A/N: I thought that perhaps I should make everyone aware that this is not going to be a lighthearted story. That doesn't mean it's going to be a tragedy, but it will be a strong drama with some difficult moments for Ron, our Hero. That being said, I'm very, very pleased with this chapter – it's one of the strongest I've ever written, I think. It is so satisfying to read your work through again and realize that you got it right!

starsmiles: Thank you! You seem to have a sunny disposition, so I hope this chapter doesn't get you down.

J Black: Hee! Thank you very much! I know this was a really fast update but the next one will take longer because I won't have much time to work on the story for a few days.

krysalys73: Crap and blast! You write the best reviews! Oddly enough, I think there are some people out there who aren't big fans of Ron. I don't understand it, but it's certainly allowed.

Reviewer: Oooh, someone else who reads my other stories! That picks me right up. Never fear – I haven't given up on Dark Uprising but this plot (plot bunnies, I think people call them?) popped into my head and wouldn't go away. I most certainly plan to carry all my stories out to the end. Oh, and you're absolutely right about the time-turner, but Ron's not as clever as you are. His world's about to change pretty drastically, so I think we can forgive him.

crissa: Thank you!

kungzoune: Ron's definitely going to get his chance to be brave here.

Seraphim: Aha! Another closet reader of Dark Uprising. :-) I don't review absolutely everything I read, either. Anyway, like I told Reviewer, that story is still very much alive, too.

Chapter Two: A Broken World

The impact with the ground never came. Ron's entire body felt as if it were rushing forward through empty air. Colors around him blurred until he saw nothing but streaks. His fist was tangled in the Death Eater's robes; the fabric was tightly woven and smooth. Ron clung to the other man for dear life as the wind rushed by until there was a great tug on the Death Eater and he was ripped away. Ron grabbed for him but his hand closed on nothing. He was alone in the rush of color. He wanted to shout his panic but his lungs refused to take in air.

The color grayed out, the wind stopped, and an instant later Ron felt a sharp pain in his shoulder as he finally collided with the ground. It had been a screeching halt; nausea washed over him and he was forced to close his eyes. The ground beneath his hand was cold and gritty, quite unlike the soft grass at the Burrow. Ron lay there, panting, and let his head fall to the ground. His heart was pounding in his ears.

When the sick feeling in Ron's stomach had ebbed away he swallowed a few times and opened his eyes. Spots danced before him and he blinked to clear them away. Ron sat up, feeling something slide down his face as he did so. He put out his hand to catch some of the particles. Peering down into his open palm he saw what looked like sand pooled there with little shiny bits mixed in. Ron prodded the sand with one finger and uncovered a long shard of glass. "What –" he said in confusion, and looked up for the first time.

Ron's heart skipped a beat. Wherever he was, it wasn't the Burrow. He was sitting next to a ruined building that looked as if it had been destroyed some time ago. All that was left of it was the framework, but it was enough for Ron to be able to make out the outlines of the rooms that the building had once held. The wooden beams were charred black. It burned down, thought Ron's still-sluggish brain. He looked at the ground around him and saw that it was plain dirt, brown and gray, and very dry. It didn't look like the kind of soil that plants could ever grow in. Looking beyond the house told Ron that trees had once grown here; many of them were still standing, but like the building, they had been burned. Their black, leafless trunks and branches stood out starkly against an iron-gray sky.

Ron stood up, not wanting to sit on that gritty, dusty ground any more. Besides, he'd never find his way back home by sitting around. Upon rising Ron noticed that garbage was strewn all about the ground, and he slowly shuffled over to the nearest bit of trash to investigate. It was a piece of wood, curved and smooth. At first Ron couldn't imagine what it was, but then he looked a little further along the ground and saw what was unmistakably the back of a chair. The curved bit of wood was one of its legs.

Cold dread washed over Ron as he surveyed the devastation around him. It wasn't garbage on the ground – it was the contents of the destroyed building which, by the looks of things, had once been a house. He walked forward cautiously, looking at the items that lay all around him. A few spoons lay half-covered by the grayish earth. Articles of dusty, rotting clothing were intermixed with frying pans, smashed picture frames, knitting needles, a doll with a broken head, and plenty of splintered wood.

