A/N: Because sometimes things just snowball... a one-off sentence in a previous drabble (called I'm Not Wearing That) got the wheels turning in my brain... and then I lost all control of myself and the below happened. I had so much fun writing this and I hope you have fun reading it!

Warning: Mentions of blood and other injuries.

"On their way downstairs they met Hermione. 'Thanks for the book, Harry!' she said happily. 'I've been wanting that New Theory of Numerology for ages. And that perfume is really unusual, Ron.'

'No problem,' said Ron."

- Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Chapter Twenty-Three: Christmas on the Closed Ward

•••

To say everything was a bit of a mess was an understatement. After everything happened with Harry at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, the Weasleys, along with several others, had been galvanized into immediate action. It had all been something of a whirlwind: Ron had barely settled back into his old room at the Burrow before he found himself spending the summer in London at the creepiest old house he had ever seen. Almost immediately, he'd invited Hermione to come and stay. Among other reasons, he needed help figuring out how to write back to Harry when he was under direct orders not to tell him anything, but she said she had to put in a cursory visit to her parents before she left them again.

Which may have been just as well, given that the Black family's idea of decorations, particularly the heads of dead house elves lining the staircase, would probably not strike her as terribly appealing. And not that he didn't want to see her, but he also didn't want to upset her unnecessarily. Last year, looking back, he'd been a bit of a git sometimes - the Yule Ball had not exactly been a shining moment for him - and he was resolving to do better this year.

Because contrary to popular belief, he had indeed noticed she was a girl, and for some reason, he just couldn't stop noticing. He had spent the latter half of the school year watching the way her hair swung as she walked, the way her long, dark eyelashes fluttered as she read... along with some very secret thoughts for which his mum would probably have his head if she knew about them... and since there was likely not going to be a ball this year, he had to find another way to show her that he'd noticed.

He did have a few ideas, some things he'd been thinking about ever since the second task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, but the problem was that every idea he had required money, and a fair amount of it. Given that he felt guilty asking his parents for a new pair of shoes (not even new, necessarily, just bigger), he figured that any extra gold for a gift for Hermione had a snowball's chance in hell of coming to fruition.

But the thing about life at Grimmauld Place was that it had all been thrown together rather quickly. There had clearly been no time to waste after the third task, and it only took about four days for Ron, Ginny and the twins to run out of clean clothes. His parents were always in top-secret meetings with Sirius and the rest of the Order, so the twins had been tasked with escorting their younger siblings back to the Burrow to gather up anything they needed. Ron reckoned that while he was at it, he might raid Bill's old closet: maybe he could scare up a pair of trousers that didn't show his ankles.

After lunch, the four of them Flooed over (much to the chagrin of Fred and George, who had wanted to Apparate). Ron was halfway through packing up an old rucksack with clean socks and Muggle t-shirts when he heard the pounding of two pairs of feet on the stairs, followed by his bedroom door bursting open. The twins were beaming at him, which instantly put Ron on edge: they never did anything without an ulterior motive.

"What do you want?"

Fred feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart, and looked over at George. "I'm hurt, Ronnie, I'm really hurt. We come bearing gifts-"

"Bearing gifts?" Ron repeated. "No, no, I don't want anything you're trying to give away."

"Look, just take them, will you?" George said, producing, seemingly from nowhere, a set of crisp, clean dress robes. "They'll be way too long on either of us."

Ron blinked, disbelieving. In George's outstretched arms lay a set of brand-new dress robes, just like the ones Harry had worn last year, only these were a deep, bold shade of blue. They even still had the tags on them from Madame Malkin's.

"What's the catch?" asked Ron, not yet prepared to even touch the robes. "Do they turn my skin green or something?"

"There is no catch," said Fred, and he sounded a bit annoyed. "I don't know if you managed to get a glimpse of yourself at the Yule Ball, but we did, and - and to be honest, we can't have you associating with us looking like that. So just take them, will you?"

Ron reached out and accepted the robes, fully anticipating to be briefly turned into a frog or something of the like... but nothing happened. They simply sat, heavy and real, in his arms.

"Thank you," he said finally. "But... where'd you get the gold for this? I know Bagman stiffed you-"

"It's none of your concern," George replied quickly. "Merlin, if I'd known how hard it was to give you a gift, I'd never have done it-"

"Have you been selling your Wheezes stuff again?"

