucky to be alive," Bill said darkly, rummaging through the cupboards for a glass and filling it with whiskey.

"What?" Ron asked, his panic growing in spite of himself. He was alive, after all, he was standing right there. But in times like these, it wouldn't do to say such things unless a good reason lay behind it.

"I was doing my best to be subtle, trying to get you some information," Bill replied evenly. "I know how much you need it. But you can't trust anyone these days. People switch sides all the time, whether it be cowardice, the Imperius Curse, whatever. Point is, I found out today that at least one of my old sources has gone over, and to make a long story short, if I hadn't got out of there when I did, I'd have likely been in prison or worse before I could say happy Christmas." Bill sighed deeply and took a long gulp of his drink before continuing. "I can't go back there again this year. It's far too dangerous. Maybe I can chance it again after the holidays."

"Are you sure?" Ron blurted without thinking, his frustration rising faster than his brain could form rational thoughts.

"Yes, I'm sure," Bill said sharply. "Ron, I know you want to catch up with them, but I can't do your dirty work for you. I'm not making Fleur a widow over this."

"My dirty work?" Ron replied incredulously. "You know full well I'd do it myself if I weren't meant to be bedridden with spattergroit!"

"Well, that's too bad then," Bill shot back, taking another sip of his drink. "Look, I'm sorry you got separated from them, but there's really nothing I can do about it right now, so please, just drop it."

"I'm not going to drop it!" Ron said, his voice rising with every syllable he spoke. "It's not like we went down different slides at the playground, you know! In case you haven't noticed, there's a fucking war on, and Harry's the one that's got to fight it! I need to get back to them, I have to!"

"Of course there's a war on, you idiot! That's why I can't go back to the Ministry. Harry's not the only one fighting it. Your friends are important, but they aren't the only ones that are in the thick of it!" Bill shouted, matching Ron's tone.

"They're the only ones I really give a damn about at the moment, to be honest!" Ron bellowed. "Are any of the rest of us out there dodging Death Eaters while on some barmy suicide mission Dumbledore left behind? No? I didn't think so!"

"Real nice, Ron," Bill replied sarcastically, slamming the rest of his drink down in one gulp. "It's good to know where your family stands on your list of priorities."

"They're as good as family, and you know it!" Ron shouted, his frustration rising impossibly higher. "I have to get back to them!"

"Well, you're going to have to figure out another way," Bill hollered wildly, "because I won't stick my neck out for you again!" With that, he tossed his glass into the sink and swiftly left the room, passing a teary-eyed Fleur on the way out.

"You selfish bastard! You're no better than Percy!" Ron shouted after him, but he did not follow. Instead, he collapsed into the nearest chair and hung his head in his hands. He knew his brother had a point - a pretty good one, really - but didn't Bill realize how important Harry and Hermione were? How he spent every waking second aching to return to them? He'd already lost them once, and it was his own damn fault; it wouldn't happen again, not if he could help it.

He didn't know how long he sat there, trying and failing to will all thoughts from his mind. Eventually, he felt a small, gentle hand upon his shoulder. He looked up and met the gaze of his sister-in-law.

"Your brozzer is seemply worried, for all of us," Fleur told him gently. "'E did not mean what 'e said, about 'Arry and 'Ermione, you know zat."

Ron nodded wordlessly and closed his eyes tightly again. When it became evident that he did not wish to talk, Fleur simply squeezed his shoulder in something of a reassuring gesture.

"You will find zem," she said confidently. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead before turning around and leaving the room.

Ron almost laughed in spite of himself. It wasn't so long ago that a kiss from Fleur would have sent his spirits higher than the clouds. Now, he simply wiped the wet splotch from his forehead and continued to stare and to think. Somehow, the memory of another girl, a bushy-haired, bossy one alone in a tent, or worse, screaming his name as he stormed away from her, far overpowered any attraction he may once have had to his sister-in-law.

