There'd been no word.

He hadn't really expected there to have been. Dumbledore had promised that he'd inform them if he learned anything about Harry. But it was still with a heavy heart that Ron made his way to the Dining Hall for breakfast.

He supposed it was beginning to sink in. Now that he'd gotten Hermione back to the mansion safely, his thoughts had automatically turned to his other friend in need. But at least he'd be able to do something pro-active on that front today. The real weight on his mind this morning was self-blame.

He knew, intellectually, that he had nothing to feel culpable for. He knew that his first priority had to be to the mission, and helping Hermione rescue those children from the house had taken precedence over everything else. But he felt wretched about letting Harry defend them alone, especially since it had resulted in his disappearance.

And he knew that he'd spent the last three days watching over Hermione because she needed him, but that knowledge didn't take away the guilt he felt for – on some level – liking it.

Hermione hated not being perfect. She despised not knowing all the answers, and being completely in control of herself. He knew that better than anyone, so he knew full well that she must loathe him being there all the time, looking after her. And yet…it allowed him to be closer to her than he usually got the chance to be. And it brought out something in him. Something that he liked. But he was afraid that he was putting his own wants ahead of hers.

True, she had asked him to stay with her last night. But she hadn't asked him to rush to her at the first cry and pull her into his arms. She hadn't asked him to hold on while the nightmare released her, and he worried that he'd done those things for his own reasons. Because he'd wanted to.

She surely hadn't asked to wake up with him lying atop her this morning, and he had no way to justify that one. There was no way around it. Subliminally, subconsciously, whatever word Hermione would have used to describe it, that's what it was. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to be with her, and it was getting harder and harder to hide. Harder to control.

If he didn't start taking more care, he was going to get himself into trouble. Like this morning. He could certainly understand the surprise he'd felt when he woke up to find Hermione watching him, but his misinterpretation of her expression had left him in quite a bind.

Imagine! The idea of Hermione watching him sleep because she'd wanted to. And yet for an instant…for just a moment, he would have sworn it was true from the look in her eyes. Traitorous hope had bloomed in his heart for that moment, and was the reason for the atypical softness in his voice when he'd questioned her.

Ron wanted to smack his forehead for being so thick. She had to have noticed how oddly he was behaving. She couldn't have missed it. It wasn't like him to reveal so much emotion…not that kind, anyway. But he wanted to. He'd let her see it because he thought that maybe she…

But no. All it had done was show him up to be an idiot. It also made him realize that he needed some distance. The last thing he wanted was to leave Hermione alone here, but his mission today was imperative. And if it also helped him to stay away from her for a little while so he could get a grip on himself, then all the better. Because the last thing she needed, on top of everything else, was to have to deal with his unrequited feelings. And he didn't have to worry about leaving her alone at the mansion, did he? She was safer here than anywhere else.

The hard part, of course, was going to be convincing her to adhere to the plan.

With that worrisome objective in mind, Ron entered the Dining Hall. It was packed, as usual, with wizards and witches from all walks of life. Here and there he caught a glimpse of foreign-cut robes worn by the few wizards and witches overseas from the Americas, Australia and the far east. In general, however, pre-formed groups tended to stick together out of habit. The students from Hogwarts, Durmstag and Beautxbatons were like exotic fish…all existing in the same place, but schooling separately together, identified by their colors. But it wasn't uncommon to see professors rubbing elbows with students, or field operatives eating with bewildered-looking First Year would-have-beens.

Being creatures of habit, though, most people gravitated to the same spot every day, and so Ron found Hermione with very little delay. She'd gotten enough food for them both, and had staked out their usual spot at the table in the corner closest to the door.

He made his way over and sat down opposite her, reflecting that sometimes he guessed it wasn't so bad being part of the 'golden trio'. At the very least, it meant they didn't have to squabble for spots at the breakfast table. It also afforded them a little privacy in the crowded hall.

Ron snagged a couple pieces of toast from her tray with a mumbled thanks. She didn't answer, and when he looked up he found her to be watching him for the second time that day. This time, however, the light in her eyes was unmistakable.

