The cold wind of winter whipped around him, carrying a fine mist of salty water with it. The air was heavy with its scent. Most of the sky was cloudless, and the stars were clearly visible, this far off any major city.

He had wandered around the globe, without purpose, without direction. Taken where the winds, the sun and the stars led him, he had seen every continent, visited incredible places, and met wonderful people. He owned nothing but the clothes on his body, the wand in his pocket, the guitar on his back, and the few items in the small backpack slung around his shoulder. He didn't care for anything else, didn't need anything else. So long as there was food in his mouth, and a soft bed to sleep in once or twice a month, he didn't really care where he was. But now, he was back. Back in Britain. Back home.

When he'd first gone out, it had felt like he was escaping. Escaping the pressures of his new-found fame, escaping the confines of what his world had turned into. Shaking hands with a random pedestrian, because they had recognized him from the papers, enchanting his house, because he might be attacked in his sleep. Slowly, what had seemed marvelous at first, had become oppressive; irritatingly so. The thought of leaving hadn't consciously formed until a year after the Fall, but he knew he'd been playing with it subconsciously quite a long time before that.

When it had registered, the thought wouldn't go away. He spent his nights alone in his shabby apartment. At first, he was dreaming about what to do, out alone, later, he began planning. He included no-one in those plans; not his best friends, nor his family. This would be a solitary undertaking. A quest, not for the greater good, not for the wizarding community, but for him. Just for him. And that had been enough.

He stepped forward. No sense in staying there, rooted to the ground, with a cold nebula washing over him. The grass had grown out too again. He smiled to himself. Some things never change.

He had quit his job, even though his boss offered him a raise if he'd stay. He'd owled his landlord his two-month notice. The git later claimed he'd never received the letter, and that he still owed him for two months of rent. Bastard. It was a good thing he'd left that same day. He wasn't quite sure what he'd do to his landlord if that particular debate hadn't been cut short by an unexpected visit of his mother. Wasn't the last piece of work I'd come across since then.

He had left Britain by ferry, though he knew that was just plain silly. He could have just apparated anywhere after passing the exam. Most of his relatives and all of his friends thought he was still unlicensed, but he knew he'd need one if he was planning to go abroad. The licence turned out to be quite useful, especially when his money was low and he needed to travel. Leaving by ferry was mostly to throw the press and anyone trying to follow him off his tracks. He'd decided he'd travel by muggle means; that would make tracking him a lot more difficult.

He had wanted to be alone. His tramping around the world had to be a solitary undertaking, a quest he would share with no-one. This was something he wanted to experience alone, something private. Even now, talking about it with strangers felt uneasy, indecent. It was like sharing a long-held secret; part relief, part distrust. But he had felt trapped. Like a bird in a cage, he had felt as if his world was so small; so preset. He was one of the heroes, lauded at the corner of every street, greeted by people he'd never met. He was supposed to greet them back, supposed to listen to their stories of pain and bitterness with the ears of a great sage; listening to the words within the words. But he had felt a fraud. He cared little for strangers. He cared little about their pain, their hardships. He cared for his friends, for his family. Little else. Perhaps that was his flaw. Perhaps he should have cared; listened and wept with each heart-rending story. But he couldn't. He tried, but he couldn't.

His friends had noticed. Realized what was happening to him as he started going out less, started wearing sunglasses, or baseball caps to hide his face. They had asked him about it, and though he told them much, he never truly told them how much it bothered him. How much every story reminded him of his own losses, of his own pain. He didn't quite know it then either. He knew he saw his brother in his mind's eye often during those stories, but the connection hadn't been made yet. That realization came much later, when he'd been gone for more than two years.

He'd reached the door. The light had been on in the living room, so he knew someone was home. He knocked. He wondered how they would react. It had been nearly four years...

Though the quest had been solitary, he'd never minded some company. He had spent quite a few weeks with a bloke from Germany. That guy had been insane.
Together, they had crossed Germany by foot, spending two weeks in Berlin. It had been mid-summer then, and Berlin had gone by in a rush of visiting parties in abandoned warehouses. Muggles do know how to party!

In retrospect, he knew he had been a bit unfair to muggles. He'd always thought them a bit off, but life without magic was quite difficult. He'd been so used to having magic to solve every little inconvenience, that travelling with muggles had been quite a revelation. He obviously couldn't perform magic to make a fire, or even bring his parents's tent, and had learned the hard way that life as a muggle was mostly hindered by a hundred little things that irritated you on a day-by-day basis. It explained why they so vehemently sought out new inventions, and leaned on electricity so heavily.

