The metal box shone, even in the dark. The cluster of faces glowed in its light, looking at him expectantly. The box itself reflected his brilliant green eyes, jet-black hair, and thin scar, showing, too, the symbols painted on his small, white face. He looked at himself, and he found it looking like a strange mirror. He could see inside himself, inside all of his memories. The box itself seemed to hold his life inside its depths. He gazed entranced, wondering what to do. The box tilted in his hands, and he saw his face reflected in it once more. Slowly, methodically, he traced his sign, the sign that he didn't want, the sign that meant his life, the sign that connected him inexplicably to Voldemort. It was this sign that had caused him to be what he was. As he traced it, memories came back to him. When he looked back up at his reflection, he saw that the symbols had come off. His scar shone brightly, matched perfectly with the etching in the metal. He fell deep into his memory, back to the day that this long trip had begun.
****
It was a lazy day. The water rustled slowly under the hot wooden dock, bees buzzed in the brush, and Harry Potter lay flat on his back, watching the clouds go by. The day had progressed slowly, only interrupted when a loon called sharply, contrasting the restful silence. Heat waves rose from the wood of the old dock that Harry lay upon. His friend Ron was sitting perfectly still, lanky legs relaxed in a half sitting, half kneeling position. A butterfly fluttered lazily over the two boys.
A blustering breeze came over them, and Harry sat up, pulling his legs to him. Ron looked at him, and broke the silence by saying, "I wonder when Hermione's going to write."
"Dunno," pondered Harry, not paying much attention to his friend. The vacation was a nice change from being constantly worried about Voldemort and when he would be swooping down upon Harry, Death Eaters crowding behind him. It brought back unpleasant memories of the year before, during the last task of the Triwizard Tournament. Harry thought of Cedric's cold, dead eyes and shuddered, the peace of the day lost.
"What?" he said to Ron, who had been talking all the while he was thinking, "I missed that last bit."
"Oh, nothing, just wondering what's happening in the real world." The boys lapsed into a silence. The wind grew even louder and faster, and it blew Harry's untidy hair even further back out of his face. Another figure came out onto the dock, carrying a tray of cheese sandwiches.
"Hullo. Mum made you some sandwiches," said Ginny, handing Ron the tray and sitting down. The wind blew her hair into her face and out of control. Somehow it made her look frail and white. She gazed out to sea, joining the general mood of the group.
"The birds are lovely," she ventured, "Watch their wings when they fly." The other two did so. Harry imagined flying himself, the broomstick gone from under him.
"Have you ever pictured yourself as a bird?" he asked.
"No, not really. Though we could probably be a bird if we wanted to," said Ron, referring to Animagi.
"Strange, that," commented Ginny, then she added, "It would be hard to be an Animagus. Deciding what animal you'd want to be. I mean, you could be an eagle, but you'd have to stick to the sky, you could be a cat, but then you'd miss being the other animals."
"How 'bout a flying squirrel. Get the worst of both types," joked Harry, making the two Weasleys laugh.
"I s'pose you might," said Ron, seriously, or as seriously as one can be while taking a rather large bite of cheese sandwich, "But really, what animals would you choose?"
"I don't know," said Ginny, "I wonder if there's a book about all the animals and their advantages for Animagi."
"Write Hermione. She'd probably know, give you several titles, then bore you to death with a recitation of the whole book. I honestly think that she's read every book that has ever been written," Ron complained.
"I don't know," said Ginny slyly, "D'you think she's read anything that isn't a classic. How about a thriller novel? That would probably be sufficiently beneath her." Harry gave only a half laugh, because the subject brought up that question again. Where was Hermione? His friends must have picked up his train of thought, because Ron immediately became bemused in solemn thought and Ginny looked thoughtful and worried. She pursed her lips and her forehead wrinkled. Harry shut his eyes and just listened to the wind.
It seemed to be calling, "Oi! Ron! Letter for you." Harry opened his eyes, looking at the summer house where Fred (or was it George?) stood, waving a letter in his hand.
"Can't it wait?" yelled Ron back.
"No, it's from Dumbledore, urgent!"
"Be right there!" shouted Ron back, a look of panic flitting across his face. He hastily excused himself from the others' company, shoving a sandwich into his mouth as he left.
"Wonder what that's all about," said Harry, standing up. Ginny stood up too, carrying the platter of sandwiches.
"Shall we go see?" she said, more of a statement than a question. They meandered up to the little house, walking in to see the Weasleys in a state of disarray. The wind from the door had knocked some papers off of the small counter next to it, and they fluttered to the ground. The rest of the house had small trails of destruction where Ron had run through it, apparently grabbing everything he could. Harry looked askance at Bill, who was standing nearest.