"Drop it," Fred snapped, "or we'll take them back." Suddenly he grinned. "And I don't reckon Granger liked your last set of robes too much..."

"What's Hermione got to do with it?" asked Ron sharply, only to elicit belly laughs from the twins. "What are you on about?"

"If you don't know, we can't tell you." Fred reached out and clapped Ron heartily on the shoulder. "You're welcome, by the way."

As they turned, thundering down the wooden stairs again, something clicked together in Ron's shellshocked brain, and after he very carefully hung the robes up in his closet, he darted off after his brothers.

"How much gold have you got, exactly?" he asked them, standing in the doorway to their bedroom.

Fred and George exchanged a look. "Didn't we tell him to bugger off?"

"Yeah, I do seem to recall-"

"Look, could I borrow some?" Ron blurted out, steeling himself for raucous laughter and a flat-out denial... but the twins simply studied him as though this was a business proposition. "I only need about five or six Galleons, and I'll - I'll pay you back-"

"With what, leprechaun gold?"

Ron's stomach flipped - that one still stung - but he brushed it off. He could handle his brothers being gits if it got him what he needed. "Okay, so I'll work for it. I can be your test subject, or - or I'll do your chores for you or something," he ventured wildly. "Five Galleons, that's all I need."

"What for, exactly?" asked George with a smirk. "Gambling debts?"

"Treats for that dustball you call an owl?" added Fred.

"New chess set?"

"Chocolate Frogs?"

"Cannons tickets?"

"Shut up!" Ron interrupted, feeling his face flush. "It's none of your business how I spend it, is it?"

"You know," George said thoughtfully, looking at Fred, "Mum's been harping on us to clean up our room for ages, but we've usually got better ways to spend our time. But Ronnie here-"

"He's got nothing but time."

Ron found himself dragged into the room by his elbows. Now that he had a chance to properly look around - he tended to avoid their room when possible, it was just safer that way - he had his work quite cut out for him. The carpeted floor was barely visible beneath a layer of sweets wrappers, old magazines, and foul-smelling socks, the door to the closet was bulging open and their Hogwarts trunks lay on their sides on the floor, spilling their contents.

"Make it look like Ginny's room," Fred grinned as he and George slipped away down the stairs.

Ron stared around the room. His brothers had managed to cram a remarkable amount of stuff into such a small room, and reckoned that he had better start somewhere, and he better start fast. Their parents were expecting them back at Grimmauld Place in time for dinner and the twins, clearly, were going to get their money's worth.

The worst of it, he knew, would be under the beds. Summoning his courage, he knelt down beside George's bed and gave a grand sweep of his arm beneath it. Out came old socks, a half-torn plush dragon, and some very thick, sticky brown liquid that instantly coated Ron's entire forearm. From the smell of it, he could assume a jar of broom polish had tipped over at some point, but the more he tried to use his own shirt to wipe it off, the more bits of cotton clung to the tacky substance.

Did he dare use magic to clean himself off? Instantly he thought of Harry, blamed for Dobby's Hover Charm in second year, and he thought of all the casual implications of Harry's mental instability in the Prophet, all the articles in which the Minister claimed that things were better than ever - even when Ron and his whole family and even Dumbledore knew better - and thought he'd better not risk it. He simply wiped off his arm as best he could, even though now, somehow, little bits of the stuffing from that plush dragon were also stuck to him, and soldiered through.

Most of it went directly in the bin, but he did pocket a few old homework assignments that he suspected he could repurpose for himself, and moved on to the trunks. They smelled vaguely of gunpowder, which wasn't exactly comforting. As Ron went to move George's old Beater bat out of the way, something shot up in the air and exploded in spectacular fashion into a shocking pink Catherine Wheel... and once Ron no longer felt like his heart was in his throat, he could do nothing more than watch in resignation as ash rained down, singing the bedspreads and the carpet.

"Shit," Ron muttered, stamping out a tiny fire on the carpet with his shoe. He seemed to be making more of a mess than he was cleaning up, at this point.

"All right up there?" called a half-chuckling voice from somewhere below him.

"Piss off!" Ron yelled back. It would be just his luck for one of the twins' inventions to go haywire and set the place on fire at the same moment that he was in their room... but the thought of five solid, heavy Galleons in the palm of his hand, and what they could do, brought his focus back. If he could face down a bloody great pack of acromantulas for Hermione during his second year, he could handle the twins.

