Disclaimer: see prologue.

Chapter Nine: "Sins of the Father"

One day earlier…

Forty-four-year-old Ronald Weasley knocked lightly on the door of his eldest son's flat. He waited. No answer.

Brynn was supposed to have shown up at Grimmauld Place two hours ago with their information, but he hadn't. This wasn't like Brynn at all. Ron had been worried about him lately; well, that wasn't exactly accurate. He had always been worried about Brynn, more so than Ste, at least. Ste had never had any problems making friends or finding his niche… or being happy. Not like Brynn.

Ever since Raleigh had died Brynn had been different. Ron had changed too, but Ron had been a grown man. It wasn't fair to Brynn, who had only been a small child at the time of his mother's passing. Ever since she had died… Brynn had been more jaded, more aloof, he kept more to himself. And for a child of a mere nine years at the time, that was certainly saying something. Brynn had always seemed like he was… searching for something, for lack of better phraseology. And Ron often thought that if Brynn kept looking so hard, he would never find what he was searching for.

He knocked again. No answer. Now he was really worried.

"Alohamora," he muttered. The door swung open.

Ron was not expecting to see what was before him. He warily stepped inside and surveyed the small flat. It was obviously abandoned, and there were papers and random household items scattered all over the floor, as if Brynn hadn't left on his own accord.


"Ron, are you absolutely sure he wasn't there? Did you check everywhere?" Harry demanded.

"Yes," Ron sighed. "I'm sure… He wasn't there, Harry." He was in the dining room of the Order's headquarters, Grimmauld Place, with one of his best friends. Hermione, his other best friend, had left moments ago. Urgent business, she had said.

Ron sat at the table, facing the bologna sandwich that Hermione had made him before she left, but food had never been further from his mind.

"Damn it!" Harry pounded his fist on the table angrily, causing Ron's tea to spill. "Oh, sorry," he apologized feebly as he picked up the pieces of the cup. "Reparo," he muttered.

"It's all right, mate. I wasn't planning on drinking it anyway, and now at least when 'Mione gets back she'll think I did." He chuckled wryly. He was quiet for a moment, contemplating what to say next. "This is my fault."

"What?" Harry's head snapped up. "What's your fault?"

Ron shrugged, not looking his friend in the eye. "We don't know where Brynn went. We don't know who his 'source' was. If I had asked him, if I had made him tell me, then maybe we'd…"

"Ron, you have simply got to stop blaming yourself for everything," Harry sighed. "Brynn's an adult; he doesn't have to tell you anything if he doesn't want to, despite how you feel about it. And besides, we'll find him. Thins will work out, they always do." Harry rubbed his temples wearily. "In the meantime, why don't you write to Ste? Tell him what's happening. Maybe it's not the wisest decision, but I think he's old enough to know what's going on with his own brother."