Author's Note: A tip of the old Sorting Hat to Chapter 5 reviewers kateydidnt, sew2100 and Occamy. Ron's big moment is at hand, so let us press on without further ado.
***
Upon his return to the Shrieking Shack, the first thing Ron did was have a lie-down on the dusty four-poster bed. The dizziness born of his journey had passed; now his mind was spinning purely from wonder.
This was not a dream, not some mad delusion (well, not a delusion at any rate; any inherent madness was a matter for conjecture).
He had gone back in time! He had confirmed this on his trek back to the Whomping Willow by the simple expedient of looking up at the night sky. Ron had not been the best student in Astronomy, but even he knew how to place simple and familiar constellations. One of his favorite pastimes as a boy had been to mark the passage of the Big Dipper across the sky. On any given night, he knew precisely where to find it. Tonight, when he looked up at the spot where he had seen it last night, it was not there. He found it, of course -- exactly where it had been one month ago!
Or, to be more precise, twenty-eight days. One moon-cycle.
Ron did some mental math as he stared up at the ceiling through the tattered rent in the sagging bed-canopy. It was now twenty-five days, less an odd number of hours, until Hermione's fateful trek to Hogsmeade. He would need at least twenty-one days to prepare the potion to specifications. Best not to hurry, he thought. Take an extra day or two, just to be sure. And, of course, he would need to test it before going forward with his plan proper.
His mind now set on his task, Ron rose from the creaking bed and swung his oversized feet down to the floor beside his school bag and cauldron. The latter he took up and set upon the bed. He extracted the potions bag and dumped its contents onto the bedspread. As expected, each ingredient was packaged in a separate pouch. He inventoried each in turn, checking the list retrieved from his school bag. His chore was delayed somewhat by his tendency to stare at each listing for long moments on end. Hermione's precise handwriting was still quite legible after three years and repeated folding and re-folding.
He was further delayed by repeated self-recriminations at neglecting so vital a step until now. Why had he not checked the ingredients immediately? Suppose something were missing or not to specifications? 'Typical,' Ron thought scathingly. 'Stupit git! If Hermione were here, she'd have plenty to say, and don't you think she wouldn't!'
Yes...if Hermione were here...
Blimey, Ron thought with a lump in his throat, what he wouldn't give to be on the receiving end of one of her tirades right now. He screwed up his face, fighting tears.
There was no time for this rot! Besides, if all went as planned, Hermione would be here to sort him out -- though, of course, he would not be here to suffer it, would he?
Well, as Ron himself had said at the end of first year, you couldn't have everything in life, could you?
When all the ingredients had (praise Merlin) been accounted for, Ron slipped out and fetched water from the lake. He now had a decision to make. Where to place the cauldron? Or, more precisely, how?
Ron stared disapprovingly at the antique night table next to the bed. The slightest pressure from his hand sent it to swaying like Hagrid drunk on mead. He considered transfiguring it into something sturdier, but his marks in Transfiguration had never been the best. Now Charms, on the other hand...
His decision made, Ron held the water-filled cauldron over the table and cast a Hovering Charm upon it. The cauldron hung some six inches above the table top, and when Ron nudged it with his hand, it did not move. Nodding his approval, he then conjured one of Hermione's patented bluebell flames beneath the cauldron. He slid his fingers between the flames and the table top. The wood remained cool. Ron grinned broadly as he retrieved the list and set about adding the ingredients.
Ron fulfilled every step with precision, checking and re-checking, measuring everything with scale or phial to the finest degree. A bitter smile slowly formed on his otherwise stony features.
'Too bad Snape can't see me,' he thought tartly. 'I'd get full marks.'
He added the lacewing flies with a slight grimace. They were the joker in the deck, as it were, needing to stew for twenty-one days. If not for this one ingredient, his task might have been facilitated by weeks. But there was nothing for it. He dropped them in resignedly, one by one, stirring them with his wand as he went.
And, he thought with a certain Socratic insight, was a month alone in the Shrieking Shack really so high a price to pay for Hermione's life? He'd gladly have given ten years!
