'The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep; and miles to go before I sleep.' – Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost
There was a steady sort of reliability about him, Hermione had once said. She was the clever one, always had been, and Harry supplied the power, of course. It was those words he clung to as Ron hugged his best mate, and kissed his girlfriend goodbye.
He stepped into the middle of the ritual circle. About his neck was Hermione's beaded bag. Inside lay Harry's cloak, the marauder's map and his wand, three essential items for his quest.
"I love you." Hermione had whispered against his mouth, only moments ago.
"I believe in you." Harry had said, conviction in every word, clapping him on the shoulder.
Ron stood proud before his friends. "I'm ready."
As Hermione began chanting, drawing complex runic patterns in the air, leaving the afterglow of magic blazing all about them, Harry was drawing upon his core. His hands rested against the bare skin of Hermione's shoulders, channelling everything he had into her. The connection between them glowed, even as the life seemed to drain out of him, his complexion paling and eyes growing dim, even as the runes glowed brighter.
Ron met Hermione's eyes. He nodded. She smiled, not breaking the rhythm of her spell, not even to wipe away the tear trickling down her cheek. With her last word, Hermione pointed her wand toward him. Ron turned on his foot, beginning the process of apparition. The spell slammed into him, and the ritual powered by Harry's sacrifice and Hermione's knowledge threw him in the abyss.
Ron went from unconscious to alert in under a second, a talent the three of them had nurtured through necessity.
He glanced about. He was in the Forest of Dean, the same place he'd been before they'd attempted the ritual. At least he wasn't dead. He could feel the almost imperceptible weight of Hermione's bag around his neck. They'd hypothesised that he'd be able to take items with him, but it was a hypothesis they'd been unable to test. Ron sat up, brushing the dirt off his clothing. He withdrew his wand, willow, with a core of unicorn hair. Now… for the moment of truth. Ron stared at the ground.
"Tempus." Ron forced his eyes up his body, across his chest, and along his arm.
Projected from the end of his wand was a time, and a date.
4:05pm 19th June 1943.
Ron grinned, and pulled on Harry's invisibility cloak.
The years after Voldemort's apparent defeat at the hands of Harry were the darkest the Wizarding World had seen. The Light had thrown everything they had into one last stand, and the Dark had held themselves back. The Death Eaters had learned their lesson the first time around. In the days following jubilant celebrations Kingsley Shacklebolt disappeared overnight. Bill Weasley was found ripped to pieces. Neville Longbottom was subject to the same torture as his parents, and left in the same state. The Death Eaters had abandoned their Lord after his defeat in 1981. They did not in 1998.
Even worse… Dumbledore, for all his intelligence, could not predict the actions of an insane megalomaniac. Voldemort had further split his soul, and secreted it away. This time he didn't bother using Harry's blood to aid his resurrection. The blood of an enemy was all that was required, and Shacklebolt was found dead on Tom Riddle Senior's grave, a gash in his arm to match the one Harry had gained in his fourth year.
Five days after his 'death', Voldemort had risen once again.
Honeydukes hadn't changed much in sixty years. The biggest threat to Hogsmede was unruly students, and Ron whistled to himself as he dismantled the wards surrounding the sweet shop.
At 18, they'd naively believed in the power of love, and Ron had understood why Harry had sacrificed himself for the greater good.
At 25, Ron had changed somewhat from that jealous, insecure, moron. Harry was still a self-sacrificing git, but he was cynical and sly to go with it. They'd all been calculating, ruthless and determined. Anything less would get them killed.
Once inside the shop Ron reset all the wards. He made his way to the Honeydukes storeroom, and lifted the stone trap door. He jumped in, and shut the passageway after him.
Ron didn't think he'd ever properly appreciated the Marauder's map in his school days. He didn't even need the cloak to negotiate the Hogwarts corridors without getting caught. Of course, better safe than sorry.
Ron slipped into the first-floor girl's lavatory. He entered the cubicle they'd used to brew polyjuice in, and sat on the lid of the toilet, prepared to wait. The map lay balanced on his knees.
He found the three dots he was after.
Myrtle Warren, in the Great Hall, eating.
Tom Riddle, in the Slytherin Common Room, socialising.
Albus Dumbledore, in the Headmaster's Office, pacing.
It was almost like a massive Cluedo board, that brilliant muggle game Hermione had shown them in the summer of third year, complete with secret passages and dangerous players.
But Ron already knew who the murderer would be.
Myrtle's dot moved first. She walked, alone, to the library, where she stayed until just after curfew. Then her dot began moving hurriedly toward him as Riddle's dot began moving as well, although at a more measured pace.
Myrtle rushed into the bathroom. Ron wrenched open the door and stunned her from beneath the cloak. He levitated her body into another cubicle, immobilising and silencing her.
Not a moment later Riddle walked in. Blue eyes swept the room, and upon finding no one visibly present, he strode toward the sink.
A silent stunning spell was all it took for him to collapse to the floor. With a flick of Ron's wand he was bound.
Ron summoned Riddle's wand, snapped it in half and lit it on fire, the pieces burning in a sink. He turned back to Riddle, who was blinking blearily. His eyes suddenly snapped open, and they looked about the room. Ron removed Harry's cloak, and placed it and the map into Hermione's bag.
"Who are you? Release me at once!" Riddle commanded.
Ron looked down at him with a sneer.
He didn't need to summon the image of his family weeping over Fred's body, or the terror on Bill's face even in death, or the sound of Hermione screaming as Bellatrix carved into her flesh.
Those memories had long been imprinted onto every inch of his mind.
In the end, it was easy. "Avada kedavra." Ron said.
With a flash of green light, Tom Riddle was dead.
Ron didn't realise he'd dropped his wand until the clatter of it against tile startled him. He scooped it up off the floor, and levitated Myrtle out of the bathroom. A few moments later Myrtle was heading toward Ravenclaw Tower, confused as to why she'd even been out after curfew so late. Next he opened the Chamber of Secrets with his bastardised version of parseltongue, and pushed Riddle's body down the pipe. He closed it once more; hopefully forever.
Ron donned the cloak, and opened the map. He looked at Hogwarts spread out before him, a giant board in a game of Cluedo.
Ron Weasley, in the bathroom, with a wand of willow.
He walked silently through the corridors, out through the tunnel into Hogsmede and into the Three Broomsticks.
"Room for the night." He said, sliding the coins across the bar.
Tom Marvelo Riddle, the Dark Lord Voldemort, was dead. Ron had earned his rest.
'Carry on my wayward son, for there'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest, now don't you cry no more.' – Carry on Wayward Son by Kansas
Here's the poem Invictus by William Ernest Henley that inspired this fic. I imagine the protagonist as Ron.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.