A/N: You know that little span of time where Ron's gone in Deathly Hallows? Well, here's my take on it. Count on three or four chapters, tops.

Chapter One

He landed in Merlin-knew-where with a faint pop. Immediately, he pushed his wand up his sleeve and stalked forward to take shelter in the crummy-looking pub facing him. By the look of things, he was in a muggle village somewhere in Ireland; the pub was called Carragh's, and the other shops nearby had Irish names, as well. Otherwise, it was indistinguishable from most other muggle villages he had seen. It was just your run-of-the-mill, small village with people milling about as they do in the evenings. Ignoring the lot of them, he shoved his way into the pub. He didn't look for a spot to sit before stomping straight to the bar and sitting with a huff, dropping his bag onto the ground under his stool.

The stool was uncomfortable. The padding must have been ancient or non-existent. The countertop was grimy. The band in the corner was playing some cheap bar tune that set his teeth on edge. He ordered the house brew, and it was crap.

Everything, he concluded, was shit.

That is a wildly unfair accusation, Ronald.

Ron groaned and dropped his head into his hands, propped his elbows on the counter. He didn't want to hear her voice in his head. Not now. Especially when her voice was always right. Why was she always right? She was so right all the time that his conscience—something else that was always right and often ignored—now spoke to him in her voice. It made escaping her impossible. It made him feel guilty every time he was wrong, which made him want to escape her. He couldn't sulk with her around, couldn't be jealous even when he clearly saw the two of them—

His jaw clenched. No. He had left them at the tent that way he could get away from them and thoughts of the two of them together. He wasn't about to sit there, in some random pub, drinking crap beer and brooding. He had done enough of that in the tent. What he needed to do now was… What? What did he need to do now? He had hardly any money, a few changes of clothes and a toothbrush, nothing to do… He couldn't go home. He would never be able to look his mum in the eye again, or his dad, or Ginny—especially Ginny. She would never understand why he had left his two best friends, the bloke she was practically in love with. She would accuse—silently, with just her eyes—him of abandoning them. She would wish to take his place. She may even be a bit jealous that she hadn't been able to go and he had, thus making her even angrier that he had given up the opportunity to help. She would be disappointed. His parents would be disappointed. Hell, Fred and George would even be disappointed.

Staring into his empty glass, Ron wondered if anyone would understand why he had left. Who would understand his jealousy and sense of uselessness? Harry, like his own brothers and sister, would have told him to suck it up and move on because it was all in his head. They would chalk it up to Ron just being cranky because living in a tent for months on end wasn't his idea of a good time. They would wave it off as being another one of his moments. His father would try, in his way, to reason with him—but he would go down the same road as the rest in due time. His mum would fret and coo at him like he was a child.

Hermione would have gotten it right away, he thought with a frown. Had he ever opened up and said, "Hey, I'm feeling useless," she would have understood. She would have found something for him to do, would have bossed him around a little more; she would have claimed he was being ridiculous, but she would have adjusted to fit his needs just the same. That was what came down to, he realized: he needed to tell her how he was feeling instead of exploding when it all got to be too much. That was easier said than done, of course. He didn't want to have to tell her that he wanted her to rely on him, turn to him first, come to him with some exciting revelation first, choose him first. He also didn't want to tell her how much he, in turn, relied on her and thought to go to her before all others. He didn't want to admit to needing her, especially when it meant he needed her more than she needed him.

"Want another?"

Ron looked up to see the bartender wiping his hands on a dirty rag before settling them onto the counter as he leaned his weight onto them. As much as he wanted to get lost in cheap beer, Ron didn't think he should do that while alone, in an unknown area, with the already unpleasant mood he was in. He shook his head.

"That'll be two bob, then."

Bob? His name was Ron… And two what? Frowning to himself again, he pulled out one of the rectangle things that Hermione said the muggles used as payment. It had a five on it. Looking from it to the bartender, he held it up and hoped it would be acceptable.

