Ron had never liked rain. It was something pathetically dreary, an obstinate affront to proper Quidditch practice, and far too wet if no other complaint could be made. He still hated it, even as he sat curled up near the school's main entrance, watching with some subtle fascination as the fierce torrents of rain sliced through him with a misty chill he could still feel. One of the more disturbing things he had seen all night. So much water. . . he wondered if ghosts could become water-logged. But it didn't seem so; the rain just poured through him as if he weren't there. Actually, it was kind of cool. Convenient. Rainy day Quidditch would be a breeze. While the opposing team fumbled about in the rain, blinded by the water, he'd be. . . He shook his head. What a thing to be thinking about. Not appropriate at all. He had just been murdered, his family was grieving, and yet he sat there making plans for Quidditch! With all the other things to worry about. . . did any teams let ghosts join?



He sighed and waved his hand through the air, watching the way the rain looked through his misty self. Who was he kidding? Even if he could be seen, well, he couldn't do much about not being able to touch anything. Not the balls, not the brooms. . . No. His hand dropped to his side. He had just gotten a new broom! What a waste! Now it'd have to go to Ginny or one of the twins, a most definite destruction sentence.

Ron looked back at the castle, bitter dark in the rain. They were still in there in Dumbledore's office, giving what comfort they could to each other and whatever else people did when someone died. Had anyone else been told? It would be a most Harry thing to do to go straight to Dumbledore. Or the Weasleys. Harry had better have gone first to them. But they had all been with Dumbledore, which suggested he had called them all there. Ron frowned. Harry really wasn't doing things properly that night.

Harry. . . Ron wasn't going to be able to talk to him again. Or his family. Or Hermione. Something inside of him hurt. His last conversation with Harry had been barely under an argument. Hermione. . . that had been an actual fight. About going after Harry. So stupid. He had never even told her how he felt about her. . . He couldn't even remember the last thing he had said to his parents. And now they were all gathered together and he couldn't say anything. They couldn't see him. Stuff like that had always been so much fun with an invisibility cloak. But now. . .

Maybe he could go back and try one more time. . . Pointless. He sighed again and wondered which of the hundreds of glowing windows revealed Dumbledore's office. He couldn't even remember how he had left that room. He had been there, watching everyone and wishing so intensely that he didn't have to see it. And then. . . that scene had faded away. How had he done it? He hadn't been paying attention to the details. Perhaps Jamie had been right and he simply was trying too hard. He had made the same mistake repeatedly when he had been learning to Apparate. After all, he was moving a spirit, not a physical body. It was probably just one of those things. He smiled weakly. He just might get the hang of it eventually.

Anyway, it had worked. He was not with his family anymore but outside. In the storm.

Why did it always have to rain when people died? As if the time weren't depressing enough? It was probably going to rain at his funeral as well. Even more depressing. And he'd have to be buried in the mud. And it would be disgusting. And Fred and George would start a mud fight. He suddenly laughed as he was bombarded by the mental image of globs of mud whirling through the air. Yes, Fred and George would certainly do something like that. It might even make things easier. Well, if he had to die and have a funeral, there might as well be a mud fight. Maybe he could even join. After all, he'd be invisible and that was always great for tactics.

But he wouldn't be able to pick up the mud. Disgusted, he leaned back against the stone wall and through it. He didn't want to attend his own funeral anyway. That was just morbid. A bunch of people standing around in black like in the school hallways between classes only this time crying. Another scene like tonight. . .he couldn't watch that again.

It wasn't fair. Why him? Why did he have to die? There were plenty of people in the world for death to pick from, some who even wanted to die. Then there was him, a kid who hadn't even graduated, who had his entire life before him. What a waste of fate. And he had been trying to help his best friend. Shouldn't he get some credit for that?

That was an interesting thought. He had helped kill Lord Voldemort.

And he had died for it. With a hiss he slammed his fist into the rain. Stupid rain. There had to be some way to blame everything on it.

Yet he was the one pathetic enough to sit in it feeling sorry for himself.

Apparate, he told himself. Or Vaporate, whatever ghosts were supposed to do. Nothing happened.

He sighed. Probably trying too hard. Again. He forced himself to relax. He wasn't moving a body. "Vaporate, Ron," he muttered aloud. "You're a ghost! So Vaporate!"

