Chapter 1

"His last words were Please, look after Hermione."

Harry scratched his knee, and hoped that Hermione wouldn't notice his awkward look. He need not have worried. Hermione sat opposite him, clutching her handkerchief, hurting too much to cry. Her heart felt like it had been ripped from her chest, leaving only a gaping hole, and she couldn't see anything around her. It was odd. She was bereft, empty, just waiting for the pain to slam into her, which she knew it would sooner or later. She had been expecting this news for years, ever since Ron had insisted on going back to be an Auror. A dark, hard fear in her chest had haunted her from the first day he headed in to work, and the stories he and Harry had told afterwards didn't help in the slightest. Now, that dreaded day had come. Ginny was holding her with warm, comforting arms, and Molly was standing near the front door, ready to take her to Hogwarts so that she could tell the children herself.

Hermione steeled herself for the horrors of the days and weeks to come, the ghastly feeling of detachment that she knew would help her as she organised the necessities, the funeral, re-sorting her life. She'd been here before, when friends and relatives had died. She knew she could go into autopilot for long enough to get all that settled. But she also knew that, once all the essential tasks were done, and the mourners left, and the house became empty, that she would break so hard, so completely, that she didn't know if she would ever be the same again. So she sat, still, hoping that by not moving, she could keep the pain from starting.

And she was completely oblivious to Harry's odd behaviour.

She never noticed that he was lying.

And she certainly never picked up how uncomfortable he felt. For once, she coped only for herself and her children, and not for anyone else. This time, she didn't have anything to spare for her friend.

-oooooooooooooooooooooooo-

A week later, Harry came back to the Ministry of Magic for the first time since the funeral. He paused at the entrance to what had previously been his shared office, noticing the large cleared patch where Ron's desk had been. Scorch marks still showed on the ceiling and the back of the door, which had been open at the time. His own desk had been shielded by the door, which is why he had lived and Ron hadn't. Harry tried not to cough at the lingering smell of charred wood and paper, and wished he had told Hermione the truth.

After all, those were not what Ron's last words had been.

They were more like I'm pretty sure this one's been deactivated.

Or possibly Bugger. Or something stronger.

But Harry would never tell her that.

He felt guilty. Not over Ron's actual death. He'd warned his friend again and again to double check, to only try disassembling items in the magic-dampened room, and not to trust anything to be safe. Especially anything they had found in a former well-known Death Eater's home, one where the occupant had had plenty of time to set up a bundle of booby-traps before escaping once more into the night.

No, Harry felt guilty precisely because he didn't feel guilty. Oh, he missed Ron. Desperately. It wasn't going to be the same without his mate to sit next to him at Quidditch, to puzzle over the clues to the latest Death Eater hunt, or to just complain about the kids using his best broom without asking and then returning it with half the handle broken off. No, life would be quite different now. But he knew he couldn't have done anything to stop Ron. Maybe tried a bit harder to persuade the redhead to chuck the Auror job and go into partnership with George. But Ron wanted to make Hermione proud, and being a co-manager of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes just didn't seem to be good enough.

And now Ron was gone. Harry walked over to the space where his friend had worked, and looked around at the charred spot on the floor.

He kicked a folder that had fallen in a burned mess beside the old coal-fire fender, and wished Ron was there to talk about it with him. "Good job of cleaning it up."

"How good a job?"

"Enough that WHAT THE HELL?" Harry jumped a foot in the air, and had his wand out and trained on the source of the voice as he landed.

Ron Weasley, late husband of Hermione and best friend of Harry, stood there, his arms crossed over one of Molly's jumpers. "Enough what? And put that down – it can't hurt me."

Harry stood there, in a defensive position, his mouth working without making any further noise. It took another minute before Harry noticed that Ron was looking – well, to be honest, rather transparent.

"You're…"

"A ghost. Yes. Now tell me about the desk."

"What? Why? How are you here? Why are you here? Are you real?"

"Course I'm bloody real. Now stop pointing that thing at me, and tell me." Ron shook his head, and floated over to the mantelpiece, where he sat down and looked over the room. "I had some important papers in that desk."

"But you're… "

"Look, mate, this is all you get at the moment, so don't waste it. I don't intend being here forever."

"Oh hell – I have to tell Hermione."

"Don't. Or at least – not yet. I've got to get some things sorted out first. Like those papers."

"Papers. You're dead, and a ghost, and you're worried about …"

The ghost started to look uneasy. "They were rather important. Was the desk completely blown up? I don't have a lot of memory of that exact moment."

"Not exactly." Harry leaned against his own desk, the wand lowered but still handy. "It was pretty well trashed, the top was stove in and the sides had collapsed. There might have been a bit left on the bottom – a drawer or two. What were the papers?"

"Can't tell you."

"What? Why the hell not?"

"Just can't, ok? It's a ghost thing." Ron waved his hand towards the space where the desk had been. "They need to be destroyed properly. Or at least not fall into the wrong hands. I'm pretty sure that's why I'm here. And I can't seem to move out of the room, either. So I need you to find them for me."

"So you get to be here as long as the papers exist? I could keep you here forever if I just didn't find them?"

Ron looked hurt. "Some friend you've turned out to be!"

"I was. Am." Harry sat up onto the desktop, his legs swinging like a schoolboy's. "And I will help. But can you blame me? I've lost so many friends already…" He didn't notice the tears starting down his cheeks.

"Sorry. Right. I'll stay as long as I can." His head hung in contrition, Ron jumped down to the floor, not noticing that his feet sank into the floorboards as far as his ankles. "I reckon if you at least get the papers, we can keep them in here until I need to go. I don't think all ghosts stay around forever, do they?"

"I don't think a lot of ghosts come back." Noticing the tears for the first time, Harry wiped them quickly off on his arm. "Look. I know you can't tell me what's in the papers, but who can't see them?"

"Can't tell you that either."

"Great bloody help you are. Okay. I'll go find out what happened to the desk."

"Thanks, mate." Ron went to hug Harry, then noticed his stuck feet. "Dammit. I'll have to get used to this. Let me see how far I can get."

The ghost finally pulled his feet out of the floor, and drifted over to the doorway. A hands width from it, he rebounded gently, as if he had hit a rubber wall.

"That far."

"And you've tried the rest?" Harry gestured at the floor-to-ceiling windows, the air vent on one wall, and the fireplace on the other.

"Didn't have anything else to do while I waited for you to come back."

Harry shrugged. "Fair enough. Look, this shouldn't take too long. Don't go awa.. oh. Sorry." And as he left the room, the ghost cocked a snoot at his retreating back.