"Nothing," he said quietly.

The light was extinguished, and Hermione's gaze dropped to the table again. She looked just like Ron felt: Unsurprised, but disappointed nonetheless.

Ron retrieved his plate from Hermione's tray and popped a sausage into his mouth. As he chewed, he contemplated the best way to bring up the conversation he needed to have with her. As always, however, she seemed to be one step ahead of him.

"I want to look for Harry today," she said suddenly.

Ron coughed, and Hermione rushed on as if afraid she wouldn't get to have her say. "There's no reason we can't," she said earnestly. "We haven't been assigned to a new mission, yet. And I know Professor Dumbledore's had people looking for him for a couple of days, already, but we know him best and might have more luck."

"And besides," she continued, overriding Ron when he opened his mouth to say something, "I can't just sit around here waiting. I need to do something. I know you do, too. We have to look for him."

"I brought it up to Dumbledore this morning," Ron said, when he had the chance. "He okayed it already."

"Oh," Hermione said. Her surprise quickly gave way to relief. "Oh, well good. For some reason I thought I'd have a harder time convincing you that I…"

"Never mind," she said then, but he was pretty sure he knew what she'd been going to say. And she was right.

This wasn't going to be easy.

"Yeah," he said, watching her. "I reckon the house is the best place to start."

Hermione stilled involuntarily. Then, without looking up, she visibly took hold of herself and resumed buttering her toast. The hand that held the knife trembled a little, but she never hesitated in her reply. "Now that we've got more time, we might find some clues we missed the first time," she agreed.

She glanced up to find Ron staring at her. "What is it?"

He said nothing for a moment; he couldn't. His heart ached. Only hours before she had come apart in his arms, screaming from the memories made in that house. But she would put it all aside and deliberately go back there if it might help them find Harry. She had no idea how courageous she was, in his eyes. She also didn't know that he wasn't going to let her do it. He supposed he should break that to her, eventually, and get on with the inevitable argument. He fought back a regretful sigh, wishing they could've at least finished eating, first.

He lifted his glass of pumpkin juice, deceptively casual as he took a drink. Setting it down again, he said, "I'll be heading out after breakfast."

Hermione didn't miss his wording. She looked at him sharply. "You mean we'll be heading out after breakfast."

"No," Ron replied carefully, "I mean I will. You're staying here."

Storm clouds immediately overcast her expression, threatening doom. Ron could practically hear the thunder cracking. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," Ron said, acting calmer than he felt. He'd known she would fly off the handle at his declaration, but there was no way he was letting her go back to that house. "And don't bother arguing," he continued. "I talked about it with Professor Dumbledore, and he agrees with me. He doesn't want you to go, either."

"You did what?!" Hermione exclaimed, slamming the knife down on the table. "How dare you go behind my back like that? Who do you think you are, making decisions for me? Forbidding me from going to look for my best friend?"

"Who am I?" Ron asked, getting angry now, himself. "I'm your other best friend. The one who can see what that house did to you, and doesn't want you going back."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" she hissed furiously.

"Oh no?" Ron asked dangerously. He grabbed her hand and felt it trembling still. He offered it as evidence. "You're shaking, Hermione. The thought of going back there terrifies you."

Hermione tore her hand away from him, shooting to her feet. "So you think I won't? You think I can't handle it?"

"I know you can," Ron said. "But I don't want you there."

"You don't want…"

She trailed off and Ron watched, bewildered, as Hermione's wrath seemed to drain away. Some other, less definable emotion took its place, making her eyes gleam with unshed tears. He had the sudden urge to take it back…to take back whatever he'd said that had replaced her look of anger with one of hurt.

But before he could say anything at all, Hermione wordlessly turned and made her way to the door. She did nothing to attract attention to herself, but she left in her wake a trail of students and teachers alike who looked from her to Ron in puzzlement.

