Chapter II: Midnight Musings

It's 12:32, and for some reason I just can't fall asleep.

My mind is filled with thoughts, fluttering about too fast for me to catch one. That brings back memories of First Year and the whole Sorcerer's Stone ordeal, and Flitwick's room of charmed keys, glittering and darting from wall to wall. One thought stands out among the rest, like the crippled key that led to McGonagal's chess set.

Voldemort.

God, Ron. There are so many feelings attached to him. Uncertainty, disbelief, horror, fury, confusion, dread, fear . . .

Yes, fear. Would you believe it? I'm scared. I'm scared as hell, and not stupid enough to believe that hero always lives, not stupid enough to believe that nothing tragic could ever happen to me again, not stupid enough to believe in some mystical power inherited from the Potter line that will save me from certain death. Not stupid enough anymore.

Besides, it's not me I'm worried about. It's my family that I worry about.

I worry about Professor Dumbledore. Sure, he may be one of the most powerful wizards of our time. And he may have defeated Grindelwald. And he may be the only thing Voldemort fears.

But, despite all this, he's only human. One day, he will die—that thought makes me panicky, but it is true. And I'm afraid that when he does, the world will fall apart. Because he is a pillar of strength. He is a reminder that we shouldn't let anyone control our lives. He is the one person everyone respects, in some way or another. He stands strong and never falters, and the wizarding world is held together by the knowledge that such a powerful person exists. His job may be harder than mine. And I'm afraid if he dies, panic will rise. He's always been really nice to me, too . . . I wouldn't want him anywhere but Hogwarts . . .

I worry about Hogwarts. Hogwarts, like Dumbledore, is a comforting thought, a place to think of when you need to be cheered, because Hogwarts is safe, safer even than Gringotts. To the parents of the students, Hogwarts is the safest place their children, a safe hold and one less thing to worry about. To the children, Hogwarts is like a second home, and their friends as close as if they were brothers and sisters.

If Hogwarts is destroyed, the future of the wizarding world lies untrained, scared, and holed up in their homes with their parents torn between helping the cause and saving their children. Friendships and love will die on the spot.

I worry about our friends. Seamus, Dean, Neville, Ginny, Fred, George . . . I worry about them more than is necessary. Every time Seamus and Dean are playing exploding snap, I wonder if it'll be the last game they play. Whether they know how much they mean to each other. Like you and me . . . I wonder how many times Seamus will ever laugh again, and I wonder when Dean's drawings will start to be sad.

Every time Fred and George pull a prank, I wonder if it will be their last. What would we do without their jokes? If something happens, will the Gryffindor Common Room be silent where once there was laughter? They're my surrogate brothers—what would I do without them?

Every time Neville loses a point, I try to smile at him reassuringly in fear we've ignored him too much. He's always so quiet. Have we been good friends to him? I want to make sure we have, because it might get too late.

And every time your sister looks at me, I worry about whether she'll ever get to experience any of life. We're all so young, and yet some of us are too old . . . maybe in the future, they'll call us the children of the War.

I worry about whether anything will ever be the same.

I worry about Sirius. I feel so angry when I think about him. He's been cheated of most of his life, what with thirteen years in Azkaban, and three years running from the law. And, now, even though his name's never been cleared, he's an adamant fighter on the side of the Light, who betrayed him once already.

He's the only father I've ever known . . . he's always there when I need him the most. What will I do if something happens to him . . . ?

I worry about Hermione. God, Ron, I worry about her so badly. Every time I look at her and imagine what might happen to her, I nearly cry. I love her, like a sister, and I'm not sure I could live without her. She's like an extension of me, an extension of you, and we are extensions of her, because the three of us have formed a bond so tight and close it's unbreakable.

Our Hermione . . . our sweet Hermione. To others, she may be a know-it-all, and a stuck up muggle-born who studies too much, but to me, and to you . . . she is so much more. She is as fast as quicksilver when she wants to be, and brilliantly smart. She knows just when you and I need her and just when we want to be left alone. She has a wry sense of humor and knows how to get what she wants in a firm, forceful way. She has such a warmth to her, such a love of life . . . and, hell, Ron, she's a part of me. I . . . I don't know what I'd . . . do . . .

But most. Most I worry about you.

