"We're all human, aren't we? Every human life is worth the same, worth saving."
– J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Ron wrenched the chain from over his head and cast the locket into a nearby chair. He turned to Hermione.
"What are you doing?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are you staying, or what?"
"I..." She looked anguished. "Yes – yes. I'm staying. Ro,, we said we'd go with Harry, we said we'd help -"
"I get it. You choose him."
"Ron, no – please – come back, come back!"
She was impeded by her own Shield Charm; by the time she had removed it, he had already stormed into the night.
He stumbled through the forest, Apparating without any real place in mind when he felt that he was a safe enough distance away. He knew it wasn't safe – he knew the basics, at least; deliberation, divination and desperation or something like that. He had desperation, at least. That had to count for something.
He was plenty desperate to get away from them. She'd chosen Harry the Boy Who Got Everything He Wanted, and where did that leave him? That's right. Standing in the rain in the middle of bloody nowhere in the rain. Just perfect. As if this day could get any worse.
He sat down on the wet grass, letting the mud and rain soak into the seat of his trousers and legs. The water ran in rivulets down his face, drenching his hair and causing his fringe to obscure his vision in blurry red strands tangling together.
He wasn't crying – he wasn't – there was just a lot of rain and it was getting into his eyes and trailing down his cheeks in a similar pattern to tears. And that noise? That noise was a cough, it just sounded a bit like a sob because he was so cold and shivering affected his voice slightly. That was all. He didn't need them, anyway, and he certainly wasn't upset about it.
He dug his fingers into the grass to stop the shaking in his hands – just the cold again – and watched at the tips disappeared into the mud and his nails came away caked in the stuff. Cracked and dirty and bleeding slightly and looking like he'd bitten them recently, but he didn't know when that could have happened.
He let the smell of the rain wash over him; fresh and clean and hopefully enough to wash away the memories of two people who he had treated wrongly – no! That's not it. Two people who had treated him wrongly. That was better. He hadn't done anything wrong, and each time he repeated that the conviction behind it became stronger.
The wind began to pick up around him, whipping cold hair around his ears and making the leaves dance around him. It brought a stinging redness to his cheeks and nose, and he was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers, but he wasn't ready to leave yet.
He watched as an old crisp packet blew past, the bright green long since faded, and wished that he'd bothered to bring food with him on his hasty retreat. He could certainly do with something to eat right about now; his stomach clearly wasn't on board with his plan to just sit for a while.
He was hoping that his mind would go as numb as his fingers and toes, the cold spreading though it like an infectious disease, but the opposite seemed to have happened. Thoughts were racing through his head almost faster than he could process them – Hermione choosing Harry over him; that bloody locket; Mum's cooking; Snatchers could be anywhere – he had to move.
Or, at least figure out where he was.
He hadn't been concentrating properly when he'd Apparated – and wouldn't Hermione just love to lecture him about that, except he wasn't going to think about her anymore. He had to focus. He was in a field. It was cold and raining and that didn't really help him at all, but the air smelt slightly salty and – yeah – that was useful. Near the ocean? The Sea?...
Bill?
Slowly he rose to his feet – joints protesting the sudden movement after so long spent stationary – and stood, waiting for his balance to return to him. But no; he'd had enough waiting. He took a staggering step forwards and then another, until he was stumbling up the slight incline of the field which actually seemed to be more of a hill now that he was paying attention.
His feet slipped several times in the wet grass, one time completely disappearing from underneath him and leaving him sprawled on the ground on his stomach, mud covering his entire front and streaked across his face. He tried to wipe to worst of it out of his eyes, but that only made it worse so he gave up on that pretty quickly.
Once his feet were firmly under him again – this time waiting for his equilibrium to return – he began his slow ascent again. The grass squelched under his trainers, and made the small journey so much harder than it needed to be as the grip on his shoes had long since worn off, but eventually he made it to the top of the grassy hill.
Looking around him, he was mildly pleased to note that he had been right about the Sea – he was good for something; they would have done well to remember that. And – yes! – there was Shell Cottage, sitting innocuously between the cliff face and the sandy beach. It was the first thing to fill him with such pure unadulterated joy in a long time, and he ran down the other side of the hill – heedless of his safety – his only thoughts being of a warm fire place and a decent home-cooked meal.
He pushed aside all feelings of doubt and self-loathing. It wouldn't do to dwell on those right now.