For What It's Worth

by CescaLR

Being on the outs with your best mate is not something Ron recommends. Slow-Burn Harry/Ron, One-sided temporary Ron/Hermione, background Hermione/Viktor, among others. Ensemble cast. Ron POV (Third Person Limited).

A/N: Hello, long time no see, right? Sorry about that. This is something I've been working on over on AO3 for a while now, and it's part and parcel of why some of my fanfics on here are taking so long to continue.

AO3 original notes: Fun fact: these first two chapters were originally supposed to only be one... then I realised they were collectively 29945 words long. When. How. What.

So... uh... I split them in two.

A/N: narrator voice - She did not, in fact, split them in two. Whoops.

---

There's Something Here (In The Shadowed Corners... The Magic That Creeps It's Way Inside.)

Chapter Summary;

"Nobody's been right since we got here," Ron said. "Harry more than most, though."

"Me too," Ginny said. "I'm just better at hiding it."

---

Being on the outs with your best mate isn't exactly something that Ron recommends.

Oh, sure, it's his own bloody fault. His own bloody fault for being so stubborn, so quick to judge and decide and condemn, his own bloody fault for being so merlin-be-damned hot-headed.

He's heard it from Hermione countless times, and even if he pretends not to listen or gets red-eared and a little too foul-mouthed for her tastes (her upper class, Wilmslow, private school tastes, or so she's – well, really Harry's – told him. It must be a muggle thing-) about it when she brings it up, he's not that stupid, alright, he knows he buggered up big time.

The thing is – they'd talked about it. Fantasied, really, about winning, what they'd do, y'know, how things'd go. Never really thought about the fact that they both wouldn't be champions, because, well, it's a fantasy, ain't it? Not s'posed to be realistic.

And then Harry's name goes and comes out of the goblet. And Ron hadn't acted rationally, alright, he'd been a right git about it.

It's just – Ron knows, really, that Harry wouldn't want the glory. Blimey, he already gets flustered about Creevey's hero worship, the extra 'eternal glory' wouldn't be something he'd handle very well.

But it's just – they'd talked about it. Shared ways they thought might work about getting past the age line. And Ron knows, alright, he knows that Harry wouldn't try without him (or Hermione or both of them) there, yeah, he knows that.

But, well, Ron's fourteen, and that's got to be taken into account, too, he reckons. That's what his mum said, anyway, about them all. Teenage years are the most frustrating, for both the teenager and the parent. Mood-swings and poor decision making and all that.

Ron was kind of – well, he was always jealous, a little, of Harry. Maybe not jealous – envious, perhaps – definitely, really. A little of his fame, a little of his money, a little of how everyone at least appeared – their second year proved how fickle that appearance truly was - to like him.

A little incredulous, sometimes. Harry had all this money, Ron knows for a fact that he has it, and he still walks around in those castoffs that are, at best, three sizes too big (from a cousin many years younger), glasses with spellotape around the bridge that he'd never removed even after Hermione fixed them (twice), and never buys anything for himself, ever, not really. Even if he wants it, he'll stare at it, guiltily, and move on.

Ron wishes he could have money to hoard like that. Money to save up and fix their house and get wards on the twins' bedroom so that their experiments don't threaten to break the house into little pieces every five minutes. Then, maybe, he'd get himself a new broom, and Ginny could finally redecorate from that bright, glaring pink she's had since she was four, and they could extend the farm and get some more stuff so they didn't have to rely on sometimes-maybe confunding the farmer's market down in the muggle village to get enough fresh food to last if their crop yield is bad, since you can't transfigure food.

The chickens are always good, though. They… eat a lot of eggs.

But anyway, back to the main point.

Being on the outs with your best mate isn't fun. Ron doesn't recommend it.

Ron sighed and stared up at his canopy. Seamus was snoring, as always, and Neville was doing the same. Dean was either sleeping or drawing or scrambling to finish homework – as Ron couldn't hear snores from his bed, but then, the boy didn't snore anyway, so it was generally pretty hard to tell what he was doing.

And Harry wasn't in bed. Ron knew this because Harry had been in the common room, in the corner, sitting on the armchair next to the fire last he saw him.

Nobody had been on the couch, or the other armchair. They all gave Harry a wide berth. Hermione sent disapproving glances in all directions, but her expression was tinged with guilt, and Ron felt uncomfortable if he looked at her face for too long when she was like that.

After all, he was the reason for it. He felt guilty for feeling almost glad that she wanted to hang around him still, after how he's dealt with things so far, but maybe she's just there because – Ron doesn't know.

He kind of hopes – nevermind.

Ron sighed, stared up at his canopy. Harry wasn't in bed, and Ron had it on good authority – that of being the boy-who-lived's best mate, even if that title was in dubious standing right now – the other young teenager wouldn't come up at all if someone didn't do something.

And Hermione wouldn't know. Knowing Harry, he'd have lied to give her peace of mind.

Ron sighed, again. He grunted, annoyed, and got out of bed, walked downstairs. This had happened just last week, and Ron was pretty sure he'd interrupted a chat between Harry and Sirius, and honestly, he feels pretty bad about that, but there wasn't really much that could be done.

He was still angry, though. Ron isn't going down to make up. That would mean admitting he was wrong.

No way.

Angry's the wrong word. Maybe not. Ron know's he's got a temper. Maybe he's a little angry at himself, too.

Ron exits the staircase, and Harry's there, just as Ron had thought he'd be. He's sitting on that same armchair, and really, it dwarfs him, though that's not too hard in the first place.

It just – it kind of emphasises how alone he looks.

Ron's not worried. Nope.

"You're still up then," Ron says, and it comes out gruffer than – but that was good, because they were arguing, and Ron wasn't about to apologise.

This tournament killed people. Hermione had said it enough times for it to be seared into his brain. This tournament killed people.

Harry was in it.

Ron was not, at all, he was vehemently not worried.

Ron was not very good at dealing with being worried. Harry could die in this tournament, and Ron couldn't be there like in first year, third year, couldn't even be as useless as he'd been in second.

It was frustrating. Ron was frustrated, and he didn't really like the feeling. Why would you, after all, really?

Harry was on the armchair, and he hadn't responded yet. He was sitting there, in pyjama bottoms and that old-ish Weasley jumper Ron's mum had made for him because Ron had sent home a letter about the fact that he doesn't get any presents at Christmas he never gets them, mum, what do I do two days before the event itself –

"Evidently," Harry said, tone dry.

They aren't friends right now. Ron should just go back upstairs, but that would look – ugh.

Ron wishes things could be more simple than this. He's really not used to feeling so conflicted and he doesn't know what to do, but he's not eleven anymore. He can't just write home about it, because that would be embarrassing, first off, and because he can deal with this, alright, and Ron knows he's shown no signs of having any fucking clue about how to deal with this, but maybe Hermione might let something slip that he can use to do… something.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

Not hopefully. They aren't friends right now, let alone best mates.

Ron should really just go upstairs again. Run away with his tail between his legs, like the coward he really is, deep down.

Right now, Harry and this whole situation might as well be a large group of spiders. Ron really does not want to confront that, thanks.

"Well?" Harry asked. "You just going to stand there?"

Ron scowled, felt his ears redden and felt annoyance at the betrayal. Stupid, annoying, unhelpful reactions to frustrating, confusing, awkward emotions.

Ron settled for sullen, as he'd been doing so often, lately. It wasn't exactly gaining him many friends, but that was fine. He sort of had Hermione, and Dean and Seamus didn't mind if he talked to them (when Harry was around, in a rather petty way of trying to show that he wasn't affected by this, and his own decision had actually been a good one, which it wasn't, but that was fine, Ron wasn't telling anyone else that) so whatever.

Still. Ron was attempting to at least be fit for the title of Gryffindor, if nothing else, so he lifted his head and walked over to the couch and sat down.

"Great," Harry said, and he sounded just as sullen. He's got that worn old copy of Quidditch Throughout the Ages Hermione borrowed from the library back in first year and leant to him that Harry never gave back, or returned, and Pince is probably out for his blood about that, but really, Ron knows Harry couldn't care much less about that, because, well, he likes the book. And it's not really stealing, just… extended borrowing.

It's a library, after all, right?

"Well, I couldn't sleep," Ron said, and he felt angry at the fact he had to explain himself, but whatever, who cares. It's his own damn fault. "And how was I to know you were still down here?" He demanded.

It wasn't the right thing to say, of course. Not even remotely what he wanted to say, either, but Ron had never been good at either of those two things and he likely never will be.

It's a flaw.

Ron is not working on that, he's just… kind of aware of it.

"Well, the fact that I hadn't come up to the dorm at any point should have tipped you off," Harry said, "Though I guess, I mean, I guess that expects you to be more observant than you actually are." He's being snarky like Harry is to people like Malfoy and Snape and those muggles of his.

Ron clenched one of his hands into a fist – the one Harry (hopefully) couldn't see.

It's not nice to be lumped in with that lot. But, well, Hermione's voiced her opinion on that, and Ron kind of figures – given what she's said, and all – that he… deserves it. A bit.

"Well," Harry says, and he's pursing his lips and his eyes are narrowed, and Ron – isn't a fan of being on the receiving end of that expression. It's not exactly what he's used to, is all, but Ron figures he should get used to it.

They're not friends right now, after all. Ron made sure of that.

"I'm reading," Harry said. "And if I remember correctly, that bores you to death. So how about you go back upstairs and leave me alone, yeah?"

Ron doesn't have anything to say to that.

He doesn't leave, though. He just leans back in the couch, unclenches his hand, and stares at the fire some more.

"Fine," Harry says. His free hand is tugging at the end of his slightly-too-big still jumper (his Mum always makes them bigger than is really needed… plus, Harry's a scrawny git – well, not a git, but you know what... never mind - ) and Ron knows that's from feelings he won't voice. "Stay. Whatever."

He reopens his book.

They're as stubborn as each other, really. Ron kind of figures he'll crack first, if only because he knows he's the one in the wrong (ha, take two letters away and you get his name, fancy that) and what have you, but that's not tonight.

Not by a long shot.

Ron leans forward and sets up the chess set that's on the low table – coffee table, Hermione calls it – and starts playing a game against the sentient pieces of the other side.

"Really?" Harry says.

"Yeah." Ron returns, short. "What of it?"

"Nothing." Harry bites out, turns a page in his book. Ron's pretty sure he isn't actually reading it, and when Ron loses two pawns in quick succession, he knows he's not concentrating and that this might be a match he's actually going to lose.

Fuck. He's not losing to a bunch of sentient chess pieces because he and Harry aren't really, y'know, friendly right now, Merlin's beard.

Neither of them says anything about it, of course. That would acknowledge the fact that they're not paying attention to their own things but rather warily eying each other, and isn't that just sad, really.

Ron returns his lax attention to the chess game, as much as he can. The most he can manage is a stalemate, and he feels distinctly off-kilter.

Harry's the first to get up. He doesn't say anything, he just leaves the room, goes upstairs. Ron plays another game, gives the other time, and then goes upstairs himself.

Harry's in bed, curtains drawn. Dean's getting back into bed (likely from a late-night trip to the loo) and he catches Ron's eye.

"Made up yet?" Dean asks. Ron glowers at him for an answer, gets back into his own bed and – as much as you can – slams his curtains shut himself.

"Guess not," Dean mutters to himself, but Ron can hear it loud and clear over Seamus and Dean's snores.

Harry probably can, too.

---

They'd made up after the dragon, sort of. In the tent. Ron tried apologising but Harry just grinned at him and okay, Ron can work with that, that's much preferred to talking things through, being all sappy and shit.

Hermione had done her usual eye roll and accompanying 'boys', which was whatever, really. If she wanted to do that, that was fine, it was just kind of annoying that she berated him if he did similarly regarding girls – more bewilderment, truthfully, than (what coming from her seems like) exasperation - but whatever.

Over the last four years, Ron assumed Dean and Seamus and Neville had gotten used to Hermione barging in. At least, she'd never managed to barge in when they were changing, thank Merlin.

So when she barged in, yammering at Harry about a book she'd found that could help with the egg, and Ron sat up, rubbed at his eyes blearily and caught Harry's tired gaze, rolled his eyes, and Harry grinned slightly, shrugging, Ron was pretty sure he heard a 'finally' coming from somewhere, but he didn't really care to look.

"Merlin, woman," Seamus complained. He always did that, likely because he slept in his boxers and had to hide away under the canopy until she left. "Must you at this time?"

"You'll be late for breakfast," Hermione said, snappishly, as she always did, "It's half seven."

"Really?" Dean groaned into his pillow, sighed, and sat up. Dean didn't wear a t-shirt to bead, but he wore everything else (pyjama bottoms, socks) so he didn't have to worry too much.

Hermione muttered a spell and Dean's shirt flung itself at him. "Honestly," she sighed. "Can none of you keep to alarms?"

"Nope," Harry said, and he seemed a lot more cheerful now than he had for a while.

"Funny you say that since you're the exception," Seamus groused. "Blimey, mate, you've gotten up at six am automatically since forever."

"Ingrained," Hermione said, under her breath, and there was that guilty, disapproving frown again. Ron's stomach churned, and he grimaced. "Now, get dressed," She glowered at them all in turn – especially the two she was actually here for; Ron and Harry. Harry and Ron.

They were friends again. Best mates, and all that.

As sappy as it sounds... it was nice.

"Alright, alright," Ron says, and Hermione smiles at him, at them; her friends, nods and turns on her heel, strides out of the room.

Harry's expression is peculiar when Ron glances at him, but it changes easily and quickly into a sort-of smile, the genuine kind, and Ron shrugs in response, gets up, and goes to the bathroom.

This could have gone a lot worse, all things considered. Ron knows it probably should have, that it would if Harry wasn't as – Ron's not sure of the word. Lenient, maybe, when it comes to his friends and their mistakes.

Yeah. Lenient. That fit. Ron didn't quite deserve it, he figured, but he was glad nonetheless.

It was nice, having his best friend back, is all. Ron wasn't going to say that out loud, of course, and neither was Harry.

'boys', Hermione had said, yet again, with that always-accompanying eye-roll, last night during the celebration, and Ron figured she had as much trouble understanding them as he did her, or really girls in general. And when she didn't understand something, she really didn't like it, and she shoved that under a fair bit of disdain; like with Divination and flying. She was much better than Ron or Harry about the whole 'feelings' thing, but, Ron could tell, not really by that much. It just seemed like a lot because they were both so crap at it.

Well, whatever. Ron was most definitely going to try harder this year, he was.

---

And… He ballsed it up again.

Ron didn't know what he expected of himself, really. When the Yule Ball had first been mentioned, he'd had this vague pit of dread form in the bottom of his stomach somewhere, and that was tenfold now it was so close, especially because he didn't actually have a date.

Maybe he'd expected that he'd at least be able to ask Hermione without making an arse of himself, but apparently not.

Harry had, though silently, attempted to stop him. And, yeah, Ron could probably smack himself for what he'd said – there goes his usual lack of tact – but, well, he wasn't going to.

She didn't have a date. She was lying; why else would she hide who it was from them? They were her best friends, really if he's honest her only friends, so it's not like they don't know other stuff that's probably more embarrassing or incriminating or what have you. Who her date to the Yule Ball pales in comparison to brewing illegal Polyjuice potion in the girl's lavatory in second-year, after all.