There was no wind, no birds, nothing to break the absolute silence that blanketed the land. Ron had the unpleasant feeling that he was defiling the place just by being there... and yet he felt himself strangely drawn to the ruined foundation of the house. There were three charred beams, still standing upright, that had clearly been a doorframe. Ron's feet carried him toward the beams almost as if of their own accord. For a moment he gazed nervously up at the blackened doorway, then drew a deep breath and stepped through.

Broken glass and burned wood grated and snapped beneath his feet. Ron gripped his wand tightly in one hand as he slowly walked forward. Who had lived here, he wondered? Why had their home been destroyed? The scattered possessions outside the house made it clear that the place had been ransacked. The scorched earth and trees made Ron suspect that the land had been completely razed. Had someone died here? The place certainly felt tomblike enough...

Ron saw something out of the corner of his eye and turned to look. Whatever it was, it was half-buried in soot and ash. Ron cautiously approached, placing his feet just so, trying to avoid the chunks of timber and roofing that littered the floor. He bent over, peering at a dusty, circular object. A dinner plate, perhaps? He stretched out a hand, pulled the object out of the rubble, and began rubbing away years of grime to get a better look.

Ron's blood froze in his veins as he stared at the thing in his hands. It was indeed the size of a dinner plate, but it was perfectly flat. Words and phrases were written around the edges – things like "School", "Home", "Work", and "You're Late". And in the middle were many hands, all with names painted on them. "Charlie", "Arthur", "Ginny", "Ron"...

It was as if the shadows had suddenly been lifted from Ron's eyes. Over there – that lump was the kitchen table. The chair back outside was from one of the chairs that went with it. The broken doll – that was Ginny's; it had been her favorite when she was little. He knew the patterns on the handles of those spoons in the yard; he'd been eating with them his whole life. Over there in that corner, faded and torn, was a large scrap of paper with the word "Chudley" on it...

A strange noise escaped from Ron's throat, one that he had never made before. His heart was racing; sickness and horror welled up inside him as he looked back at the clock face and saw that while some of the hands were aligned with "Traveling", most of them pointed straight to "Mortal Peril". Tears stung his eyes and a bitter taste filled his mouth. He had to get out of there – he was going to be sick –

Ron hurtled back toward the burned doorway. The walls of the Burrow were completely gone; it wasn't as if he was closed in, but it didn't seem to matter. He had to get out of the house.

Ron burst through the doorway and ran ten more feet before stumbling over the arm of the shattered living room sofa. He tumbled onto the ground, feeling the contents of his stomach roiling mercilessly. He dropped his wand and the clock face and bent double, retching until it seemed that he had dispensed of breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Ron looked up, chest heaving, and saw a sweater lying nearby. He crawled away from the mess behind him and over to the shirt. With shaking hands he turned it over and found a large "F" knitted onto the front.

Ron couldn't stop the full-throated wail that burst from his lips. He seized the sweater and clutched it to his chest, not caring that it reeked of decay. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks as he held onto the sweater as if it were a lifeline. What had happened?

----------

Something was tickling Ron's face. Drowsily he raised one hand to swipe at his cheek. He was in the middle of a strange dream; it wasn't time to wake up yet. He was dreaming that something horrible had happened to the Burrow. The house was destroyed and everyone was gone, and he had no idea of what to do about it.

Ron felt the offending object brush over his cheek again. Irritably he swiped at his cheek once more, felt nothing, and began to roll over to snuggle into his pillow.

His bed was unbelievably hard. It was lumpy, too, and his pillow smelled moldy.

Ron's eyes flew open and his throat constricted. With a sinking heart he realized that it was no dream; the charred remains of his family's house lay not twenty feet away. He had fallen asleep on Fred's old sweater and spent the entire night on the ground.

Ron sat up with a groan, his muscles complaining after lying so long on such an unforgiving surface. The morning air was cool, making him shiver. Ron didn't know why he hadn't awoken in the middle of the night with a chill, but he was glad he hadn't. Waking in the darkness next to the ruins of his house would have been terrifying; doing it in the daylight was bad enough.

A slight breeze was blowing, kicking up eddies of dust on the parched ground. When Ron brushed his cheek with one hand his fingers came away gray, and he realized that it was the dust that had finally awoken him. He shook his head and a light shower of dirt fell from his hair. He felt filthy and realized that he must look it, too.