"I'll be back with your change," the man said, and Ron breathed out a sigh of relief. After he'd collected three rectangle things, each with a one on it, he pocketed them and grabbed his duffel from the ground. It was then that the enormity of his situation hit him. He had nowhere to go. The little wizard money he did have probably wouldn't be enough for a room for the night at the Leaky, and he had no idea where he could even think to stay without paying. He would just have to try the Leaky Cauldron, then. If it didn't work out, he would go from there.

o o o o o o o

As soon as Ron arrived in an alleyway in muggle London, he knew that something wasn't right. There wasn't anything suspicious in the alley that he could see, but his stomach knotted up in a way that told him to go forth carefully. Hiking his bag up his shoulder, he kept to the side of the building as he approached the street corner where he knew he would be able to get a clear view of the Leaky. He kept his wand out as he went, not at all liking the way his stomach was tightening. As he peered around the brick structure, he shifted his wand in his grip. Everything looked fine enough. Cars and people moved at casual or brisk paces, coming and going from wherever.

Maybe you're just not used to being in the open. Ever the optimist-yet-logical, Hermione's voice told him what he needed to hear to get his stomach to settle. It wouldn't be far off the mark, anyway. He had hardly been around people other than Harry and Hermione for months, not including the few times they went into small villages for food or news. It was very likely that he was simply uneasy due to the change in custom. Satisfied with that belief, he pushed his wand up his sleeve and moved into the open. He stood in front of the brick building he'd been looking around moments before and waited for the crosswalk do-hickey to change to "walk". When it did, he hurried across the street, not quite trusting the cars to actually stop when they were coming at him so quickly, and went directly to the Leaky.

He had just walked in the door when he felt the hand on his shoulder. Without thinking, he spun and brought his arm up to knock the other person's arm out of the way, letting his wand slip down his other arm as he did so. He caught his wand and had it shoved in the man's face in an instant. The two stood there, Ron with the other backed against the closed door, shrouded in darkness. The only lights in the pub were a few candles at tables with occupants, none of which were paying any attention to the silent scuffle at the door. He had no idea what to do about the man staring at him with wide eyes, but he knew he couldn't just turn around and walk away. The man would probably attack him if he did so. At the same time, he wasn't sure if he could just stun the man and walk away either; the Leaky's owner probably wouldn't be too pleased.

His decision was made for him as soon as the man's eyes flicked to something just over his shoulder and relief eased the worried wrinkles away. Ron ducked just in time for the stunning spell to miss him and hit the man he'd been holding against the door. Hunched over, he saw the man fall and the man's wand slide through his fingers. He grabbed it as he threw himself behind the closest table to get his bearings. The man who had tried stunning him was looking around, apparently confused as to what had just happened. Biting back a pleased grin, Ron whispered a spell and watched as the stunned man went down, his wand falling near his limp form. He silently summoned the other wand to himself and pocketed it with the first.

First night on his own, and he had already taken down two—what he figured were—Snatchers and collected their wands. He was more than a little pleased with his work, but he was even more worried about the fact that he'd been attacked almost immediately. Unfortunately, he didn't have much time to figure out why that was; two men dropping to the ground near the entrance to the pub could not go unnoticed, and the bodies were gaining more attention as word spread toward the back of the pub. From his crouched position in the shadows, Ron could see the bartender or owner or someone coming from behind the bar. It didn't look like he'd be getting a room at the Leaky that night.

Left hand gripping the strap of his bag, right hand clutching his wand, he went straight back out the door that he'd entered not ten minutes prior. He ignored the "Hey, wait!" and dodged traffic to get back to the spot where he had apparated to before the scuffle at the Leaky Cauldron. The way he saw it, he didn't have much say in where he had to go next. He couldn't go to the Burrow, even if he'd wanted to, and now that it was so late, he couldn't go back to Harry and Hermione. They would be in the tent for the rest of the night, then they would leave right away in the morning. Even if he apparated back to the cliffs where they were, he would never be able to find their campsite because of all of Hermione's clever wandwork. For now, he couldn't go back to them. He would, he decided; as soon as he figured out a way to get there, he would go back.

Until that point, he would pay his oldest brother a visit. Bill was probably the only person he could trust to reserve judgment, or at least most judgment, and provide shelter while he planned. He and Fleur lived in a cottage on the outskirts of Tinworth, the perfect place to hide while he figured out how to get back to where he needed to be, and they were separate enough from the rest of the family so that he wouldn't be discovered by other relatives—no matter how friendly and welcome when he wasn't trying to save the world with his best friends.