Complete isolation was an absolute necessity, of course. He was, after all, breaking some kind of cosmic law by being in two places at once. Somwhere out there, another Ron Weasley was going through the familar paces of life at Hogwarts. Were the two of them to meet, even for a moment, the repercussions might be inestimable (even if he understood them, which he didn't). All he really knew was what Hermione had told him back then. And one single phrase kept reverberating in his brain, the words of Albus Dumbledore as repeated by Hermione: YOU -- MUST --NOT -- BE -- SEEN!
*
The first night set the pattern for those to follow. Sometime after midnight he slunk invisibly into the castle, thence to the kitchens. He'd had the foresight to include the Marauders' Map when packing his duffel; it would prove invaluable in the coming weeks. enabling him to avoid Filch (and Mrs. Norris) and anyone else who might be about.
As always, the house-elves proved only too happy to ply him with food and drink. Nevertheless, he always took enough so that he needed visit them no more than two or three times a week; surely even house-elves must get suspicious if he came every night.
Every few days he dared a late-night bath in the lake, narrowly avoiding the giant squid on more than one occasion.
Boredom was his greatest adversary. He'd considered bringing some books along, but he'd never been much of a reader. His favorite was Flying With The Cannons, but he had read it so often that he could quote it verbatim.
Sometimes, spurred by restlessness, he would go to Hogsmeade and wander about. More than once he found himself standing on the very spot where "it" had happened, and it chilled his blood even as it steeled his resolve.
On some of these trips he would find a discarded copy of The Daily Prophet or Witch Weekly, and he would repair to the Shrieking Shack and read it from first page to last. His favorites were, respectively, the comic page and the gossip section. More than once he feared his laughter could be heard clear to Hogwarts castle.
He spent many a glorious, sunny day sitting at the base of the Whomping Willow, watching people come and go, including himself (weird), Harry, and -- heartbreakingly -- Hermione. At such times he ached in his soul to throw off the Cloak and go join his friends, to laugh with them and tell them how much he loved them. Sometimes he'd hear Hermione raising her voice either to him or to Harry, and the memory of the argument brought tears to his eyes. Did he and Hermione really fight over such petty, trivial things? How he longed to rush up to her in those moments and hug her and apologize for all the stupid things he'd said and done.
More than once he seriously considered catching Harry and Hermione alone, stunning them, and hiding them in the Shrieking Shack until the fateful day was past.
But that would accomplish nothing in the long run. Karkaroff would still be out there somewhere, waiting for his chance to strike. How long could Ron keep his friends hidden before their eventual discovery? And to what end? So long as Karkaroff remained a threat, both Harry and Hermione would be in danger. And if Karkaroff struck at a time and place unknown, who could prevent him from killing either or both of them in the end?
No, this was the only way to be sure. Ron knew exactly where and when Karkaroff would strike. When it was over, Karkaroff would be in Azkaban, a danger no no one.
There was, of course, a price to be paid. Dumbledore had been clear in his assertion that the cosmic balance demanded a death. Therefore, a death it would have.
*
Ron spent much of his time sleeping, that being the best way to burn off the long, tedious hours ahead of him. The potion needed little tending now as it simmered quietly atop the magical blue flames. Ron smiled to think of all the times he'd had to get up early, of his mother screaming at him as he begged for just ten more minutes in bed. He never imagined how sick he would become of being able to sleep for as long as he wanted; three weeks of doing little else soon set him to rights.
About a week into his vigil, the pattern of sunny weather was broken by a rainstorm. Ron made good use of this inclemency to see to a very important part of his plan. Assured that the storm would mask his movements, Ron selected a window on a neutral side of the house, facing away from both Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. He extracted the nails holding the boards in place with a narrowly focussed Summoning Charm. He replaced the boards with a simple Adhesion Charm. At the proper time, he could dispense with the barricade with a simple wave of his wand. It was imperative that he have an immediate egress when the moment to act arrived. A single minute's delay might undo a month's labor.