A loud grumble suddenly sounded from Ron's stomach, awakening him to the fact that he was famished. He had eaten as much as he could hold at Harry's birthday party, but many hours had passed since then. There was nothing to eat here; if anyone had escaped the destruction of the Burrow – don't think about that! thought Ron – they had done it a long time ago. Ron didn't understand this at all. Something had happened when he'd tackled the Death Eater, but he didn't know what. Was he in a parallel universe of some sort? What had happened to the Death Eater, anyway? He and Ron had been moving forward through that color and wind together, but they'd gotten separated at some point.

That's neither here nor there, thought Ron. You need to get some food and then you can figure out what's happened. But where exactly was he to go?

Hogwarts was the first place that came to mind, but Ron immediately dismissed it. True, it was one of the safest places in the wizarding world, but he wasn't in the normal wizarding world anymore, and he didn't know how to find Hogwarts anyway. He'd only ever gotten to it by taking the train which left from Kings Cross in London at a specific time on a specific day –

London The name was a revelation. He could go to London! That was a place that he knew how to find, and he knew of at least five locations to check there for family or friends. Bill had a flat in town, and so did Fred and George – they had only recently moved out of the Burrow. Then there was the Leaky Cauldron which led to Diagon Alley, St. Mungo's, and the Ministry of Magic itself. There was Grimmauld Place, too, but he wasn't quite sure of how to find it. He'd need a map or some Floo powder.

But what if the whole world is like this? said a voice inside Ron's head. What if even London has been destroyed? The Ministry, St. Mungo's, Diagon Alley... they might all be gone. Hogwarts might be gone!

Ron swallowed, feeling nauseous again. There was nothing he could do if that were true; he couldn't stay here and he had nowhere else to go. He had to get to London, and if it was gone... well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. Right now he had to think about two things: food and how he was to get to the city.

For a few moments Ron sat still, completely stymied. London wasn't exactly close; it would take several days to walk there, and while there was probably food and water in town he had neither with him at the moment. There were four magical ways of getting from here to there, and none of them were options. Ron didn't know how to Apparate, he had no portkeys to London and couldn't make one, he didn't have a broomstick, and there was no Floo Powder.

But wait a minute… it wasn't necessarily true that he couldn't get to London by magical means. Apparition and portkeys were definitely out, but the fireplace was still standing. Ron could see the great wall of bricks rising up amid the rubble. It was unlikely that the family's Floo powder would have escaped the blaze that had destroyed the Burrow, but it was worth looking. Perhaps he would be lucky.

Ron got to his feet and walked determinedly back toward the house. His initial horror at discovering that it was indeed his house had faded away; he had a sense of purpose now and it overwhelmed his desire to stay out of the Burrow. He passed back through the ruined doorway and picked his way across the wreckage to the enormous fireplace.

Now, if he could only find the flowerpot! That was where his parents had stored the Floo powder. The problem was that it hadn't always been kept covered. If it had spilled or if burning embers had dropped into it from above, the powder would be long gone.

The flowerpot was not in its usual location on the hearth. There was nothing on the fireplace at all save for cold, gray ash. Just to the left was a huge pile of rubble and blackened wood, and the flowerpot was nowhere to be seen.

By now Ron knew that the search was probably futile, but he refused to give up just yet. Bending down, he saw the handle of a poker sticking out of the pile of rubble. He seized the handle and pulled it free with a mighty jerk. It was harder to loose than he had anticipated; apparently the wreckage had been settling for some time. He took the poker in both hands and began stabbing the pile. It was hard work as the ash and soot seemed to have solidified, but bit by bit chunks began falling away, revealing more items that Ron recognized. There was a chipped teacup, a partially burned book, bottles and vials from the upstairs Potions cabinet, a hairbrush, and even a toilet seat. Ron smiled wistfully as he uncovered this last object, thinking of his twin brothers and their penchant for sending people toilet seats as gag gifts. What he wouldn't give to see one of their smirking faces right now!

Doggedly Ron chipped away at the pile with the poker. Coat hangers, metal hinges, a cauldron… all of it was useless. There was no point in looking for the flowerpot anymore. Even if any of the Floo powder had remained after the fire, it was surely mixed in with the ashes now.