Living like a muggles wasn't so bad as he'd imagined it to be. There were quite a lot of things the muggle world was actually ahead of the wizarding world. Computers made instant communication possible, where wizards were still using hand-written papers. ATM machines allowed you to withdraw money, where wizards were still bound to Gringotts. Music was something else entirely. He loved the muggle music, especially that of Muse. He guessed the muggles were behind most in transportation. They so easily accepted that travelling from A to B took time, depending mostly on distance. For wizards, going from A to B could be instantaneous. Muggles literally spent half their lives waiting. Waiting in the bus, waiting for the traffic lights, waiting for the bridge to lower.

He had occasionally traveled with wizards. He'd met one on the train from Moscow to Beijing. It had been an old warlock, travelling home with his muggle wife. The antique had been dying to get some news from the magical community, having spent two weeks in his stepmother's village, cut off from the world. They had spent some time playing chess, when the old man began about a game named Go. the warlock had explained the rules quickly, and by the end of the ride, he had won his first match.
'You have a gift for these games,' he'd been told, as the wizard gifted him the board and stones, 'perhaps some day we'll meet again. I'd like to play against you again.'

The light in the hallway had been turned on. He heard the clicks of several locks being opened, and felt the removal of a protective charm. Several were still in place. The door opened only by the small fraction the golden chain that was fixed to it allowed. Blue eyes were visible between the gap, a flash of red above.
'Your lawn needs mowing,' he said coolly, pointing back with his thumb.

After four years, he had suddenly grown tired of travelling. He'd found out everyone had a history. Everyone was brilliant in something, and everyone had regrets. It didn't matter if you were wizard, muggle, or something else completely. Everyone carried around a secret. Everyone had done something they were proud of. Some were happy to be alive, others were happy travelling. Sometimes, they were abused in some way. Sometimes, they were running away from past mistakes. Most were just following their dreams.

He'd seen the world. He'd seen things. Things that had left markings on his soul. He'd visited New York in September 2001, aiding the local wizards in any way he could in the fallout of those horrid attacks. He'd searched with the rescue teams on ground zero, till hunger, thirst and exhaustion made going on impossible. His respect for those muggles was unlimited. They'd gone on and on, ignoring the weariness, the pain, and the horror in search for those few survivors. He'd seen the rubble; the torn-off limbs among them. Whatever horrors he had fought in his youth were nothing compared to that grisly scene.

Oddly enough, the muggles soon filed it away in history books. He'd seen them do this before, in Iepers, Belgium. A war of trenches. Dying men, in puddles of mud, waiting for the kiss of death. The wizard running the museum had shown him a eyewitness account through a charm. Muggles were right calling it 'a hell on earth'. The same had happened in Auschwich, an extermination camp. How on earth did muggles come up with these things?

He'd decided to travel home. He took his time, savoring his last days tramping through the great outdoors. The eastern states of America, the cruise to Plymoth, which he payed by working as a crew member.

'So my wife told me. Well,' the voice on the other side of the door said, slightly amused, 'the mower is in the shed. Knock yourself out.'
He took out his wand. He could taste the tension in the air as he did so. He turned around. His back to the door, he studied the field, then flicked his wrist. Each blade of grass was snapped in half. Another whip moved the broken parts together into a ball, which was neatly deposited in a bin.
'Better?' he asked.

Travelling had its benefits. He met more than a dozen wizards over the course of a year, and always, there would be some exchange of knowledge. Sometimes, it was a simple spell to do something trivial, like dry out wet firewood, other times, he'd spent weeks training to master the spell. This had been a bit of a combination of both. It took quite a while to master this little trick. It made an impression.

He turned back around. The eyes peering out of the crack were staring at the grass. He saw the outline of a mouth, opening twice before speaking.
'Thanks!' it said after a while, 'You just saved me two hours of work. Care to tell me your name, stranger?'
He grinned. His appearance had changed a bit, he guessed.

Four years of tramping across fields and roads had left its marks. His face was weathered from exposure to the sun. He'd kept his hair buzz-cut, which was now just as long as the beard ringing his face. His body had become sinewy, but never gaunt. The smile that had wavered from it the days before his departure was back, though it had wizened somewhat since then.