Ron tries not to think about it. Tries not to think about how he would have actually kind of liked going with Hermione. After breakfast, Harry pats him on the shoulder and gets up, Ron mentally sighs, and they leave for their first lesson.

Hermione pointedly sits with Neville – not that she doesn't do this a lot; the desks are in pairs, after all, and Neville's kind of the odd-one-out of their yeargroup, so when Harry and Hermione pair up Ron has to go with him, and when Hermione and Ron pair up it's Harry's turn, and what have you – but it's kind of frustrating, and Ron's ears redden, he can feel that tell-tale burn and he blames it on anger.

It's easier than what it might actually be because Ron really doesn't deal with embarrassment well.

---

Harry somehow manages to pull off a miracle, and they have dates to the Yule Ball. It's the Patil girls; Parvati and Padma, and for the life of him Ron can't quite remember which one's his date until they're standing right in front of each other and she's eying his robes with obvious disdain.

Oh, great. So she was snobbish about that, was she? Wonderful. It wasn't like Ron already felt awful walking around in these things that smell like his great aunt, old and musty and kind of perfumed in a really, really bad way, but whatever.

"Well, come on then." She said, after McGonagall showed up and told them to go inside already (not her words exactly, but the sentiment of them) and Ron sort-of gestured goodbye to Harry – who did similarly but with an accompanying acknowledging noise as he stared apprehensively at the doors to the Great Hall and Parvati stared at him with a mix of admiration and wariness – and then Padma linked arms with Ron rather forcefully and strode into the hall, found them good seats so they could see the procession of the champions and their dates.

Maybe Ron could find Hermione after, apologise, in the way she'd told him to regarding Harry but that Harry hadn't apparently wanted. Merlin, this sort of thing was confusing. Ron didn't really want to apologise, but he knew it was his own fault.

Again.

---

Hermione came with Viktor Krum and didn't tell them.

Ron felt an irrational anger focused on both participants. He knew now they were probably unofficially dating, and whatever. She was happy, and Ron had to go and ruin it – but he was right! Krum was seventeen and she was fifteen, he was way too old for her, and though laws about that in the wizarding world weren't exactly taught, you kind of just knew fifteen-year-olds shouldn't date seventeen-year-olds. Even just given how they look, there's so much difference in maturity.

Merlin knows Ron's a mess, really. He can't imagine being this age's much easier for Hermione, given that she's a girl.

(Y'know… well, his mum sat them all down – separately - at various points to teach them about this stuff. She'd told Ron about that stuff partially because he had a sister, partially because she didn't want him to freak out too much when he had a girlfriend, and partially because his second best mate was, well, female. Point is, Ron knows way more than he'd ever want to. About that.)

Still, though. Viktor Krum? Couldn't it have been anyone else? Ron idolised the guy, and now he was dating his second-best-friend, and Ron doesn't really know what to think about that.

Fucking hell, he had an action figure, he supported Bulgaria in the World Kup, he had one old-ish, worn poster in his room on the left wall of that very team with Krum fucking front and centre, he had copies of Quidditch Weekly – free from the store with any purchase of anything, they got them with food and drink they couldn't farm - that had his ugly mug plastered across the cover in bright technicolour, moving and scowling and occasionally smiling ever so slightly, and Ron didn't really know what to do. He didn't want to burn them, but he didn't want to have them, though really, he wanted to keep them and forget about this whole debacle, but that wasn't happening.

Great.

Ron defaced his action figure at the first possible chance and regretted it immediately. He'd paid for that, for one. And – well, he liked having it. It was cool. He shoved that feeling down, threw it across the room, and – once again – attempted to slam his canopy curtains shut.

He sits on his bed, arms resting on his knees. Ron had been reading the quidditch weekly they'd been sent that Ginny had read last week; it was old news, but it was interesting, and the Cannons' chances were looking up.

Probably. Maybe. In all likelihood, no, but a guy can dream.

Anyway, there Krum's face was, yet again, plastered across the cover in tacky tabloid fashion. It wasn't a tacky tabloid, though, it was a sports newspaper, it just liked the muggle way of doing things that ended up looking a bit trashy, is all.

Ron couldn't exactly deface this either because he needed to give it to the twins next week and he really needed to finish reading that segment about the new manager for the Cannons, but Ron wasn't really in the mood. An interview with Krum was on the page after, and Ron wouldn't be able to think about anything else, because the guy was dating Hermione, and he couldn't even say her name properly!

And it wasn't that hard. Her-my-on-e. if Ron can manage, a seventeen-year-old accomplished wizard, seeker for Bulgaria and Triwizard Champion shouldn't have much trouble, especially since Ron was pretty sure it wasn't even an English name in the first place, and the guy could speak pretty good English for someone who wasn't a native speaker, so figuring out how to say some foreign name shouldn't be that hard.

And he was seventeen! An adult. Hermione was not an adult. That can't be good.

She was fifteen, sure. Ron knew that. A year older than the rest of them. Birthday in September. But still!

Ron scowled at nothing and opened the magazine-newspaper-whatever to the right page, ignored the small picture of Krum in the corner, and read. He wasn't going to let it bother him, he wasn't, Ron just really didn't like Krum, and he really was not happy with Hermione.

She could have told them. If she was worried about fame or whatever, well, her best friend was Harry Potter. If she thought they'd tell or something, she was bonkers.

---

Ron kind of figured out he was jealous on his own, thanks, but Harry told him anyway, sat across from him cross-legged at the end of Ron's bed. They had the egg sitting there innocuously between them, and Harry had been glaring at it for a solid minute after they lapsed into silence, after they'd exhausted all the possibilities they could think of and the silencios they'd cast over the bed so as not to wake the others broke.

Harry cast it again. "Silencio," he said, quietly, with wand movements close enough to right that it didn't matter they were a little stiff, a little off, with enough power behind it that Ron could sort-of feel the buzzing nature of a silencing spell forced into a sort-of ward shape settle over his skin.

"You're jealous., Harry said. Ron blinked at the non sequitur, then registered what he'd meant by it.

"No, I'm not," Ron denied, tone sullen. Harry's lips twitched, and Ron granted it was probably warranted.

"Alright," Harry said, easily. He was like that – let things slide if it was obvious the other person wasn't comfortable. Unless he didn't like them, like with Snape or Malfoy, in which case he tended to push his luck a little, but Harry seemed to have a good head on his shoulders about when to stop before he went too far and got into too much trouble. "But you aren't happy that Hermione's dating Krum, yeah?"

"Well, no," Ron grumbled. "He's seventeen. It's not right."

Harry pursed his lips. "Seventeen's the age you're an adult here, isn't it?" Harry asked.

"Yeah," Ron said. "It's not right."

"Maybe not," Harry said. "But eighteen's the age in the muggle world. Hermione still works on that scale. I mean, I do too."

Ron shrugged, helplessly. Harry inclined his head.

"I want you to think about it," Harry said. "If you're jealous." Harry looked like he wanted to say more, maybe, but changed his mind.

"Well, I won't be able to sleep," Harry said. "If you can't either, we could play a game of chess or something."

Ron checked how tired he felt and shrugged. Not really tired.

"Alright," Ron said, and Harry nodded, cancelled the spell.

Ron found the action figure again, once it had all blown over or thereabouts, once him and Hermione were mostly back on good terms and he'd found out about the hate mail and the nasty articles and wanted to punch something, screw magic, wanted to do something about the people hurting her because of who she chose to be with romantically.

Ron didn't exactly approve, still, but his opinion on it didn't rightly matter. Maybe his mum's did, but it wasn't as bad as it'd been back in Easter, when she'd thought Hermione was stringing Harry along due to one of Skeeter's articles and Ron hadn't been more ashamed of anything his mother had done until then, really, and Ron could quite easily tell most of his siblings felt the same.

She was just a bit old-fashioned, is all. At least, that's what Ron had figured – he hadn't figured she'd be suckered in so easily, but then, he probably should have, given her infatuation with Lockhart.

It's just – she was his mum. And she'd acted worse than he did on a regular basis, and that's saying something.

Really, she'd been petty and childish, according to Ginny, and Ron couldn't exactly say she was wrong.

But that wasn't right now, anyway.

Right now, he was staring at an action figure on the bedside table in complete confusion. He didn't want it, why would someone have gone to lengths to fix it up?

He didn't want it. He didn't.

Ron picked it up and squinted at the note attached, scowled, grabbed his wand and cast a spell his mum had taught him years ago. The writing looked more legible after that, though it was still bad script, and it took a bit for Ron to figure out what it said.

It was in muggle pencil, Ron could tell. The lines were faint and thin, and that really didn't help, but whatever.

Hermione asked if I could fix this up for you. Don't break it again, Weasley, it was a pain to mess with the spells.

Seriously, get over yourself.

Dean.

Right. Well, whatever. Ron shoved the figure to the bottom of his trunk.

Ron used that spell Hermione used when correcting her mistakes, the one that wiped away ink, and it kind of worked. Enough so that Ron could scribble thanks without a signature. Ron dropped it on Dean's table, and figured he'd probably know, Ron didn't have to do anything embarrassing like thank him in person.

In public.

The twins were supposed to give the magazine to Percy, but Ron suspected they never actually did. Regardless, he saw Harry with it, and it had been weeks since then, so honestly, it didn't rightly matter.

"You checked that, right?" Ron said.

"The twins didn't jinx it," Harry said. "Weird that they gave it to me, but I'm not complaining."

"Probably because we're friends and I can send it home." Ron said. "They usually forget. Or, well, don't bother."

"Oh," Harry said. "Alright, yeah, makes sense."

Ron nodded, dropped down into the free chair opposite.

"Have you had any – I don't know, whatever, about the egg?" Ron asked.

"Epiphanies," Harry said, and yeah, that was the word he'd been looking for. "And no."

Harry pursed his lips and stared down blankly at the page. Ron didn't scowl at the fake Krum on the cover, he stared at the wall instead.

"Maybe Hermione'll find something soon," Ron said, but Harry didn't look too optimistic. Ron didn't feel it, either. "Maybe," Harry said anyway, and Ron left it at that.

"Which part are you on?" Ron asked, gesturing to the Quidditch Weekly in his hands.

"Discussion about the world cup," Harry said. "Collection of letters that were sent in and some writings by journalists." Harry shrugged. "A lot of them are praising Bulgaria for what they managed, a lot more are talking about how good Ireland were, a bunch are mainly waxing lyrical about Krum." Harry's lips twisted in amusement. Ron figured there was also a kind of envy there, too, that he didn't want to think about – after all, Krum had fame, but he had fame that didn't change on the whims of the country he lived in. People didn't suddenly hate him for no real reason without any proof, didn't suddenly cry their support at the slightest thing. Weren't temperamental arseholes, in short.

After all, he's dating a minor and nobody bats an eyelid except to send her hate-mail. Ron's kind of surprised Harry's never gotten any mail about the whole boy-who-lived thing, but maybe that's a good thing. No pus in envelopes for you if you don't get said envelopes in the first place.

And Ron's not stupid. Harry probably has a lot of enemies he's never even heard of, let alone met in person. There are people out there way more dangerous than Malfoy or Snape. Hell, even You-Know-Who only wants to kill him. There – there are worse things.

Ron tries not to worry too much until they're in the thick of it. At that point, there's no backing out anyway.

Even if you're in the middle of the forest following spiders towards a huge den of Acromantula that very much want to eat you. Ron does not have nightmares about that, by the way. No, he doesn't.

"Right," Ron said in response. "Cannons' management transfer should be on the next page," He said, avoiding having to acknowledge Krum at all.

"Yeah," Harry said. "And then there's the interview with Krum, and the interview with the Irish team, and then there's a bunch of pages of speculation, and the last half of the last page is dedicated to the attack."

Harry pursed his lips, again. "They did a full feature in the issue before that one," Ron said, and Harry nodded, relaxed his expression. "Alright," Harry said, and that was that dealt with.

Couldn't things be that easy all the time? Ron really wished they would be. It'd be so much less complicated.

"D'you read the interview?" Harry asked.

"With the Irish team?" Ron feigned ignorance. Harry's tone was light, unaffected, but there was that gleam in his eyes Ron had gotten used to looking for. "Yeah, read it through."

"Looks like you skipped one, then," Harry said, tone still light, and Ron attempted to supress the automatic scowl, but he couldn't stop his ears from burning a bright red like they always did.

Gah. The betrayal.

"No," Ron said. "Don't think I did."

Harry hummed and turned the page, started reading Krum's interview.

"Why don't – why aren't you angry?" Ron asked. "He's an adult, and she's not. It's – wrong."

"He's not an adult, though." Harry said. "He's seventeen. He's a teenager. I'll give you that it's a noticeable gap now, the two years between fifteen and seventeen, but there are people who are married that are over a decade apart in age, and they're muggles," Harry said, "A decade is a fair chunk of their lifespans."

Muggles did live less long than Wizards did. It was kind of weird, Ron thought, people not living beyond one-hundred on a regular basis. Muriel was at least one-twenty, after all. And that's because she was the younger sister to his grandad, who had died in the last war, and had his kids young enough. At the start of his twenties. Ron's dad was the youngest. None of the rest were still around; some in other countries, one dead, one a squib and living in Russia. For some reason.

"I guess," Ron said.

"Just… calm down a little about it," Harry said. "And, well, calm down about him in general. You still get a little starstruck, and you don't even like him anymore." Harry carefully wasn't looking at him, and Ron didn't try not to scowl this time.

"Shove it," Ron grumbled, and Harry laughed a little, and whatever.

"I'm just saying," Harry said. "Fame's not fun, really. Try and treat him like a normal human being who's dating your friend, not Viktor Krum, star seeker, and what have you."

Ron can't exactly do that. But – well, he will leave Hermione alone about it from now on.

Hermione was invited to go to Bulgaria by Krum for a two-week break in the holidays. She'd sent him a letter, due to their unspoken promise of not lying about this sort of thing anymore, and it was short and concise and to the point like Hermione's letters never were.

She was going for the first two weeks. She'd been encouraged to bring her family along. As they were muggles, they'd be staying somewhere muggle-friendly, of course. Krum's family were 'rather nice', as she'd put it, and didn't treat Hermione's family like incompetent children, which was always a plus.

Hermione said she'd probably write less in these weeks, so Ron should make sure he keeps in contact with Harry, so he doesn't feel too lonely.

After what happened… she'd wrote, and there was the the tell-tale signs of her erasing spell left on the page. She hadn't bothered with clean-up, in her hurry, which was unlike her.

Hermione probably wanted the break that Krum had offered. Getting out of the country where you-know-who was back and a real threat. Getting her parents out, too, come to think of it.

Two weeks wasn't long, but if there was an attack on the muggle area she lived in, well, it might just save her life and the lives of her parents. After, Hermione had written, she'd be back for the summer, at which point – if he wanted, which, of course, he did – she could come to visit.

Ron couldn't tell her she'd end up staying at Grimmauld Place for the rest of the summer if she did, given Mad-Eye's paranoia, but, well, hopefully, she'd figure out he wasn't home.

Anyway, Ron finished up his own letter in response, which told her as much as he could without knowing strong enough privacy spells – most of which were Dark, anyway, so Ron didn't really want to know them, because they involved blood authentication, and that was the easiest magic to mess up if messed with and plus, it was Dark – and hoped it was enough.

