Dead. The word echoed in Ron's mind, suddenly meaningless. Dead. But he couldn't be dead; that was impossible. Dead people were, well, dead. He had never given much thought to ghosts and all that----heck, he had never even spent much thinking on death. Not even when Sirius Black had died. But Ron was. . . no! He jabbed his fist one more time through Harry. Yes, it was still through, a disturbingly warm sensation that shot through his entire body----did he even have a body?! How could it be? But there he was, standing near Harry, and yet lying motionless on the ground. Cold, still. . . He forced himself to stare at his own face. Yes, it was definitely him, the same familiar freckled face he had seen so often in mirrors now frozen in terror.

He hadn't experienced terror when he had. . . died. It had been so quick... heck, he hadn't even noticed. He stepped back, still studying the face and trying to figure out just how he felt about this. Feel? There was too much to think about. His own dead body on the ground, Harry sobbing over it. Voldemort had just been defeated, thank goodness. Hopefully. Ron shot a glance down the hill to where smoke still rose from the battle scene. Voldemort had better be dead. Harry had better not be wasting time while Voldemort was still alive. Like one of those really bad Muggle horror films Hermione had talked about. Slashers, she had called them. In every one, the main characters never checked to make sure the villain was really dead. Good grief, that had better not be happening right then. Then again, why was he worried about Voldemort? His own body was lying dead on the grass. . . . Oh, it couldn't be real. Summoning all the courage he had, he leaned over and touched his body's cheek. His hand melted into the pale flesh.

It was true. He was dead. He shot back up, feeling a strange rush of air as he did so. "Bloody. . ." he murmured.

Harry sniffed and vainly attempted to wipe the tears from his eyes. "Ron, you idiot. . ."

"Idiot?!" Ron echoed. He had just died, and his best friend was calling him an idiot. Or more specifically his body; Harry didn't seem to notice the other Ron standing only feet away. "I'm an idiot? I just provided a distraction. Without me you probably couldn't have beaten You-Know-Who!" He couldn't even say the name in death. "He would have killed you had I not attacked him."

Killed Harry. He regretted the words as soon as he had said them. Harry was still alive while he was dead. Fresh anger shot through him. He was dead while his best friend lived. And Hermione lived. And his family. . .

What were they going to think?

He screamed and kicked at the dirt. His foot went right through the earth. Moist. Slightly warm. His body. . . He had a sudden flashback of a funeral he had attended as a child----some obscure relative who had never bought him candy. A coffin being lowered into a hole in the ground. He looked again at his body and shivered. He didn't want to be buried! There were spiders in the dirt.. . . .

Harry sniffed again and managed to climb to his feet, still muttering about Ron being an idiot. Taking a deep breath, he reached down and clumsily pulled Ron's body over his shoulder in an awkward fireman carry. Or tried to. Harry still wasn't all that big. . .

Ron stared at the scene in disbelief. "You moron! You just dropped my body!" It was weird, no, disturbing to watch----like watching some sick photograph from Fred and George's shop.

Harry swore and tried again, thankfully managing a less cumbersome position that worked. It didn't change the fact that Ron's face was now covered in dirt. Ron suddenly felt very violated. What was Harry doing to him?

Harry drew another breath and stared sadly down the hill. A strong breeze had evidently picked up, swirling at the ashes and smoke until Ron almost dared to believe there was something down there. But nothing alive. Lord Voldemort had indeed been defeated. With a heavy sigh, Harry spoke. "Sorry, Ron." Then, with a distinctive pop, Harry vanished, taking Ron's body with him.

Leaving Ron alone in the graveyard.

He stared blankly at the spot where Harry had just been. Apparation. . . Harry had most likely gone back to Hogwarts. Or the Burrow, to tell Ron's family. And do what? Apologize? Harry had just apologized to him. As if Harry should be sorry. He wasn't the one who was dead. But he was the one having to tell people about this. . . His family. What would they feel? Couldn't Ron just. . .? No. He felt so weak. What about his family? His parents, his brothers, his sister. What were they to hear? His mother, tears silently streaming down her face because her youngest son was dead. Had he caused that? But he couldn't have. Harry had told him to leave, but he hadn't. Perhaps he had been a bit of an idiot.