With a pop, he vanished from the alley in London.

o o o o o o o

He had never actually been to Shell Cottage before, so he landed a bit off his mark. The walk up the beach wasn't too bad, though, and Ron was far from complaining—possibly a first for him—even though he had initially been walking in the wrong direction. It wasn't until he had been walking for ten minutes that he realized he needed to turn around. By the time he had doubled back and reached his brother's house, it was nearing one in the morning and freezing. All he wanted was a blanket. If Bill decided Ron deserved to sleep outside for disturbing them so late at night—and abandoning his friends—so be it. He just needed a blanket. Or four.

The sand eventually turned into long grass as he climbed the hill to the cottage, the waves kept up their slow rhythm that would have been soothing had his teeth not been chattering. When he finally reached the house, he was tempted to sit down and take a break, but the thought of a warm home and a friendly face made him more eager to mount the stairs to the front door. He did stop for a moment when he reached the top, though—not because he wanted a break, but because he was suddenly scared of his brother's reaction. What if Bill turned him away? He couldn't do that, could he? They were family.

Ron knocked hesitantly. Given that all of the lights were off, however, it was likely that Bill and Fleur were sleeping, and his pathetic attempts at calling attention to the front door were not about to disturb a butterfly. He knocked again, harder, and repeated the action every few seconds until he saw a light turn on upstairs. Then, he waited.

The door opened, and there stood the tallest and oldest Weasley brother—long red hair mussed from sleep, eyes swollen but alert, and wand in one hand. His stern expression turned to one of shock, his jaw dropping and everything, when he realized exactly whom it was he was seeing. "Ron?" Bill had barely muttered the name before his eyes narrowed and the hand that had been on the door moved to his brother's shirtfront. "Who are you?" he demanded. Clearly, he thought the person on his doorstep was an impersonator.

"Bill, it's me. It's Ron."

"Prove it."

Ron rolled his eyes but didn't question it. "Mum tries to cut your hair every time she sees you. We all called you 'Billy' until you were, what, sixteen? Before I left for my first year of school, you sent me a letter saying you were jealous that I got to go school. Uh… Oh, mum always likes to tell the story about the time you set your girlfriend's hair on fire—"

Bill grimaced but managed to laugh around it. "Alright, alright. You're Ron." His face became more serious again, and his hand returned to its place on the door. "Where are Harry and Hermione?"

It was Ron's turn to grimace. "Before I explain, just know that I fully intend on going back…" He trailed off, all at once becoming sheepish, angry and worried—about his friends, about himself. He wondered what he looked like right now. His last shower had probably been two days prior, and that had actually been him washing up with lake water that had been heated in a bucket. His hair was filthy, his clothes—already worn out since they were, funnily enough, Bill's hand-me-downs—were stained and ill-fitting, he was likely to have dirt on his face, and he wouldn't put it past himself to have a very unpleasant expression to go with the dirt.

"Maybe you should come in," Bill said once Ron had gotten lost in thought for a moment. "You look like complete shit and—"

"William! Did I just 'ear you swear? What kind of— Oh! Ron? Iz zat you?"

Merlin's baggy left testicle. Fleur. "Hi, Fleur. Yeah, uh, it's me."

As neat and shimmering as ever, Fleur came to budge Bill out of the way to get a better look at Ron. "You look terrible," she said, her French accent as thick as it had been during the Triwizard Tournament three years ago. "Before you tell us what 'appened, you must wash and sleep, oui? We can all talk in ze morning." She reached out to grab Ron's sleeve, thought better of it, and beckoned him inside instead. "Come, come. I will show you to ze bazroom, and zen to your guest room."

Glancing at Bill both for approval and to share in a moment of exasperation, Ron followed Fleur into the cottage. He looked around as he did, finding their home to be as comfortable as it was organized and stylish. Looking at Bill again, he couldn't help but think Bill both fit and didn't fit in his own home. Bill was tall and often wore his hair in a ponytail, he had his ear pierced, and he liked to wear a lot of black—yet his home was all light colors, seashells, and plush furniture. The way he moved in it, though, showed Ron how content his brother was. He may not have matched, but he was happy—Ron would even find, later, that bits of Bill's style could be found mixed in with Fleur's softer and more feminine additions to the home.

