"Do it now," whispered his father's voice, "be ready to run . . .do it now. . . ."

"NOW!" Harry yelled; he didn't think he could have held on for another moment anyway — he pulled his wand upward with an almighty wrench, and the golden thread broke; the cage of light vanished, the phoenix song died — but the shadowy figures of Voldemort's victims did not disappear — they were closing in upon Voldemort, shielding Harry from his gaze —

And Harry ran as he had never run in his life, knocking two stunned Death Eaters aside as he passed; he zigzagged behind head-stones, feeling their curses following him, hearing them hit the headstones — he was dodging curses and graves, pelting toward Cedric's body, no longer aware of the pain in his leg, his whole being concentrated on what he had to do —

"Stun him!" he heard Voldemort scream.

Ten feet from Cedric, Harry dived behind a marble angel to avoid the jets of red light and saw the tip of its wing shatter as the spells hit it. Gripping his wand more tightly, he dashed out from behind the angel —

"Impedimenta!" he bellowed, pointing his wand wildly over his shoulder at the Death Eaters running at him.

From a muffled yell, he thought he had stopped at least one of them, but there was no time to stop and look; he jumped over the cup and dived as he heard more wand blasts behind him; more jets of light flew over his head as he fell, stretching out his hand to grab Cedric's arm —

"Stand aside! I will kill him! He is mine!" shrieked Voldemort.

Harry's hand had closed on Cedric's wrist; one tombstone stood between him and Voldemort, but Cedric was too heavy to carry, and the cup was out of reach —

Voldemort's red eyes flamed in the darkness. Harry saw his mouth curl into a smile, saw him raise his wand.

"Accio!" Harry yelled, pointing his wand at the Triwizard Cup.

It flew into the air and soared toward him….

But at that moment, a deathly shriek emanated from the lipless mouth of Voldemort: "Belua Ignus!"

The white-hot flame of the fire caught the hem of Harry's robes just as he caught the cup by its handle.

As Harry spun rapidly, holding on to the portkey with one hand and Cedric in the other, he smelled his own burning robes.

Less than a second later, he slammed into the ground, his face pressing into the grass. This was accompanied by a cacophony of noises. He still smelled his robes burning, but then there was something worse. So much worse. His nostrils filled with the acrid stench of burning flesh. Strangely enough, he couldn't really feel anything.

Suddenly, he could only see red. Still numb, with tears leaving his eyes and then rapidly evaporating, he closed his eyes.

As The-Boy-Who-Lived was burned by fiendfyre, he caught sight of his mother. Smiling sadly, tears streaming down her almond-shaped green eyes. Next to her was his father, with the same expression on a face that looked so similar to Harry's. Lily Potter extended her arm to her son, and he touched with her for the first time in thirteen years. Together, the Potter family walked away from the hideous fire that consumed Harry's body.

Voldemort's wish had come true; Harry Potter's life had come to an end.

Ronald Bilius Weasley did not quite come to the realization that his best mate was dead for a long while.

When Harry Potter's burning body suddenly appeared on the grass in front of the stands where he was sitting, Ron was slightly bemused.

'Oh there's Harry again, getting himself into dangerous situations! Looks like he's on fire this time.'

It did not occur to Ron at all that Harry had actually died. Even as he heard Hermione shriek, and saw her run down to try to cast extinguishing spells on Harry, he did not quite see. Even as Dumbledore himself ran down, in a fashion that no man over the age of one hundred had done before, to also cast spells to try to stop the fire, Ron still sat in a dazed sort of way.

Ron had no idea what happened the next few hours. Next thing he knew it was ten in the night. He laid down in bed, comfortable in his slightly-too-small pajamas. He looked at the next bed over to wish Harry a good night, but the bed was empty. That was when he realized.

Ron cried himself to sleep for the first time that night.

Nightmares plagued him like they never had before. He saw Harry's burning body, over and over and over. He saw You-Know-Who, laughing, in the corner of his eye. A bone-white wand was pointed at him. 'No, not me,' Ron realized too late.

For the green curse had not flown and struck him, but the person next to him. A certain person with long, bushy, brown hair.

Ron woke with a start. Tears stained his pillow, and the early morning sun streamed through the windows by his bed. He remembered what had happened yesterday. Was it all a dream?

He glanced at Harry's bed. It was empty, still.

Suddenly, an anger filled Ron. An anger more intense than any he had experienced before. It filled his heart, his very being. He grabbed his wand and jumped out of bed. Pointing it at Harry's bed, he roared in frustration. He could not recall making an incantation, but next thing he knew, the place where Harry's place-of-sleep had been was a smoldering crater—bed sized.

"Jesus Christ, Ron! What the actual fuck?" Came a yell from Dean Thomas, two—now one—bed over.

Ron now realized what he had done. The three other boys in his dormitory stared at him in drowsy, yet fear filled eyes. What had he done?

"I'm—I'm sorry," he managed to stammer out, before running out of the dorm into the common room.

He had expected it to be empty, because a quick glance at his watch told him it was five in the morning. But there was one person in the comfortable common room.

There sat Hermione, in the sofa the trio claimed as their own; the especially cozy one that was right by the roaring perpetual fire. Strangely enough, at the moment, the fire was extinguished.

Hermione seemed to be curled up unto herself, though her eyes were wide open. Bloodshot and streaming tears.

"Hermione—" Ron yelped, "are you alright?"

"What do you think?" She said, although her voice lacked any acid.

And suddenly she threw herself at him, and clung to him as if her life depended on it. Her eyes were streaming into his shirt. Ron found himself joining her in her tears, and he held on to her. They sat on their chintz sofa, still clinging to each other-refusing to let each other go.

They sat there, crying their hearts out for who-knew-how-long. Strangely enough, Ron didn't feel embarrassed by the fact that he was crying.

When there were no more tears to cry, they both had a quiet conversation.

"H-how do you think it happened? How did he just burn like that?"Ron found himself asking.

"That was fiendfyre, Ron. I know it. I used every single spell I could think of to put it out, and nothing worked. If those flames were naturalit would have been easy enough to put out. But the spells didn't work, and they only went out when Dumbledore poured his magic into it to suffocate the flames."

"But—but fiendfyre can only be cast when the person who casts it has the intent to kill. That can only mean one thing—"

"Harry was murdered," Hermione said shakily, completing Ron's sentence.

"That can only mean one thing, Hermione. v-v-Voldemort was behind this." Ron somehow felt it would be disrespectful to Harry if he hadn't said that bastard's name properly.

White hot fury flashed inside him again, and, looking at Hermione, he saw the emotions he felt written on her face. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"We have to avenge him."

A/N: Well what do you think? If you guys like it, I think I'll continue writing it. I don't know if it's really that good, though.