He felt something on his cheeks. Tears. He brushed them away. At least he could touch this. . . body, or whatever it was. It seemed normal enough----perhaps that was why he hadn't realized he was dead right off the bat. He swung his arms. There was a difference; no subtle pull of the muscles, no tiredness coming from a few swings. Amazing how much he noticed when he actually paid attention. And then there was the more noticeable difference: he could see right through himself. He held his hand before his face. The misty night made more grey shadows for everything, but now that he considered it, he had no color. He waved his hand, studying the faint outline of trees and gravestones through his hazy grey hand. He dropped his hand to his side. Ugh. Well, he was used to this sort of thing. He had to be, somewhere inside of him. He had grown up among the ghosts of Hogwarts, had made jokes about their transparency, throwing things through them. And here he was: one of them. That couldn't be. Logic again failed him. He waved his hand again, trying to shake the sheer disturbing nature of it from himself. He had just accepted that he was dead---why should being a ghost be any different? Of course he could be a ghost. It was perfectly rational: die and become a ghost. Except he had never thought he would be a ghost. Didn't dead people go. . . somewhere? Not everyone became ghosts upon death. Why him?

He was just like Moaning Myrtle.

"I don't want to be a ghost!" he said aloud. He expected his voice to echo. It didn't.

Stunned, he shook his head. Of course it didn't echo. He was dead. He didn't have the vocal cords and whatnot to bounce vibrations or however the anatomy of the voice worked. Harry hadn't heard him, that much was clear. Nor had Harry seen him. How could that be? He had seen all the ghosts at Hogwarts. He could see himself! And he had to be a ghost. Was he an invisible ghost? Had there been hundreds of extra ghosts at Hogwarts that he had never seen? Spying on him? Had he just joined them? Or was he something else all together? The possibilities were disturbing.

One thing was for sure: he didn't want to remain in the graveyard. He had already experienced more than his share of death. He had to get to his family.

Only. . .how did he do that? Harry had Apparated. Could Ron still Apparate? It wasn't just some spell that required just a mindless body, was it? "This had better work," he muttered. He closed his eyes and willed himself to the Burrow. He felt nothing. He was still in the cemetery. "Dang." But it had to work. It had to. Ghosts had to have more powers than just floating around.

Floating around. He looked down. He seemed to be standing firmly on the ground. Or was he? Perhaps he was just so used to that he did it even as a ghost. And he had kicked through the ground, hadn't he? He tried it again, and his foot entered the soil. Only he didn't feel that, just the slightly warm sensation. Lower, he thought. He jumped once, and came down to where he sank into the ground to his ankles. Like something was sucking them in . . . With a yelp, he jumped back out. Well. . . he could clearly go down. What about up? He again sprang into the air, willing himself to hover. He wavered once, but there he was, standing a good three feet above the cemetery ground. He was floating. In the air. Years of anti-fear-of-heights from riding broomsticks vanished in an instant and panic set in. With a scream, he tumbled to the ground----and through it. The earth sensation seemed to pull him in. . . he forced himself back up. Now he was a couple inches above the ground. He couldn't even go back to that normal state. Slowly, he moved up and down until he was once against at ground level. Or at least as close as he could come, the best he could hope for. It wasn't so bad. It might just take some practice. Just like everything else.

Yet it still didn't solve the problem of leaving the graveyard. He had Apparated to the graveyard----back when he was alive, he thought bitterly. He didn't know where the place actually was, so he couldn't exactly float back. What would Hermione do in such a situation?

Hermione. What would she do when she learned he was dead? He suddenly missed her very much.

But if Hermione were there. . .she'd probably yell at him to figure it out for himself. Good old Hermione. He sat down on a gravestone to think. Actually, he hovered about an inch into it. So maybe Apparation did require a body to work. Well. . . he sort of had a body. A ghost body. He was there, in some form. Some invisible form. But it probably wasn't as good as a mortal body. So maybe all he had to do was try really hard. There was a thought that made everything loads better. He shook his head in disgust and once again tried to imagine the Burrow. The kitchen. . .fresh pain shot through him at the thought of his family. But if he wanted to see them.. . . He closed his eyes and concentrated on the Burrow and every thing he had learned during the Apparation lessons. If only he had paid more attention. He yelped as he felt himself torn away from the cool sensation of the gravestone into a whirl of color. . . the kitchen flashed before him briefly. . .he didn't think he saw anyone. . . And then he was back in the cemetery, sprawled on the ground, and more dizzy then he had ever felt in his life.

Well, he had sort of Apparated. Groaning, he sat up. Kind of weird that ghosts could feel dizzy.