"What're you looking at?" he growled irritably at them, causing more than one head to whip away. Finding that he had indeed lost his appetite, Ron stood and shouldered his way out of the room. He had somewhere to be, anyway.

VV

By the time he reached the house, he'd bounced back from his momentary lapse of contrition into ire again.

What the hell was Hermione's problem, anyway? Besides the obvious, of course. She was always badgering him for not being more sensitive; the insinuation inherent in that claim being, naturally, that she was. And it was true, he could admit, that she was of a much more subtle persuasion than he. But her intuition had certainly been off, today.

Hadn't she been able to tell that he just didn't want her to be hurt any more? He'd been able to do precious little to shield her from the horrors of the past eight months; all he was trying to do was save her from fresh ones. Was that so wrong of him?

And the nerve of her, getting upset over him talking to Dumbledore about it! Who was the one making decisions for her friends when she went running off to tattle to McGonagall about the broom Harry got from Sirius back in third year, anyway?

Sure, it had come anonymously. And sure, at that time they'd all been under the incorrect assumption that Sirius Black had escaped Azkaban Prison specifically so that he could murder Harry. And yeah, okay, Ron supposed it was possible that someone wanting to kill Harry could have placed a jinx on the Firebolt. So maybe she'd had a point. Age had brought a little maturity to Ron's hindsight, at least.

But the point was that McGonagall had taken the broom away, and that certainly hadn't been Harry's call. No, Hermione had done it to protect her friend from himself, and Ron made a self-righteous mental note to remind her of that, later.

For now, though, he had to get on with the task at hand. However unpleasant it might be. He rounded a slight bend in the path, and there it was.

As Ron approached the house, the skin on his arms broke out in gooseflesh, surprising him. Hermione had been the one most scarred by what had happened here, but he hadn't realized until just this moment how much it had effected him, as well.

He slowed down, then stopped, taking a couple deep breaths to fight off a cold shiver. He told himself that he just needed to get a little perspective before rushing in, but the truth was he needed a minute to get steady again. His pulse had spiked in anticipation of what he would find, here, and memories of the fight three days ago were clamoring for attention in his mind. He pushed them away and focused on his objective.

The house stood at the center of a small glade atop a gentle slope. Shady trees surrounded the hill, providing a sense of isolation, though Ron knew the nearest neighbor was less than half a kilometer away. It was the neighbor who'd first brought the Order's attention to the house, he remembered.

She was a witch in her nineties, who said she didn't get out much any more. Members of the wizarding family who lived in the house on the hill had gotten in the habit of dropping by every other day or so to see if she needed anything from town, or any work done on her property. When three days in a row had passed with no visit, the kind old lady had become worried. She'd thought she heard some strange sounds echoing through the trees in that direction. These days you can't be too careful, she'd said, what with Death Eaters roaming around on You-Know-Who's command.

Someone in the upper echelons of the Order had agreed, and Ron, Harry and Hermione had pulled the mission. It sounded simple enough on parchment…apparate to the house just to check that everything was all right, but proceed with caution just in case it wasn't.

In fact, they'd disapparated right about here, at the base of the grade. The house was a focal point up on its hill, immediately drawing their attention. Looking at it now, Ron thought that it reminded him a little of the Burrow. Its construction was a bit rough, containing a hodgepodge of architectural styles. It wasn't quite as 'thrown together' as the Burrow looked, but Ron could glimpse the occasional turret jutting out, and wondered why the similarity hadn't occurred to him when last he'd been here.

Probably because you had enough on your mind already, he mused, or thought you did.

Ron had a hard time remembering just what he had been thinking of, three days ago. Before the horrifying events in the cellar of that house. Before Hermione was so traumatized that she suffered from nightmares. Before, when his best friend wasn't missing, maybe dead.

It was probably something about Hermione, he thought wryly. Merlin knew she was on his mind more often than not. But three days ago, all he'd really had to worry about was his lack of courage in regards to telling her how he felt. He kept meaning to, he really did. He wanted to.