Ron hadn't gotten a letter from Harry yet, but that was probably because the Dursleys overworked him every summer. He probably hadn't had a chance to, yet, so Ron decided taking Hermione's advice about keeping up regular contact wouldn't be such a bad idea.

Except, well, he couldn't keep up regular contact. He was allowed one letter each week – until Mad-Eye got paranoid again and forbid them on the same day, at which point it was kind of random but you had to wait at least seven days between letters sent out – as were the rest of them, and it was frustrating. Ron didn't even know why they were here, yet, really. There hadn't been any important 'Order' meetings yet, they'd mostly just been talking about what very little they knew about you-know-who's current forces.

And something else. But there were serious and semi-dangerous anti-eavesdropping spells put in place when they talked about that, so they hadn't had a chance, yet. To figure out what it was. And besides, it's not been that long.

---

Harry,

Looks like Hermione's of to Bulgaria for a couple weeks. I guess it's good she's getting out of the country, what with what's happened.

I really do want to tell you more about what's going on, but, well, we're under oath. I can't, and I mean that. Sorry, mate.

I can say we aren't at the burrow, and I can say where we're staying is a right mess, a fairly dangerous one, and that you aren't missing out on much except being frustrated and angry all the time (it's the house, there's something about it, nobody here's in a really good mood, Moony said it 'exemplifies negative emotions and character flaws', whatever that means) and that Snuffles is here, and that you should be able to come here really soon.

At least before the summer's half gone. I don't know why they've stuck you in Privet Drive, with those muggles of yours, after everything, and we've been complaining about it. They should let up soon, I'll keep you posted.

Anyway, how's the HOM essay going? Hermione asked me to ask you, by the way. I haven't even started mine, and I don't plan to. It's summer, not school. It can wait a bit longer.

We can't write letters often. Never-Our-Actual-Professor is paranoid as all hell. Dumbledore said if he can't find anyone, he will actually be our professor next year, which will hopefully be good. Fred and George overheard it, so I don't know how much truth is in that, but whatever.

Well, that's it. We should be able to send you some food, soon. The Dursleys never give you enough anyway, and Mum's a right scary woman when she wants to be.

Hermione said you should 'sign' letters. So, I guess – whatever. Speak to you soon. Sort of.

Ron.

---

When Harry shows up, he's different.

Ron knows it's not the house – blimey, he knows, he can feel when that insidious, slimy black magic creeps up his spine and makes the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and makes him angry, frustrated, volatile, makes him more quick to jealousy and judgment and all the other shit – insecurity, fear, what have you. There was a tiny, tiny spider – what Hermione calls a 'money spider' in his room the other day, and he literally couldn't move. Ron usually reacted with flight when it came to spiders, he'd admit that, but when they were that small he felt safe enough to react with fight and squash them – but Ron had felt it, that creeping cold, that gross, slimy, dirty dark magic, and he couldn't move.

The trace didn't work in here, thank Merlin. Otherwise, the sheer amount of bat-bogey hexes Ginny casts when she's in that similar dark magic-induced mood would have got he shut away in Azkaban without so much as a by-your-leave. Or a trial.

Speaking of trials.

Harry was back, because he'd 'performed the Patronus charm in front of a muggle'. Nevermind the muggle was his cousin, nevermind the muggle was fully aware of magic. Never mind that said cousin certainly treated Harry much, much worse than Harry had ever treated him, and the wizarding world didn't give any single fucks about it, or at least, that's how it seemed.

Hermione was back now, of course. The both of them honestly wanted to be there, witnesses to Harry's character – Ginny had near hexed their mum when she'd said she couldn't go with them, and honestly, Ron had been in one of those dark-moods again, and he'd very nearly done that very thing, but caught himself just in time.

Hermione had had a row with Molly, though. A genuine, proper, angry debate. Hermione had apparently started reading up on wizarding law and legal defence – because of course she had – and she knew a lot more than his Mum, but his Mum was the adult here, so she won by default.

It wasn't fair. Harry – no matter his current disposition, which Ron was fairly sure wasn't to do with the house, though it certainly wasn't helping – shouldn't have to go alone. Even Dumbledore isn't saying much of anything on the matter. The man hasn't been around much since Harry showed up, and Ron's got an inkling that's entirely why, and Ron doesn't understand.

Oh. And there it is again. That creeping cold, crawling up his spine, burrowing it's way into his brain and settling there, hollow. This is the worst kind. It sneaks up when he's confused, upset, irrationally jealous, and it makes him think about things. How much smarter everyone else is, how being good at chess means nothing in reality and it's just another show of his uselessness, how emotionally capable Hermione is because ever since she's been here, the only signs of the house's magic affecting her have been the lines between her eyebrows she gets on occasion, how quiet she gets every now and again.

The way the house affects Harry is more obvious. And not in the way you think. It's affecting him when he gets subdued, beaten down, tired, sad, when he lies awake all night in the bed next to Ron's own, and Ron can't fall asleep to the uneven breathing because it's wrong and it's too quiet and Harry's hurt, he's hurting, but there's nothing any of them can really do about it.

At least when Harry's yelling at them he looks alive.

"He's got PTSD," Hermione said to him, quiet, one night, after Harry had gone up while Ron was in the middle of a chess game that was, once again, against the other side's sentient pieces.

"What's that?" Ron asked.

"Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder," Hermione said. "It's obvious if you know the symptoms, and I do. I looked them up."

Ron nodded, moved his bishop. The pawn he hadn't really noticed took it, and Ron sighed. He wasn't paying attention, not really. He hadn't all summer; Percy had beat him, and Ron had hexed him, and the Twins didn't even comment once, and that somehow made it worse. He felt volatile, ready to explode, ready to do something drastic. And then it had been gone, and Ron had done more than hex his brother with something like flippendo, he'd actually hurt him, and Ron had been sent to his room in this house that wasn't theirs and got in his head and in everyone's head, and Ron sat there, staring at the wall for four hours, and didn't go down for tea.

"This house isn't good for him," Hermione said, tugging at the bottom of her cardigan and worrying at her lip. "No shit," Ron grumbled, and Hermione didn't even lightly smack him on the arm, didn't reprimand him in any way at all, and that was so out-of-character that Ron paused before he moved his night, looked up at her and felt that same churning in his stomach he got whenever she looked like she felt guilty about something.

"I have the choice to just leave," She said. "And he doesn't. I – I mean, I never really thought about that before. What it's like to not have family in your corner if something happens.

"I never really got racist comments," Hermione said, quietly. She'd explained that to him, once, a while ago. What racism was, and it sounded so much like blood purist rhetoric it made his blood boil. "I guess I just look tanned to most people. And my hair can be explained by my dad, too, as well as my mum." Hermione shrugged. Much more affected than she looked, obviously, but Hermione was good at that. "But mum is black, and dad is Jewish, and I got flack for the latter once, and he got expelled," Something flashed across her vision at that, and Ron distinctly had the impression that the two weren't linked but that the boy had somehow done something worse to someone, at some point. Ron genuinely didn't understand how people could be like that.

"Yet," Hermione sighed. "Harry suffered through so much. And nobody ever did anything. They still don't."

Ron nodded, quiet. Still don't. That's true, really, and it hurts a little, the bluntness of it, because Ron tries to help, but he doesn't, really. Look at what he did last year, if you want an example.

Hermione narrows her eyes at him, slaps him lightly on the arm. "We do our best," She says, as if trying to will away any thoughts he had about how little he did anything, either, but the coldness had taken hold again, and that hollow little space the house had carved for itself was back, and Ron didn't want to hear it. The coldness, or her words, or anything. The cold insidious magic just made him angrier, as if he was trying to burn it out of him, as if the emotion could do anything at all.

She seemed to see it take hold, because she deliberately softened her expression and squeezed his arm lightly before moving back. The space was good, Ron didn't want to do anything he'd regret.

She didn't seem to either. When the magic took hold of her, she got a glint in her eyes that sent shivers down everyone's spines, if they were being honest. She was good at hiding it, but it made her unnaturally quiet, as if she was attempting to hold herself back from something, anything, whatever the house wanted from her. She avoided him then, him and Harry and Ginny and the Twins – especially the twins – and holed herself up in the safe-ish parts of the library.

Ron didn't really want to know what books the House led her to reading. All of the ones left in the room were grey at best, and that wasn't always a good thing. Grey was neutral – but neutral had its awful side, too.

It's called Dark, and everyone believes it's dark, but the Killing Curse was originally a Grey spell. Invented to give animals a quick and painless death. Used in farming.

Then, of course, someone got the bright idea to use it on a person. The spell was never used again in such simple circumstances.

Ron tried for a smile, and it felt forced, but she returned it – probably just as falsely – and that was fine. Pretending was fine if everyone was doing it.

Ron made his next move, and the pieces put him in checkmate. Ron didn't register it until he was standing with his wand out, but he blew up the set with an underpowered bombarda.

Oh. If he hadn't underpowered it… that would have been bad.

Hermione simply repaired the set as much as she could. The pieces were meant to break, so they fixed themselves, but the board had a little crack in it Hermione couldn't fix.

Bombarda was Grey, too. Dark magic leaves traces, scars, ugly sentient buildings like the one they're in right now. Light magic leaves traces, and yes, even scars – and protective, sentient buildings. Like Hogwarts.

Grey magic didn't leave traces. But it certainly left scars. It's why Grey rituals are the only ritual magic still around. They don't leave traces. They don't affect the soul. It is simple magic, and simple incantation. It doesn't take any real emotion, good or bad, and it doesn't take anything more than what you deem it requires.

Light magic can mean well. Dark magic can mean the opposite. Both will and have done awful things. Both have done good things, too, because Ron's not stupid. Harry's scar is proof of some less-than-legal spellwork, and not that of You-Know-Who's creation.

Sacrificial magic is Dark magic. But Lily Potter did it anyway. Ron figures the life of your one-year-old child is more important than a mark on your soul. And, she didn't sacrifice anyone other than herself. That probably counts for something, but either way, that kind of magic isn't light.

It'd be in those books, the ones upstairs, in the library. Ron wondered if Hermione had read anything about that yet. He forgot, sometimes, that things you knew from having a curse-breaker older brother, a dragon-keeper older brother, and a Dad that's likely an expert on meddling with muggle artefacts – rather ironically, given his job – made someone like Ron seem smarter than he actually was.

It was just common knowledge, a lot of it. But some of it wasn't, and Ron figured that meant something. Maybe.

"You should go up," Hermione said, her voice drifting into his awareness. Ron pocketed his wand. He hadn't realised he'd spaced out, and now that he thought about it, he really was very tired.

"You should too," Ron said, a little gruffer than he'd meant. Awkward.

Hermione gave him a little half-smile, and it was more genuine than the last one. He'd take it.

Ron went upstairs, knocked on the door and when he didn't get an answer, went in. Harry was on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, and he hadn't changed into his normal clothes yet.

Today had been the trial. Ron dearly wishes he could have gone, maybe. Been there for something. Moral support, if nothing else.

"How'd it go?" Ron asked, because neither of them are asleep and honestly, pretending is more tiring.

"It went," Harry said, dully. So the coldness had him too, then. It lasted longest, with Harry.

Ron was pretty sure Harry didn't know about the House's sentient magic. Nobody really talked about it. But he had to have noticed everyone's (violent, dangerous, concerning, worrying, all manner of adjectives) mood-swings.

Once, early on, before Ron had built up a proper tolerance, the house had hit him with a wave of everything so quickly that he'd actually felt homicidal. It had been sickening, after, that feeling, that feeling of wanting somebody dead, wanting somebody well and truly as nothing more than ashes, thinking - no, fantasising, about the ways it could be done.

Someone had stunned him. Ron was pretty sure it was Ginny. Regardless, everyone calmed down after a day or two, and things went back to normal, and that was before Harry's arrival, and really, he didn't need to know how weak Ron's will really was.

---

Ron was the one to find the locket, first. It didn't have any enchantments on it, he could feel that. Oh, it was dark to be sure, but it was relatively safe to pick up. The clasp didn't work and the front, with it's emerald 'S', also proved what that tacky thing was all about.

"Slytherin," Harry said, when he held it, frowning. His expression was strange, like he was hearing something they couldn't, like in second-year with the basilisk in the pipes, except this time, there was no snake.

Harry traced the 'S' with a finger, and Ron figured Harry didn't realise he was doing it.

It looked like a snake, to Ron. Slytherin made sense, but – well. Ron figured the man himself must have been very narcissistic, if this was one of those family heirlooms.

"Fits with the extravagance of the Chamber," Harry said. Ron had never actually seen the chamber. He wasn't about to ask to go see it.

"It was actually pretty cool," Harry said, confiding. "If terrifying and gross and full of now-dead basilisk."

Ron nodded. He took the locket from Harry, and it was heavier than it had any right to be, really.

Ron wondered what was inside.

"Maybe parseltounge would open it," He said, at the same time Harry says "It feels familiar."

Ron tightens his grip around the golden object, frowns at Harry in confusion.

"Familiar?" He asked.

"Like I…" Harry hesitated. "Know it. From somewhere."

Harry frowned at it and absently massaged his scar. Ron turned the locket over, looked for some inscription or something, but there was nothing. It was a locket. One that couldn't be opened.

"It's a Dark object," Ron said, because he could feel it. In his bones. The magic was different to that of the creeping cold of Grimmauld Place, but it was no less insidious. It was harder to find, but living in this house has made it easier to tell his own magic from an intruding presence, and this one was dangerous in ways the Black House's magic was simply irritating. It was actually downright terrifying, now that Ron was looking for it.

Harry looked pale, much paler than his usual tan. He must have realised the strength of this thing's magic, he must have, but he wasn't really looking at it.

He was listening to something, again. Ron couldn't hear anything, the room was practically silent aside from the surprisingly docile doxies in the curtains (they left them alone if they didn't go near, and Mum was going to go out for some more stuff you need to get rid of them with a couple escorts soon) and the two teen's breathing.

"It's hissing," Harry said, suddenly. Ron felt they were moving into dangerous territory, here. He tightened his grip on the object and eyed his friend, wary. The creeping cold was tugging at his core, but the – insidious magic of the locket was stronger, and –

The creeping cold felt scared, almost. In a weird, twisted way, it almost felt worried.

Ron threw the locket over to the other side of the room. It smashed into the cabinet and Harry – with his ever fast reflexes – immediately cast a reparo, and the whole thing fixed itself.

They stared at it, then each other, and let out a collective breath they hadn't realised they'd been holding.

"We should…" Harry gestured, but he was still staring at the Locket – returned to staring at the locket, but whatever.

"Yeah." Ron agreed, but he found himself not moving. "We should."

They were saved from doing anything stupid by the arrival of his Mum. She eyed the cabinet with obvious suspicion and the curtains with an equally obvious level of wariness, and then looked to the two of them.

"There was a crash," She said, frowning at them in worry. "Are you two alright? Ron, Harry dear?"

"Yeah, mum." Ron said. He glanced at Harry, who shrugged, and nodded.

Liars, the both of them. But – at least, at least Ron isn't going to mess with the stuff in here without a whole room of people again.

Not happening.

---

The Locket got thrown out, and Ron frowned at the relief he felt, because it's not quite his.