"There's an easier way of doing that," a voice suddenly said.

Ron looked up. The ghost of a girl hovered above him, hands stretched out next to her psychotically grinning face. "What the. . .?"

The girl sighed and shook her head, lowering her hands. "It's really not that hard. I've never seen anyone have so much trouble with it!"

"With what?" he asked, slowly inching back from her.

"Vaporating, of course!" she said happily. Too happily.

"What the heck is vaporating?"

She sighed again, clearly annoyed. "I don't have time for this. I have an entire graveyard to haunt. No one wants to haunt them anymore. They all think it's too cliché." She rolled her eyes. "Well, it's your own fault if you don''t know how to do it."

The girl was insane. "Do what?"

"I just told you. Vaporating."

He still had no idea what that was, but he wanted to get away from the girl. "Look, I just died, okay? I'm kind of new to this."

She studied him carefully. "Oh. A newbie. I see. Eh, I can't even be bothered with those. Like I said, I have to haunt this graveyard."

"There's no one to haunt," Ron said, looking around.

The girl looked very irritated. "Well. . . people come in to bury people. . ."

"But no one is being buried right now. . ."

"You annoy me. If I tell you how to do it, will you leave?"

Ron wanted nothing more. "Yes."

The girl forced a smile. "Vaporating is like Apparating, only not."

"That doesn''t help any," he replied.

"You''ll figure it out. Try again."

Yes, try again. But he still felt so dizzy. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Jamie McFly," she said. "I'm buried. . ." She looked over her shoulder. "Actually, my grave's in Ireland, but I actually died here. It was really kind of cool. You see. . ."

Now she wanted to talk. "Look," he interjected. "I'm just going to try again. Go haunt your cemetery."

"I believe I will." She floated off.

Ron watched her go. How had she been able to see him? He wasn't in the mood to think about such things anymore. He closed his eyes and envisioned the Great Hall. . . Within seconds, he was there, but not quite. He saw the blurry outlines of the tables. . . forms of people. . .he heard voices. Then he was whirling back to the graveyard. . no! He forced his mind back. Back to the Great Hall.. . .it wouldn't let him stay. But he couldn't go back to the cemetery! Color and sound spun him around him like a tornado. . . and then it stopped.

He lay where he was, trying to fight to the intense dizziness trying to overwhelm him. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes.

He was in Dumbledore's office. He had only been there once or twice, but in the recent couple of years, so he recognized the dozens of portraits that adorned the walls, the strange instruments on Dumbledore's desk. A fire blazed in the hearth. Strange. . .he sensed no heat from it. People were gathered around it, talking in low voices.

". . . I really don't remember much about it." Harry's voice, faint and void of all emotion. Tired.

Ron sat up.

"I don't blame you," Dumbledore replied softly. "But what's done is done."

"I told him to leave," Harry said. "I told him to."

A sob broke out. Ginny. She sat on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees. Hermione sat next to her, silent, face streaked with tears.

No, Ron thought.

"Thank-you so much for bringing him back, Harry," his father said, voice cracking. Ron's parents stood at the edge of the hearth, holding each other.

Ron's body lay on a white sheet, no more real than a child's doll.

He hated to watch this. How could he have wanted to come? To see his family like this. . .he couldn't see their pain. He had to comfort them somehow. . .

"Voldemort is finally dead, though," Dumbledore said. "I know that can't mean much right now. . ."

"Of course it couldn't," Ron muttered. No one turned to look at him. Could they still not hear him? Jamie had been able to. Perhaps it was just because she was a ghost, but. . . it was certainly worth a shot. He climbed to his feet. "Mum, Dad, I''m here."

They didn't look up.

This was so unfair. He could stand right in the middle of them, and they still wouldn't be able to see him. He could only be seen by weird graveyard-haunting ghosts. What was the point of it? Well, he didn't want to watch, anyway. This was their mourning time.

But where was he supposed to go now?

Death really wasn't all that wonderful, as far as he was concerned.

Author's Note: Wow. This isn't all that funny as of the first few chapters. I know it says "Humor" for the genre, and I promise it will get funny. But I suppose I can't make fun of grieving. So please be patient, and I'll try and stick in humor when I can.

5/9: Edited!

Much thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the first chapter: nkittyhawk, awkward, Jamie McFly (bwahahaha!), Written In Stars, Tap Dancing Widow, Icy Dragon Claws, viu, and Crystal Lightening!