A/n: MoonyIsTheMan, thanks for the review. I took your advice! ;) And thanks as well to the rest of you! Cookies and/or biscuits for all of you!

Same warning as before, people: profanity is abundant!

Happy reading!


I'm Ron Weasley. Yeah, I'm still 22. I still like running.

Nick's back at Hogwarts, but Hannah's taken some of her days off to come running with me. She's slow as hell and can't make it past three miles, but she talks the entire time with me. I appreciate the effort she's making, but she's only available once or twice a week, and I need to run at least four times a week.

Hannah makes Neville come run with me sometimes. Neville's a great bloke and all, but next to the prats Senior Auror Williams used to make me run with, he's the worst running partner I've ever had.

He as clumsy as ever and often runs into me or trips over tree roots. After the first mile he'll be huffing and puffing and after mile two I have to stop for his sake. If I didn't stop, he wouldn't; he still has the heart of a lion and will push himself to his limits just so he can keep up with me.

Poor bastard. And this time I am talking about Neville.

He runs with me and then goes right back to Hannah, smiling and ignoring the fact that he had just vomited in the dustbin outside the flat.

Harry's been running with Ginny apparently, trying to keep her in Quidditch shape. He's signed the three of us up for a real marathon next month.

I've told Neville that his running partner services won't be required for the next month, since I'll be in training.

He doesn't seem too upset.


I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 23 years old. I think I really like to run now.

The marathon went perfect. Better than perfect. I only had a month to prepare and was ill all over the sidewalk by the finish line. I couldn't move at all the next day.

But I've found a new running partner.

I don't know why Ginny's never ran with me before, but now we run four times a week together.

I've always known my sister was athletic, just as I've known she's loved to gossip. As such, I'm still trying to decide why I never bothered asking her to run with me.

Harry doesn't seem too perturbed about my stealing his running partner. He apparently had the same problem with her as he'd had with me: both Ginny and I talk too much after the second mile for his liking.

Guess it's a Weasley thing.


I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 23 years old. I really like running.

Nick's home for the summer.

Ginny, Nick, and I average 40 miles a week, no matter the weather.

Ginny swears as much as I do after the seventh mile.

Nick finds our antics hilarious.

I fucking love running.


I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 24 years old. I have a love/hate relationship with running.

My knee hurts.

Ginny and Harry got married a few months ago. The day of her wedding, we ran our own impromptu half-marathon. Mum was in hysterics when we showed up at the Burrow in our trainers, soaked with sweat.

And now Ginny's pregnant. We're running another 10 miles talking about it all. She's only a month along but she's already picking out baby names.

She and Harry both like the name James.

They also both like the idea of me being godfather.

I trip on a tree root and nearly twist my knee.

My knee fucking hurts, but my heart is soaring.


I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 25 years old. I love running.

I'm in love with Hermione Jean Granger.

I'm a godfather.

I'm getting married in a month.

I've got myself a new running partner for when Nick's at Hogwarts.

Harry's godson Teddy comes over often, and Nick lets him borrow his bike so he can ride next to me.

I'm going to be a husband.

I'm going to be shitting myself.


I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 28 years old. I love to run when I have the time to do so.

I've got myself a new family and a new house in the country where we can grow and love.

Rosie's an angel. She loves playing with my godson James Sirius. Ginny's due any day now with another boy. Teddy's at Hogwarts now and with him and Ginny out of commission I've no one to run with.

But Hermione and Rosie don't give me much time to run anymore. Harry's the same, as is Ginny of course. But Ginny's days of Quidditch are long gone now anyway, so she only runs for fun when she's able.

Harry and I are forced to run together when we have the time. Despite our inability to run well together, it's better than the alternative of running alone.

An unfamiliar owl delivers the post. Neville and Hannah are getting married.

Both of them are shitty runners, but I know that, come their big day, I'll be running with both of them separately.

Here's hoping I only have to worry about Neville getting sick.


I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 28 years old. I got in trouble because of running.

Hermione was at home alone with Rosie when she went into labor with Hugo. I was out running with Neville.