The mood-swings lessen, though. From then on out. Ron was pretty sure the object wasn't cursed to touch, because he didn't really feel any different, but now it was gone, he wasn't so sure it wasn't cursed in general. The place felt lighter, somehow.

Some people stopped having mood-swings all together. Others didn't. The last few remaining that were still affected were Harry, Ron himself, Ginny, Hermione, Remus, and Sirius.

Hermione recovered next. Then Remus. Then Ron, then Sirius.

Ron found his sister staring at herself in one of the upper hallway mirrors, leaning on the side table.

"Ron," She said, seeing him in the reflection. "Ginny," He greeted.

Ginny looked pale. There were shadows under her eyes that proved she hadn't been sleeping well. This house wasn't good for her, either. Wasn't good for any of them, really. Even if the house's magic has drastically calmed down since the removal of the Locket.

They'd overheard Dumbledore talk about that in a meeting, actually. Apparently, he'd confiscated it. Whatever he'd done, the Locket wasn't here any longer.

"I don't feel like myself." Ginny says, abrupt, surprising. She doesn't really talk about things like this with anyone, let alone her emotionally-unaware youngest older brother.

Ron doesn't say anything. That appears to be what she wanted, because Ginny carries on.

"There was something here." Ginny said. "Something that felt familiar."

"The Locket," Ron said. It had felt familiar to Harry, too, and that can't be a co-incidence.

"I heard him." She said, quietly, and she sounded scared. Nothing like the sister he'd grown used to since her ordeal in her first year, nothing like the one he'd known before that whole horrible situation.

"Tom." She added. Not Riddle, not Voldemort, even, though Ron mentally shivers at even thinking the name.

But Tom. Just Tom.

"Like he was here, still," She gestured. "In my head. The house-" She shook her head. "I think it was trying to help. In it's way."

Trying to block out the noise. Ron hadn't noticed at the time, but looking back – the house's magic had burrowed so thoroughly into his self that the Locket had had no way in.

"It didn't really help much," Ron said, and Ginny snorted.

"Not even a little," She agreed. "I nearly – Merlin, I nearly hexed Mum."

"I hexed Percy," Ron said, uncomfortable. Percy wasn't around much, and Ron knew it was only time. Time before he left. Ron hadn't – he'd noticed his brother reading the Prophet and agreeing, he'd noticed his insane work-hours.

Ron had noticed. Ron's pretty sure everyone else has, too.

"Percy's a git, though," Ginny said.

"I cut his arm open," Ron said. "Diffindo right down it. Vertically."

"Oh." Ginny said. Ron swallowed, uncomfortable.

"Nobody's been right since we got here," Ron said. "Harry more than most, though."

"Me too." Ginny said. "I'm just better at hiding it."

She looked at him, through the mirror, and Ron didn't break eye contact. "Not really," Ron said. "I mean, I could tell."

She looked a little relieved at that, and Ron ignored the sting because he knows he's not that observant. If he can tell, so can everyone else.

"He was never really gone." Ginny said. "Tom. A little voice in the back of my head, you know? Like people have. Voicing fears and shit." She frowned at herself in the mirror. "Those little thoughts you might have on occasion which you're immediately disgusted by."

Ron nodded. He kind of had that too, except they weren't young Dark Lords in the making. Harry and Hermione, really, sometimes his Mum, sometimes someone else. People who matter to him. People whose perceptions of him he cares about. People he doesn't want to let down.

"But then he was back." Ginny said. "Not as clever. More desperate. But he was there and I thought – I might –"

"You didn't, though." Ron said. "You nearly hexed Mum. You didn't, though. You nearly punched Fred. You didn't, though."

That's important, he figured. That she didn't. The she held herself back, despite the voice and the magic and the insidious nature of it all, of Tom Riddle, of the dark, creeping cold.

"Yeah." Ginny said, straightened up. "I didn't."

But I did, Ron thought, didn't say. This – this is about Ginny. She's gone through far more shit than he has.

"Thanks," Ginny said, as she passed him by on her way back downstairs. She seems a little lighter, and if Ron felt a little heavier as he stared at himself in the mirror, well, whatever. Maybe it's cursed, like everything else in this Morgana-be-damned house.

---

A War Brews. (Trouble Is Both On It's Way, And Already Here.)

Ron walked downstairs a little while later, that creeping cold settling in his hollow spine like it always did, these days. It seemed to have found itself a home, there, and while Ron's emotions burned brighter, angrier, in response to the intrusion, Ron couldn't say he minds anymore.

If it stops things like that Locket from getting in his head, things that are now apparent as parts of Tom Riddle, somehow, then... well, better the Morgana you know than the Mordred you don't.

"Pass the butter, would you?" Ginny said, as he entered, and Hermione does just that. His sister buttered her bread and slapped some ham into it, put on the top slice of bread and ate the sandwich quickly.

Harry's sat in the corner, again.

Ron went over to Hermione because that's where the food was and made himself his own crappy sandwich.

"You going to eat?" Ron asked Harry, easily, light in tone, and Harry shrugged, stood, and walked over to the kitchenette. Harry could cook, so Ron returned his attention to his bread.

He'd never been very good at this. He was worse at the spell you could use instead, too, so Ron just did it the knife-and-butter way.

"Oh, honestly," Hermione muttered, then said the spell and his bread was done. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes she didn't bother to hide. Her hair was a mess – more so than usual – and she was wearing the same jumper she'd worn yesterday. Same jeans, too, now that Ron looks.

"Sleep at all last night?" Ron asked, tone try, but really, he's concerned. It probably showed on his face. Whatever. "Or d'you stay up all night reading in the Library again?"

Something crossed over Hermione's face that he didn't have time to read before she shrugged and smiled slightly. "You know me," She said, "I read all night."

"Of course," Ron sighed, falsely, but also kind of not, because people needed sleep, and it was obvious how much she lacked it.

Not that Ron could talk. He hadn't been sleeping much lately, either. The creeping cold settled in his bones made it difficult.

"I read about types of magic," Hermione said, ever practical. "Some people are more susceptible than others to different types. Light witches and wizards are rather susceptible to Dark magic, and vice versa, whereas Grey ones aren't really susceptible at all. And people who've been affected by certain types of magic for extended periods of time are generally more susceptible, rather than less, though you get people with stubborn magic who refuse that on principle," Hermione explained. Ron knew that mostly because it was common knowledge, but he also knew that she had a distinct disadvantage in that area, having not grown up among all this.

"Oh really?" Harry said, from his place making an omelette at the stove. "Fascinating." He added, tone dripping with sarcasm.

Hermione pursed her lips. "Considering where we're staying," She said, shortly, "And the effect it's had on everyone, I figured it best to be well informed."

"How do you know?" Ron asked, and this was something that wasn't common knowledge, so Hermione was the perfect person to ask, really. "Which 'type' you are?"

"It depends on the spells you use," Hermione said. "Most Hogwarts students are Grey because the magic we're taught doesn't use emotion to make it work. Some are Light, because of the spells they use; like the Patronus Charm, for example. Some are dark for the same reasons, though that isn't sanctioned, because most Dark spells are, well," She frowned. "Dark.

"Plus," She added, "The accidental magic you did as a child is a factor. The emotions that fuel it give you your leaning; dark or light, but you're still Grey, in theory. There's no real way to test it, in truth. A child's magic is too unstable for that."

"Okay," Harry said. "Why did you bother, though? I mean, it's obvious this place is screwing with us."

"This place may be 'screwing with us'," Hermione said, "But it isn't harming our souls like that Locket was doing."

"Souls?" Ron asked.

"The library hasn't been cleared out," Hermione said. "Not fully. And I've read up on enough detection spells to satisfy even Mad-Eye, so they let me help look through."

Hermione paused and looked up from her notes. "I think it was some form of soul magic," She said. "The darkest kind, perhaps. But the book I read didn't name it; too scared. Which is… concerning, given the rest of the magic that book dealt with."

"Hopefully not, then," Ron said, voice tinged with worry he couldn't hide, and Hermione gave him a sympathetic glance. "Hopefully not," She agreed, as Harry plated his food and sat down at the end of the table.

---

Ron had never really noticed how long summer was.

At the Burrow, he'd had stuff to distract himself with. But not here. He couldn't fly, practice being keeper. Couldn't hang out in his room, because it wasn't his room and there was that portrait of the old, awful headmaster on the wall. Also, the spiders. Nope.

All he had here was homework, a friend with PTSD, a friend who spent her days cooped up in the library or writing letters to Krum, and occasionally talking to him, the person that was, y'know, actually here.

Ugh. Whatever.

Point is – All he had were those three things. And cleaning, but most of that was done, and now it was only the really dangerous stuff left, so the 'kids' weren't allowed to do any of it.

Ron's not exactly complaining, but he'd trade not having to do any cleaning for not being treated like a useless waste of magic by the Order any day.

He might just be fifteen, but he's done some stuff. It's even more ridiculous to leave out Harry or Ginny or Hermione, to be honest with you, because even though Harry's likely been through what sort of classes as 'the most', Ginny's been through worse. She might just be fourteen, younger than the rest of them, but she's more capable than half of the adults in the damn order combined.

They all voice these opinions – their annoyance at being left out – so many times, it's not even funny. Then there's the argument Sirius and his Mum have, and while Ron's glad his Mum cares about Harry, he is, it's not really her place, not really.

Nobody really counts the Dursleys, so in truth, Harry doesn't really have any guardians. If he wants Sirius to sort-of be one, then, well, that's what he wants. Harry should get to choose something, honestly, but Ron doesn't say anything.

---

There's a weapon. That's all they know. It's more than they've been told all summer, and it's so vague it's frustrating, so vague it's practically worthless information, but that's what they've got.

They try and brainstorm, the lot of them. Fred, George, Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny. But they come up short. What could be so powerful that the order needs to protect it from Him at all costs? Ron has no clue.

Nobody else does, either, and that dampens their spirits quite heavily. If only they knew more, maybe they could figure it out. Be of some help, instead of just sitting ducks.

But they don't. And the adults – specifically, his Mum – won't let them.

So, they'll just have to do this alone. What was it you say? Never tell a teenager not to do something. They'll generally end up doing it.

It's a surprise, and not exactly a welcome one when Hermione announces that she'll be gone for the last two weeks.

"I need to spend time with my parents," She said, staring down Alistair Moody in a way most people wouldn't be capable of. "And I have another invitation to Bulgaria I want to use. Given what's going on, I don't know when we'll get another chance like this."

"Dear girl, of course, you can go," Dumbledore said, quicker than Moody could react. Hermione smiled thinly and nodded, and that was that.

Hermione came up to their room, later, to say goodbye, see you at school, don't forget to finish your homework, read something for me, please, and eat all your meals, Harry - but Ron wasn't... he was annoyed, yeah. Angry, too.

That creeping cold had settled in his bones by now, and it didn't feel like it wanted to leave any time soon. It made him jittery, antsy, ready to fight or be fought. He squashed more spiders than he fled from, which wasn't so much as a sign of him getting over his fear as one of his anger getting out of hand.

Ron, for once, couldn't wait until summer was over. And he meant that. Literally.

He couldn't wait. Ron felt like he was about to explode every second of every day. Like his magic was one wrong move away from smashing all the windows and breaking everyone's bones.

The creeping cold felt rather like a cat. Satisfied, content, like it was purring away in the back of his head, the vibrations causing his restlessness, his eagerness for a fight.

Ron… might have lied about being over the whole mood-swings thing. Harry still hasn't recovered, either, but Ginny's a lot better. Sirius has relapsed, though.

"I'll see you on the train," Hermione said, promised. Of course, she would, otherwise how would she get to Hogwarts?

Only Ron and Harry are stupid enough to try flying there.

"Alright," Ron said, and it's shorter, rougher than he meant. Hermione looked hurt, a little, so he patted her on the shoulder awkwardly and tried again. "Sure," He said, and it's a little lighter. "See you then."

Hermione smiled, dimples and too-straight teeth, and Ron sort-of can't help smiling back, at least a little.

If she's happy, then he can be happy for her, Ron decided, at that moment.

Harry said his goodbye, too. Hermione hugs them both – Ron awkwardly pats her on the head and Harry looks on, amused, damn him – then leaves and Harry gets back into bed. Ron gets ready and drops into his own bed, lies on his back and stares at the ceiling.

He falls asleep a few minutes before dawn.

When Ron wakes, it's almost noon. He can tell immediately that Harry had a nightmare last night and didn't bother to clean the sheets, dry but still tinged with sweat, and messily half thrown off the bed.

Ron casts a quick scourgify on everything because his Mum does an inspection at random times and he doesn't want another earful. The dust settles in after a few days, anyway, and Ron can't be bothered to deal with that again. It's magic, maybe, because the stuff's really hard to clean off.

He gets dressed and ready and goes downstairs. The place is really quite empty, now. The Twins are out, because they're old enough to be Order members and they're 'on a mission'; Ron's pretty sure they've just gone to visit Lee – while the other Order members usually don't stick around long after or before meetings, though Tonks hangs around the second most after Remus, and even that's not saying much since he's rarely around anyway.

Ginny's still here, obviously, but she's out. Molly decided isolation wasn't good for the soul, or some shit like that, because she took Ginny over to the Rookery – Luna's house – and they're still there. Or, rather, not here.

Probably getting some provisions, Ron figured. Maybe enjoying some time at the Burrow, sneakily, rudely.

Pretty much it was just the four of them since Ron's Dad was at work. Harry, Sirius, Kreacher, Ron himself.

Oh, and Buckbeak. So, five then.

Was Buckbeak still here? Ron hasn't checked. He isn't really planning on it any time soon.

Harry had a knife now, and a mirror. A knife for locks or something, and a mirror for communication. He'd been a bit worried about luring Sirius out of hiding by using the latter, but Ron figured leaving Sirius here with no contact would be worse.

Harry agreed, wholeheartedly, and probably made himself promise he'd use it.

So, really, since Sirius wasn't anywhere to be seen right now, Buckbeak might or might not be here, and Kreacher was, well, Kreacher, and was probably skulking about in the basement they'd found and had Bill visit to break the curses on with a few of the other order members.

To be fair, Ron was in the basement right now. But so was Harry, and honestly, this room was the most preserved in the house. Mostly because sheets had been covering everything and the sheer number of preservation charms and stasis charms everywhere was astounding, according to Bill.

Most of that had been cleared away – especially the stasis, they were dangerous to living beings caught in them – and the sheets were piled up in a corner, and it was actually a fairly decent sitting room.

Ron had found some firewhisky. He hadn't told anyone about it yet, because there wasn't anyone around to tell, and he had a distinct feeling that Sirius would only encourage that they drink it. And since Ron doesn't have any clue on how to use detection spells, he's not risking that it's poisoned or cursed or something equally horrible.

"I'm actually bored," Harry said, and he sounded mystified. "Being at the Dursleys was less… nothing. I've done all my work, I've read my books, I've done everything, there's nothing left to do."

Ron's general reaction to that was either to suggest quidditch or chess, but they couldn't do the former and the latter had recently started getting him angry enough for the house's magic, or the Locket's magic, to take a little control, enough to get him to do something awful, or potentially dangerous.

So, really, he didn't know what to say. The library was a no-go, partially because enjoying reading was something Ron thought of as an oxymoron, and also because neither of them knows enough detection spells.

