So very sorry for the long wait; I won't keep you long from the reading, so no overly-long introduction this time. I have several chapters that are nearly ready for publishing, so hang tight. More is on the way.

Cheers,

Chapter Thirty-Three: Hand-Me-Downs

There was no denying it anymore, he thought to himself as he stood on the mound of mixed sand, dirt, gravel, and sparse shoots of grass overlooking the beach. He closed his eyes as the morning sun blazed over him, warming his face amid the brittle bite that lingered in the winter air. High tide had come already, leaving smooth beach in its wake. Had he visited during happier times, he would have enjoyed the view and the calming roll of the waves.

Behind him, Shell Cottage waited, as did Fleur and Bill. They had welcomed him into their home graciously. The welcome was short, however, as they soon launched a barrage of questions at him: where were Harry and Hermione? Why hadn't they come? Why was he—Ron—alone? Ron told them nothing, of course. The interview had been uncomfortable. Ron affirmed over and again that the trio had simply been separated and that he would search them out later that morning. But by the time Ron had returned to the campsite, he'd found it empty. He waited hours for them to return, telling himself over and over again that they had simply gone to get food, or that Hermione had simply added more charms and protections to the tent and that was why he couldn't see it anymore. As darkness fell that night, Ron called out to them, but no one came for him. Harry and Hermione had gone on without him.

The search continued; each morning after breakfast, Ron would depart from Shell Cottage, checking anywhere he thought Harry and Hermione would have gone, returning each night around supper time, empty handed and without cause for a joyous celebration. It was near Christmas when Bill had suggested reaching out to the Order for help, but instead, Ron pleaded with Bill not to tell anyone he had been staying at the cottage. Bill had been uneasy with the request—Ron knew he would be, but he saw little choice in it. It was the worst Christmas he could ever remember.

He opened his eyes and watched the waves roll and collapse on the beach again. Several weeks had passed since his arrival at Shell Cottage and he had failed miserably in locating his abandoned friends. To make matters worse, Bill had informed him over breakfast that enough was enough, and that their father would be arriving later that morning to sort things out.

Ron swallowed hard.

He knew it was hopeless. He had brainstormed a hundred different scenarios to tell his father—anything that might ease the great pangs of guilt that stabbed at his gut. Unfortunately, the one thing that might make his father remotely sympathetic to his plight was the one thing he could discuss with no one; Horcuxes. He swallowed the uncomfortable truth: it wasn't the fact that the locket Horcrux had brought out the worst in him that caused such shameful pangs in his stomach to writhe and twist; no, what bothered him—tormented him—was that he had feelings and thoughts the Horcrux could latch onto in the first place. Ron knew he wasn't perfect—neither were Harry or Hermione. But now, standing on the beach without any idea if his friends were safe, he knew he was far more selfish than either of his two best friends. That was to no fault of the Horcrux.

Amid another slosh of waves, there was a faint but distinct pop near the cottage. Ron looked over his shoulder and saw his father standing at the door, wrapped in his heavily patched traveling cloak with a hand extended and shaped into a fist. Ron listened to the echo of the fast-paced knocking and swallowed again. He knew he could save his father and brother time if he simply called out, but found his throat had tightened uncomfortably and his mouth had dried despite the moist, salty air. Ron watched as Bill answered the door, shook his head and mouthed a few words, shrugged, then, finally point to the grassy mound where Ron stood petrifyingly still, waiting for the confrontation.

Ron did not watch his father's approach. He turned his eyes to the rolling waves once more, determined to focus on them as he had never focused on his school lessons—much less anything else—wishing he had learned to apply this kind of discipline to anything other than Quidditch.

Mr. Weasley ascended the hill and stood side-by-side with Ron, his eyes on the sea and without a greeting to his youngest son. The silence stretched over several waves. Finally, Ron chanced a look from the corner of his eye and was surprised at what he saw. Mr. Weasely did not look angry. On the contrary, Ron had never seen him so…pained. His face was held slightly down, his eyes—usually sharp and focused—were weary and…watery, and the faintest frown lined his lips. Ron would have preferred his father to yell. Several more waves approached and dispersed along the shore.

After considerable time, Mr. Weasley folded his hands together behind his back and started to rock on his heels of his boots, his eyes yet seaward. Then, at last, Mr. Weasley broke the silence.

"Bill tells me you were separated from Harry and Hermione. Says you've been gone from breakfast 'til supper time every day since you first arrived, searching for them. That true?"

Ron only nodded; he didn't trust his ability to speak.

"Where were you last, before you were separated," his father asked, still rocking on his heels.

"Forest," said Ron, finally getting a word to escape his constricted throat. "Hermione," he said, with a small wince he hoped his father didn't see, "put up all sorts of protections and enchantments, but they're not there anymore." Ron swallowed a third time. His palms were sweaty.

"How long have you been separated?"