Ron wondered briefly what Hermione was doing, right at that moment. Probably reading, he decided. She was so pretty when she read, her brow furrowed in concentration and her eyes alight with the knowledge she was taking in. He used to hate the way he'd have to steal glances at her while she read to avoid making his secret known, but now, he'd give anything for those stolen glances. Hell, he'd tell her all his secrets, rejection or not, if he could just see her again, and see that she was okay. If he could see Harry again...Harry, who he considered just as much a brother as any of his red-headed kin, and far more so than one of them in particular...then, with a jolt, he realized that he'd compared Bill to Percy. That was going to take some apologizing. The first of many apologies, he supposed.

Much later that night, it was Bill who sought out Ron. They both mumbled their declarations of "I'm sorry" in the way that men of about that age were wont to do, because they both knew that in the end, they weren't different at all. They both wanted the same thing. They both wanted the war to end. They both wanted to be there for the people they cared for. And they knew very well that they'd be sticking their necks out for each other many times in the coming months without thinking twice about it, because that was what brothers did.

21 December 1998

Ron was fuming as he threw open the door of the flat. He positively stomped through the entryway and threw himself onto the nearest armchair, scowling as he tossed the empty bag of crisps lying there across the room in disgust. "You can't keep pulling this shit, George," he said in a dangerously low voice as his elder brother followed him in, an uncharacteristically hard and defiant look on his face.

"Can't say I know what you're talking about," George replied dismissively, taking a seat on the sofa and quickly interesting himself in an old Quidditch magazine that had been left between the cushions.

"Did I or did I not just have to bail you out of a DMLE holding cell?" Ron asked, his voice shaking as he struggled to keep his temper in check. He trained his eyes on George's sullen face, determined not to look at the empty bottles and various articles of clothing that littered the floor of the flat.

"Suppose you did, Mum," George said, refusing to meet Ron's eyes.

"You're lucky I didn't call Mum," Ron mumbled, leaning back in his chair and massaging his temples.

"Threatening to rat me out, are we?" George asked flippantly. "You've been spending too much time with Hermione."

"George, you were arrested," Ron declared flatly.

"Only young once," the elder brother muttered. "You could have come picked me up earlier, you know. I don't much fancy this sort of a scolding at this hour of the morning."

"Dammit, George!" Ron couldn't keep himself from raising his voice. It was as though he was dealing with a petulant child, not his twenty-year-old brother. "At least I came at all! At least I talked them into letting you off! I should have let them charge you, you know. I should have let them charge you ages ago!"

George sighed loudly and seemed to make a visible decision to switch tactics. "Look, Ron, you know I've been having a rough time of it-"

"So have the rest of us, yet you're the only one getting picked up for disorderly conduct on a biweekly basis," Ron shot back, any sympathy he may have felt having evaporated around the time he got the owl from the Ministry - which, for the record, had been two in the morning.

"It's just a bit of fun, I can't help that no one's got a sense of humor-"

"You transfigured half the people in the pub into hippogriffs, broke half the glass that was in the place, and set bat bogey hexes on several Ministry officials," Ron cut in impatiently. "I don't care if you think it's funny. You can't do that. That's against the fucking law, George! Tell me, how much was it last night? A couple pints? Maybe a dozen?"

"I'm not that drunk anymore, am I?" George replied defensively.

"Yeah, I hear a night in a holding cell will do that to you," Ron said, crossing his arms defiantly and trying to remind himself that part of what George was saying was the result of the alcohol, and he shouldn't blame him for it. He tried to ignore the fact that shouldn't was the key word in that sentence.

"You just don't get it, do you?" George asked wryly.

"I think I understand it perfectly," Ron replied, not even attempting to keep the condescension out of his voice. He knew why George was drinking. He reckoned he even knew why the things he did after drinking had become so outrageous. It all came back to the same thing, but that was the hard part - it couldn't be fixed, not even partially - so how was Ron supposed to stop all this?

Taking a deep breath, Ron spoke as evenly as he could: "What you need to understand is that I'm done. I can't do this, George. I'm training to be an Auror. I can't be pulling favors for my brother anymore. I won't stick my neck out for you again. Not for this."