There wouldn't be time, he determined as he sorted Fred's socks with one hand and held his nose with the other, to buy anything in time for her birthday. It was already July, and by the time he selected something, mailed in the order, and waited for the delivery owl to even find Grimmauld Place, he might already be back at Hogwarts. It would have to be Christmas, and that might not be so bad. Last Christmas he had ended the night in a screaming match with her in the middle of the common room - one in which she'd said some things that had resounded in his ears for weeks afterward - so this year, he would make up for it. Maybe for once, they could actually have a decent Christmas. The last few, what with all the rows and Hermione accidentally turning herself into a cat, hadn't been ideal.

Once the trunks were sorted, Ron reckoned he had better conquer the closet: there was a foul sort of smell there, the source of which he didn't necessarily want to discover, but he also knew the twins would dock Galleons for incomplete work. With his jaw set, Ron prised open the closet door - and promptly ducked, using his arms to shield himself from an onslaught of joke shop prototypes. Something circular and neon green sank sharp fangs into the arm that was still sticky from broom polish; a small black sphere erupted like a horn next to his ear; a deck of Muggle cards fluttered down around him to the floor; a curious book titled Breeding Habits of Puffskeins bonked him on the head; it was by sheer luck and quick reflexes only that he managed to snag a Portable Swamp out of the air before it deployed.

Fuming and not sure which injury to nurse first, Ron gaped at the chaos surrounding him. He never expected his brothers to play it safe - and he knew they had countless inventions in the works - but he had never fully appreciated until now just how close they were, at any given moment, to burning down the entire house. Tiny beads of blood were slowly appearing on his arm where the Fanged Frisbee was still biting into him, stark red against the muted brown of the now-dried broom polish, his left ear had developed a faint ringing from the blast of the Decoy Detonator, and he was sure to have a bump on the back of his head... but he gritted his teeth, wrested the Frisbee off of his arm, and knelt to gather up the cards. For better or worse, whether he ended up losing fingers or breaking a limb, he had to finish what he had started. He hadn't come this far just to turn back now, but more importantly, he didn't want to be who he was last year. He was sick of Harry's casual "oh, I'll pay" when they went out in Hogsmeade, of having to scrounge between the sofa cushions for stray Knuts so he could buy his friends some Every-Flavor Beans at Christmas... and this was a start. It was a step, at the very least, of being the sort of bloke who was good enough for-

"Gahhh!" he yowled as a sharp pain shot through his ankle: the Fanged Frisbee had latched onto him again. "Bloody hell."

Two hours later, Ron tripped wearily down to the loo, sweaty and missing half an eyebrow thanks to another accidental deployment of a Wildfire Whizzbang. As he tried, uselessly, to scrub himself clean in the sink, two more freckled faces appeared in the mirror.

"How's our favorite house elf doing?" asked Fred, watching as Ron splashed his soot-streaked face with water. "Actually, I don't know about favorite, I like Dobby a lot-"

Face still dripping, Ron straightened up and glared at their smug grins.

"You owe me five Galleons," said Ron as he reached for a hand towel.

"Not so fast," said George. "We've got to be sure you've earned it, haven't we?"

They barely let Ron dry off his face and shut off the tap before dragging him back up to their room, where their jaws dropped in astonishment. The beds were made. The hampers were filled with dirty laundry, the closet with anything remotely clean, the Hogwarts trunks tidy and organized. The only signs that the room was occupied by professional pranksters were the sporadic burn marks on the carpet and the lingering scent of gunpowder.

"You actually did it," Fred marveled, gazing around. "I never thought that you'd really-" He stopped himself and turned toward Ron, furrowing his brow at him. "What do you want this money so bad for, anyway?"

"I told you, it's none of your business." Ron just hoped they wouldn't notice the flush creeping into his cheeks.

"Okay," replied Fred, still skeptical. "Well, all our gold's in London, so we can pay you when we get back. And we're leaving in ten minutes, so get your own rubbish and let's go."