I have nightmares, you know. Nightmares filled with horror, terror, blood, and desperation, nightmares filled with primal panic, and nightmares filled with screams and screams and screams. Wizards' screams, muggles' screams, my screams. They are nearly always different, and when I wake up, the only thing I can remember is the screams and the scent of fear, thick and heavy in the air. But the worst nightmares I always remember, because they are always the same . . .

In the worst nightmares, everyone is dead or dying on the ground. The earth herself has been torn apart at the seams, and dust chokes the air while the ground shakes with tremors. The sky is blood-red, as if the blue river of dawn has been overrun by blood. I am bleeding, too, but I don't pay any attention, because I am wading through a sea of bodies toward Voldemort. I've cried all my tears, because everyone I care about is dead except for you, and the only thing that matters is finding you. I struggle through the dying, searching every face for yours, fear that you have died welling up in my heart . . .

Then, I am suddenly I am there; where you are, that is. Voldemort turns his blood-eyes toward me, smiles, then throws back his head and laughs; a high, cruel laugh that brings back memories of fleeting green light. You are unconscious in his arms.

All I can do is stand there.

You look for all the world like a lifeless doll. Your skin is waxy and pale, and your hair is stringy, soaked in blood and sweat and plastered to your forehead. I want to leap forward, take you in my arms and hide you away from the world, but I can't move. As I watch, your eyes open, but instead of beautiful blue, I see red, red, red. Blood. All I can think is /Ron Ron Ron/ but I am a statue, unmoving.

"Harry," you croak, and then everything speeds up as Voldemort snaps your back in two, throws you on the ground and laughs, laughs, laughs, and I'm screaming, screaming so loud I'm filling the blood red sky with my anguish and yet my heart is still an endless abyss . . .

If . . . if something happened to you, Ron . . . I would rather be dead.

Along with my fear, which is always there and probably always will be, lurking in a corner of my mind, there is confusion, blind confusion. I just don't understand sometimes why someone would want to kill so many people. Why would someone be so angry? Why would someone do the things he does? I get so frustrated sometimes, Ron, because I just don't get it.

I always feel so damn useless. Really, all the "Boy-Who-Lived", Hero, Harry Potter junk isn't me at all. And most of the times I've met Voldemort, it's been luck, Dumbledore, you and Hermione that got me alive and in one piece. I don't know what they expect me to do, and I can't see how I'm helping at all.

12:33. I turn away from the clock and close my eyes with a sigh. Dumbledore sent his letter awhile after I sent yours, and he gave me his permission to go to The Burrow, but I'm too exhausted to be excited.

'Night. I love you.

I've gotten and hour's sleep in the course of the night, and now it's four in the morning, and for some reason I have all my stuff packed and I'm waiting on the curb for the Knight Bus.

I must be crazy, absolutely mad to be out here this early, but instead of worrying me, as this should, it makes me smile giddily. When the 'Bus gets here, I'll be headed for your house, and I don't care if I have to wait on your doorstep until someone wakes up, as long as I can see you later.

I really missed you. I missed seeing you. Your sheepish look, the one you get when Hermione scolds you; you look down, shuffle your feet and look awkward and embarrassed and so cute. And your "crafty" look, where you narrow you eyes and try to look like a detective but end up looking so silly. And your innocent look, when you widen your eyes just so and look up with such a surprised air I almost believe you. And your smile. Your smile is like sunshine, no matter how cliche that sounds. It warms me from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. It makes me want to laugh with joy to see you so happy . . .

The 'Bus rumbles up out of nowhere, and I stand up, hopping on my foot to wake it up, and trying to ignore the pins and needles. I snatch up my bags and Hedwig's cage (earning a reproachful look from amber eyes) as the door opens, and I bound inside.

"Tha'll be firteen sickles, laddy," the driver tells me with a toothless smile. I hand the money over and collapse on one of the beds.

Several jolts and a sick passenger later, the driver calls out, "The Burrow!" and I leap off the bed in anticipation. (Or maybe it was the sudden stop . . . ) I haul my bags off the 'Bus and there it is.

Every time I see your house, I think/ Home/. With it hobbledy-cobbledy look, its cozy chimneys, and the homely garden, it looks like heaven to me. And you know what's even better?
You're inside, sleeping peacefully.

I make my way through the darkness and settle down on your stoop happily to wait for the sun to rise.

I love you so much.