Marking the passing days proved to be a problem at first. With all he'd remembered to bring, he'd forgotten one of the simplest and most basic: a calendar. Merlin, but Hermione would have a field day over that one! He marked off the days by tracing lines in a dusty corner of the bedroom. Not daring to sneak all the way up to his dorm in Gryffindor Tower just to fetch his bedside calendar, he instead began to note the passing of the students as they went to and from their classes. He knew, for example, which days the Gryffindors had Care of Magical Creatures, and their trek to Hagrid's cabin on those days was as certain and reassuring as the tolling of Big Ben.
In the days immediately preceding his target date, Ron put the lash to himself. He established a regular sleeping pattern until his biological clock woke him at roughly the same time every morning. He stabilized his diet, substituting healthy foods for pumpkin pasties and chocolate frogs. He did push-ups and stretching exercises, while simultaneously sharpening his wits by playing games of wizard chess in his mind. The most important moment in his life was at hand, and he needed to be at his peak when H-Hour arrived.
On the appointed day, Ron alternately checked his watch and the Marauders' Map every five minutes. Scrutinizing the Map, he watched the dots labelled "Harry Potter" and "Hermione Granger" moving across the parchment. Neither would make a move without Ron knowing of it.
The potion was long since finished. Trusting nothing to chance, he'd poured a gobletful and tested it with the aid of Hermione's hairbrush, which he'd nicked from her bedside table the same night he transported the cauldron to the Shack. The potion had worked to perfection.
Early afternoon found Ron in the shade of a tree on the outskirts of the Hogwarts grounds. The path to Hogsmeade lay mere yards away. Harry had walked past a short while agone, grumbling something unintelligible about girls in general and Hermione in particular. Ron studied the Marauders' Map, parting the Invisibility Cloak just a touch to let in a few rays of the brilliantly shining sun. It was a perfect day, in fact, making the tragedy of it the more ironic.
At last Ron spied Hermione's dot, moving across the parchment in his direction. There was no one else nearby. Satisfied, Ron folded the Map and tucked it into his robes. He waited with quiet anxiety, tugging nervously at the Cloak to assure than no smallest part of him was visible. He dared only a tiny slit through which one eye was trained on the path.
Abruptly a figure appeared from behind an obscuring bush, walking with light step, brown hair dancing in the wind.
Taking a deep breath, Ron threw off the Cloak, stuffed it clumsily into his robes, and stepped into view.
"Hermione!" he called in a low voice, just in case someone were close enough to hear. "Hermione! Over here!"
Hermione stopped and turned her head.
"Ron?" she said in surprise. "What are you doing here? I thought I left you in the common room?"
"I sneaked out," Ron said, looking this way and that. "I need to talk to you. It's important."
"But how did you get here ahead of me?" Hermione pressed, something not seeming right to her.
"I ran," Ron said with feigned calm, his eyes still nervous. "Left the path, took a short cut -- look, never mind that -- "
"Ron, Harry's waiting for me," Hermione said with a touch of impatience, checking her watch for emphasis. "I've already kept him waiting -- "
"I said, it's important!" Ron hissed. ('Bloody Hell, woman! I'm trying to save your bloody life!') "Over here, behind this tree!"
Shaking her head with an annoyed tutting sound escaping her lips, Hermione left the path and approached the tree.
"Okay, Ron, now what's -- "
Ron pointed his wand in a lightning motion and said, "Stupefy!"
Hermione's eyes rolled back in her head. Ron lunged and caught her as she fell, dropping his wand in his haste. It spat red sparks momentarily as the tip struck the ground. He tucked it hurriedly into his robes as he dragged Hermione one-handed behind the tree. He then jerked out the Invisibility Cloak and flung it over his shoulders, kneeling down thereafter and covering as much of Hermione as possible with the edge.
He was now faced with the dilemma of how to transport an unconscious Hermione to the Whomping Willow. Tall as he was, it was difficult to cover himself with the Cloak, much less someone else -- and one who needed to be hauled bodily, at that. The fireman's carry was out of the question; the Cloak would not even touch the ground. The same held for carrying her in his arms. Ron sighed. He would have to drag her all the way.