"Zis way," Fleur called, drawing Ron's attention back to her as she moved up the stairs. Looking back over his shoulder, he watched Bill veer off toward the kitchen. "Zis is ze bazroom," she said, gesturing to the open doorway at the top of the stairs. The landing spanned to the left and right, two doors on either side of the bathroom—one immediately on either side, then one on each end of the landing. "Zat," she pointed to the door at the left end of the landing, "iz William's and my bedroom, but it iz under construction because we are adding anozer bazroom. So, we are staying zere," she pointed to the door between her and Bill's room, and the bathroom, "until it iz finished. You can 'ave ze room on ze right." This time, she gestured to the room to the right of the bathroom. "All of ze towels are in ze closet in ze bazroom, so 'elp yourself. Leave your clothes in zere when you are finished changing, and I will 'ave zem washed. You 'ave ozer clothes, oui?" Barely keeping up, Ron managed to nod before she moved on. "Bien. You just wash and get some sleep. We will be ready for you in ze morning." She reached up to pat his cheek before turning around and going back down the stairs. Ron was left staring after her. The woman was far too alert after being woken up in the middle of the night.

Pulling his bag higher onto his shoulder again, he pivoted to find himself face-to-face with the bathroom. Using the tip of his wand for light, he walked in and closed the door behind him before placing his bag on the loo. A moment's rummaging brought him his deluminator from Dumbledore. He clicked it and sent small balls of light soaring into the tiny glass orbs floating around the ceiling. The bathroom was instantly bright, the pale blue walls gleaming and the shower curtain fluttering its gauzy white layers toward him invitingly. He could have wept with happiness. A shower. A real, curtained, comes-with-running-water shower.

He stripped, turned the water on hot, and nearly enjoyed getting scalded when he stepped under the showerhead. Once the water was a more reasonable temperature, he scrubbed himself clean and tried his hardest not to fall asleep where he stand. He had never known water to feel so good in his life. The moment of bliss was short-lived, though. Not long after he finished scrubbing, Ron thought about Hermione and how much she would have loved a hot shower, how much she would have loved the home his brother and sister-in-law had created. His mind moved to Harry next. Harry, his best friend, the Boy Who Lived and probably deserved a hot shower right now more than anyone else. Disgusted with himself, Ron all but threw himself from the shower. He dried quickly and pulled on the only set of pajamas he had thought to pack: a pair of plaid flannel pants and a Chudley Canons t-shirt that was probably ten years old.

As Fleur had instructed, he left his clothes in the bathroom for her to wash. He felt guilty leaving them, so he folded them and left them on the toilet seat… He still felt guilty about it. Walking into the guest room he had been assigned, he felt even worse. It was like staying in a hotel, he figured. The room was simple and clean, everything neutral—pale greens, off-whites, furniture made of drift wood. He didn't see much before his gaze settled on the bed. It was a queen, and it was heaped with pillows and a very comfortable-looking comforter. It made his chest hurt. His friends were sleeping on cots in an old tent with old blankets for warmth. And he was about to sleep on the most comfortable-looking bed he had ever seen.

No matter what happens tomorrow, I cannot spend another night in this bed, he thought. He would give himself this one night—he would admit to being an insensitive, selfish arsehole if it meant one night in that bed. He would hate himself getting into the bed, he would hate himself in his sleep, and he would hate himself when he woke up in the morning. Then he would put it out of his mind. If he was still with Bill and Fleur any of the upcoming nights, he would sleep on the floor with one pillow and one blanket. He was not going to enjoy himself if he could help it.

After this one night.

Feeling sick about the whole thing yet knowing that he simply couldn't do anything about it until the next day, Ron got into the bed and felt his eyes start to water. He didn't cry—not that he would have admitted it if he had—but his eyes did get moist for a minute as he stretched out and wished to be back on his cot. What had he done?