Title: Encounter

Rating: PG

Summary: A short conversation and deep thoughts at number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Pre-OotP. Ron's POV.

Disclaimer: All hail J.K. Rowling, who created these characters and this world! I'm borrowing them to my own amusement, and I don't make any money of it.

A/N: Thank you again, Edana Blue.

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"Ron?"

He stands in front of a window. The light of the candle shimmers in his hair, separating him from the shadows of the room. One of his hands is holding a rough curtain away. The other fist is clenched, knuckles are white and blue veins are clear against his freckled skin. He never tans, he just gets more and more freckles until he looks like he has caught some colour under the burning sun. A mere illusion.

"Yes?"

His voice is soft. He knows the curtain is grey, even though he can't see it now. It's too dark at this time of the evening. He has been in this little room for weeks now, and could easily tell how many knots there are on the wallboards. Forty-six on the roof. He knows that the bedclothes are grey, too, and that the beds and the tables are the same dark brown colour. Everything is dark.

"Do you think Harry hates us?"

He can't lie to her. He has written letters to him over the summer and knows how difficult such a simple task can be. He wants to tell everything but can tell nothing. The letters are so short, so trivial that sometimes he ponders if he should write at all. He would like to shout to them, to say  "Fuck the rules, he has every right to know what's going on!". But he can't, none of them can. And he understands. He doesn't like it, but he understands because he has to. No time to be a child anymore.

"I don't know, Hermione."

He stares off into space. For the first time in his life he knows what it is to be a mortal, to be vulnerable. His family isn't whole anymore, not like it used to be. One of his brothers is gone. Not dead, yet, but gone to search for something they couldn't give him anymore. Maybe they never could. A dream, a vision, something which he believes in from the bottom of his heart, his very soul. A possibility for a change.

"He has all the right to do so."

He touches the window. Now he knows what is real darkness. Not the fear of being killed, nor the embarrassing fear of spiders. Darkness isn't Him, as much as He would like to think so. No, darkness is more devious, more subtle. Like a silent knife in the middle of the night. It's the way his father's face stones every time his brother is mentioned. It's the way his sister cries on his shoulder after one of her endless nightmares. It's the way his heart aches every time his friend is on one of his heroic quests. Sometimes hope is all there is left.

"I know..."

He sighs and turns to look at her. Patience has never been one of his virtues, and he's ready to be the first one to admit it. To him, patience is something you have time to gather when you're old and wrinkled. But now he's learning. It takes patience to wait the news. How was it this time? Did anyone die? He doesn't know anything unless his parents decide to tell him. He waits patiently, because there is nothing else he can do. The board is set.

"…but I hope he doesn't."

It's raining.