He was at the point where he'd felt this way for so long that he couldn't stand it any more. He'd loved her for far longer than he'd even been aware of it. When it finally hit him at the end of sixth year, it hit hard. He'd spent all summer and most of the beginning of seventh year agonizing over his feelings before finally realizing that he needed to tell her so that he could move on, in one form or another. Even if she didn't feel the same way, and shot him down, at least then he'd know, and could stop obsessing over it. The problem was the whole 'getting shot down' possibility.

Because he really, really wanted her to feel the same way.

But then Hermione's parents had been murdered, and the war started. They'd been uprooted from their home-away-from-home, and everything changed overnight. Ron had never felt that it was the right time, and he secretly worried that there would never be a right time. There was always the next mission. There was always something more urgent occupying them. And now Harry was missing.

A fact that wasn't going to remedy itself, he thought. It was time to stop reflecting on the past, and do something about it.

He shook his head, took a deep breath, and started up the hill.

When he'd climbed it three days ago with his friends, he'd been struck – as he was now – by the shroud of silence that cloaked the clearing. Then, as now, he'd felt the hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck stand up. It was sort of the feeling he got whenever one of the ghosts at Hogwarts accidentally – or on purpose, in Peeves's case – flew through him. As though something otherworldly had happened here.

He supposed it was possible. There'd been no clear signs to say exactly what fate had befallen the witch and wizard of the house. Even after finding the children, after fighting the Death Eaters, the whereabouts of the parents had remained a mystery.

Ron was met at the top of the slope by the patchy, decimated lawn. There were great gaping holes in the ground from blasts of magic that had missed their mark, and he stepped around a single tree with low-slung branches as he headed toward the front door. Before he even reached the porch he could see the dried pools of blood there, tracking out from inside the house.

That would have been Harry's doing, he knew. His friend had led the threat out, away from Hermione and Ron in the cellar below, and Ron had to pause again to collect himself. He looked out over the view available from the house's location, procrastinating. He'd have to examine the yard. But before he could give it the attention it deserved, he had to make sure he was alone.

The weather in England being what it was, there'd been enough rainfall over the past three days to wash away the blood that had drenched the lawn. What he would find inside the house was a different matter altogether, and he was not looking forward to it. But Harry would have done absolutely no less for him, and so Ron turned without another thought and eased the front door open.

It came to rest against the inside wall, and Ron stood cautiously in the threshold for a moment, observing. Directly across from the open doorway he was confronted by a staircase leading up to the second level. To his right was the parlor, and the door on the opposite side of that room led to the kitchen. The door to the cellar was in the kitchen, he knew.

A stranger to the house might have assumed that there'd been a fire here. The scorch marks that were burned into the walls and nearly every other available surface lent credibility to that conjecture. Ron knew differently. Just like he knew that reddish brown hadn't been the parlor's original color scheme.

He knew that the scorch marks had their origin in magic, and that the walls were painted a sky blue beneath all the blood.

Three days ago it had still been dripping from the ceiling and trickling down the walls as he'd led Hermione and eight children out into the open air. Silence had greeted them outside. The battle between Harry and the Death Eaters had either ended, or been moved elsewhere. In any case, it wasn't safe to stay there with the children, and so they'd gotten out of there as quickly as possible.

Later, when he and Hermione had returned alone to search for their friend, the blood was thicker, congealing. They'd been able to find no sign of what happened, but had been pressed for time and Ron had had to drag Hermione away without them learning anything about what might've happened to Harry. Ron was hoping that now he might find something they'd missed.

He decided to start from the top and work his way down, and told himself that he wasn't avoiding the cellar. Gripping his wand tightly in one fist, he made his way slowly up the stairs. His back lightly brushed the wall as he probed into the shadow at the top, unsure of what to expect, design-wise. When they'd entered the house three days ago, they had split up to cover more ground, quickly. Ron had investigated the ground floor; Harry had gone down, and Hermione had gone up.

So it was with great caution that Ron extended his wand. His whisper was a scratch in the dark. "Lumos!"

