On the last day of his sixth year Ron barely recognized his own life. Normal didn't exist anymore.
Dumbledore was dead.
It was Ron's first funeral, and he hadn't thought much of the experience. People like Umbridge and Rita Skeeter had turned up, like they actually gave a damn about Dumbledore when he was alive. Their arrival made Ron sick to his stomach; Harry hadn't looked too thrilled either. After the Ceremony students stood around in nervous huddles, linking arms wherever they went, as if Death Eaters were hiding behind suits of armor, ready to pick off the stragglers. No one knew what the rules were anymore, who to trust, who was a spy. Ron felt like he was in one of those bad muggle detective movies his dad used to go on about, and if anyone hoped McGonagall would restore some kind of order they were disappointed; she spent all afternoon shut up in her office with professors, debating the future of Hogwarts.
Avoiding the day.
Ron preferred his own method of escape. He bent lower over his broom, and angled into a steep dive after an imaginary quaffle forty feet below, the wind whistling louder as he picked up speed, the silent roar of the crowd ringing in his mind. Nearly colliding with the ground, he leveled out at the last possible second, and let his toes skim the grass before careening upwards at an equally sharp angle, racing to the other end of the pitch. He reached the goal posts in what felt like record time.
Flying around the Quidditch pitch probably wasn't the thing to do after a funeral, but Ron needed time to get his head on straight, and of all people, he thought Dumbledore would've understood. What got under his skin the most were the Slytherins. All day they talked and laughed in loud, insolent voices, strutting around like they'd personally accomplished something, like their side had scored a point. Ron had started doing multiplications in his head to keep from punching people in the face. Hermione made him promise, and he had to admit it worked - so far. But there was one Slytherin who wouldn't get off so easily; if he ever saw Malfoy again, promise or no promise, he would hurt him. Specifically, his nose. A hex would work too, but using his fists would feel much more satisfying…
Contemplating different ways of doing Malfoy bodily harm cheered Ron considerably, so that by the time he landed, he felt better than he had all day… which didn't mean much.
And it's not going to get easier, he thought grimly, trudging towards the castle with his broom on his shoulder. He had something to ask Hermione, and she wasn't going to like it. But there was no point putting it off. He wanted to find her and get it over with before he lost his nerve. Cowardly, he hoped to do it in the library, where she couldn't yell. When he pictured her reaction, a frantic voice in his head shouted things like: keep your mouth SHUT you STUPID PRAT. And: things with Hermione are finally on TRACK, do you really want another year of the SILENT TREATMENT?
That voice was a chronic headache. It had nagged him to date Lavender, one of the most Immediately Regrettable Decisions Ever. Selfish, that's what it was, and Ron wasn't going to make the mistake of listening to it again.
The main entrance hall was nearly deserted, and his footsteps echoed ominously as he climbed the stairs. Lots of parents had pulled their kids out of Hogwarts early, and the ones who stayed were anxious to leave, to be somewhere with a better illusion of safety. Not that anywhere in the world was safe with you-know-who and his minions running around. But some places were at least safer than others…
Ron reached the library and found it locked. He turned around, planning to try the common room next, but a short, malnourished looking Slytherin appeared out of nowhere, blocking his path. They'd never spoken before, but Ron knew his name was Zach because Fred or George, he couldn't remember which, once slipped a U-No-Poo pill in his soup during the testing stages. How the hell did they figure out whether it worked? Ron grimaced and pushed the thought away.
"Where's the fire Weasley?" Zach asked, grinning sardonically as if he'd just said something brilliant. "Or are you running off to cry some more over Dumbledore's corpse?" Ron tried to go around him, but the idiot mirrored his steps.
Eight times one is eight. Easy. Eight times two
"Might as well get used to it," Zach went on. "The rest of you blood traitors won't be far behind, now that He's back."
- Seventeen. No. Sixteen. Eight times three
"Are you deaf or something? Your name is Weasley, isn't it?"
- Times three
"And isn't your sister with Potter? Wonder how long she'll last -"
- Times...Oh bugger it. His fist collided with Zach's head so fast Ron barely registered the decision. One second they were having a one way conversation, the next, Zach was sprawled on the floor, his face white with shock.
Ron looked at him.
"Twenty eight," he realized. He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but there it was. The bloke already thought he was a nonce, so what did it matter. Blood oozed from Zach's left nostril. Was his nose broken? Ron hoped so. He considered saying something else, like threaten my family again and I'll break you whole face, but he felt like too much time had passed already. It wouldn't sound cool now.
And he needed to talk to Hermione.
He shot Zach one last filthy look, stepped over his inert form and headed down the corridor at a trot, his broom still resting on his shoulder. The waiting was always harder than the doing, he kept reminding himself. Quidditch had taught him that. Before a game he'd nearly vomit (sometimes more than nearly) imagining all the ways things could go wrong: falling off his broom, dropping the quaffle, choking on the snitch and suffocating to death - a reoccurring nightmare since Harry's first game - but once he was outside, air born and active, the nerves disappeared. Usually. They weren't as bad, at least. And so what if he felt a bit like vomiting now? He'd be confident and convincing once he was making his case to Hermione.
Finally, he reached the common room. The Fat Lady's face was puffy from crying. "Well?" she sighed, dabbing her eyes with a snotty looking handkerchief.