For a long time, nothing happened. Then he was struck by a rush of cold air, and he stumbled into a fiery orange room. His bedroom. He was back home at the Burrow in his room. Just the way he had left it. Not, not quite. The bed was made; his mother must have snuck in as soon as she could after he had left for school to make it. She couldn't abide Ron's signature messiness. How many hours had she wasted screaming at him? As if he would ever change?

He drifted over to the bed, orange blankets neatly tucked in under the pillow. It looked wrong. What was the point of making the bed if he were just going to sleep in it and mess it all up again? But he wasn't going to sleep in it. He stared hard at the bed, suddenly hating it. It needed to be messy. He reached for the blankets, imagining them strewn on the floor. His hands went right through the material. He swore and jerked back. Half a dozen books were stacked haphazardly on the shelf. He couldn't knock them off. They sat where they were, mocking him. With a scream he rushed back at the bed, swiping and kicking at it and only feeling a faint rush of something until exhaustion overtook him.

It was a strange feeling, exhaustion as a ghost. He was surprised he could even feel it, an almost overwhelming tingling that spread through every part of him. Trying hard not to cry, he let himself float several feet into the air. It was kind of cool, floating. For some reason it made him feel better. A little.

A framed photo sat on the dresser next to his bed. It was of his family, taken three years previous. His mother had wanted it done, something nice with copies so everyone in the family could have a picture. It actually hadn't turned out that nice, Ron thought as he drifted closer to examine it. They had been late meeting the photographer, so his father had not been in the best of moods. Charlie had lost all sense of maturity and had engaged Ginny and Ron in a poking war. George had levitated a plush turtle over Bill's head. Fred had actually been ill that day, a fact his photo self still wasn't trying to hide. Their mother was in the middle of it, yelling at multiple people. Well, the photo had a lot of good memories attached.

Ron felt the tears coming. He was going to miss them so much. The twins. . . did they even know he was dead yet? They hadn't been with the others. They were probably in London, completely oblivious that their brother had been murdered. But they'd find out. They had often picked on him. . but they were all brothers; it was all affection. Bill and Charlie. . . they were so much older than Ron that they were more like semi-parents. How would they react?

He watched as his photo self dodged a neck poke from Charlie. Next to them was an empty break in the group where Percy was supposed to be. Ron couldn't even remember what Percy had been doing the day of the photo. Not that it mattered. No one had seen Percy in two years. Not really. He had come to the school with the rest of the Ministry, according to Harry. Ron's father had seen him a few times at work…but those views had also been two years prior. Even those rare sightings were long gone. In the chaos of the war, it wasn't too surprising. What did it matter, anyway? After all Percy had done to the family. . .why would he care that his youngest brother was dead? If he ever found out, what would he say? Ron thought of the letter he had received during his fifth year, that stupid, patronizing thing Percy had written. It amazed him how well he could still recall it. "Congratulations again on becoming prefect." What would another letter say? Congratulations on dying? At least there was one person Ron wouldn't miss in death.

He waved his hand through the photo. The figures didn't flinch----Ron wished they would. He turned away from the picture, thinking. What would his family do with his room now? Keep it sacred? He imagined Fred and George turning it into an extra lab.

"Depressing, isn't it?"

Ron shrieked and whirled around as something--someone--entered the room. But how? He stared wildly at the door. It was closed, had always been closed.

"I'm not at the door anymore, Ron," the voice said, irritated and familiar in that.

Ron slowly looked to the speaker, then closed his eyes. It couldn't be. He opened his eyes, prepared for reality. A figure stood near the bed, silvery white and transparent, with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses set on a displeased face. "Percy?" he asked in disbelief.

Percy rolled his eyes. "The least you could say is hello."

Two years. . . Ron shook his head. It couldn't be real. "But. . .but you're. . ." He stared again at Percy. "But you're dead."

"And so are you."

"But I just. . . I was murdered. . ."

"Yes, I heard," Percy said, impatience heavy in his voice.

"You had heard?" Ron frowned. "Who told you?"

"I have my ways. Harry Potter was fighting Lord Voldemort, you butted in like an idiot, and. . .yeah, you died." Percy spoke Voldemort's name with surprising ease.

It was more than what a lot of people knew, Ron supposed. His thoughts of earlier returned. So Percy knew. Yet he really didn't seem to care. He had just waltzed into the room, the same jerk as always, only dead. A ghost, just like Ron. But Percy hadn't died. He couldn't have. The family. . .they would have known. Someone would have known. "I can't believe you''re dead."