George's nonchalant expression immediately changed to anger - an emotion Ron had rarely seen displayed on his brother's face in the past, but one that had invariably dominated his features for the past six months. "Look, Ronnie, I'm sorry you had to take a break from shagging your precious Hermione to do something for your brother-"

"Shut up," Ron growled. "This has got nothing to do with her."

"Hasn't it?" George shot back sarcastically. "You sound exactly like her, you know."

"No, it hasn't," Ron replied harshly. "This has got to do with you. Look, George, we all miss him-"

"You shut up," George cut in sharply, the tip of his good ear turning red as he threw his magazine on the ground with much more force than was necessary. "I don't care about the rest of you and your damn 'coping mechanisms,'" he continued with an air of disdain. "Quit sticking your nose into my business and you won't need to complain about protecting your neck. And don't you dare try to tell me you know how it feels, because you don't. What if it had been Harry or Hermione?"

Ron ignored his last comment, not wanting to think about the possibility that had been so close to becoming reality so many times. "He was my brother too."

"It's different," George insisted scathingly. "Don't try to pretend it's not. It's like with the three of you - Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Always Harry, Ron, and Hermione. And with us, it was Fred and George. Always Fred and George. So don't tell me you get it, because it's not the same."

Ron groaned loudly and rubbed at his face. He was doing his best not to lose his temper, but he could feel himself beginning to fail miserably. His face felt unbearably hot, tears of frustration were irritatingly pricking the corners of his eyes, and if he didn't know better, he would have thought he could literally burst at the seams. He took deep, calming breaths, just as Hermione had told him to before he'd left for the Ministry. She'd told him to be sympathetic, but firm. Ron wasn't sure how the hell he was supposed to be both at once. Hermione would have been brilliant at it, of course, but he hadn't wanted to drag her into this mess if he could avoid it.

As he racked his brains for something to say that wouldn't push his brother further away, he was hit with a particularly unpleasant memory from about a year before. "I won't stick my neck out for you again." Bill had said those exact words to him when he'd been at the lowest point in his life, and Ron had called him a selfish bastard. So why the hell, he asked himself exasperatedly, did he expect a different result with George? Ron gulped audibly. He was going to have to try another approach - and there was only one thing he could think of to say.

"George," Ron said quietly. He wasn't surprised when his brother wouldn't meet his glance, but it was better that way; it would be easier to say what he needed to say. "Did I ever tell you that I left?"

George was quiet for a moment. "Left what?" he asked begrudgingly a moment later, curiosity getting the best of him when it became obvious Ron wasn't going to explain without prompting.

"I left Harry and Hermione," Ron continued, hanging his head in shame. They'd both forgiven him a thousand times over, but he was still far from truly forgiving himself. "Because Voldemort got in my head, and I was selfish and stupid. I thought things couldn't get worse, so I left. But I was wrong. It got so, so much worse."

George was still determinedly staring at the wall, but he didn't interrupt. Ron took a deep breath and continued.

"It's the worst thing I've ever done in my life. I thought I'd lost them, and all I wanted to do was get them back. And I tried to get Bill to poke around for information, y'know, get some sort of lead," Ron said, searching his brother's face as he spoke for any sign of emotion. He saw none, but he couldn't stop now. Talking about it was therapeutic, in a way. He'd learned that in the course of the past few months, with Hermione's help. It was a change in all of them, this "open communication" thing, but it really was a change for the better. So, Ron continued.

"Well, there came a point when it was too dangerous, and Bill couldn't do it anymore," he recounted. "We got in a row about it, but I realized - I realized I couldn't get them back by relying on somebody else, and shouting at Bill wasn't going to make me feel any better. A few days later, I found a way back."

Ron paused again, but George remained impassive. The only sign that he'd heard a word Ron said was his right eyebrow, which was just slightly raised - something that always happened when he was curious. Ron was comforted by this familiar sign on his brother's face, and he gathered the courage to finish.