Immediately a bright, white light shone from the end of his wand, illuminating a hallway that extended in two directions. Keeping his back firmly against one wall to eliminate the chance of an assailant surprising him from behind, Ron slid along the hallway down to his left.

As quietly as possible, Ron turned the knob on the first door. It swung inward, revealing a small child's bedroom. He stepped in. The whisper of the soles of his shoes on the soft, beige carpet was the only sound. He arced the beam of light from his wand around at the walls.

His eyes swept the room, noting the toys strewn across the floor, the brightly patterned curtains. And two bunk beds. A bedroom for several small children, he amended his mental account, and was once again reminded of the Burrow. This room didn't differ much from the room he'd shared with Fred, George and Ginny when they were all small children.

On the heels of that thought, he remembered that this was what Hermione would have seen.

That's how she knew to look for the children, he realized belatedly. He hadn't had time to wonder, before.

Their intel report had been sketchy, and so Ron and Harry had had no idea there might be children in the house until Hermione came racing down the stairs several minutes after going up, shouting for them to start looking for a bunch of kids. Their search had ultimately led them to a small crawlspace in the cellar. Ron knew he would go down there again, before he was done, but first he had to finish up here.

He reckoned that most of the other rooms on this level would be kid rooms, and he was right. He searched quickly, but thoroughly, and then headed back down to the ground floor.

His task was easier, here, as he was already familiar with the layout of the rooms. He checked the parlor, the dining room, and the parents' bedroom again before entering the kitchen. The marks of battle were less devastating here, and Ron concluded that it was because the Death Eaters had been surprised by the ferocity of Harry's defense. Almost the very moment that they'd been attacked in the cellar, Harry had fought back, forcing them to retreat up the stairs, away from his friends and the children they'd only just discovered hiding there. The Death Eaters had begun to retaliate in the kitchen, and had really started applying themselves in the parlor. But Harry had still managed to force them outside.

Ron stood at the top of the stairs leading down into the cellar, remembering. He remembered wanting to go after Harry, wanting to help. But by then Hermione had already ripped away the flat piece of wood that had served as a makeshift door to the crawlspace, and squeezed inside.

She'd been the only one small enough to do so, and had pointed that out, moments before, when Ron objected to letting her go in alone.

"I know they're in there, Ron," he remembered her saying. "They've been in there for three days, at least. They can't wait anymore. It may already be too late. I've got to go."

With that, she'd stood long enough to tear her jacket off and pull out her wand. Then she'd dropped down to all fours and proceeded to shimmy into the hole. Ron and Harry had exactly one beat to share a glance before the world exploded.

At the bottom of the stairs now, Ron stood in a nearly empty room. But he didn't see it. He was lost in the memory.

He heard a cough, then a grunt as Harry shoved himself to his feet. "Stupefy!" he heard his friend shout, and then sounds of a ruckus from the stairs. Belatedly, Ron realized that they'd been attacked. Their assailants came in the form of five Death Eaters, and all but one stood on the stairs that led to the kitchen. The fifth had collapsed after being hit by Harry's spell.

Ron shook his head groggily, one elbow bearing the weight of his torso as he tried to pick himself up off the floor. The dust in the cellar was thick after the Death Eaters' blast. He looked up to see Harry standing in front of him, his wand aimed at the men in black robes and masks.

His glasses were askew, and his hair and robes were in violent disarray, but he stood tall and defiant as he faced the menace. Raw power seemed to swell and surge in the air around him as he pointed his wand again. "Electrificus!" he shouted.

What looked like a bolt of lightening shot out of the tip of his wand, striking one of the Death Eaters square in the chest. The man flew backward, slamming into one of his fellows. The unfortunate second man was caught between his airborne comrade and the wall, and both fell to the floor, dazed from the impact.

Harry didn't pause to take in the results of his actions. He charged forward, casting more spells as quickly as he could say them. The Death Eaters were clearly taken by surprise. They managed to block most of Harry's charms, but they'd been put on the defensive, and were forced to retreat upstairs as Harry advanced. Ron moved to follow, but Harry's green eyes burned at him from the stairs.