"Right," Ron said, sighing. "Well, I haven't finished mine, so I should probably get on that."

"We've got a week left," Harry said. "You should definitely get on that."

Ron nodded. "Here," Harry said, leant over to the coffee table and grabbed some parchment. He cast geminio on the rolls and tossed the long-lived temporary copies over to Ron. "If you wanna cross-reference. Hermione's scribbled all over that one."

Ron nodded, sighed; put-out. Harry laughed, and that was good, so sure. Ron gained an amused expression of his own as a reaction because in general, laughter was a kind of infectious thing.

Ron got some parchment of his own and started writing his HOM essay.

---

Harry found the firewhisky the next day, of course.

"Never had this before," Harry said. "Well, yeah," Ron said. "It's firewhisky. That's not just your average butterbeer."

"Which is also an alcoholic beverage," Harry said. "I mean, look at how trashed Winky got on it."

Ron shrugged one shoulder. He didn't get how it worked, either, really.

Harry tossed it easily from hand to hand, suppressing a smile and a glint in his eyes.

'Trouble finds me'. Sure.

"It could be poisoned," Harry said. "Or cursed."

Nobody ever said two unattended teenagers made the best decisions. Especially bored ones, and ones that wanted to procrastinate homework.

"Boo," Harry said, after coughing. Ron snorted. "Told you it was firewhisky."

"I didn't expect to start breathing fire, Ron," Harry said, plainly.

Ron laughed. "Take it this way," Ron said, "Think of things like that, when it comes to magical drinks, as literal."

"I'll be ready next time," Harry groused, glared at the bottle. He smirked and handed it over.

"Your turn."

Ron sighed. Was he bored enough?

Well, Harry didn't seem much worse for wear. Maybe it was a bit strong, because of its age. Magic didn't tend to age in a normal fashion, after all. And breathing fire because of some whisky was definitely magic.

"Alright," He said, and took a swig. It burned at the back of his throat, and for one, fleeting second, the creeping cold fled his system, hissing, like a startled, angry, terrified cat, and Ron felt it bristle, claw its way back in, but Ron didn't care all that much, because he was here, in the house that magic belonged to. It'd always find its way back in.

But he could kick it out, for a time. No wonder Harry's eyes were like that – Ron hadn't realised how heavy he'd felt under the weight of that intruding dark force until it was gone.

How slimy it really was. How it coerced you into thinking it was safe.

The gleam in Harry's eyes was still bright when he took the bottle back. Ron felt it, the fire, in the back of his throat, and coughed, let it out.

Harry snorted.

"Shove off," Ron said, but he was grinning, and the shove he sent Harry's direction was a friendly one.

Harry laughed, properly. That was good. Two good things; the coldness gone for a moment, and genuine laughter.

This could work.

Harry blew out the fire easier this time, no longer taken by surprise, and he watched the flames dissipate in the dank basement air.

It was nicer here than the rest of the house. The decoration was surely much better. But that didn't mean it was nice, that just meant it wasn't horribly unpleasant.

Ron took the bottle and had a swig from it. They went like that for a little while, tossing it back and forth, and Ron felt light, warm; the coldness gone from his mind, his bones.

They emptied the bottle pretty quick. Harry frowned at it, saddened by the clear glass. Ron vanished it without much thought, and neither really noticed he did it, because – well, drunk, for one, they were very drunk, and for two, very tired.

Why hadn't he been sleeping again? Ron couldn't remember, really. It was fuzzy, kind of like everything was fuzzy. Things were fuzzy like Harry's eyes were a startling green; simple fact.

"You were very jeal'us," Harry slurred. "Of 'Mi'ne,"

"No," Ron said. "Of 'Rum,"

"Yeah," Harry said. "That, s'rry,"

"Kinda," Ron found himself saying. "M'by little o' both,"

"Kinda," Harry repeated. "I was jel'us. Of Cedric. Feels bad, really, 'cause he's dead. An' all."

Harry paused.

"Kinda Jel'us o' Cho, too," He mumbled. "But – yeah. He's dead, an' all."

Ron hummed, leaning back on the couch. The coldness was gone, still, a pleasant warmth settled there instead.

"Prob'ly shu'ld hide the bottle," Harry said, slurred, drunk and tired and a whole manner of other too complicated things for Ron to think about right now.

"Yeah," Ron said, groaned, leaned forward and blinked, "Oh," He said, stupidly, "It's gone."

"Gud," Harry said, stumbled into standing. "Also late," Harry said, casting an absent-minded tempus. "Woah, very late,"

And it was. Where had the time gone?

Ron thinks he might have passed out at some point. Huh.

"Alright," Harry muttered, "Well, C'mon, then," And grabbed Ron's arm. They sort of half-fell half stumbled out of the room because really, that was way too much firewhisky but whatever; be fifteen, make mistakes, learn.

Except – well, it didn't much feel like a mistake. Harry seemed happy enough, Ron didn't feel slimy and gross magic creeping into his very soul or burrowing into the back of his head and carving a space for itself there. Logically he knew it was still there, because they were still here, in this house, but who cares. He certainly felt much better, if a little foggy, fuzzy, tired.

"We should do sm'thin' stupid," Harry said. "I dun' kno' what, tho',"

"Tired," Ron said. "Maybe rest. Nap. Nap sounds good."

"Yeah," Harry sighed out. "Yeah, a nap sounds good. Haven't slept. Dreams. Corridor. Torture. Voldy in my head, y'know nightmares. Some of it seems real, tho'."

"Cold," Ron found himself saying. "Magic. Cold magic, in my head, y'know, back of my brain, burrowing there, like the Locket, but different, this house, y'know, it's Dark, and it's strong, and it's weird, and it's in my head," Ron found himself laughing at nothing. "Like a cat. Content, startled, angry, fearful. Simple. Safer than the Locket, but only in a Morgana versus Mordred way."

"Emotions," Harry said. He hissed something, parseltongue by accident, and Ron spied the snake painting opposite that caused that. Ron shivered, slightly, and sped up their pace, tripping a little over the stairs.

"Alright," Harry said, as if he was continuing, or affirming, but Ron didn't know what he'd said.

"Yeah," Ron said anyway, and Harry grinned in his peripheral vision. Oh. Harry had lost his glasses at some point. Ron should – he should go get them for him. Harry's got terrible eyesight for the youngest seeker in a century, really.

"Can't see," Harry said as if affirming Ron's thoughts. "Sorry."

"No pr'bl'm," Ron muttered, and they stumbled into the room they shared.

"Right," Harry said. "Bed."

Harry dropped onto his bed, didn't bother changing or getting under the covers. There were little snakes on the walls, the peeling paint still mostly there, and Harry was mumbling something in the snake language, and weirdly, oddly enough, it was kind of soothing.

Eh.

Ron dropped into his own bed, didn't bother getting changed either but pulled his covers half-heartedly over himself, kicked off his shoes.

"Night," He heard, not parseltongue and a little too loud.

"Night," He said back, and it took him mere minutes to fall asleep.

---

When Ron woke up, he had the worst headache. "Fuck," He muttered, but even that was too loud. Ron heard Harry literally hiss, not say something in Parseltongue and then a spell and the curtains were shut, which blocked out enough of the light that Ron felt safe opening his eyes.

Oh, right. He got drunk. This was a hangover.

This was awful. Never again, he vowed – but the cold was back, in his bones, in his head, in his very magic, seeping in and changing things, freezing the fire in his veins, and Ron knew his promise wasn't going to last.

Harry, he could see - as Ron had turned over, away from the light assaulting his eyes - had burrowed under his blanket and pillow, a lump in the middle of the bed.

"My glasses," He heard, muffled. "Where-?"

"Downstairs," Ron remembered. Harry sounded less affected by his headache than Ron did, and that was frustrating, but whatever.

The creeping cold curled up in the place it had carved for itself, and Ron tensed, but relaxed at the same time, and he didn't really know how to deal with that, so he left it alone.

"I need 'em," Harry said, muffled. "I kno' where the headache stuff is."

Ron groaned, rolled into a seated position. He held onto his head and forced himself into standing.

"I'm going to need that before I can find your glasses." Ron said.

"Can't describe," Harry said. "Pain too strong. Ugh."

Maybe he was less put together than Ron. Huh.

"Glasses are in the basement room," Ron said. "Easier to find."

Harry sat up, dropping the pillow on the bed and swinging his legs around over the edge.

"Ow," Harry said, plainly, as he rubbed at the side of his head, eyes closed. "I'm coming with."

"Fine," Ron said. "But you literally can't see."

"Then just," Harry gestured, "I don't know, I'll hold your elbow or some shit, just, let's go."

Ron sighed, went over, and waited. Harry stood, and the guy could see enough to grab onto Ron's elbow. "Right," Ron said, a little uncomfortable with all this – leading a practically blind person meant having to remember all the obstacles and stuff, and the stairs, great. Just - great.

"Right." He repeated and started walking.

It was an unmitigated disaster right from the word go, really, but that was to be expected. They managed not to fall down the stairs, but they did wake Walburga, and Sirius came running, and then they had to explain why Harry's glasses weren't on his face, y'know, where they should be, and Sirius just laughed because, well, it just so happened that he couldn't find his Firewhisky last night and don't you know, but Lily always lost her wand when she was drunk, figures Harry would end up getting that characteristic.

Being compared to his mother for more than her eyes for once appeared to be rather startling, to Harry. Sirius frowned, saddened, and led them both down into the sitting room.

"I'll say what I'm supposed to," Sirius said, "What you did was very stupid. But, truthfully, every single adult out there is a complete hypocrite. We all did it." He picked up Harry's glasses and handed them over to him, and Harry immediately stepped away, put them, on, and scowled at nothing for a second, before nodding.

Ron dropped into one of the chairs. Harry dropped into the one opposite.

"I'm not going to say you shouldn't," Sirius said, "Even though that's true. Because, well, I'm pretty certain that people your age tend to ignore that sort of thing. Merlin knows I did."

Harry cracked a smile at that.

Sirius dropped into another chair and sighed. "The medicine should be in there," He said, gesturing to a back cabinet. Harry immediately got up and went over, grabbed enough for himself and drank the potion down greedily, ignoring the taste quite obviously because, well, the relief would be worth it.

Ron copied pretty soon after, and then the three of them were kind of just there.

"So how have you two been holding up, then?" Sirius asked, cheerful enough and Ron shrugged.

"Alright," Harry said. He grinned lightly. "Ron should do his homework, but, y'know, that's his choice."

Ron made a noise of protest and sighed then nodded, shrugging. "Should." He said. "Will. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow will never come," Sirius said, wisely. "And you don't want Minnie giving you detention on the first day."

Ron snorted at the nickname, but he agreed.

"How far have you got?" Sirius asked, leaned forward. "The both of you?"

"I've done my HOM essay." Harry said. "And the thing for Snape, and the Transfiguration essay. Done my Herbology and Charms and we didn't get set any DADA, but I did some reading."

"Divination?" Ron asked, lips twitching. "Predicted my own death no less than twenty times," Harry said, faux proudly, and they both laughed.

Sirius was smiling, something fond and nostalgic in his gaze. Like he was thinking of something else, something kinder. From a happier time, from his perspective.

"So anyway," Ron said, "COMC?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "That too."

"I guess you have a lot of time at the Dursleys," Ron said, and his sullen tone matched Harry's expression. "Yeah." He said. "That would be the case."

"Well," Sirius said, "I guess you might want some help to get all that done, since we've only got a week before you lot are off for Hogwarts again." He said, and the man sounded vaguely wistful about leaving this house. Ron understood; he'd only been here for a few months, but leaving already felt like the most important, looked-forward to event of his life. And Sirius, this thirty-something man, he'd lived here. Lived here.

That's gotta mess with your head, at least a bit. And to be forced back, cooped up…

"Yeah," Harry said. "Yeah, that'd be great. Hermione's not here to pick up on our mistakes and she's also not here to explain her own notes," Harry gestured to his HOM essay, the one that was still on the table from last night. "See the red? That's her."

Sirius whistled. "Woah." He said. "Almost as anal about all that as Moony."

Ron and Harry shared amused glances. He really had no idea.

"More, I would say." Harry glanced up, as did Ron and Sirius. Remus was here. The amount of Order members showing up had slowed since about the middle of summer, everyone getting tasks and things they needed to do.

"Moony!" Sirius said, cheerfully. "C'mon in. The boys here could use some help and you were always better at History of Magic than I was."

"That's because you fell asleep in every lesson, Sirius," Remus said, amused, but he walked over all the same. "Harry, Ron," He greeted. "Good to see you well."

Sirius snorted. Remus raised an eyebrow but shrugged and left it alone.

"Professor," Harry grinned, nodded, and Ron greeted the man similarly.

"Call me Remus," He said, amused again. "I'm not your teacher any longer."

"You were the best one, though." Harry said.

"Trying to kill my students isn't what I'd call the best course of action," Remus said, self-deprecating. "That wasn't your fault, though." Ron said. "And It doesn't stop you from being the best teacher we've had."

Mad-Eye-Crouch-Junior was good, admittedly, but, well… sadistic. And very, very focused on a specific section of the curriculum. So, he was good, but not as good as Professor Lupin had been.

"See?" Sirius grinned. "Three against one, Remus. We win, you're wrong."

Remus smiled slightly, sat down in one of the chairs. "So, it seems," He said.

"So," Remus added, changing the topic. "Where are you stuck, exactly?"

---

Harry had gotten all his school gear by owl order. They'd gone to the burrow to receive it, so as not to draw attention to Grimmauld Place. After all, it was a Black's house, so feasibly, most any Black family member could get in if they tried hard enough, and there were plenty of those on the other side of things.

It was only really safe because of the Fidelius charm blocking those who weren't in on the Secret from access. And as the Potters had proved, that was only until the Keeper was compromised.

So, they were at the burrow. Three days left, and then they'd be back at Hogwarts. They were staying here for the day, the whole day, and it was so good to be out of that house, to be able to go outside and do shit he usually wasn't a fan of – feeding the chickens and tossing the gnomes and weeding the vegetables.

He couldn't use magic here, but really, who gave a shit when he could go into the orchard, go down the back path and through a little wooded section into the quidditch clearing.

He could fly again, something he did a lot in the summer, and hadn't really realised exactly how much he missed it.

He was trying out this year. Not for keeper, that would be stupid, Oliver's the best keeper they've got, but if a position came up he'd try his fucking best to get it, because he likes flying, he does, and he decent at the posts, he just needs more practice in each of them.

He's best at Keeper, though. But that position would be open next year; Ron could wait.

Harry had come out here, too. He looked a lot happier, out here, on the makeshift quidditch field, than he looked even when drunk the other night.

It was a good sight. Harry had his moments, lately, when he was angry, but more often, he was just… tired.

PTSD, Ron remembered. PTSD. And, from a letter Hermione hastily wrote to him three days into her stay at Krum's, again, possible lead poisoning from his decade sleeping in the Dursley's staircase cupboard.

She was looking for things that could be treated, Ron knew. Harry probably wouldn't like that, but at least if Ron and Hermione had an idea of what might be wrong, they can handle this better than going in blind.

Ron didn't show Harry that letter, regardless.

"Want to throw the quaffle around?" Harry asked, staring up at the sky.