"Look, I know it's not really the same thing. I know there's no getting him - Fred - back. He's my brother too, so yeah, I know how fucking...how heartbreaking and terrible and wrong it is. But it doesn't mean you should...y'know, give up like this. And I guess my point is that all of us, we'll gladly stick our necks out for you, just...not for this shit. Because this is wrong, too."

They were quiet for a moment. George hung his head in his hands, and Ron studied him intently, hoping that maybe, maybe, he could get through to him this time. George had put on a good show for the last few months. He'd reopened the shop, he'd moved back into the flat alone, and he was almost always ready with a witty retort. But every few weeks, there was a night like tonight, and it virtually eradicated all the progress he'd made.

In the weeks after the war, Ron had grown close to George. He'd helped him reopen the shop, and he'd been there when George had cleaned out the flat. He'd also become the one left to deal with nights like tonight. He'd tried to be patient, but that was not a virtue he found readily available within himself, and even if it had been, there was only so much he could take. Trying to set himself right after the war had been the hardest thing he'd ever done, and the job wasn't over yet. Trying to set George right...it was too much. He was too weak.

When George finally looked up again, Ron was only a little surprised to see that his eyes were wet. He'd never seen George cry until that fateful night in May, but he'd seen it more times than he cared to since. It was unnerving, the amount of crying that had gone on among everyone. It didn't matter that Ron was making a concentrated effort to be sensitive; he would never be comfortable with crying - his own included.

"I hate this," George said quietly.

"I'm not particularly fond of it either," Ron quipped, trying unsuccessfully to lighten his tone.

"Sorry for being a tosser," George said earnestly.

"Sorry I can't be a better help," Ron replied with equal sincerity.

"You're right, though," George mumbled. "It's not your job to get me out of trouble."

Ron sighed heavily. "Can you just...try not to make me do it again?"

George nodded once. "Sorry."

"S'okay," Ron replied. "Look, what you said about Harry and Hermione - I know it's different. Just...don't forget you've still got the rest of us, yeah?"

George nodded again. Ron tentatively moved to the sofa to sit next to him and gripped his shoulder. To his relief, George finally met his eyes. "Thanks, little brother."

"You're welcome," Ron said, withdrawing his hand and settling a more comfortable distance away. Neither one of them was particularly keen on showing affection any longer than was strictly necessary.

"You should go," George said after a few minutes of silence. "Get back to that girl of yours before she comes after you for leaving her waiting too long."

Ron shot half a smile in his direction. "You'll be alright?"

"Yeah," George said noncommittally, turning to look at the clock. "It's past six now. I can go pay Mum a visit. Could use some of her tea, know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Ron agreed, standing up to leave. "Take care of yourself, will you?"

"You too, you big-shot Auror," George replied with the ghost of a smile. "I'll see you on Christmas."

"See you at Christmas," Ron repeated with a last wave before leaving the flat through a door that still read "Fred and George Weasley," because no one had the heart to change it.

Ron's brain whirred at a speed that would have made Hermione proud as he made his way downstairs and through the shop. He couldn't be sure that this would be George's last relapse, but for the first time in awhile, he felt something other than despair and helplessness as he left his brother's flat in the early hours of the morning. He had hope.

Tonight had been the first time George had apologized, had listened for longer than a few seconds without shouting, and that had to count for something. He would be okay, Ron thought as he reached the edge of the Apparition wards around the shop. For everything that had gone so horribly wrong, there was something that was incredibly right. This was exceptionally clear to him as he turned on his heel, his stomach swooshing as he traveled in an instant to the doorstep of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. The thought of a morning in bed with a certain bushy-haired, bossy girl filled his insides with a warmth that a year ago, he'd thought he'd never feel again. And he knew, somehow, that George would feel it someday too. They would all be okay, and they'd help each other get there, because that was what brothers did.

"The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don't always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don't necessarily spoil the good things or make them unimportant." - The Eleventh Doctor, Doctor Who

Thank you for reading! Please feel free to let me know what you thought. :) Lots of love, Potterheads!