"Early Novemeber."

"I see," said Mr. Weasley. "And you've been here ever since?"

"Yeah."

"But you didn't come home."

"I was trying to find Harry and Hermione," answered Ron, his voice growing weaker by the word.

"Naturally, but as you've returned every night, you could have come home for Christmas Supper." said Mr. Weasley, his eyes yet to waver from the ocean. Another slosh of waves dispersed along the beach. "Bill and Fleur did. Fred and George were there too. Even Charlie managed to come home." Mr. Weasley sighed and finally tore his eyes from the water and turned to his youngest son. Ron couldn't meet his father's gaze.

"There were four empty chairs at the table this year," he said, his voice no longer masking the hurt. "Percy's was empty. Harry's was empty. Hermione's was empty. And so was yours."

"Sorry."

It was all Ron could manage; the only word that would escape his constricted throat, his dried mouth, and his twisting stomach.

"Sorry," Mr. Weasley repeated. "Powerful word—sorry." Ron braced himself, ready for the telling off he knew he deserved. Another set of waves tumbled to shore.

"Sorry," said Mr. Weasley again, a bit more forceful. Ron saw his father's eyes narrow. "What are you sorry for, exactly?"

"I…"

"Bill told me you won't tell him anything—understandable, I suppose, given the nature of what you three are up to—but I can't help but think there is more to this story than simply being separated, am I right?"

"Dad…"

But Ron could say nothing further as he felt his stomach constrict and drop into his bowels. He swallowed hard for a fourth time, willing words—any words at all—to spew forth. But words had failed him completely now. Only silence escaped his slightly agape mouth and still tongue.

"I thought so," answered Mr. Weasley with a sigh. Again, just when Ron had thought his father might turn red and demand an accounting, he only looked more disappointed. Mr. Weasley had stopped rocking on his heels. He now stood very rigid and gripped his hands tightly behind his back and waited expectantly.

"We had a fight," said Ron, finally, saying the words in a single, rushed breath.

Mr. Weasley said nothing, careful not to interrupt.

"We were having a rough go of it for a while," he said, wanting desperately for the conversation to end. "What food we did have was nothing like mum's, mostly mushrooms, fish, things like that. And Hermione did her best, I suppose, but she's not very good at food. The weather was miserable too—lots of cold, rainy days. The tent was alright, but cold breezes always managed to seep through." He paused, thinking carefully so as to not mention Horcruxes. He decided on the truth.

"One night it was too much," he said. "We hadn't really made any progress since the ministry. Then, Harry and Hermione discovered we needed something—something that would be nearly impossible to get our hands on—something that, without it, would make the whole mission a failure. I…"

Mr. Weasley watched his son slip into silence.

"You decided you'd had enough, is that it," offered Mr. Weasley.

Ron nodded shamefully.

"Yeah, we overheard a couple goblins, some bloke named Dirk, Ted Tonks, and Dean Thomas—they were on the run—heard them mention Ginny and our other friends had gotten into trouble at Hogwarts. Anyway, they mentioned Snape had caught them trying to break into his office and punished them. They said…last thing the Weasley's need is another kid injured…I just, snapped. Told Harry he didn't understand…because he didn't have a family…"

Ron wished he hadn't said anything then. Until now, his father—despite his disappointment showing clearly—appeared receptive, open, and willing to understand. But as Ron's last words escaped his lips, Mr. Weasley's face had soured and looked quite ill.

"Of all the thoughtless, selfish things you could say, Ronald Weasley—that is the most self-serving of them all!"

"I…"

"I told you, did I not, that if you couldn't set aside your jealously—your self-indulged perspective of his imagined, privileged life—that you would be better served to remain behind?"

Ron could say nothing. His shame and guilt boiled hot within his stomach.

"What else happened?"

"Told him he didn't care about the family," he said, his voice dropping lower still. "Hermione stepped in at that point—told me I was over-reacting to things—told me people would already know about Bill's scarring and George's ear, and me being sick at home. Told her she didn't understand either—her parents were safe in Australia…"

Mr. Weasley closed his eyes and curled his hands into fists for a brief moment. He was angry, Ron could see that. But then tears began to leak from beneath his father's closed eyelids and Ron knew then, more than anything, that his father was more than angry, because he had seen it once before when Percy had abandoned the family. Before Ron could even stop himself, words began pouring from his mouth, words he hadn't planned.

"Dad, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he said, finding his eyes wet with his own tears. "I messed up, I know it. After it all happened, I left. Hermione stayed. And now I have no idea where they are."

"Sometimes sorry isn't enough, Ron," said Mr. Weasley, his eyes opening and closing several times to wash away the tears. His eyes fell upon a small boulder nearby and sat on it, his hands falling loosely onto his knees.