Working quicky, Ron whipped off the Cloak and threw it over Hermione. Short as she was, much loose fabric remained. Leaning down, Ron tugged the edge of the Cloak over his head and shoulders. He caught Hermione under the arms and proceeded to drag her. As most of Ron's back was exposed, he was forced to essay a sort of backward frog-squat, always keeping the facing side of the Cloak toward Hogwarts. Ron would have given a year's pocket money to be able to conjure a floating stretcher right now. But he'd need a free and exposed wand to direct it. He sighed despondently again between grunts and muttered profanities.
When at last they reached the edge of the tree, Ron collapsed, panting. Wrapping the Cloak around him, he scurried to the base of the tree and touched the knot that froze the branches into immobility. It was a simple matter then to carry Hermione to the tree and slip her down the entrance feet-first. Before following her down, Ron drew a piece of folded parchment from his robes and smoothed it out. This he attached to the trunk of the tree using an Adhesion Charm. He added a Concealment Charm that would cause the parchment to take on the same appearance as the tree bark. This he timed to a limit of one hour. If all went well, the note would reappear just about the time when the news from Hogsmeade was reaching Hogwarts.
Back in the passage, Ron conjured a stretcher and lay Hermione upon it gently. His lighted wand before him, he began the journey back to the Shrieking Shack.
His last, he reflected soberly.
*
Ron looked down at Hermione as she lay upon the bed, his hands absently smoothing out the wrinkles from her robes. He reached up to brush her hair from her face. Leaning in, he kissed her cheek as a tear ran down his face and fell onto hers unnoticed.
"Goodbye, luv," he said in a choked whisper. "Name your firstborn after me, eh? Unless it's a girl, of course." He chuckled, wiping his eyes. "Just...be happy."
Caressing her face a last time, Ron plucked a long, brown hair from her head, disdaining the hairbrush in his bag with a dash of romanticism. He rolled the strand of hair between his fingers with a dreamy expression on his face before turning toward the cauldron. Taking up his ladel, he dipped it into the unsavory-looking potion and filled his goblet. Into this he slowly immersed the long hair, stirring the liquid with his wand until this last, and most crucial, ingredient was dissolved.
Ron lifted the goblet high in a grandiose gesture. With a last look at Hermione, he straightened his shoulders and raised the cup to his lips.
Upon his return to the Shrieking Shack, the first thing Ron did was have a lie-down on the dusty four-poster bed. The dizziness born of his journey had passed; now his mind was spinning purely from wonder.
This was not a dream, not some mad delusion (well, not a delusion at any rate; any inherent madness was a matter for conjecture).
He had gone back in time! He had confirmed this on his trek back to the Whomping Willow by the simple expedient of looking up at the night sky. Ron had not been the best student in Astronomy, but even he knew how to place simple and familiar constellations. One of his favorite pastimes as a boy had been to mark the passage of the Big Dipper across the sky. On any given night, he knew precisely where to find it. Tonight, when he looked up at the spot where he had seen it last night, it was not there. He found it, of course -- exactly where it had been one month ago!
Or, to be more precise, twenty-eight days. One moon-cycle.
Ron did some mental math as he stared up at the ceiling through the tattered rent in the sagging bed-canopy. It was now twenty-five days, less an odd number of hours, until Hermione's fateful trek to Hogsmeade. He would need at least twenty-one days to prepare the potion to specifications. Best not to hurry, he thought. Take an extra day or two, just to be sure. And, of course, he would need to test it before going forward with his plan proper.
His mind now set on his task, Ron rose from the creaking bed and swung his oversized feet down to the floor beside his school bag and cauldron. The latter he took up and set upon the bed. He extracted the potions bag and dumped its contents onto the bedspread. As expected, each ingredient was packaged in a separate pouch. He inventoried each in turn, checking the list retrieved from his school bag. His chore was delayed somewhat by his tendency to stare at each listing for long moments on end. Hermione's precise handwriting was still quite legible after three years and repeated folding and re-folding.
He was further delayed by repeated self-recriminations at neglecting so vital a step until now. Why had he not checked the ingredients immediately? Suppose something were missing or not to specifications? 'Typical,' Ron thought scathingly. 'Stupit git! If Hermione were here, she'd have plenty to say, and don't you think she wouldn't!'