"Stay!" Harry commanded as he got to the top. "Help Hermione!"

Ron clenched his fists, but turned back to the crawlspace. Hermione was just emerging, half carrying, half dragging a small body with her. Ron saw that it was a little girl, around three or four years old. She looked thin, and her cries were weak as she struggled to get away. Hermione shoved the little girl at him, panting. She seemed to be oblivious to the tears streaming down her face.

"Oh God, Ron…there are so many of them. And they scattered when they saw me. They're terrified and won't come to me. How are we ever going to get them all out?!"

"Hermione," he started, but she had already pressed herself back through the small gap in the wall. He could faintly hear her pleading with the children to come to her, promising she wouldn't hurt them. There was an edge of hysteria in her voice, and he tried not to think about what kind of hell she was facing, in there.

He felt frustrated, helpless. He heard crashes and cursing from the rooms above, and estimated that Harry and the Death Eaters were near the front door. He couldn't do this. He couldn't just sit here and let Harry face them all alone. He rose in one fluid movement, yanking his wand out. At his feet, the little girl started crawling madly toward the crawlspace, hiccuping with the force of her sobs.

Ron leaped after her, snatching her up just before she reached the opening. He cursed and spun around, holding her away from him. She kicked and screamed as if his touch seared her.

"Gotcha," he heard behind him, and then Hermione's panting grew more audible as she made her way back to her side of the entrance. Ron shoved his wand back in his pocket and transferred the little girl to that hand, freeing his other to take the next struggling child from his friend.

This one was older, about seven, and a boy. He punched blindly at Hermione, who stoically suffered the blows until Ron hauled him away by the back of the neck. When she met his eyes, he saw that her own were haunted. He opened his mouth to question her, but she backed away, disappearing once more into the crawlspace.

Ron was left holding two yowling children. They were so loud they drowned out the sounds of fighting overhead. Ron panicked. As long as there was fighting, he knew Harry was alive. He had to be able to hear.

In a desperate attempt to silence the children, he thrust them together in the corner. The young boy immediately wrapped an arm around his little sister and glared up at Ron defiantly. Ron fought the urge to glare back. It wasn't these kids' fault that their family had been targeted by Voldemort. It wasn't their fault that Harry was fighting the battle alone, or that he himself felt impotent to help. It wasn't their fault that Hermione was flirting with madness in order to save them.

But she was. That's what he'd seen in her eyes, he realized now. Whatever was inside that tight space, it was eating away at her sanity.

In the sudden silence he could hear the harsh sound of her breath, and scrabbling sounds from behind the walls as the children inside continued to evade her. It was a distinctly eerie sound, and Ron felt a shameful tug of desire to just get Hermione and go. They could take the children they had already, and go help Harry. Once they were out of here, they could send help back to get the others.

Then Hermione dragged herself into the cellar again, her face smeared with dirt and tears. Her eyes were red rimmed, and her hair was a nightmare, frizzed to the max and filled with dirt and cobwebs and sawdust. Her face was a mask of horror, and Ron knew it matched his own when he saw what she carried.

This one was also a little boy, maybe a year old. He lay limply in Hermione's arms, his head thrown back in unconsciousness. Light, fine blonde hair dusted the top of his head; the long lashes that rested atop his cheeks were a shade darker. His pudgy toddler's arms and legs dangled lifelessly, pulled down by gravity. He was so pale he appeared bloodless.

Not unconscious, Ron realized as the scent of decay filled his nostrils. Dead.

Hermione staggered forward, nearly making it to him before her legs gave out. She dropped to her knees with bone jarring force, but continued to cradle the dead infant, as if trying to cushion him from harm.

Ron cast a quick glance at the two kids in the corner, making sure they were still there. They continued to huddle together. He crouched in front of Hermione, reaching out to her.

"I'm sorry," he heard her whisper. "I'm so sorry I wasn't in time to save you."