"Sure," Ron said, and went to go get it, and two brooms. Harry's was still in his case back at Grimmauld Place, as was Ron's, so Ron grabbed Bill and Charlie's old brooms and handed Charlie's to Harry.

You used different brooms depending on your flying abilities and the techniques you use. Bill was a chaser, so his broom would work for Ron in this situation, and Harry was a seeker, so Charlie's old broom would work for him in general, which should make up for the fact that he doesn't actually know much about how to play chaser.

"Alright," Ron said, tossed Harry the ball and mounted Bill's old broomstick. "Let's go, then."

Harry grinned, a challenge. At least there was life in his eyes today. That was something, and it didn't require alcohol to get there, so – plus side – no hangover.

---

They were back at Grimmauld Place, and Ron could feel the slimy magic of it crawling back under his skin, stretching out and filling in the cracks and crevices and hollow little holes it had made for itself.

Ron shivered as they passed through the door, and Harry's expression soured so quickly Ron almost got whiplash.

"Forgot about that," Harry said, thickly, absently rubbing at his scar.

"Yeah." Ron said. He hadn't forgotten, but he understood how Harry could have.

He doubted Harry had even been aware about it until the Locket, and even then, not consciously, until the firewhisky burnt it out of his system for a sweet, blissful moment.

"Alright," Harry sighed. Subdued. This was how the magic affected him. Ron was very angry all of a sudden, like the magic of the Locket was back and playing it's malicious, malevolent tricks again.

Just. Something felt. Similar.

Ron licked his lips in nervousness and frowned. He got what Harry and Ginny were on about, now.

Something. Felt.

Familiar.

"Ron?" Harry asked, snapped his fingers in front of his eyes and Ron blinked, stepped back, massaged his temples with one hand, alternating.

"You okay?" Harry asked.

"Yeah." Ron said. "Yeah. I just. Something felt – weird. Familiar."

Harry frowned, deep, concerned.

"It's fine." Ron said, and it was. Really. "It's gone now."

Not really. Ron hadn't noticed it before, but it was obvious, now.

Something felt – like the Locket. Familiar.

Something about Harry.

---

Ron felt a bit stupid about sending a letter to Dumbledore considering he'd be at Hogwarts in less than a day's time and so could very well ask him then and there, but still.

He couldn't outright say it, of course. But he'd had a look at the library, and found a couple 'encryption' spells, and Ron hoped Dumbledore would check the parchment for something like that. Otherwise, this would seem very, very odd.

Headmaster Dumbledore,

Can I ask you something?

Ron.

---

Can I ask you something?

Dumbledore frowned at the parchment. He tapped it with his wand, absentmindedly. He supposed the boy could simply be asking for his office password so he could ask in person, but that didn't seem like something the boy would do.

No. Ron tended to surprise people, from what Dumbledore had gathered.

Frowning still, on a whim, he cast a diagnostic charm.

It pinged back with about twelve different warnings, and Dumbledore laughed.

Then, well. He registered what the letter was saying, and his mood sobered. He was of course, no less impressed – but what the boy had figured out wasn't just some fairly difficult magic. Not that the boy would know it was fairly difficult, which is likely how he managed it in the first place.

Regardless… it was something far more sinister than that.

Headmaster Dumbledore,

There's something off about Harry, isn't there?

That Locket. The one you confiscated. We probably should have said something, I guess, but it's a bit late now. Anyway, well, we were the ones that found it.

I could tell it was something, but it didn't feel cursed. That's – I mean, that's why I was surprised when the mood-swings mostly stopped. Mostly.

That's the thing. Mostly. I didn't really think about it, at first. The House, Grimmauld, it's got some Dark stuff. Magic. Creeping cold that you can feel, in your head, and, well, I guess, in your soul, a little, too.

It covered the, uh – subtler stuff. Like the Locket. In a weird way, it was almost trying to protect, but it was – it wasn't strong enough, I guess. Mordred or Morgana; evil you know or evil you don't. We all kind of went with the latter - the Locket - and nobody said anything.

Ginny, Me, Hermione, Harry, and Sirius were the most affected, followed by Remus.

Hermione got over it first. Ginny got over it last.

Harry's not over it. I'm not over it.

I'm – asking. Kind of. I'm kind of asking, well, if the Locket latched on. Like the Diary did with Ginny.

They're the same, aren't they? Bits of Riddle. Ginny still calls him Tom, you know. So does Harry. They actually got to know him a bit, trust him a little. I never met him, but I knew about the diary, that it talked back.

Books don't do that. Not even magic ones.

But the Diary stopped doing it's – soul thing. After it was destroyed. With that basilisk fang. From the dead basilisk in the basement. Chamber. Thing.

Harry – this is weird to write. But Harry feels kinda like the Locket did. If that makes any sense. And Hermione got here two weeks in, about the same time Harry did just a day or two earlier, and then the locket was gone three weeks after that, nearly a month, but that was enough, wasn't it? Over a month for the rest of us. And, I reckon, that long was enough – those three weeks – for the Locket to latch onto Harry.

Hermione got over it first because she was around it least. Around Harry least.

Sirius took longer, because of how long he's stayed in this house, I figure. And the dementors. He died, you know, I guess, in the Original Timeline, Hermione talks about it a lot. The 'time-travel paradox.' There had to have been one, right? Some.. somewhen where Harry and Hermione didn't go back, where Harry didn't save himself and Sirius from the dementors.

I don't know. But I figure that might mean something.

Anyway – Professor Lupin's a werewolf. I mean, I guess, that probably makes him a little more... susceptible.

And Ginny. Well. She'd already been latched onto before. Most of her soul eaten away. And it was Tom, still. The Locket. Not – Voldemort, not yet.

She said so. And, well, I trust her judgement. She heard him, too, not just the – 'psychological leftovers' but, well, him. Tom Riddle.

Anyway. Harry's still affected. And I can feel it, too, that familiar thing. That's – I mean, this sounds bonkers, but that's His soul, right?

Tom Riddle's soul.

I don't really know what I'm saying here. I mean, I don't really understand what I'm feeling. Magic, I guess.

I guess what I'm saying. I mean.

Harry. He's not Riddle, but he's got – he's got something, right. Something of his soul.

I could be wrong. But – it's just so familiar.

Ron.

Dumbledore sighed, rubbed at his brow, the spot between his eyebrows and above the bridge of his nose.

He was a smart boy. People didn't really think that when they looked at him, but Dumbledore knew his student's grades, their achievements that lay outside of academics.

Played chess against McGonagall's set, enchanted to find a way to subdue the player, when he was eleven, and won.

And yet, it appears he'd still underestimated the second youngest Weasley child.

Though – in all honesty – he's feeling surer about his decision to make him a prefect than he had at the beginning of summer, and truthfully, a little guilty that he'd been thinking more of why it couldn't be Harry than why it could be anyone else.

---

After two nights back at Hogwarts, back at the familiar school of magic that was familiar in a way that wasn't sinister, that didn't send shivers down his spine, and Ron felt more like himself.

He still had yet to play chess, though. He missed it, but Ron didn't want to hurt anyone again. Since this time, it wouldn't be a traitorous git, and Ron would likely be lambasted as much as Harry was in the papers by the rest of the student body.

Plus, he was a prefect. He couldn't exactly go around cursing people, since that's not really the best example. Still, being able to take points off Malfoy's lot did put him in a good mood.

Malfoy was not a prefect. Instead, it was some equally obnoxious dark-skinned Italian boy called Blaise Zabini, and the female prefect was none other than… Tracey Davis. Who he'd never once heard of in all his years swapping angry and (or) snide remarks across the corridors.

Hermione was the female prefect of Gryffindor. Really, Ron figured what with there being only three girls in their year, there wasn't much choice, and besides, Lavender and Parvati talked more about celebrities than about schoolwork, and Lavender regularly turned her's in late, though to be fair she did get good marks when that wasn't the case.

For Hufflepuff, it was – unfortunately – MacMillan, though thank Merlin it wasn't Smith. Susan was the female one, and that was alright. She was Madame Bones' niece, and his Dad always talked about her being the most fair-headed (in the sense that she was always fair about things) of the lot at the DMLE.

For Ravenclaw, it was one person he'd had no idea existed before today; Terrance Boot, and oh great... Padma Patil.

"Weasley," She greeted, with vague disdain. "Yep," He said, couldn't help grimacing, and Hermione rolled her eyes and sat down.

"Figures you'd be prefect, Granger, what with competition like Brown," Boot says. "But never guessed it'd be Weasley." He looked vaguely impressed. "Nice one."

Ron shrugged.

"Well," Zabini drawled, with that amalgamation of an accent he had, "I suppose we should get down to business?"

"How Snape ever let you be prefect, Zabini, I'll never know," Davis said, waspishly. "Same for you, dear," He drawled back. "Given… well." He stopped, smirking, and she scowled at him.

"Heads of Houses don't choose," Hermione said, as if the thought was ridiculous. "The Headmaster does, along with the other teachers."

"But half of us don't even have the other teachers," Susan pointed out. Good point, that, really. "I mean, professor Vector teaches arithmancy. Half of the people sitting in this very booth have never even met her."

Ron shrugged. She really did have a point.

"And Trelawney?" Boot added. "Her? She's trusted over Sprout to choose someone to be a prefect?"

Padma pursed her lips and scowled at Boot, as, Hermione nodded, reluctantly agreeing.

"Well, there's no point talking about it now," Ron said. "We've been chosen, and that's that."

"True," MacMillan said. "Very true."

"So," Padma said, clapping her hands together. "We need to schedule patrols and the like. And decide amongst ourselves how many points should be taken off from people for certain actions, so as to avoid favouritism."

She glowered at Ron, Hermione, Zabini, Davis, and Boot each in turn. Ron glowered right back, really, because she had no right to judge him off of one shitty dance when he'd worn shitty clothes and had a shit time.

And he wasn't about to be lumped in with the Purist, anyway.

Thing is – at least he wasn't Malfoy. That was a blessing in disguise, really. In this case, Ron prefers the Mordred he doesn't know over the Morgana he does.

Arguably, Morgana is worse, anyway.

"Alright," Hermione nodded. "Everyone have something to write on?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Boot said. "Make one copy and use a protean charm. Simple."

"Not simple," Davis groused. "Not even remotely."

"No, it really is," Hermione said, excitedly. "We can have a few main non-protean charmed copies, of course, just in case, but we can have one that is, so we can communicate through it, remind each other about patrols, easily ask someone to take over if we're sick or overworked with OWL prep and need a night off."

Ron could see the use. The others could too, albeit begrudgingly for some certain people (person, really), and so it was decided.

"Me, Boot, Davis and Bones will write them up, then." Hermione decided. "I figure have the other half go around the train, you know, make sure people know."

"Why not." Padma said. "We should pair up, though." She eyed Zabini with distaste, then eyed Ron and MacMillan with slightly less, albeit an equal amount for the both of them. "I'll go with Weasley," She said, begrudgingly. "Zabini and Weasley going together is a disaster in the making, so let's mitigate that."

Hermione nodded quite rapidly in agreement. Ron scowled at Zabini, who smirked back, until Davis slapped him, hard, on the arm.

"Don't mind him," She snapped. "You," She pointed at MacMillan, who suddenly looked very pale, "Unfortunately, you're stuck with Zabini. Luckily for you, he doesn't hate Half-Bloods nearly as much as Weasleys."

"Don't be so rude, Davis," Zabini said. "I hate them equally. No need to sugar coat it."

"Fine," She snapped. "You're a bigoted bastard, but I'm glad you aren't Malfoy, so we'll just have to deal with you, and you'll just have to deal with the fact that we won't, we will not tolerate your shit. Get it?"

"Of course," Zabini said. "I wouldn't dream of any less."

"Fuck you," Davis said, tired-sounding. "You two, get out of here, do the back compartments, with the older years. Zabini will be less tempted to hex seventh year muggleborns than first year ones. If he does, y'know, take points, and we can get his status revoked," She looked a little gleeful at that thought. "So? Get to it."

The two left the compartment, and Padma stood, brushed off non-existent stuff from her robes. "Come on, Weasley." She said and sniffed at him. "At least this time, you look presentable."

Ron clenched one hand into a fist, but this was Bill's robe from his brother's sixth year. It was a little too long on the arms and legs, but it fit his build better than his fifth-year ones did. You couldn't see his fist, is the point, and he was grateful for that as he nodded, short, and followed Padma out of the compartment.

They find Harry near the back of the front, with a few fourth years and Neville.

"Hey," Harry greeted when he saw them, charmed dark glasses reflecting the sunlight from outside.

Oh good. He'd figured out that spell.

He'd been working on it all summer, just as a side thing. Apparently, his dad had used it instead of just buying some sunglasses, because it worked, and why not.

"Sunglasses inside, Potter?" Padma asked, amused, and Harry shrugged. "Figuring out how the spell works, how long it lasts."

She nodded at that and glanced at the others.

"Luna," Ron greeted. He hadn't seen her in years, honestly, but he still remembered the girl. She was a bit odd, sure, but not bad.

"Ronald," She smiled. "The nargles appear to have cleared around you some, according to Ginny."

"Right," Ron acknowledged. A bit barmy, but well meaning.

Padma pursed her lips at the blonde, a look in her eyes Ron rather didn't like. Ginny didn't seem to like it, either, and neither did Harry.

"Luna." Padma said, curt.

"Hello, Padma Patil," Luna said, airy, but warm. "Did the nargles ever return your scarf?"

"Yes." Padma said, shortly. "I found it, under my bed. Where I thought it was."

"Oh good," Luna smiled. Her magazine, The Quibbler, was upside down in her hands, Ron noticed. Padma's eyes seemed drawn to it, a brief look of revulsion appearing on her face before it was gone.

Luna didn't seem to notice. If she did, you really couldn't tell.

"Well, we aren't doing anything untoward," Ginny said, tone verging on dangerous.

Ron wondered if she could feel that familiar thing, that bit of Tom Riddle that Harry had but wasn't Harry himself.

"So, I figure there's nothing you need to stay for?" She said, all her words directed at Padma.

"Have a good patrol, Ron," Harry said, cheerful, but there was a slight edge there, too.

"Sure, mate. See you, Ginny." He said, stepped back and closed the compartment door firmly.

"So," Ron said, after casting a quick Silencio. He'd gotten rather good at that spell, after last year, and during the school years before that regardless, when he got nightmares about the Acromantulas, the chess game, finding Ginny dead in the chamber, her small skeleton lying there as the centuries passed by, eventually crumbling to dust. Harry was there too, sometimes, and Hermione, because all of them could have so easily died that year.

"What've you got against Luna? She's a bit batty, sure, but you seem to hate her. A lot."

Ron would know. He'd felt a lot of undeserved hate this summer, thanks to the house and the Locket, as well as over the years, in part due to the Weasley Temper (unofficial, but well known) and he could recognise it on the girl's face.

"She's not batty." Padma snapped. "She's – I don't understand how she's a Ravenclaw. She's odd. And yes, I don't like her. And yes, most people in our houses call her Loony Lovegood, you must have heard that. But I do not and would not partake in that."

"But you won't stop it, either, will you?" Ron said. "You'll just let it happen. Ignore it. It's all in jest. Teasing. Not bullying. Right?"

"And you care?" Padma asked. "I remember you being rather cruel to Hermione, first year. And you were ever so quick to turn on your best mate last year, though I suppose if someone was someone's most important person they'd change their mood right quick, unless they were truly awful."