Ron was just about to throw the poker down in defeat when he saw something glinting amid the char. He stretched out his hand, grasped the small portion of the object that was showing, and easily tugged it free. Even though the thing in his hand was coated with grime, Ron knew what it was immediately. It was the finest thing his mother had owned – a brooch in the shape of a flower. The stones set into the petals and leaves were real, he knew. It had once belonged to his Grandma Weasley, his father's mother, a woman Ron had never met as she had died before he was born. Ron knew the pin's story well; Grandma Weasley had given the brooch to Ron's father as a gift to his future wife. Ron's mother had since promised to pass it on to Ginny when she got married.

Ron carefully prodded at the place where he had found the jewelry, looking for more of his mother's belongings. The wooden box that had held the brooch was nowhere to be found; it had either burned away or become separated from the brooch when the upper floors collapsed. However, Ron did find a broken string of pearls, a few earrings, and a fancy hairpin, all of which he pocketed with the brooch. If he ever found his mother again, she would surely be glad to see the items.

After all his work on the pile Ron was sweating, tired, and thirsty. He sat down on the pile to breathe and think, not caring that it would leave black smears on the seat of his trousers. What now? Maybe he ought to walk to Ottery St. Catchpole, the nearest town, and see if he could get a ride to London from there. He could hitchhike, stow away, or perhaps even barter passage with a few of the earrings. Those, the hairpin, and even the pearls he would be willing to part with, but he could never give up the brooch.

Hold on now, thought Ron. There's one more thing to try. It was a possibility as remote as finding Floo powder had been, but it was worth a shot. The Burrow had had a cellar, the door to which had been magically concealed. Ron remembered his father and mother charming the door in the ground just a few summers ago; the spellwork had been tricky and his parents had been very pleased with themselves when they had succeeded. They had done it after Harry, Ron and Hermione had rescued the Sorcerer's Stone from You-Know-Who's clutches, and all the Weasley children had known that their parents were making a place for the family to hide should the Dark Lord rise to full power once again. It had become the place where Mrs. Weasley stored her jars of canned fruits and vegetables, where Fred and George had hidden some of their inventions, and also where the broomsticks were kept.

The more he thought about it, the more excited Ron became. The cellar had been separate from the house; you had to go through the door in the ground to get into it, and from the looks of things, whoever had burned the house down had simply come to destroy. It didn't seem likely that they would have stuck around to look for secrets.

Ron quickly got up from the pile of rubbish and picked his way out of the house again, hoping against hope that the cellar remained intact. He hurried around to the west side of the Burrow and soon found what he was looking for. A burned trunk was all that remained of the apple tree that had marked the location of the cellar door. Ron felt around in the dirt with his foot until he found something other than solid earth. The thud that sounded when his foot made contact with the wooden door sent his spirits soaring like a bird. He dropped to his knees and felt around with his hands, finally locating the wrought iron handle.

There was a password. No one could enter the cellar unless they first spoke it. "Sparking Squirrel," said Ron, smiling at the memory of the time that Fred and George had experimented on the unfortunate creature they'd found sitting on their windowsill one spring morning. He wasn't quite sure what they'd done, but the sight of a squirrel whizzing around outside like a deflating balloon, red and purple sparks flying from its tail, had startled the rest of the family during breakfast. Ron had thought he would die laughing. Even Mrs. Weasley had found it amusing enough to not punish her twin sons.

A loud clunk sounded as the lock gave way. Ron tugged on the invisible handle and a rectangular hole appeared in the ground as the door opened. Hastily he descended the stone steps into the cool darkness below.

"Lumos," said Ron, pulling his wand from his pocket. The tip flared to life, illuminating shelves of jars, boxes, and odds and ends. The preserved food was a welcome sight, but that of the multiple broomsticks leaning against the far corner of the cellar was even more so.

Ron laughed for joy as he took the first broomstick in his hands. It was his, the one his parents had bought for him after he had been made a prefect. The Cleansweep Eleven wasn't in league with Harry's Firebolt or Malfoy's Numbus Two Thousand and One, but it was quite a decent broom. Ron thought he had done rather well with it once he had overcome his fear of playing Quidditch in front of a crowd.

Now that he had his mode of transportation secured, Ron's thoughts turned to food. He wasn't sure how long canned goods were supposed to last and he had no idea how long these jars had been sitting here, but he was very hungry. A careful look at a jar of green beans revealed no evidence of mold or rot, so Ron lost no time in breaking the seal and digging in with his hands. After emptying the jar he found a few dusty bottles of butterbeer and cracked one open along with some peaches. Green beans, peaches, and butterbeer made an odd sort of meal, but Ron thought it all tasted very good indeed.