Ron felt his own eyes sting as Hermione sniffed, failing in her attempt to hold back the tears. Then she very gently laid the body down. "I'm sorry," she said again, "but I can't help you, now. We've got to save the ones we can."

Ron watched her, sharing in her grief. He watched as she pulled herself together, because there was no choice. She sobbed, but never hesitated before plunging back into the blackness.

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to scrub away the memory and failing. It reminded him of the night the Death Eaters had attacked Hogwarts, and how his recollection of those events would forever be locked away in his brain.

He'd never forget the way Hermione had looked, infused with that unbearable sorrow, and then putting it away. She'd had to, to do what needed to be done. Even as he'd carefully moved the body, covered it, he felt himself tumble that last little bit in love with her. He'd watched her face that darkness alone, over and over again, and knew for sure then that no one else could ever be to him what Hermione was. No one else would ever measure up.

By the time she'd emerged with the last child, sounds of the battle overhead had reached epic proportions. Ron had had his hands full minding the eight (eight, for Merlin's sake!) live children Hermione'd hauled out of purgatory with her. She was weary to the bone, and he could see it. "Hermione, come on!" he remembered shouting. "There can't be any more. Let's go!"

"I can't," she'd cried. "What if there are more? It'll kill me if we don't get them all!"

Needing to be sure, she'd thrown herself once more into the abyss.

But that had been all of them, Ron remembered, except for the one they hadn't been in time to save. And by the time he and Hermione had led them upstairs and to the front door, the sounds of the conflict outside had ceased.

He dully looked around the now-empty room. Dumbledore must have sent someone after receiving their owl, because the child's corpse had been removed. The stench of death, however, remained.

He'd had enough. He hadn't come here to remember, anyway. He'd come to find answers, and he wouldn't find them down here.

Ron mounted the stairs that led to the kitchen, and closed the cellar door firmly behind him. Now that he knew he was alone at the house, he could devote his attention to the signs of combat outside.

He made his way one last time through the grisly living room, and inhaled a deep breath of fresh air outside. Rain clouds were threatening overhead and dusk was about an hour off, so he knew he must be quick. He'd lost a lot of time using the Floo network to get to a safe enough distance from the mansion before he could apparate here, and he'd lose more getting back.

He spared a brief thought for Hermione…wondering what she was doing right now, and hoping that she wouldn't be too angry with him when he returned. Even more, he hoped that by then he'd have some answers for her.

Seeking those answers, Ron gave his attention to the marks of battle on the lawn. There were scores of deep cuts upon it where slices of the ground had been obliterated. They looked like wounds upon the earth. He crouched down beside one. A small pool of water had collected at the bottom from rainfall, but he could still determine from the slopes of the hole what angle the blast had penetrated from. He looked up, trying to place the origin of the magic and envision what had happened, here.

There were dozens of gashes of this sort scattered all across the lawn, and he decided that the greatest concentration of them would be where Harry was standing. He'd had five Death Eaters dueling him at once, after all. And that would explain why the opposite side of the yard contained far fewer blemishes. One person could only throw so much magic.

Ron clenched his eyes shut. Don't think about it. You can't help Harry by blaming yourself for not being up here with him. Help him by figuring out what happened.

The only problem was the distressing lack of evidence. Ron moved to stand amid a cluster of gouges, where Harry must have been standing. He looked around, but saw nothing new from this vantage point. He noted that the one tree dotting the lawn hadn't escaped the bursts of magic flying back and forth across the yard, either. A large smudge of black on one side of the tree indicated a blast gone awry. The bark had been scorched away; some still lay charred at the base of the trunk.

Ron looked harder. There was something else there, half-buried beneath the cinders. Something red. He kicked into a jog as he started over toward it.

He was halfway to the tree when suddenly the air around him took on the distinctive, familiar feeling of atmosphere being displaced. There was an instant of stifling suction that abruptly released when the glade depressurized, and then a loud POP! as someone disapparated directly in front of him.

Not just someone.

A Death Eater.