Ron's feet slipped on the wet grass of the side of the hill, and he slid down the slope now soaking wet. He said a few rude words very loudly.

Stoatshead Hill was not far from "The Burrow". It was where they had caught the portkey to the Quidditch World Cup all those lifetimes ago.

He sat up, ignoring the wet seeping through his jeans, and rested his head on his knees, catching his breath. The rain had stopped, everything was still. Home was just a couple of miles away. He could be there for an early breakfast. His mum would cook it for him, and hug him, glad he was home again after his stupid adventure.

His head jerked up. His mum would be glad to see him, of course. His mum would still be glad to see Percy, and probably hug him and cook him breakfast as well. But what about the others?

In the cold still of the night, so close to home, Ron came to his senses. He couldn't go back. Fred and George, what would they say? The nicest word that came to mind was "coward". How could he explain he'd walked away, not run? He wasn't a coward, he knew that for certain.

What they had been doing wasn't the Horcrux hunt they'd planned. That was what he'd signed up for. Fighting Vol…You-know-who. Doing something. Working to the plan that Dumbledore had given Harry before he died. Doing something to win.

But there was no plan. They didn't know what they were doing. They had scurried around the countryside, creeping along hedgerows, always on the move, always hungry. The plan had consisted of nothing more than going over the same old arguments. Harry didn't have a clue. He didn't know what they were looking for, or where they were. Even when they'd found one, he didn't even know how to destroy it!! What a great leader!! The old bitterness rose in his throat again, but he still couldn't face the twins.

Would his dad understand? He was older and wiser; he'd worked for the Ministry. His dad. His dad would say not one word against Ron. He wouldn't say one word for him either. His dad would say nothing, and that silence would be the worst curse that anyone could ever cast.

Ginny would want to know where Harry was. He would tell her that her hero Harry was now with Hermione. Harry hadn't given a damn about her. She was just a good snog. Could he say that to Ginny? Could he be the one to tell her the truth? Ginny would never believe him.

It was as if Nearly Headless Nick had walked through him. The cold that hit his body was like a physical blow. Was it the truth? Did Hermione really choose Harry over him in that way?

'…we said we'd go with Harry, we said we'd help –'

'I get it. You choose him'

She hadn't chosen Harry had she? She'd chosen to stay with him. She hadn't thrown Ron out, had she? He'd walked.

He had to get back to her. He had to know the real truth, for his sake.

-o0o-

Where had they been? He knew it was in Wales, somewhere with lots of consonants and no vowels. Where was it? Stupid bloody country!! Why couldn't they have a proper language people could speak? Where was it? Vy… Vyr

…come on!!

RIVER VYRNWY!!

He stumbled as he landed. Apparation was physically draining, and that was his third in a few hours. The lack of food didn't help either. Ron had always been led by his stomach. He looked around. He was by the river – or a river anyway – and the trees looked about right, but there was no tent anywhere.

Which way did he go? Was he in the right place? Ron slumped on to a fallen log and tried to think. He was desperately tired, soaked through and cold. Towards the east the sky was showing streaks of light, morning was approaching and lighting the scene around him. He thought the valley looked a little broader than he'd remembered it, so that must mean….something. Come on!! Think!! It must mean he was downstream of their site.

The journey back along the river was painfully slow. The slopes away from the river were steep enough to make walking awkward, and the brush pulled at his clothes. He often slipped on mosses and grass. All that kept him going was the thought of seeing Hermione again.

Yeah, he knew he was probably in for a hard time. That wasn't a problem; she'd been giving him a hard time for years. He hoped it would just be verbal. Verbal he could cope with, with his mum you had to. Yeah. Verbal would be OK. Mind you, there were lots of small birds in the woods; she wouldn't even have to conjure anything up. The canaries had been the worst ever.

After several hours of scrambling, he started to recognise landmarks; that bramble, those trees. He was getting close, and picked up the pace. The tent, it's just around here, it's …..gone.

He stood looking stupidly at the spot their tent had occupied, as if expecting it to reappear at any moment. Of course, it didn't. He began a careful search of the area, hoping against hope he was in the wrong place. They had always been careful to cover their tracks, to obliterate every sign of their being, but it was impossible to do so completely. He knew, deep down, that this was the right place and there by the side of a puddle was the proof. A clear imprint of his trainer sole. As he scanned around, he saw other tracks, including the path he had taken just the previous night.

That was the worst time of all. The real low point. His friends had gone, they hadn't waited for him. They knew he wasn't coming back, so why bother?

'Then GO!' he'd said 'leave the Horcrux.'

'Yes, I'm staying' she'd said.

How could they think he'd walk out? His friends. Harry, who'd saved his sister's life. Harry who'd been beside him when they'd fought for the Philosopher's Stone. Harry who'd saved his father's life, who'd fought with him at the Ministry.

Hermione, the only girl he'd ever cared about, ever … loved? Lavender didn't count – that was lust. Hermione had visited him in hospital every day. They'd shared a day in Hogsmeade together, probably the happiest day of his life. They'd spent summers together at "The Burrow". He thought she cared about him.

For the first time since he could ever remember, Ron cried. He sunk to his knees and cried. Tears of remorse, tears of regret, tears of loneliness. Maybe even tears of fear. He could never find them again. There was no way he could track them around the country, and even if he were stood next to them, the charms Hermione placed around their camp would render them invisible to him.

Whatever happened now, he was on the outside. If they died, he would always be remembered as the one who'd left, the one who ran away. If they lived and defeated You-know-who, he would be forgotten.

He stayed in the wood most of the day, unable to think, not wanting to think. He wanted to die. It was the chill that came with the setting sun that finally roused him. There was only one place left available to him.

'Shell Cottage.'

Author's note:

The Vyrnwy is a real river in Wales, and very pretty too. If you want to google it, there are pictures.