"She's Ginny's friend," Ron said, ignoring the second part of her tirade. The whole thing, actually. "The Rookery isn't far from the Burrow, Padma."

"So, you grew up near each other?" She said. "And? You weren't friends. You don't owe her anything."

"Except just – y'know, not being a prat." Ron said. "You're being pretty prat-ish, you know that, yeah?"

She scowled at him. The girl was pretty, there was no denying that, but this was an ugly kind of expression. Denial.

"I'm not." She said, certain. The girl turned around and practically flounced down the corridor, back the way they came. Ron sighed, and followed, breaking the spell.

---

"So, how'd it go?" Hermione smiled at them. It was strained around the edges; Zabini and MacMillan were back, but Zabini was nursing a bruise and MacMillan looked self-satisfied, and Davis was furiously whispering to Zabini in what Ron assumed to be Italian.

They'd missed something.

"Not the best," Ron said, before Padma could. "Apparently Padma here's a bit of a bystander."

"How so?" Boot asked, leaning forward. "Luna." Ron said. "Luna Lovegood."

"Ah." Boot leant back. "I see."

"It's not my fault she makes herself a target," Padma said, bluntly, curtly, as she sat back down. "If she'd just read her books the right way up and stop talking about creatures that don't exist, this wouldn't be a problem she has to face."

"You know what happened, Padma," Ron said. "You can't exactly blame her for being a bit off in the head."

"Ron," Hermione said, firmly. "What?" He asked.

"That's-" She sighed. "That's not how you phrase it."

"Phrase what?" He asked. "She's a bit odd. That's obvious. But she's not Loony Lovegood. Like they call her," He pointed at the Ravenclaws. Boot winced.

"I didn't know," Boot said, defending. "I didn't know her name was Luna. Nobody ever called her it."

"And you call her Luna now, right?" Susan said, dangerous, and Boot nodded. "Obviously," He said. "I apologised, even, though she didn't seem to know what for." He got a peculiar look on his face – confused, maybe. Ron didn't know him well enough to know.

"Likely because she was isolated for her childhood, lost her mother in an explosion she bore witness to, lost her father to his fantasies, and has no friends." Davis said, blunt. "But who knows…" She added, sarcastic.

"Tracey," Susan sighed. "What?" Tracey said. "It's true."

"Ginny's her friend." Ron said, almost defensively. "Well, I've heard her call her Loony," Susan said. "So... you might wanna rethink that."

"Well." Hermione frowned at all of them. "I suppose this brings us into what we should talk about next; we can and will and should take points and give detentions to other prefects."

They blinked at her.

"What?" Boot said.

"If we catch a prefect doing something bad, or against the rules, or what have you," Hermione said, eying Zabini, "We can take points and give detentions. But it's double the points we take and detentions we give the first time, quadruple the second, and then a simple take them to their head of house and Dumbledore on the third." She frowned at all of them, again.

"Makes sense," Ron said. "I'm in."

"Of course, you are," Davis muttered. "But yeah, I'm in too."

Reluctant agreement from two others and genuine agreement from the rest – reluctant from MacMillan and Zabini, who were eying each other rather dangerously – and that was that.

"Well, meeting adjourned," Hermione said. "We should meet up about a week in, after everyone's settled back into the scheme of things. Just to go over everything."

"Alright," Ron said. "Where?"

"Just the library." Hermione said. "We can't get too heated in there, it should force civil conversation."

They nodded, some reluctantly, but that was that, in the end.

They; him and Hermione, found their way to the cabin and compartment Ron had last seen Harry in. He was still there, as was Neville, Ginny and Luna. "Back again?" Harry asked, grinning. "Hey, Hermione."

"Harry," Hermione greeted, warmly. "How are you?"

Maybe not the best question. Harry shrugged, non-committal. His tone was light, but you couldn't see his eyes behind the glasses. So, the charm hadn't worn off yet.

"Alright," He said, smiling, and Ron figures he's never told a bolder lie. "You?"

"Alright," She returned, equally, her smile a little more real, and she sits across from him, next to Neville, in between him and Ron's sister.

Ron sits down, between Luna and Harry.

"So how was patrol?" Harry asked Hermione. "I didn't," Hermione said. "Half of us stayed to discuss things like points and detentions – how many, what for – and the other half went out to patrol, give everyone a chance to understand who's a prefect now and who isn't.

"And Ron got saddled with Patil, again, then?" Ginny said. "Ginny," Hermione sighed. "What?" Ginny asked. "She's a right pain a lot of the time. Snobbish as they get. At least Parvati looks a little less down on us for being simple commoners with low-quality clothing and second-hand books."

Hermione gained an 'oh' kind of expression; quick and sudden realisation. "Don't even," Ginny said. "Let's just move on."

And so, they did.

Once they were back in the castle, and the welcome feast was underway, Ron noticed that Moody was in the DADA seat, but there was another person there too, an extra chair for a woman wearing far too much pink and had a distinct resemblance to a toad.

"That woman," Harry had said, when the woman started talking. "She was at my hearing. Umbridge."

"Umbitch, more like it," Seamus said, under his breath, chuckling. Then, he seemed to remember he was talking to Harry, and backed off very, very quickly.

And to think. Just last year, Seamus had been complaining right alongside Dean about Ron being fickle.

"You alright, Finnegan?" Ron asked. Very pointedly using his last name. "Something wrong?"

"Don't listen to everything the media tells you," Ginny says from slightly further down the table, next to Neville and Colin. She's cutting into some steak, and honestly, Ron's a little terrified, so Seamus' pale complexion is really rather warranted.

"Generally, it's a load of rubbish."

She cuts quite viciously into her steak; stabs it hard with the serrated knife, really, and Ron winces.

Seamus flinches, looks down at his food.

"It's more than that these days," Hermione scowls. "Outright libel, at best."

"They're just telling it how it is, Granger," Seamus said.

"Just because your mum listens to their crap, Seamus, doesn't mean you have to," Harry said. "Or can't you make a decision on your own without her input?"

Harry cuts into his own food, expression bland. Ron's hope had been that the good mood from the last couple days would last, but no luck.

Not when people like Seamus, who'd shared their dorm room for the last five years, don't believe you about things like this.

Dean looked uncomfortable, but he didn't say anything. Once the feast was over he hurried Seamus out of there, and when Ron and Harry went up to bed, they weren't in the dorm.

Harry shrugged and started to get dressed. Ron sighed, and turned around.

Harry raised an eyebrow at him, then caught sight of his prefect badge.

"… this is going to make things a little difficult for us, I imagine," He said, amused, and Ron shrugged. "We'll see," He said and left. The two weren't in the corridor, so he set of to find them.

He found them in an abandoned classroom down the hall a way, huddled together and having a whispered argument. Ron didn't enter, not yet – these past five years had taught him a little something of stealth, if not much, so he simply listened in. He caught the occasional word, enough to know what they were arguing about.

Ron sighed, whispered ten points from Gryffindor, and left them be.

Five points were the decided amount for an individual caught out of bed on the first offence. It was only fair, but Ron didn't want to interrupt, not when what they were talking about was, well, Seamus' attitude. If Dean got through to him, then, well, maybe Ron wouldn't have to be assigning detention so soon.

---

The school year passed by.

Umbridge got Harry to carve I must not tell lies into the back of his hand with a fucking blood quill, and Ron could do nothing.

Honestly, that was the last straw. Dumbledore had never gotten back to him about what he'd asked, and really, Ron had had quite enough. This random ministry worker was here, for obviously suspicious reasons. She wasn't teaching, she was quite literally torturing, and Ron couldn't stand idly by while his best mate was being treated like that.

He went to the gargoyle. He didn't know the password, but he asked a nearby portrait, and with enough coaxing, the armoured woman eventually wandered on up to the headmaster's office.

The gargoyle moved, and Ron stepped on the spiral, rising staircase. He was just about to knock when the Headmaster called enter, and said "Hello, Ron. I assume this visit isn't for idle pleasantries?" with a questioning but knowing tone. His eyes were twinkling behind his glasses as they nearly always were. Ron wondered if it was a charm.

"Umbridge has been torturing Harry," Ron found himself saying. Ron's not the hugest fan of betraying Harry's trust like this, he's not, but something's got to be done. "When she gives him those detentions, you know, for doing something stupid like not tucking in his shirt on weekends, even though it's about five times his size so how would he anyway…"

Dumbledore's expression suddenly turned very dangerous.

"Are you sure, Mr. Weasley?"

"Yes, sir." Ron said. "It's really easy to prove. She used a blood quill."

"Of course." Dumbledore murmured, glancing at one of the odd contraptions on his desk. "Thank you."

This year, the whole school has had mandatory classes with Umbridge. They're not really classes, since you don't learn anything, but if you don't show up, unlike in previous years regarding HOM, you get an immediate detention with the woman herself.

And nobody wants those. Not given what happens to the kids who get them.

But Ron knows what's about to happen. The Head Girl and Boy and, by extension, all the prefects – unfortunately including Zabini – had been notified. Surprisingly, Percy's indignation in first-year makes a little more sense now, given this, but really, Ron doesn't want to think about him, at all; his traitor brother, so instead, he waits.

He'd told Harry. You weren't supposed to tell people, but he couldn't help it. Harry deserved to know, really. And it wasn't explicitly against the rules. It had only been implied.

Harry had told Sirius, through the mirror. The look on his face had been ecstatic, really, and in a way, that had been infectious.

She was going to get what was coming to her.

Through the door, halfway through the lecture, when Umbridge was in the middle of once again denouncing the claim that Lord Voldemort, He Who Must Not Be Named; You Know Who, and to a select few, Tom Marvolo Riddle, was indeed back, and was, at the same time, pushing the Harry and Dumbledore are crazy side of things.

The narrative the Ministry preferred. But, not everyone in it's midst was corrupt, and even if they didn't believe you know who was back just yet, well, they didn't care for supposed instructors torturing students very much, in general.

"This is a raid, Delores," One auror says. She sends a wink the students way, and it's Tonks, of course. "A long time coming, too," Another says, a weedy voiced man with very low set eyebrows. "You were always awful back in the day, if I remember."

"You can't be-" Umbridge blustered, but she's incarceroused and expelliarmused before she can blink, really, so she stops herself.

"Watson, Barbage," The weedy-voiced man said, "Go search her office."

"Aye-aye," The female one mutters, and jogs upstairs after her partner. They've got muggle wedding rings on. Ron wonders at the circumstances before shrugging it off. Not really important.

It doesn't take long to find the quills. Umbridge, for all her supposed cunning, isn't really all that smart.

After that, well, things go back to a relative normal. Moody's teaching is surprisingly similar to that of Crouch-Moody's, but it's got less of a focus on being under the effects of a curse and more on how to fight properly.

"Now," He said, gruffly, "I don't want to hear anything about Voldemort not being back. Even if he isn't – which he is – there's no reason you shouldn't practice CONSTANT VIGILENCE."

Honestly, having gotten used to Barty-Moody, the real one actually almost seemed like a knock-off, like things weren't quite right. If something was bothering a student as obviously as the cruciatus curse bothered Neville, he'd stop, strangely. He'd coax it into the course, over weeks, but he wouldn't force it upon them all at once.

That was good for the dark curses segment.

"We aren't teaching you how to use these." He said, as he floated a bucket over to a student who looked particularly green. "There, lad, have that." He added, "No, we're teaching you how to fix the damage."

He turned around and wrote a word on the board.

Sectumsempra.

"You won't read this in any of yer books," Mad-eye continued. "And if you do, I want you to bring it to me." He narrowed his eyes at each of them in turn. "Understood?"

They all nodded, and he returned to his lecture, satisfied. "It's dark. One of the darkest I've come across, despite it's deceptively simple nature.

"A simple way to put it is the muggle phrase; death by a thousand cuts. It doesn't heal. Normal healing magic doesn't work on it. You bleed out, slowly, painfully, debilitatingly. It's a torture curse, plain and simple, like the cruciatus, but not emotion driven. That is perhaps it's worst offence. Can anyone tell me why?"

"Someone could cast it by accident," Ron found himself saying. "Just read the spell out loud and it's done."

"Exactly," Moody grinned and it was the same grin that Crouch-Moody had perfected. A little demented, but not cruel. Satisfied that his students were getting it.

"It has no wand movement." Moody said. "It is a surprisingly low powered spell, mainly because, like the cruciatus, it is a spell you most hold. But when it breaks, unlike the cruciatus, the affects aren't removed. Like the cruciatus, it can cause permanent damage, but it does it easier. And," Moody looked around at all of them, "You've all met the man who made it."

There was silence. "Remember," Mad-eye barked. "Constant vigilance."

---

They have a few more lessons on this specific curse.

"Why are we still on this, sir?" Someone from the back, a Ravenclaw girl, asked. Mad-eye repeated her words and she shrunk in her seat.

"Does anyone have an answer to Turpin's question?"

"Because it was used a lot, wasn't it?" Hermione says. "In the last war. I read about it in old issues of the daily prophet. A new spell."

"One nobody had heard of." Mad-eye agreed. "Good, Granger. Very good. One point to Gryffindor."

Mad-eye didn't tend to award or remove points. Apparently, he thought nothing of the system. Detentions and proper praise were enough, in his eyes.

He only did it on rare occasions. When someone managed to truly impress him. Practising Constant Vigilance was a sure way to get them, though - and researching the last war counts as that.

"This was most common among Death Eaters," Mad-eye said, his magical eye roving around the classroom at speed. "And Death Eaters were around at a ratio of one of them to two of us, or thereabouts, and that doesn't sound much, but you must understand," He narrowed his eyes at them all. "There are less than a million witches and wizards in this country. All over this country. There are a million muggles in London alone." He frowned across at them all. "Or something like that. My point – our population in general doesn't seem like much. But we can and have done a lot of damage. Take my face as an example," He grinned, the expression too sharp, the edges jagged - "Of what we can do and what we can survive, compared to the average muggle. One third of our population is enough to do some severe damage to this country of ours. Enough to take it over from the muggles, if they're incentivised enough. And Death Eaters, blood purists, all them lot, they are. And we can't have that, because they will not hold up the statute of security, and then, well, we'll all be doomed. Muggle or Magical."

That didn't really seem to answer the girl's question. But that didn't rightly matter – what he was saying was information nobody had ever told him before, and by the looks on his classmates faces, they hadn't known either.

"But sir," Another Ravenclaw said. Male, this time. "We've gone over everything about this curse. We know it's effects inside and out."

"That is true." Mad-eye said. "But there is one last thing."

"What?" Another asked.

"The practical." Moody said. "You must be able to reverse the spell. Otherwise, one of these days, someone you know is going to bleed out on the floor when you could have done something to stop it."

---

The rest of the year passes similarly. With Mad-Eyes tuition, most people are simultaneously well-prepared and slightly terrified, where as others are simply one or the other.

Ron's kind of dealt with too much to be anything other than well-prepared. So, has Hermione, and Ginny, and Harry, and well, yeah, that's it that he knows of.

"Using one dark curse isn't going to sully your souls," Mad eye had said. "And there is something I need to test in all of you. So – we have permission, this once, for these lessons only, to see if you can perform three spells. You may opt out if you wish," He added, eye swivelling over Neville and Harry and back again.