Thank God Neville's a big bloke. We were home only ten minutes after her water broke.

Hermione took her rage out on my fingers: she broke three of them as I held her hand during the birth. Rosie giggled as my misshapen, purple fingers were fixed by a Healer. Hermione apologized profusely afterward.

I reckon she did it on purpose.


I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 29 years old. I love running alone now.

I don't know what did it. Nick graduated from Hogwarts last month.

He's been talking a lot about two things: traveling and doing a triathlon. As a graduation gift I got him a new bike to attempt to compromise his two wishes, although he wasn't so sure how long it'd take to get to France on bike.

He gave me his old bike as thanks.

I'm not sure what to do with the old thing. It's been sitting in my shed already, since Teddy left it with me before he left for school.

I think I'm going to keep it for Rosie.


I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 31 years old. I love running with Nick.

It's the first time he's ever run with me. He's ditched the bike to jog by my side.

He's in town for his father's funeral. Mr. Abbott passed a week ago from alcohol poisoning, poor soul.

Nick tells me he's found himself a girlfriend. He and Michelle met during a triathlon and they plan on running another one next month. He wants to know if I'll join him for a swim tomorrow. I ask him what time, since the funeral's tomorrow.

He wants to get up at five.

Damn it all; we're on our seventh mile. Nick laughs for old time's sake as I let out a stream of expletives at knowing what time I'll be getting up tomorrow for a cold bath.

Rosie's going to be mad when I tell her where I'm going to be tomorrow morning. She loves to swim.

But there's no real question of me going or not. I've always asked him to run with me and he's always obliged, so I can't really see my denying him.

My knee hurts again.


I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 37 years old. I love running with my daughter.

Rosie's going off to Hogwarts tomorrow. I'm going to miss her terribly. I've gotten used to her riding alongside me on Nick's old bike.

She was a good running partner. She's quiet like Harry, but for obviously different reasons. Harry wouldn't talk because he'd be too busy worrying about work and his kids and every other burden he continues to put on his shoulders. In those early days when we first started running I used to think he'd need another arch nemesis so he wouldn't go crazy with boredom.

Rosie, on the other hand, isn't obsessing over her worries when she becomes silent. Even as she rides her bike at my side right now I can see on her face that she's not anxiously thinking about going to Hogwarts tomorrow.

She's pensive and peaceful, even as we pass mile seven and I swear as silently as I can when my knee starts aching again.

I'm pretty sure she gets it from her mother.


I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 39 years old. I loved running with my son.

Hugo and Rosie are both at Hogwarts now.

I run alone, trying to concentrate on the sound of my trainers slapping on the wooden bridge I'm crossing.

My knee fucking hurts, but my heart hurts more.


I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 40 years old. I love running at twilight.

Hermione does not.

Twilight means dark. Twilight means dinner, shower, bed. Twilight should not mean running. It makes her nervous.

But it's freeing to me. I get a whole new assortment of sounds and sights when I run at night. It's something new, and helps distract me when I've got no one else to run with.

That's quite often now.

But Hermione's been lonesome without the kids, too. She's been talking about getting a cat. Crookshanks passed a while ago now (that cat lived all nine lives and more if you ask me), and she's been craving babying a new pet for a while now.

I've been trying to convince her to get a dog instead. I could go running with a dog.

Running at twilight doesn't quite fill the void, after all.


I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 42 years old. I love running with my dog.

Yes, we got a dog. A great big black lab named Rapier. Hermione loves him because she has to take care of him constantly. He's big and bulky and doesn't seem to know his own strength; he'll knock his body into the side table without knowing it and break a vase or knock over a stack of Quibblers. She loves continually cleaning up after him, and that doesn't even take into account the enormous amount of fur he sheds all over the house. It's a lot like taking care of a third child for her.

My favorite trick of Rapier's is whenever he crawls up on the furniture to sit in Hermione's lap when she least suspects it. I would love him for that reason alone, but I truly love him because he's my new running partner. And what a grand running partner he is.