"You always wanted what your brothers had," said Mr. Weasley, after a few moments. "Then— later—when it was handed down to you, it was no longer what you desired. Rather than cherish and appreciate what had been given, you readily discarded or regarded with disdain, your eyes lingering on the next thing your brothers had.

"Your mother always knitted you jumpers, sweaters, socks—things that took time to make. I know you think she did those things because we were not particularly wealth—and it certainly helped our finances at the time—but you would be wrong to think that's why she did it; she did it because she loved her boys.

"You've never went without," continued Mr. Weasley. "You've always had a roof over your head, plenty of food to eat, but most of all, you've always had siblings and parents that loved you. What did Harry have?"

Ron didn't answer. He wanted to say Harry had a lot of things he didn't—which was true—but he knew this would not be the answer his father would want to hear. And if Ron was honest with himself, he didn't like his answer any more than his father would.

"Do you know why your mother decided to give Harry Fabian's watch for his seventeenth birthday, Ron?"

Ron shook his head. It had been a surprise. He knew his mother considered the watch a priceless heirloom. His mother did not often talk about Fabian, or Gideon. Ron knew of course, that they had been in the original Order of the Phoenix, and had died fighting several Death Eaters.

"Perhaps it would be best to explain why none in the family got it," said Mr. Weasley thinking more. "Your mum considered giving it to Bill on his seventeenth; he earned twelve Outstanding marks on his O. W. Ls , Prefect, and then Head Boy. He pursued a dangerous career—curse breaking, as you know—very demanding profession. But Bill was a bit careless—reckless even. No, your mother thought it wasn't quite right. He got a new watch instead. Still has it too!

"Charlie was even more reckless than Bill. Didn't do quite as well as Bill had academically, but he was bright, with his own set of accomplishments; Prefect, Quidditch Captain, and a profound talent with magical creatures. It's no wonder dragons were so captivating for him. We got him a new watch too.

"Percy very much followed in Bill's footsteps—twelve O. W. Ls , Prefect, Head Boy, top marks in his N. E. W. Ts , his attention set upon entering the Ministry. But Percy was…selfish. He, like you, hated the…status of our family—"

"—I don't hate our status—"

"Perhaps not as much as Percy did, but you were never satisfied either," Mr. Weasly cut in. "Anyway, the point is, we got him a new watch. He validated your mother's instinctive decision after You-Know-Who returned to his body.

"Then along came Fred and George—and in the most peculiar ways, they were like Gideon and Fabian. Academic success simply held no sway over them, but that by no means disqualified them as intelligent. Like Fabian, Fred and George were care-free, not care-less. They enjoyed life. They did not complain about the state of their robes, or the second-hand books. Instead, they looked toward the future and decided to make their own path. But we couldn't give one a new watch and the other Fabians. They received new watches as well. And it the right thing, your mum concluded. There was still something they were missing.

"I'm proud of all my children, Ron," said Mr. Weasley, letting out a long breath. "Each has made me prouder than I can ever express. Bill has found a woman as good as any a man could hope to marry and gives without much thought to his own. Charlie is wild at heart, but there are few cut out to tame and manage dragons. Percy, misguided and wandering blindly, has moved through the ministry with relative ease, even before the corruption and return of You-Know-Who. Fred and George own a successful business and they share their gift of making laughter, even in times as dark as these. Ginny is fierce, competitive, and has all the best qualities of your mother. I've been disappointed with all my children at one time or another, but I've never been more proud of them either." He reached out and took Ron by the shoulders and gripped him firmly. "And I'm proud of you too."

Ron looked up disbelievingly into his father's eyes.

"But I—"

"—Messed up, yes," said Mr. Weasley. "Splendidly, even."

"But why are you—"

"—Proud of you," asked Mr. Weasley? "Because you went through a trapdoor to help keep the Sorcerer's Stone from You-Know-Who. I'm proud of you because you were willing to brave the bowels of Hogwarts to save your sister. I'm proud of you because you followed a friend to uncertain, unknowable danger in the hopes of saving the only semblance of family he knew. I'm extraordinarily proud of you. None of your brothers have done such a thing as that."

"But you gave me a new watch," said Ron, more to himself than his father.

"Mr. Weasley smiled.

"Yes…we bought you a new watch…after all, you've never been fond of old, worn, dented hand-me-downs."

Ron had never felt so sick in his life. The words washed over him as though he had stood in the cold ocean waves.

"Mum never talks about them," said Ron, finally.

"Their deaths were hard on your mum," said Mr .Weasley.

"So why did Harry get it," asked Ron. "Mum never let any of us touch it. Even when we cleaned the shelves, she always took care of that one."

"I think you already know the answer, Ron," said Mr. Weasley simply, getting up off the boulder. He took a few steps down the sandy hill, making his way back toward Shell Cottage. Then, for a moment, he paused, looked over his shoulder and said, "if you don't know it, then you don't know Harry as well as you think you do."