Ron wiped his hands on a bit of cloth after finishing the peaches as they were sticky from the syrup. His stomach was full and it was time to be going; he wanted to reach London before dark. Still, it would be foolhardy not to take some of the food with him. Something was very wrong in the world, and Ron was completely on his own. He looked around the cellar with wand held aloft until he found a knapsack and a ball of twine. He took a little bit of everything and put it into the sack – beans, tomatoes, pickles, and butterbeer. If London didn't work out then perhaps he could fly back here and get some more provisions. The only other thing he took was an old cloak of Bill's that had been mothballed inside a chest with other articles of clothing. Ron had no desire to spend another night in the open without something to wrap up in.

After stuffing the cloak into the knapsack with the bottles and jars, Ron tied everything to the tail of his broom with the twine. He ascended the steps with broom in hand, found the cellar door, and pushed it closed once again. The lock fell back into place with an audible click. Ron gave it one last tug to make sure that the door was secure and then kicked some dirt back over it.

The sky was as hard and gray as it had been the day before. Ron hadn't seen a single ray of sunshine since he'd arrived and he was beginning to wonder if the sun ever came out here. That sky coupled with the burned trees and parched earth gave the distinct impression of a cursed bit of land.

Ron took one long, last look at the melancholy remains of the Burrow. He was still unable to fathom what had happened to it and to him. This isn't really my home, he thought. This isn't the world I belong in. He turned away, mounted his broomstick, and kicked off from the ground.

Ron flew forward silently, keeping close to the earth. In a completely lifeless region the sight of anything flying through the air would surely attract attention and that was not what Ron wanted. He was heading north, looking for the Muggle road that went northeast to London. If he found that road he would have no trouble finding the city.

It didn't take long for the landscape to change. One moment Ron was flying alongside dead, blackened trees and the next he was amid green, healthy ones. Looking back, he saw that there was no gradual change at all from dead to living; it looked as if whoever had destroyed the Burrow had simply ruined all the land around it within a certain radius. Ron shivered although the day was fast growing warmer. Who hated his family so much that they would scourge the earth where they had lived?

Ron turned to face forward again and his heart gave a jump. There it was – the road! He pulled his broomstick to a stop and looked around, watching for Muggle cars.

It was very quiet. A slight breeze was stirring the leaves of the trees but little else was moving. There were no cars at all on the road, and Ron thought this very odd indeed. He had never seen the road empty before, and though he hadn't been near it frequently, something told him that this was not normal. He felt sure that back in the proper world there would be Muggles all up and down the street.

Oh well, thought Ron. Nothing to do but press on now. He leaned forward again and the broomstick flew on.

For hours Ron flew, moving as quickly and as high as he dared. Only twice did he see a vehicle. They began as small specks off in the distance, quickly growing to much larger sizes. Each time Ron ducked into the trees with his broomstick and hovered there, waiting for the Muggles to pass. The machines that he saw were too big to be cars; Ron thought they were buses. Each was gray with black stripes, and Ron was forcibly reminded of the bars of a prison. It was hard to see through the leaves of the trees, but he thought there were passengers inside the buses. Both were heading southwest, away from the city.

The complete desolation was beginning to wear on Ron. The road itself was in disrepair; there were cracks everywhere from which weeds were springing up. Now and then he would pass a car that looked as if it had been sitting on the side of the road for ages. The tires on the wheels looked misshapen and the doors were rusty more often than not. Sometimes Ron could see a village or town in the distance, but there were no signs of life there, either. Everything was very still, and Ron wondered if all the birds had died.

Finally, in the late afternoon, Ron thought he was nearing his destination. He was flying past buildings now, not trees, and the number of nearby houses was increasing steadily. With no small amount of relief, he found that there were signs of life here. There were lights on in some of the windows, and more than once Ron saw people moving around inside the buildings.

Another half hour passed, taking Ron into the city. He was flying by banks, businesses, restaurants, parks, and flats but there was nary a pedestrian to be found. Only occasionally did an automobile rumble by, and they were nearly always the gray and black striped buses that Ron had seen before, packed with people. Always Ron ducked into an alleyway when the buses came near, and no one ever noticed him. The people in the buses didn't even seem to be looking out the windows. Ron's feeling of dread mounted the farther he went. Where were all the Muggles? Why were the ones he saw always inside a bus or a building? And what was that black building in the distance? Ron had been to London enough times to know that the tall, dark spire he saw rising behind St. Paul's was not supposed to be there.