Yes...if Hermione were here...
Blimey, Ron thought with a lump in his throat, what he wouldn't give to be on the receiving end of one of her tirades right now. He screwed up his face, fighting tears.
There was no time for this rot! Besides, if all went as planned, Hermione would be here to sort him out -- though, of course, he would not be here to suffer it, would he?
Well, as Ron himself had said at the end of first year, you couldn't have everything in life, could you?
When all the ingredients had (praise Merlin) been accounted for, Ron slipped out and fetched water from the lake. He now had a decision to make. Where to place the cauldron? Or, more precisely, how?
Ron stared disapprovingly at the antique night table next to the bed. The slightest pressure from his hand sent it to swaying like Hagrid drunk on mead. He considered transfiguring it into something sturdier, but his marks in Transfiguration had never been the best. Now Charms, on the other hand...
His decision made, Ron held the water-filled cauldron over the table and cast a Hovering Charm upon it. The cauldron hung some six inches above the table top, and when Ron nudged it with his hand, it did not move. Nodding his approval, he then conjured one of Hermione's patented bluebell flames beneath the cauldron. He slid his fingers between the flames and the table top. The wood remained cool. Ron grinned broadly as he retrieved the list and set about adding the ingredients.
Ron fulfilled every step with precision, checking and re-checking, measuring everything with scale or phial to the finest degree. A bitter smile slowly formed on his otherwise stony features.
'Too bad Snape can't see me,' he thought tartly. 'I'd get full marks.'
He added the lacewing flies with a slight grimace. They were the joker in the deck, as it were, needing to stew for twenty-one days. If not for this one ingredient, his task might have been facilitated by weeks. But there was nothing for it. He dropped them in resignedly, one by one, stirring them with his wand as he went.
And, he thought with a certain Socratic insight, was a month alone in the Shrieking Shack really so high a price to pay for Hermione's life? He'd gladly have given ten years!
Complete isolation was an absolute necessity, of course. He was, after all, breaking some kind of cosmic law by being in two places at once. Somwhere out there, another Ron Weasley was going through the familar paces of life at Hogwarts. Were the two of them to meet, even for a moment, the repercussions might be inestimable (even if he understood them, which he didn't). All he really knew was what Hermione had told him back then. And one single phrase kept reverberating in his brain, the words of Albus Dumbledore as repeated by Hermione: YOU -- MUST --NOT -- BE -- SEEN!
The first night set the pattern for those to follow. Sometime after midnight he slunk invisibly into the castle, thence to the kitchens. He'd had the foresight to include the Marauders' Map when packing his duffel; it would prove invaluable in the coming weeks. enabling him to avoid Filch (and Mrs. Norris) and anyone else who might be about.
As always, the house-elves proved only too happy to ply him with food and drink. Nevertheless, he always took enough so that he needed visit them no more than two or three times a week; surely even house-elves must get suspicious if he came every night.
Every few days he dared a late-night bath in the lake, narrowly avoiding the giant squid on more than one occasion.
Boredom was his greatest adversary. He'd considered bringing some books along, but he'd never been much of a reader. His favorite was Flying With The Cannons, but he had read it so often that he could quote it verbatim.
Sometimes, spurred by restlessness, he would go to Hogsmeade and wander about. More than once he found himself standing on the very spot where "it" had happened, and it chilled his blood even as it steeled his resolve.
On some of these trips he would find a discarded copy of The Daily Prophet or Witch Weekly, and he would repair to the Shrieking Shack and read it from first page to last. His favorites were, respectively, the comic page and the gossip section. More than once he feared his laughter could be heard clear to Hogwarts castle.
He spent many a glorious, sunny day sitting at the base of the Whomping Willow, watching people come and go, including himself (weird), Harry, and -- heartbreakingly -- Hermione. At such times he ached in his soul to throw off the Cloak and go join his friends, to laugh with them and tell them how much he loved them. Sometimes he'd hear Hermione raising her voice either to him or to Harry, and the memory of the argument brought tears to his eyes. Did he and Hermione really fight over such petty, trivial things? How he longed to rush up to her in those moments and hug her and apologize for all the stupid things he'd said and done.