"Er," he felt guilty saying it. "Professor Dumbledore?"
"Y-yes," she sobbed, swinging forward to admit him. He climbed through the portrait hole, scanned the room, and spotted Hermione curled in a chair by the fire. Reading. He smiled at the predictability of it. Would it be the last night she ever sat in that chair, here at Hogwarts?
Not if he had anything to say about it. A rush of adrenaline assailed his nerves. He set his broom down, straightened his shoulders like a soldier going into battle and marched towards her. She looked up and smiled as he approached, and he felt his resolve slipping. Pathetic.
"Did you have a good time? Feel better?" she asked, as he dropped into the seat opposite her.
"A bit," Ron said. "The library's closed. You might have some trouble returning that." He nodded at the crusty, mammoth sized book in her hands. The cover was marked with strange symbols in a language he didn't recognize. "What're you reading anyway?" A pained look of guilt crossed her face.
"Oh, it's nothing," she tried to sound casual, but quickly shoved 'nothing' into her bag. Huh. Normally he wouldn't let her off so easy, but he had to get to the point quickly before he lost his nerve. He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, so that no one would overhear.
"I want to talk to you about something."
"Alright…" she said slowly. He took her hand securely in both of his, a premeditated move to keep her from storming off, and for other reasons too - who knew how much time they had left? And could he stop being so bloody morbid?
"What we said earlier, about going with Harry after the wedding. I've thought about it and…" he took a deep breath. "I… don't think you should go?" He hadn't planned for it to sound like a question.
A beat passed, her face unreadable.
"How can you say that." She said quietly. "How can you ask me to do that? It's like fifth year all over again!"
"What're you -"
"The night we tried to save Sirius! You tried to get me to stay behind with the others while you and Harry went off to the ministry together!" The words came quickly, like she'd been bottling them up for ages. Which, Ron supposed, she had. "You and Harry always team up against me. After everything we've been through together! I would never have asked the same of you. You know why? Because I value -" Her voice shook, and she shut her eyes. She'd already cried at the funeral and now she would again, only this time it was his fault. He hated himself a little.
"Look, could you just here me out? I know you'll worry, right, but I'll be with him. There's safety in small numbers." Her eyes snapped open.
"Like three is loads more than two!" she said between gritted teeth.
"A full forty percent!"
"It's thirty-three percent. And I can't believe you're saying this, it's – this is stupid. I'm going with both of you and that's all there is to it." She made as if to get up but her hand was still trapped in both of his. "Ron, give me my hand," she said in a quiet, dangerous voice. He ignored her.
"Hermione, you're muggleborn and you're a genius. You're living proof that everything they believe is a lie! Do you know how much danger that puts you in?" She hovered awkwardly over her seat, unsure whether to yank her hand free or not. "You can still help and not be right in the - the thick of things, cause if you are - Harry is you-know-who's biggest target. It's the last place you should be. It's not safe. I can't - If you got caught, if anything happened…" his voice cracked on the last word. He let go of her and gripped his hair. How could he convince her to stay behind if he couldn't even get through a damn sentence?
She slowly lowered into her seat again. Ron stared at the fire for a while, blinking more than normal. When he had things under control he glanced at her, and was relieved that she didn't seem angry anymore. If anything she looked… soft. They were different that way. He was pretty sure he looked more or less the same, all day, every day, but her expression was always shifting in little ways that most people didn't notice, ways he'd spent sleepless hours puzzling over.
She put her hand on his knee. It was… distracting. He hardly noticed what she said next, which, he later realized, was probably part of her plan.
"Nothing is going to happen to any of us," she said gently. "And I'm coming with you and Harry – yes Ron, I am – so that I can make sure of that."
Naturally she was worried about Harry. She wanted to protect him, the same way Ron needed to protect her. But she wanted all three of them safe, so she loved Ron too. Just not in the same way. Not as much.
He hated that train of thought, hated what it made him aware of, the convolution of envy, anger, and doubt all knotted together, festering deep inside him like a parasite. He wanted to bury it deeper, or better yet get rid of it completely. But how could he just dig out a part of himself, no matter how much he despised it, however sick and ashamed and foul it made him feel?
"Ron," she shook his knee. "Are you alright? You look ill."
"M'fine," He rubbed his face, and sighed. "So there's no chance of me changing your mind?"
"Do you really expect that to work?" Her eyebrows rose with the question. It was a trick Ron had read about; a question within a question, something women did simply to confuse men. What she really meant was: haven't you realized which one of us has the upper hand here? The raised eyebrows answered: Here's a hint: it's not you.
Ron considered lying, but she added "be honest" before he could think of a good one.
"No… well I'd hoped…"
"You two need me. I don't care whether you realize it or not…." She paused, biting her bottom lip in a way that made the lie even more transparent. "But I feel like everything we've done at Hogwarts…it's all been leading up to this, almost like it was meant to happen this way. Don't you feel that too?"
Ron shook his head. All he felt was tired, depressed, and vaguely hungry. He didn't understand what she meant. Or if he did, he wasn't about to undermine his whole point by admitting it.
"I'm coming with you," she repeated. They stared at each other for a long minute. Finally, Ron nodded tersely.
It wasn't over yet though. Not by a long shot.