Without the time to ransack Bill's old closet for some clothes that might actually fit, Ron simply shoved anything of his own that he could grab into his rucksack and Flooed back to Grimmauld Place. Hushed voices behind the door of the drawing room told Ron that the Order of the Phoenix was holding another meeting, so he trudged up to the bedroom he had occupied the past few days. Inside, Pigwidgeon twittered anxiously about with a scroll of parchment clamped in his minute beak.

"C'mere, you little git," Ron muttered, grabbing the bird out of the air to retrieve the letter. He unrolled it, feeling his stomach flip with excitement at the familiar handwriting on the page.

Dear Ron,

Good news! My mum and dad have said that they'll drop me off tomorrow around noon to spend the rest of the summer with you and your family. Have you heard from Harry? He wrote me saying that he hasn't heard back from you, so maybe we can respond to him together. I know you said I might not like the place you're staying, and that it might not like me back, but I feel terrible not knowing what's going on and not being able to help. I can only imagine what it's like for Harry.

Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow - can't wait!

Love from,

Hermione

Ron was too busy staring at her words, a hint of a smile crossing his lips, to notice that Fred and George had darkened his doorway.

"Oi, catch," said George, lobbing a small drawstring pouch onto the bed where Ron sat. "Threw an extra few Sickles in there too, consider it a tip."

"Thanks." Ron upended the pouch, watching in amazement as five thick gold coins and three silver ones spilled onto the bedspread. "These are real, right? They're not going to turn into biscuits or disappear in an hour, are they?"

"Nah. I forgot we rigged the closet up like that, it was supposed to be for Percy, but well-" Fred paused, grimacing just slightly. "Anyway, enjoy."

"It's not for me," Ron found himself saying before he could help it. Dammit, he thought angrily; he had just given the twins mickey-taking ammunition for years. Why could he never just leave well enough alone? Why couldn't he just take the money and let the pair of them think he was planning to piss it away on Dungbombs?

"Didn't think it was," said Fred with a wink.

Before Ron could respond, the pair of them Disapparated with an ear-splitting crack.

The following morning dawned bright and sunny, and despite the soreness in his muscles, Ron awoke in a brilliant mood. He was five Galleons richer than he'd been yesterday, Hermione would be here in a few short hours, and he had managed to nick a perfume catalog from his mum's Witch Weekly magazine. He wolfed down his breakfast, not even minding his parents incessant questions about Hermione's impending arrival. He spent the rest of the morning beating Bill at a few rounds of chess and was settling in with the newest issue of Quidditch Quarterly when he heard the squeaking hinges of the front door and the abhorrent screaming of Walburga Black's portrait.

Instantly, Ron jumped to his feet. His parents had been the ones to fetch Hermione from King's Cross, which was the nearest Muggle-friendly meeting place for her family. They had been gone quite a while, likely because Ron's dad was probably grilling Mr. and Mrs. Granger about cordless phones or some nonsense, and Ron had been growing impatient. He heard curtains being drawn, which muffled the sound of "Blood traitors! Mudblood! Filth!" as he met them in the hallway, just before they reached the troll-leg umbrella stand.

Whoa. Ron had seen Hermione in shorts before, last summer, but had her legs always been that long, that tan? Did her hair always do what it was doing now, tumbling like that over her shoulders, little wispy strands framing her blushing, beaming face?

"Hey," he managed to sputter out, forcing himself to regain focus. This was just Hermione, after all, right?

"Hi," she said brightly, as Ron's mum made a comment about starting lunch and slipped away to the basement kitchen. "It's so good to see you - what is this place? Your dad said it wasn't safe to talk about in public, and what's the Order of the Phoenix? What was that note from Dumbledore about?"

The questions issued rapidly from her lips; she'd have kept going, Ron was sure, if she didn't have to stop and take a breath.

"I'll explain everything, it'll be time for lunch soon anyw-" He nearly choked on his words as her fingers closed around his wrist.

"What happened to you?" Hermione asked in alarm.

Ron glanced down at his arm, which was a sorry sight indeed. Despite taking two showers, his skin still bore a faint brown hue from the broom polish and the bite marks from the Fanged Frisbee burned bright red and angry.

"Oh, that?" Ron tried to be nonchalant even as her fingertips pressed into his skin. "It's no big deal."

"Are you sure?" Hermione held his arm up at eye level, studying it. "That looks really painful-"

"No, no, really." Just don't let go, he found himself thinking. "It was nothing."

Thanks for reading! Please review :)