More than once he seriously considered catching Harry and Hermione alone, stunning them, and hiding them in the Shrieking Shack until the fateful day was past.
But that would accomplish nothing in the long run. Karkaroff would still be out there somewhere, waiting for his chance to strike. How long could Ron keep his friends hidden before their eventual discovery? And to what end? So long as Karkaroff remained a threat, both Harry and Hermione would be in danger. And if Karkaroff struck at a time and place unknown, who could prevent him from killing either or both of them in the end?
No, this was the only way to be sure. Ron knew exactly where and when Karkaroff would strike. When it was over, Karkaroff would be in Azkaban, a danger no no one.
There was, of course, a price to be paid. Dumbledore had been clear in his assertion that the cosmic balance demanded a death. Therefore, a death it would have.
Ron spent much of his time sleeping, that being the best way to burn off the long, tedious hours ahead of him. The potion needed little tending now as it simmered quietly atop the magical blue flames. Ron smiled to think of all the times he'd had to get up early, of his mother screaming at him as he begged for just ten more minutes in bed. He never imagined how sick he would become of being able to sleep for as long as he wanted; three weeks of doing little else soon set him to rights.
About a week into his vigil, the pattern of sunny weather was broken by a rainstorm. Ron made good use of this inclemency to see to a very important part of his plan. Assured that the storm would mask his movements, Ron selected a window on a neutral side of the house, facing away from both Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. He extracted the nails holding the boards in place with a narrowly focussed Summoning Charm. He replaced the boards with a simple Adhesion Charm. At the proper time, he could dispense with the barricade with a simple wave of his wand. It was imperative that he have an immediate egress when the moment to act arrived. A single minute's delay might undo a month's labor.
Marking the passing days proved to be a problem at first. With all he'd remembered to bring, he'd forgotten one of the simplest and most basic: a calendar. Merlin, but Hermione would have a field day over that one! He marked off the days by tracing lines in a dusty corner of the bedroom. Not daring to sneak all the way up to his dorm in Gryffindor Tower just to fetch his bedside calendar, he instead began to note the passing of the students as they went to and from their classes. He knew, for example, which days the Gryffindors had Care of Magical Creatures, and their trek to Hagrid's cabin on those days was as certain and reassuring as the tolling of Big Ben.
In the days immediately preceding his target date, Ron put the lash to himself. He established a regular sleeping pattern until his biological clock woke him at roughly the same time every morning. He stabilized his diet, substituting healthy foods for pumpkin pasties and chocolate frogs. He did push-ups and stretching exercises, while simultaneously sharpening his wits by playing games of wizard chess in his mind. The most important moment in his life was at hand, and he needed to be at his peak when H-Hour arrived.
On the appointed day, Ron alternately checked his watch and the Marauders' Map every five minutes. Scrutinizing the Map, he watched the dots labelled "Harry Potter" and "Hermione Granger" moving across the parchment. Neither would make a move without Ron knowing of it.
The potion was long since finished. Trusting nothing to chance, he'd poured a gobletful and tested it with the aid of Hermione's hairbrush, which he'd nicked from her bedside table the same night he transported the cauldron to the Shack. The potion had worked to perfection.
Early afternoon found Ron in the shade of a tree on the outskirts of the Hogwarts grounds. The path to Hogsmeade lay mere yards away. Harry had walked past a short while agone, grumbling something unintelligible about girls in general and Hermione in particular. Ron studied the Marauders' Map, parting the Invisibility Cloak just a touch to let in a few rays of the brilliantly shining sun. It was a perfect day, in fact, making the tragedy of it the more ironic.
At last Ron spied Hermione's dot, moving across the parchment in his direction. There was no one else nearby. Satisfied, Ron folded the Map and tucked it into his robes. He waited with quiet anxiety, tugging nervously at the Cloak to assure than no smallest part of him was visible. He dared only a tiny slit through which one eye was trained on the path.
Abruptly a figure appeared from behind an obscuring bush, walking with light step, brown hair dancing in the wind.