Ron rounded the next bend and stopped cold. The street in front of him had been completely destroyed. Bits of brick, metal, and glass lay strewn about. The road was smashed; pavement had been flung in chunks every which way, exposing metal piping beneath. All of it had the same quiet, settled atmosphere that had been so prevalent at the Burrow. This devastation had happened some time ago.

A soft scratching sound suddenly came from behind and Ron jerked his hands on his broomstick, whirling to see what was there. His eyes feverishly scanned the buildings and shadows and found nothing. The only sound was the frantic pounding of blood in his ears. Slowly Ron turned his broom around to face forward again. Something had been behind him – he was sure of it. Something had made that scratching sound, but he couldn't imagine what. There was no one outside in the city except for him!

Ron cautiously flew on, following the ruined road. The wreckage continued, and looking down side streets showed Ron similar destruction. He was at a complete loss to understand what had happened, but it looked like a war had been going on. Every now and then Ron twisted to look behind him, but every time he found nothing. Not a soul was in sight.

The next sound that Ron heard caught him completely off guard. Down one of the side streets he could hear the unmistakable noise of laughter and talk. Relief flooded through him. Perhaps this wasn't a world gone mad after all; maybe it was just a world in recovery. Without hesitation he turned his broom sharply and darted off down the street in the direction of the sound.

Ron slowed his flight as the laughter grew louder. He was very close now; he could hear the sound of something else mixed in with the voices. It was an odd sort of clanking noise – metal on metal. Curious, Ron dismounted his broom and tiptoed to the corner of the nearest building. Apparently it had once been several stories tall, but the upper floors were missing. There were still two stories' worth of wall standing, though, and it was more than enough to keep Ron concealed.

The voices and clanking were growing louder; the sources of the sounds were approaching Ron's position on the other side of the wall. Very carefully Ron leaned to one side to peek around the building.

Three men in long, dark robes were walking down the street perpendicular to Ron's, herding before them two lines of chained figures. All of the prisoners wore manacles on their wrists and ankles which were chained to the person in front of and behind them, so that they made two long strings of people. Their clothes were dirty and torn; some of them had no shoes. Their hair was straggly, their eyes downcast. Not a single one noticed the shock of bright red hair peeking around the corner just across the street. Neither did the three men who were following; they were taking turns swigging an amber liquid out of a long bottle. Their speech was so slurred that Ron could barely make out what they were saying. One of them carried a whip that he would occasionally crack; the prisoners flinched at the noise and continued shuffling forward.

As the three robed men staggered past, now singing a song about beer, Ron caught a glimpse of something in the nearest man's hand. It was a bit of polished wood, about ten inches long, tapering to a point…

A wand. The three men were wizards! Ron jerked back around the corner and put a hand over his mouth to smother the cry of fear that threatened to escape him. His breath was coming hard and fast and his heart was pounding like a kettledrum. Wizards with their wands out for the world to see, right in the middle of a destroyed London? Put that together with the prisoners and it could only mean one thing. Ron was willing to bet anything that the captives were Muggles and that the non-magic population had been subjugated. But when had this happened?

Ron walked blindly back the way he had come, hearing the drunken wizards and chained Muggles shuffling away. He barely saw the broken street beneath his feet. The world had gone mad after all. What was he to do? Where was he to go? Salt stung his eyes as tears welled up in them once more. He felt completely and utterly helpless. He had reached London only to find that everything he knew was upside-down, and –

A strong hand suddenly clamped itself over Ron's mouth and he felt himself jerked into the body of someone behind him. Instinct kicked in and Ron's hands flew up to try and wrest the attacker's arm away from his face. He clawed at the hand that smelled strongly of sweat and dirt, and the man behind him cursed through his teeth. He was trying to wrestle one of Ron's hands to his side. Ron jerked and kicked, trying to reach his wand, struggling like a wild thing until he felt sharp, cold steel digging into the skin of his neck.

Ron stopped fighting immediately. The tip of the dagger had already pierced his skin; he could feel warm blood trickling down the side of his throat.

"That's it," the man said softly. "Nice and easy. I'm going to take my hand away, and if you shout I promise you that it's the last thing you'll ever do. Understand?"