Percy shrugged and studied a poster on the wall. "Is it so hard to believe? People do die, Ron, as I'm sure you've noticed. Besides, it's not like we've talked recently."

"And that's supposed to be my fault?" Ron snapped. "I'm not the one who ditched our family!"

Ron expected his brother to get angry, but Percy remained silent so long that Ron almost believed that by some twist of fortune he hadn't been heard. But then in a flash Percy was across the room, inches from Ron's face. "What an easy thing to do, to bring that up."

Suddenly it was too much. Ron was dead, a ghost, separated from everyone he cared about. Too much had happened. The last person he wanted to see was Percy. After two years. . . this way. . . not when there were so many other people he wanted to speak with. What sick fate was this? Something inside of him snapped, and his fist swung through the air.

But I'm a ghost, he thought half-way through. This won't work.

His fist collided with Percy's face.

Percy leaped backwards into the air, clutching his nose. "What the heck was that for?"

Ron stared at his hands, confused. "How did I do that?"

Percy swore under his breath, still rubbing his nose. "Good thing that really doesn't do anything; you hit hard. What do you mean, how did you do that? You just hit me, that's all there is to it."

Ron tried a few experimental jabs at the wall. He went right through. "Yeah, but I'm a ghost and you're a ghost and ghosts seem to go through everything else."

"You're such an idiot." Percy sighed and readjusted his glasses. "I thought you could at least figure that much out on your own."

"Figure what out?"

He shook his head with an aura of bored authority. "You can't touch anything living or physical anymore because you are no longer living nor physical. But you're still something. You have to be or you wouldn't be there. You''re a spirit now, so you are on the same level with and can touch other spirit things. Like other ghosts, for instance."

Ron considered that. It made sense. But of course Percy would have to be the one to declare it. He had always treated Ron like he were stupid. "So if I wanted to, I could hit you again?"

Percy studied him, something akin to hatred in his expression. "Like it would do anything? It doesn't hurt, if that's what you didn't know."

"You sure acted like it hurt."

"I'm already dead; what is it going to do?"

"It makes me feel better." Ron considered throwing another punch. So he could actually hit Percy. That was something he had wanted to do for a long time. Pity he was too late to administer the death blow.

"How mature."

"You. . ." Ron swung again, striking Percy in the shoulder. That felt real enough. "How can you talk of maturity? After that stunt you pulled. . . walking out on Mum and Dad and the rest of us. . . you wouldn't even listen to what they had to say. Very mature, Percy."

"As if they would listen to me!" Percy retorted. "I highly doubt you knew what was going on at the Ministry--"

"And then you've been dead for who knows how long?" Ron continued, barely conscious to Percy's rant. He was on a roll--it was all too satisfying to say. "How do you think Mum's going to feel about that? She's been worried sick about you, and you have to go and die without even apologizing first."

"Apologizing for what?" Percy hovered in the air, yet still stood with the same annoyingly perfect posture he always had, like the Minister himself would stroll in at any moment to check on it. "I don't think there's anything I need to apologize for."

That same snotty tone. . . it was more than Ron could bare. "So here you are again, turning all the attention to yourself. As usual. I'm the one who just died. My family--" He put special emphasis on "my"--"has to deal with that and then you have to show up out of the blue and. . ." His voice cracked., and he brushed away tears. "And make everything worse. Out of everyone who I would want to see me, you're the only one who can see me, and I don't want to see you!"

Percy gave a short, dry laugh, which only made Ron angrier. Couldn't Percy even pretend to show pity? "Well, isn't that an honor for me?" he spat. "So no one can see you? Poor Ron. So you think it would be better for everyone if they could see you as a ghost? What a selfless idea."

"Shut up."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe it takes awhile? Like a couple of days to properly adjust? No one among the living can see you in the first little while."

Ron felt himself blush, if ghosts could do such a thing. "So. . . there aren't any invisible ghosts?"

Percy rolled his eyes. "You really are an idiot. Yes, of course a ghost can be invisible to the living if he wants. But please, invisible ghosts? What are you thinking?"

"I'm sorry, but I've only been a ghost for a few hours," Ron snapped. "And, oh, I'm sorry that I''m nowhere near as smart or as wonderful as you, you creep."

"This is so pointless," Percy muttered. "I can't believe I'm here."