Taking a deep breath, Ron threw off the Cloak, stuffed it clumsily into his robes, and stepped into view.
"Hermione!" he called in a low voice, just in case someone were close enough to hear. "Hermione! Over here!"
Hermione stopped and turned her head.
"Ron?" she said in surprise. "What are you doing here? I thought I left you in the common room?"
"I sneaked out," Ron said, looking this way and that. "I need to talk to you. It's important."
"But how did you get here ahead of me?" Hermione pressed, something not seeming right to her.
"I ran," Ron said with feigned calm, his eyes still nervous. "Left the path, took a short cut -- look, never mind that -- "
"Ron, Harry's waiting for me," Hermione said with a touch of impatience, checking her watch for emphasis. "I've already kept him waiting -- "
"I said, it's important!" Ron hissed. ('Bloody Hell, woman! I'm trying to save your bloody life!') "Over here, behind this tree!"
Shaking her head with an annoyed tutting sound escaping her lips, Hermione left the path and approached the tree.
"Okay, Ron, now what's -- "
Ron pointed his wand in a lightning motion and said, "Stupefy!"
Hermione's eyes rolled back in her head. Ron lunged and caught her as she fell, dropping his wand in his haste. It spat red sparks momentarily as the tip struck the ground. He tucked it hurriedly into his robes as he dragged Hermione one-handed behind the tree. He then jerked out the Invisibility Cloak and flung it over his shoulders, kneeling down thereafter and covering as much of Hermione as possible with the edge.
He was now faced with the dilemma of how to transport an unconscious Hermione to the Whomping Willow. Tall as he was, it was difficult to cover himself with the Cloak, much less someone else -- and one who needed to be hauled bodily, at that. The fireman's carry was out of the question; the Cloak would not even touch the ground. The same held for carrying her in his arms. Ron sighed. He would have to drag her all the way.
Working quicky, Ron whipped off the Cloak and threw it over Hermione. Short as she was, much loose fabric remained. Leaning down, Ron tugged the edge of the Cloak over his head and shoulders. He caught Hermione under the arms and proceeded to drag her. As most of Ron's back was exposed, he was forced to essay a sort of backward frog-squat, always keeping the facing side of the Cloak toward Hogwarts. Ron would have given a year's pocket money to be able to conjure a floating stretcher right now. But he'd need a free and exposed wand to direct it. He sighed despondently again between grunts and muttered profanities.
When at last they reached the edge of the tree, Ron collapsed, panting. Wrapping the Cloak around him, he scurried to the base of the tree and touched the knot that froze the branches into immobility. It was a simple matter then to carry Hermione to the tree and slip her down the entrance feet-first. Before following her down, Ron drew a piece of folded parchment from his robes and smoothed it out. This he attached to the trunk of the tree using an Adhesion Charm. He added a Concealment Charm that would cause the parchment to take on the same appearance as the tree bark. This he timed to a limit of one hour. If all went well, the note would reappear just about the time when the news from Hogsmeade was reaching Hogwarts.
Back in the passage, Ron conjured a stretcher and lay Hermione upon it gently. His lighted wand before him, he began the journey back to the Shrieking Shack.
His last, he reflected soberly.
Ron looked down at Hermione as she lay upon the bed, his hands absently smoothing out the wrinkles from her robes. He reached up to brush her hair from her face. Leaning in, he kissed her cheek as a tear ran down his face and fell onto hers unnoticed.
"Goodbye, luv," he said in a choked whisper. "Name your firstborn after me, eh? Unless it's a girl, of course." He chuckled, wiping his eyes. "Just...be happy."
Caressing her face a last time, Ron plucked a long, brown hair from her head, disdaining the hairbrush in his bag with a dash of romanticism. He rolled the strand of hair between his fingers with a dreamy expression on his face before turning toward the cauldron. Taking up his ladel, he dipped it into the unsavory-looking potion and filled his goblet. Into this he slowly immersed the long hair, stirring the liquid with his wand until this last, and most crucial, ingredient was dissolved.
Ron lifted the goblet high in a grandiose gesture. With a last look at Hermione, he straightened his shoulders and raised the cup to his lips.