'I haven't been gone that long, brother,' he said, 'that you've forgotten my name?'
The door closed, and the last chain was removed. He felt the removal of the last protective charms. It was done in haste.
'Who'z there, Bill?' he heard someone in the living room ask. the sound of several chairs scraping over wood reached him as the door opened. They must've had guests, he guessed.
'My brother,' Bill said absently, blinking his eyes, 'It's my brother.'
'Which one?' a familiar voice said. Ah, he thought, him. I'd hoped to meet him soon.
He couldn't deny wanting his friends and family during those years on the road. He'd missed them dearly. He'd missed his best friend, to speak of the wonders he'd seen. He had missed him beside him when he walked in the solitary emptiness of the Mongolian highlands. He'd missed her too. His friend and secret love. There had been others on the road. Quite a few actually, but none like her. None that made him feel so connected, so... himself. She was a large part of why he'd returned. For a moment, he'd hoped her to be at Shell Cottage too, but he assumed her to have moved on. Perhaps he'd talk to her some day soon too.

'Ron.' Bill said, as if stating a simple fact. He made it sound as if he'd been gone out for a pack of cigarettes.
'We were just starting dinner,' Bill said, 'care to join?'
'Would I be a Weasley if I didn't?'
Bill smiled, the hard angles of his ruined face contorting and flexing. He leaped forward and enveloped him in a hug that nearly cracked his ribs. Ron returned it with equal enthusiasm. Fleur was the first to approach the hallway, her wand out. Bill let go and turned around. 'It's him,' he said. Fleur eyed him warily. 'I'm sure,' he added.

She dropped her wand and shot forward, stopping right in front of him. She reached out a hand and put it gingerly on his chest, as if checking to see if he was really there.
'You look healthy,' she said after taking hold of Bill's hand, 'and happy.'
Ron felt his ears go red. Fleur's charm had intensified with age, and her compliments felt very nice.
'We're having pancakes for dinner,' she said, 'I believe your favorites were with syrup?'
Ron smiled guiltily. 'What's with this family's fascination with food?'
His eyes fell on the the two figures now at the end of the hall, and his smile faltered. Harry looked like he'd been bludgeoned by a troll, Ginny was ashen-faced, making her flaming red hair stand out even more. He took a hesitant step forward, effectively entering the small cottage.
'R-Ron?' Harry said, still very much under shock, 'Is that really you?'
Ginny floated to him like a ghost, her flowery perfume filling the air. She looked straight into his eyes.

'Ow!' he said, after she had punched him in the arm.
'That's for leaving without saying goodbye, you jerk!' she snapped, with a baleful stare. Then, she surged forward too, putting her head against his chest. 'And this,' she whispered, 'is for returning.'
Harry looked amused. He reached out with his right hand. Ron's right hand found it immediately, his fingers wrapping around Harry's thumb in that comfortable position they'd never forgotten. Their eyes locked, and Ron knew his best friend was happy to see him again, and to share their last four years.
'Is she -'
'Yes,' Harry replied to the question he'd probably been expecting, 'She's in the living room, with Teddy.' He glanced back in, perhaps checking to see if she was still there, 'she seems a bit... thunderstruck.'
'It has been a while, I guess,' Ron replied, as he untangled Ginny from himself. It took a considerable amount of strength to move his feet, which was funny, since he'd been doing that for nearly four years without interruption. He set down the guitar case and backpack at the coat hanger, then moved forward the last few steps. He thought back at the several years he'd been walking, and how they led them right back here, to Shell Cottage, with his family and his best friend, to the love of his life.

She was sitting at the far end of the table, a five-year-old Teddy sitting next to her. She hadn't changed a bit. Her hair was still as untamed as before, her eyes perhaps a bit older and wiser. Ginny moved passed him, flowing through the room and stopping beside Teddy. Hermione stood up and walked forward. She looked incredulous. She closed the distance as if in a dream. She was a step away from being in arms reach when Ron took a step back.
'You're not going to pummel me again, right?'
She nearly jumped forward and wrapped her arms around him. She was shaking. He couldn't see her eyes, hidden between his body and her wild hair, but he thought she was crying. Ginny and Harry glanced away, giving them as much privacy as possible.
'We didn't know where you were,' Harry said after some time, 'The postcards you sent were the only way of telling if you were still alive.'
Ron suddenly felt a surge of guilt coming up. He'd sent quite a few in the beginning, but that number had slowly declined over time. He thought they wouldn't really be interested in where he'd been. He'd sent the last card when he was in New york, now three months ago. But he was back now. Back home.