"Why are you here?" Ron waved his hand through a Chudley Cannons figurine. "Is this some ghostly spiritual visitor thing where you have to guide me to the afterlife?"

"Afterlife? This is the afterlife."

"With you in it?" Ron hadn't been that rotten. "What about heaven and all that?"

"You're a ghost instead," Percy explained matter-of-factly. "Wizards have that option. You made a subconscious choice to remain in this world."

"Subconscious choice?" Ron echoed. "That isn't fair!"

"It's not like some Ghost Fairy appears and asks you. And it's not that bad, being a ghost, once you get used to it."

It would take a lot of getting used to. Ron still wore the same dirty robes he had died in. "You still haven't answered my question. Why are you here?"

Percy glared at him. "I don't even remember, what with you going off."

"Then why don't you just leave?"

"It's my home, too."

Ron sniffed. "Hardly." He expected some retort, but there was none.

"Fine," Percy replied coolly. "I will. And you can just haunt the Burrow. Congratulations on dying." With that, he disappeared.

Homework, Hermione thought. There was always homework, always something to learn no matter what happened. She could do that much, at least. No matter that most professors were allowing considerable delay in studies in celebration of Lord Voldemort's final defeat. Not that anyone was celebrating in Gryffindor Tower.

She choked back a sob and brushed at her already tear-soaked essay. On what? She couldn't even remember the assignment. But she had to finish it. Finish it and make it perfect and then everything would be okay.

Ron. The sob broke loose. She could still see it. Had it only been hours ago? She had expected Harry to Apparate outside Hogwarts grounds or fly in or something because of course he would win against Voldemort. She had been waiting for him. . she had gone running out to meet him. He was supposed to be victorious, this triumphant hero who had just defeated the plague of the last few years… But he had Ron with him. And Ron was. . .She still couldn't believe it. She hadn't believed it then. And then Ginny had come, had seen her brother's body. . . poor Ginny. Then Dumbledore--he had contacted the rest of the Weasleys. But it wasn't real, it didn't feel real, like a dream full of too much that just went rushing by.

"Heremione?" A hand pulled back the drapes of her bed, and the light from her wand dimmed against the added candlelight. "Hermione, honey, it's almost four in the morning."

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "I know, Lavender. I'm sorry if the light is. . . I just have so much homework."

"No, no, it''s okay," Lavender assured her. Strange she was being so nice… "It's all right. You can keep the light if that's what you want."

"We just wanted to see how you were doing," Parvati said softly, her face strangely pale in the dim light.

"I'm fine," Hermione mumbled. It didn't sound even close to honesty. The tears were coming again. Was this the purpose of having roommates? "No, I'm not! Why did he have to go and die like that?"

"It isn't fair," Parvati agreed, climbing onto the bed. "Oh, Hermione, I'm so sorry. The sixth year girls said Ginny fainted again. . . this is too much for both of you."

Hermione nodded. Suddenly tired beyond anything she had ever felt, she fell against Lavender, who hugged her.

"You poor thing."

She cried into Lavender's shoulder, feeling ridiculous. "I love him," she managed between gasps. "I love him, and I never got to tell him that."

SHOUT OUTS:

Awkward: Thank-you for the Ron approval! I don't know how long this one will wind up…….

Crystal Lightning: Aww.. you're so wonderful. When are you going to update your stories? poke

Hydraspit: Aww…… it's nice to have some forgiveness.

Icy Dragon Claws: I didn't mean to confuse you! has enormous guilt complex I just wanted to confuse Ron…… I hope I explain it well enough in this chapter.

Jenn: Hey, I'm glad you liked the comedy. I think the only comedy it can be is a black one. And always feel free to edit my work.

Krina: Thanks! You'll see how Percy fits in. Eventually. I just had to include Percy because he's so fun to work with.

LJ Fan: Wow. Thank you so much for liking Ron! He was incredibly hard to do in that chapter! I'm glad you approve! I also love this comment "'Oh. My best mate is dead. Hm...I wonder if I'll get a prize for defeating Voldemort.'" I'm glad I didn't do that. But it was such a funny way to think about it!

Nkittyhawk: Yes. There are spiders in the dirt. And I will be contacting you about your request.

v-babe24: Yes, she bugs me about it constantly…… she's everywhere. hides

Written In Stars: Eh, she seemed to like the cameo.