"Got an urgent letter from Dumbledore and had to go somewhere," he explained.
"Where?" asked Ginny, rather smoothly, her worry displayed in her shaking hands alone.
"We don't know. He left quite suddenly," said Mrs. Weasley. She was already beginning to tidy up after Ron, for lack of anything else to do.
"Did he leave the letter?" asked Bill.
"I certainly don't know!" said Mrs. Weasley. At that moment Fred and George walked through the front door.
"Ron needed fast transportation. Sorry Harry, we gave him your Firebolt. Better than all of our brooms put together," said George, rather apologetically.
"George!" Mrs. Weasley rounded on him as though he had done something terrible. He cowered. "George, how could you do that? You should have asked Harry! And don't insult our belongings!"
"But Mum, I-" "Don't you 'But Mum' me!" Ginny, Harry, and Bill looked at each other and got out of the room quickly. They wound up in Ron's room, the one that he and Harry had been staying in.
"What're we going to do?" asked Harry. "I guess we just wait here until Dumbledore calls us," said Bill, "Hope Ron's okay. Hope Mum's okay, for that matter. Hope that when she gets finished with Fred and George that they'll be okay."
"I'd say that the least likely is the last one," said Ginny, sounding serious.
"Yeah, probably. Seriously, I mean, Dumbledore wouldn't send Ron somewhere if it weren't safe. At least, he wouldn't send him somewhere without us where it wasn't safe," said Harry. Bill made a sort of half-agreeing sound and Ginny nodded her head. They sat in silence for a minute. Harry thought about his missing friends. Hermione was somewhere, and now Ron had traipsed off to go to that somewhere too, and they didn't even have the decency to be in the same somewhere as each other.
"Why d'you think they sent him?" asked Bill, "Why Ron and not us? It doesn't make sense. He's much more vulnerable. He doesn't know as many spells and he is more valuable to You-Know-Who because of his connection with you, Harry."
"I don't think he even knows we're friends," protested Harry, "Because it was just me that saw him in first year, then the next year it was Ginny, not Ron, that I rescued from the Chamber of Secrets, and that was just a shade of Voldemort," Bill and Ginny flinched," and in third year, that wasn't him, that was Wormtail," he continued, forgetting that they didn't know about Wormtail, "and then in fourth year... in fourth year the only other person he saw was Cedric."
"Who's Wormtail?" Ginny asked.
"Voldemort's servant, he returned him to power by severing his hand and dumping it into a potion, then stabbing me in the arm and putting my blood in the potion," he said, concentrating hard on Ron's poster of the Chudley Cannons instead of the concerned faces of the Weasleys.
"Did he really? Are you all right?" asked Ginny.
"Ginny, it was a month ago, I think I've recovered by now," he said, with the air of one who really didn't want to talk about something.
"Ginny, I think he means shut up," said Bill, the voice of reason.
"Oh, sorry, continue," she said.
"That's all right, I was done anyway."
"Wormtail could have told him, if Ron was there when you ran into him," said Bill, standing up suddenly, "I'm going to go write Dumbledore and ask him why he sent Ron. The chances of him actually answering are slim, but it's worth a shot." Harry and Ginny nodded. Bill left.
There was a long and awkward silence, in which Ginny became extremely interested in the wall, and Harry stood up and walked over to examine the poster of the Chudley Cannons even further. One of them was holding up a small mirror and doing her hair, and the rest were making fun of her. Ginny appeared at his side.
"Interesting picture. I can't see why Ron likes them. They're the worst team in the league," she said. With this all of the people in the posters all over the room turned and looked menacing towards her. One person tried to show off how good they were, and promptly fell off their broom in the middle of an upside down loop. There was yet another uncomfortable pause.
"There isn't really much to do in here, I'm going downstairs to help Fred and George," said Harry, finally.
"Okay. I'm staying in here to see if I can find the letter from Dumbledore," said Ginny.
"Good luck," he said, then exited, going down to where Mrs. Weasley was no longer yelling at Fred and George. He started up the stairs and then paused, thinking better of it. He turned back around, and he slowly walked back down the stairs to outside, where the peace of the day was no more, to the spot where Ron had been sitting when the letter arrived. He sat down, watching a butterfly fly around. The wind that had picked up so suddenly before had died down. It was exactly the same as it had been before, but it was entirely different. Ron had gone, and now Voldemort's battle had come too close to him for comfort. It was all because of him. He felt guilt build up. It was all because he had been too weak to allow Wormtail be killed. It was because he hadn't taken the cup when he had had a chance; it was all because of him. He buried his face in his hands and sat there, in the perfect peace, on the beautiful day.