Ron nodded beneath the man's iron grip. He had no other choice.

"All right," said the man, and he took his hand away from Ron's mouth but kept the dagger in place at his throat. "Turn around."

Ron turned very slowly, feeling the cold edge of the blade slide across his neck as he did so. His attacker's eyes gazed back at him out of a round face. He was of medium height and a rather stout build, youngish, in his mid twenties by Ron's estimate. One of his hands kept the dagger pointed at Ron's jugular. The other, which had been around Ron's mouth moments before, was now gripping a wand. He was not wearing wizard's robes but rather sturdy Muggle clothing, stout boots, gloves and a belt that was hung with several knives. He was staring at Ron with a very odd look on his face. "Who are you?" he said suspiciously.

There was something familiar about the man, but Ron couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. The face seemed like one he had seen before, but Ron was sure he had never met this man in his life. And then there was the voice; like the face, there was something about it that tickled the back of Ron's mind.

Ron licked his lips nervously. "Are you a wizard?" he ventured.

The point of the dagger dug a little deeper into Ron's skin. "Who are you?" the man repeated. "Speak, or you're dead."

Ron believed him. "R-Ron Weasley," he stammered.

The man's eyes widened. "Liar," he whispered, but the look on his face was one of shock and uncertainty.

"W-why would I lie?" Ron managed.

"Ron Weasley is dead," said the man, pushing a little harder on the dagger. Ron felt a new trickle of blood begin to fall down his neck. "But if you're not the spitting image of him, I'm a blind fool." The hand clutching the wand suddenly shot out, pushing Ron into the crumbling wall of a building. The dagger was cutting painfully into his neck; the man's face was inches from his. Ron lifted his chin, pressing his head back into the wall, trying to get away from the blade. "Who are you?" the man insisted angrily. "Who sent you?"

Ron looked straight into the man's face. It was contorted with rage, and yet it didn't seem like the kind of face that belonged to someone who would kill a teenage boy he had just met in the street. Ron wracked his brain, desperately trying to figure out why that round face and those brown eyes looked so familiar…

It hit him like a bolt of lightning. But it wasn't possible!

"Neville?" Ron whispered.

The man's jaw dropped. For an instant a look of wonder replaced the anger on his face, but just as suddenly the warrior's visage returned and the pressure was back on the dagger. Ron squeezed his eyes shut, expecting his throat to be cut at any moment.

"How do you know me?" Neville hissed.

"I'm Ron!" Ron cried in a strangled voice, still struggling to get away from the knife. "You're my roommate at Hogwarts!"

Neville shook his head. "I always knew he was deranged," he said as if to himself, "but I never thought he'd try anything like this. Not his own brother!"

Ron didn't know what Neville was talking about. Why did he think he was dead? "You have to believe me!" he gasped.

"If you're Ron," said Neville, "then tell me something that only Ron would know. Something about me."

For a moment it was impossible to think; Ron's fear and confusion completely overwhelmed his brain. But that dagger was an inescapable reality, and he scrambled for an answer. "I… I saw you at St. Mungo's!" he said desperately. "The three of us saw you – me and Harry and Hermione! W-we got roped into visiting L-Lockhart by a Healer and saw you coming out with your grandmother! Sh-she was mad that you hadn't told us about your parents…"

The dagger vanished from Ron's throat so quickly that he nearly collapsed in relief. Still gasping, he looked fearfully at Neville who was staring back at him as if he were a ghost. "I never told anyone about that," he whispered.

"Why do you think I'm dead?" Ron said shakily. "Why are you so much older?"

Neville sheathed his knife in his belt, still looking stunned. "You vanished from your house ten years ago," he said quietly. "From Harry's birthday party. I was there; I saw."

Neville's words sent Ron's mind reeling again. "Ten years?" he stammered. He looked around at the destroyed street. "What's happened to everything?"

Neville gave Ron a pitying look. "I don't think I'm the best person to answer that," he said. He looked cautiously about the street, stretched out a hand, and helped a very wobbly Ron across the rubble that lay at the foot of the wall where he'd been leaning. "I think I'd better get you to a safe house. Our leader can answer your questions, but he'll want to make sure that you're who you say you are, too."

"Who's your leader?" Ron said dazedly as Neville picked up the Cleansweep and led him down the street.

Neville fixed Ron with a pointed stare. "Harry Potter."