I don't have to go running at twilight now, which alleviates Hermione's fears. I can go run at anytime with Rapier by my side.

The only downside to my new partner is my distance: I've had to decrease from the 40 miles a week I used to run to less than 30. Hermione approves, probably thinking of all the times I come home complaining about my knee. I still feel like I could do 40 a week, but I know that's asking too much of my poor dog.

I don't care, though; I'd run less than 20 miles a week as long as I ran each and every single one of them with Rapier.


I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 48 years old. I love running at twilight again.

Rapier's gotten way too old and fat to run with me anymore. Hermione's seen to it that that dog turned in every way and shape into another Crookshanks, except of course it's a giant black lab instead of a giant cranky cat.

To Hermione's vexation, I've started running at twilight again. The kids are out having lives now, and I've needed something to fill my time. Let's face it, being Senior Auror Weasley means I sit on my arse most of the day and do paperwork. Hermione at least likes that aspect of my life.

Back in the early years after the second war ended, Death Eaters escaping the Battle of Hogwarts and Voldemort wannabes swarmed around the country as fast as refugees returned to their homes. Senior Aurors were called out for the most difficult of cases and were hailed as heroes when they prevailed.

With most of the threat of Death Eaters far behind us now, us Senior Aurors have had less and less to do. The Aurors take care of all the dangerous jobs, continually saying that they don't want to worry us Senior Aurors with dirty work unbefitting us.

I say it's all bullshit. I'm sick of being treated like an obsolete old bat. I'm in great shape, I still run three times a week, and I can do whatever those young lads can and—

Oh shit.


I'm Ron Weasley. I'm 48 years old. I've stopped running.

I've fucked up my knee. It was what Hermione had always been afraid of: me taking a misstep in the dark and twisting my knee good and proper.

It's even worse because I am alone.

I've never taken my wand on a run. I'm in pain and in the middle of the country side and it's steadily growing darker. I can't move…I'm stuck.

My only consolation is that I'm near the end of my run and thus close to the house. With any luck Hermione will come out in a few minutes, worried, and I'll be able to shout out at her.

All I have to do is wait.

Twilight is a magnificent thing to watch. Red changes to purple, purple changes to dark blue, and dark blue changes to black. The moon shines brilliantly first, and the stars follow quickly after. Thank God for a cloudless, moon-filled night. It's comforting.

Rapier's positively howling. I think he knows something's wrong. But Hermione's voice isn't calling out, so I can only assume she thinks he wants to get at a gnome in the backyard.

My foot spasms from being still for so long and a new wave of pain seizes my knee. I can only pray Hermione will figure out what's happened soon.

Watching twilight turn to night isn't a comfort anymore. The bright moon and twinkling stars are just a distraction now.

Rapier's barking has stopped but now I can hear Hermione shouting. She must have opened the door and been surprised at the speed the old lazy dog had mustered to come after me.

I can hear him coming closer; his pants are ludicrously loud in the night and the second he arrives he makes sure to get all the slobber he's accumulated during his short trip on my face.

Hermione's not far off, initially afraid for the dog rather than me. But she shows up soon enough and she levitates me home, keeping her 'I told you so' remarks to herself.

She shows extraordinary strength even now just for holding it in.


My name is Ron Weasley. I'm 50 years old. I can't run anymore.

The first few months after my accident, I had to use a cane. I got bored with that rather quickly and only use the thing to beat Rapier on the backside when his fat lazy arse is in my way.

I can't run though; not anymore. My knee can't support that kind of pressure, according to the Healers. I don't think I plan to disobey, though; I wake up every morning and have to massage my stiff joint so it won't be sore all day.

The grandkids come over more often. I think Hermione's put Hugo and Rosie up to it to try to make me feel better about my knee.

I'm quite sure that's why I married her.

She's been talking about power walking. Where I would have scoffed the idea into oblivion a few years ago, I now find myself taking a liking to the idea.

That night I dig out my old pair of trainers.


"The more restricted our society and work become, the more necessary it will be to find some outlet for this craving for freedom. No one can say, 'You must not run faster than this, or jump higher than that.'"