"I will not be teaching you the spells." He said. "I refuse, plain and simple. You may look them up. It is unfortunately easy to get a hold of books that will teach you in the library, despite these spells being what they are."

"You want us to use the Unforgivables?" Harry said, shocked.

"Yes, Potter. The Unforgivables."

"Can I opt out, professor?" Neville said. It wasn't quiet, or timid, not now. Apparently, he'd grown into some confidence without anyone noticing.

"Certainly, lad." Moody said. "Which one?"

"Cruciatus and Killing curse." He said. "Maybe if I understand Imperio more, I can fight it off better."

"Good thinking." The man said. "The right reason to want to know these spells in any sort of way. One point to Gryffindor."

Neville nodded, pleased, and then Mad-Eye turned to the rest of them.

"Well?" He barked out. "Anyone else?"

A lot of people forfeited the killing curse, the cruciatus. Maybe it was last year, being under the spell the way they had been, but Imperio didn't seem so bad, really, to understand. Not if it made it easier to throw off, and it wasn't painful, exactly. Just odd.

Of course, there were people who weren't doing this for the right reasons. Ron knew that. He couldn't really do anything about it, though, so he found some kind of acceptance in the fact that he was, at least. And so were most of the people in this room.

Ginny had apparently opted to do all of them. Ron wasn't so surprised, really. Just worried, a little. The same at Harry, who hadn't opted out of any of them either.

Hermione had opted out of the killing curse. In some strange sense of support, for his sister and for Harry, Ron hadn't opted out of any of them. Maybe his little sister and Harry might – he doesn't know. Maybe it'll be better if somebody else does all three, too.

Someone who isn't Zabini, for example, who is doing all three. He was smirky and smug the whole meeting that week, and everyone was tired of him by the end. Malfoy would have been worse, though, Ron knows. He's worried about having to do something, if only because he's worried some kid's gonna get hurt because Zabini's a prick.

"Why'd you do it?" Harry asks that night. The common room is mostly empty, and when Ron eyes the people still there, they leave.

Firsties. So scared. He sort-of remembered being that scared, but that was when he'd been in a chess match to the death, so maybe he didn't have the best fear-level-indicator.

"I dunno," Ron said. "Mostly because I don't know what you're asking about."

"Shove off, you git," Harry said, "You know exactly what I'm talking about. Why'd you choose to do all three?"

Ron shrugged.

"You can't counter the killing curse." Harry said. "This is only to prove if you can cast it or not. Three dark curses Ron. And not just any. The Unforgivables."

"Then why'd you do it?" Ron demanded. "Huh?"

"I don't want to be capable of any of them." Harry said. "But you know me. Curious."

"Then call me curious, too." Ron said, stubborn. "If that's all it takes."

Harry eyed him warily, didn't respond. Ron sighs, leaned his head back on the armchair.

Harry's on the couch, on his back, kind of. He's short enough that his feet don't quite reach the other end, and it's not that big of a couch, really.

"Y'know," Harry said, "If you weren't still a prefect, we could actually be doing something right now."

"Still a prefect?" Ron asked.

"Made a prefect," Harry corrected himself. "I mean. It's just inconvenient."

Ron snorted. Harry grinned, lightly. He wasn't much better – there were still days he blamed himself for everything, of course. Days he was angry, days he was sad, days when his mood flipped like a galleon toss, but there were days like this, and like that day on the pitch back at the burrow, when he wasn't so bad, really, when he seemed to be getting better.

They happened more often, now. It's almost Christmas, and Ron really hopes it'll last.

---

Mad-Eye schedules it like this:

Monday – Cruciatus.

Wednesday – Imperio.

Friday – Avada Kedavra.

Hermione is her usual terrifying intellectual self. She researches everything, top to bottom, left to right, back to front. It's not that she wants to get this right – she's not bothering trying to will up the emotions she'd need; like genuine sadism or homicidal urges, but she put it like this:

"I want to know." She'd said. "What spell someone's about to cast at me before they even start saying the word. If I need to dodge or to block or to get their wand away from them as fast as possible."

Ron got that. A lot of the others did, too.

There were some students – ones that knew the original root of the killing curse – that had only chosen to do that one. They took what she'd said to heart, if they heard it. And, because it made sense, spread it to those that didn't.

"The Killing Curse…" Ron sighed. Harry was still bewildered by their choice, there. "It used to be different. Execution charm. It was – not good, but it wasn't bad, either, technically. Grey. Didn't need emotion, just, uh, intellectual understanding, I guess."

"A specific word there; used," Harry said, tone biting. "And, pray tell, what changed?"

"It was used on farm animals," Ron said. "To give them a clean, quick, and painless death. Then someone got the bright idea to use it on a person when feeling actual murderous intent, and butchering the pronunciation a bit, and… there it is. Avada Kedavra."

"Right." Harry said, dubiously. "Sure."

Ron shrugged. It was the truth, and that was that, but Harry could disbelieve it if he wanted to. Ron had never and wasn't planning to bring up that a protection spell which turned the attacker to dust couldn't exactly be the lightest of magic, really, if you think about it, because that would be so much more tactless than Ron actually is, thanks.

---

Ron doesn't get the killing curse to work, thank Merlin. Nor does he get the Imperius curse to work, either. The feel of that magic, slimy and dark and wrong, it feels like the locket, insidious, waiting to creep into someone's head and hollow out a place for itself to stay. Ron's hand is shaking after his time is up, and Mad-Eye doesn't comment, just hands him a mug of tea and a book.

Occlumency.

Ron frowns at it, drinks his tea.

Occlumency. The art of closing your mind to outward intrusions.

Ron casts geminio on the book and hands a copy each to Ginny and Harry, then makes one for Hermione, too, because she should get one, might as well.

It's just. More important. For Ginny, for Harry.

For Ron, too, if he's honest with himself. He can still feel it, even all these months later, and they're due back to Grimmauld for Christmas. It's going to worm its magic back into his head, and he's not going to be able to do anything. Because even with Occlumency, it takes forever to learn, and Ron doesn't have the best patience.

He tries, anyway.

Ron didn't mention the cruciatus curse, earlier.

Mad-Eye didn't give him the book until after the Imperius curse session. But he does stare him down until he talks after the cruciatus curse session.

Ron didn't really expect to be able to cast it. Sure, he gets angry sometimes, but that didn't feel right. Like – like the Locket or the House was still in his head, making his emotions all haywire. But Ron's hand had remained steady, and that creeping cold made its way into the back of his head, and he cast it without much thought, really. Or emotion.

Ron didn't like that at all.

And Mad-Eye must have seen something off, maybe. Because he took him aside for a moment, after Ron let go of the curse (a little too late, a few beats after the timer went off, why, why, why) and sat him down, gave him a mug of tea.

Ron glanced at the foe glass Mad-Eye had.

"Bartemius Junior at least knew my tastes," Mad-Eye said, wryly. "The foe glass was a nice choice, if reckless on his part."

"It showed his enemies." Ron said. "I never came in here, but Harry did. He said the glass was always full of shadowy people."

"Because he was a Death Eater," Mad-Eye said. "Near everyone in this castle was his enemy."

"Right." Ron said. They lapsed into silence.

"So." Mad-Eye said. "You made the curse work."

Ron nodded, slightly miserable at the fact.

"Chin up, lad," The man barked. "D'you think you're the only one? I've used it, many times. Did you not notice my phrasing?"

You made the curse work.

Ron shrugged. "I guess." He said.

"Be more certain." Moody snapped. "Did you or did you not?"

"Yes." Ron said. "I made the curse work."

"And what does that mean?"

"I use a dark spell," Ron said. "With barely any trouble at all."

"Wrong, Weasley." Mad-eye said. "You used a dark curse as a grey spell. Aurors do it all the time, lad."

"What?" Ron asked. "Keep up," Mad-Eye demanded. "You've got a brain on those shoulders, use it."

Ron thought, for a moment.

"I didn't use emotion." Ron said, slowly. "So, it wasn't dark, and it wasn't light. But it's a dark curse." Ron frowned. "I mean, they're – it's dark."

"Darker than the others." Mad-Eye agreed. "Why we did it first. Weed out the dangerous from the naïve and the stupid and the capable."

Mad-Eye's human eye gleamed with what could generously be called amusement. "Your bushy-haired friend fits into two of those categories rather well."

Ron shrugged. "She can be a bit – terrifying, sometimes, but she means – she's good."

Mad-Eye laughed, a rough, gruff sound, like sandpaper. "She'd make a good auror." He said. "Too busy thinking about changing the world, though, I expect."

S.P.E.W.'Ron shrugged, and nodded.

"Well," Mad-Eye said. "The point is, lad, don't worry too much." He narrowed his eyes at Ron.

"Constant vigilance does not mean undue paranoia." Moody said. "Especially about yourself. The one thing you should be able to trust wholeheartedly is your own self."

Ron nodded.

"Tell you what," Mad-Eye said, "Next time, I'll have something for you. I think you'll need it."

Ron doesn't ask what.

(It's the Occlumency book.)

---

Harry passed them all. He wasn't exactly pleased, but there was a grim sort of determined satisfaction on his face, and maybe that was worse.

Dobby had found a room they could hide in, back when Harry was being ridiculed every day. It wasn't as necessary now, what with no inquisitor and Mad-Eye making things seem a little more likely to some, and the Daily Prophet becoming less reliable as the year went on and people's family went missing and none of it was reported.

Still. If Ron couldn't find him, Harry was probably in the Room.

It was late. Past curfew. Ron was on patrol tonight, and he'd just stopped by the seventh floor corridor, the one with the portrait of Barnabus The Barny. He hadn't seen Harry in the common room when he left, and honestly, Ron was going to have to take points, but, well, maybe he could find an excuse to give them back at some point.

Ron didn't have to pace three times. The door appeared, and Harry appeared from behind it, invisible under his cloak for a moment before he sighed and lowered the hood.

"Guess you're gonna have to take points, then," Harry said. Ron shrugged said "Five points from Gryffindor," wryly, because he knew from personal experience that this was nowhere near a first offence.

"Where's Hermione?"

"With Boot," Ron said. "Padma's with MacMillan. Zabini's with Davis. The Hufflepuffs are ill. Dragon pox, weirdly enough."

"Sounds like chicken pox," Harry said. "Is it dangerous?"

"Not really." Ron said. "You breathe fire for a bit and your skin goes all scaly but all you're left with after is a sore throat for about a month."

"I forget your levels of 'dangerous' are screwed up, sometimes." Harry said, grinning, and Ron protested. "Your fault," He grumbled, expression belying that he's not actually annoyed or angry, and Harry shrugged, unabashed. "Not really," He said. "Yes, really," Ron grinned. "Or, yeah, maybe not."

Harry gestures behind himself. "Do you wanna stay for a bit?" He asked. "Maybe play some chess?"

"Sure," Ron said.

He wins his first match in over a year, and Harry doesn't even complain about it. Maybe because Ron doesn't feel as weird as he previously did, or whatever. Maybe he doesn't complain because he can tell.

Ron kind of… gave up on taking points from Harry at some point. No, really. Honestly that – that was kind of inevitable. If he hadn't, they'd have lost all of them by now.

It was the start of the winter holidays, Yule, Christmas as they celebrate it now, thanks to muggle influence over the decades. It's a little hard to find Yuletide decorations, after all, but Christmas is everywhere.

It's late, and really, they're out past curfew, but it's not as enforced as during the school months. So long as you sleep at some point, it's all good.

So - they're in the Room again. Hermione is off in Bulgaria, with her parents. Apparently, they really like it there. Seems like Krum's parents and Hermione's are fast friends, or something. Hermione seems happy enough, and Ron isn't as jealous as he was just earlier this year.

Ron supposes, now he can think about it a little more, without the house interfering, or the locket, the he had a crush. On her. For a bit, there.

Only her. Of course.

Right.

Ron coughed, moved his piece, and Harry raised an eyebrow at him. They hadn't really talked about the fact that Harry managed all the spells, except to say that he did. Ron managed the cruciatus, and that seemed to make Harry feel a little better.

Ginny had managed only one. Imperio. She hadn't talked to them for a straight week, and went to Grimmauld straight from Dumbledore's office, instead of taking the train. Ron doesn't know what she did, but she got it so they could stay behind, if they wanted, and Ron was – the most grateful.

He really didn't want to go back there. Ever.

Harry moved his piece, and Ron moved his, and he won the game. Again.

"You win every time," Harry complained, but he was smiling, so you know. Score.

He kept having these weird dreams, Harry did. About some corridor, with a door at the end. Harry said it looked a lot like that place he'd seen in the Ministry before his trial, the door Malfoy Senior had been talking to Fudge next to. Honestly, neither of them were any good at divination, and really, neither of them cared all that much.

They were just weird dreams, is all.

"Yep," Ron said.

"Not that fair," Harry said. "How about we play something I have a chance at beating you at? Like exploding snap?"

"Do you even have a set?" Ron asked.

"No," Harry said. "But we're in the Room. It's got to have one, right?"

Harry busied himself looking through a bin that suddenly appeared in the centre of the room. Ron shook his head, and sat back.

He seemed better. But that gross familiar feeling was still there, and Ron found his gaze drawn towards Harry's scar way more often than it used to, and he couldn't exactly explain that away, not when Harry's fringe was long enough to hit his eyebrows at this point, so you couldn't even see it, really.

It's easy, really, to ignore. Ron had been unknowingly ignoring it for years, to be truthful. Since he'd met the kid on the train who bought the whole trolley and shared it all with him.

"Looks like – nope," Harry sighed, and kept searching. Ron frowned, and looked away.

He really just wants something interesting to do.

Harry stepped back to the couches as the room shifted around them.

"What did you do?" He asked, and Ron blinked. "Uh, sorry?" He said. "I can't help idle thoughts!"

The room was different, now. A maze, of sorts, but one you could kind of see through, and looked nicer than most mazes.

"At least it's not a hedge maze," Harry said. "Why a maze, though?"

"I just wanted something interesting to do," Ron protested. "I didn't choose a maze, Merlin no."

"Oh." Harry said, as he looked around.

"It's a practice arena."

And, yeah, Ron could see that, now. Bit badly laid out, mind, but he could see it all the same.

"Cool," Harry said, grinning, and alright. Why not.

Why not was apparently because they were way more out of shape than they thought.

"But we play quidditch," Ron complained.

"Not the most active thing in the world," Harry said. "I mean, we just sort of do a lot of sitting. And, look, mate, you don't even play on a team yet, so you don't have to do any training or anything."

"Great." Ron panted. "Just perfect. So we're bloody useless then?"

"No," Harry said, "Mostly because I don't think I've ever seen a witch or wizard work out. So everyone's kind of useless. It balances out."

"Boo to that." Ron grumbled.

"Well, why don't we just work on that Occlumency of yours?" Harry asked. "And maybe do some actual exercise. I mean, we're sports people. Should probably start acting like it."

"Why not," Ron said again.

Why not indeed, this time. It worked out a lot better for them, actually, especially when they thought of just using the pitch. The school was oddly quiet, and for once, there was only two other Gryffindors, and they were seventh years, two girls, and Ron didn't even know their names.

Christmas meals were like they'd been the other times Ron had stayed back. The adults got drunk and broke crackers and it was so odd yet weirdly nice, to see their teachers just be people like that.

Occlumency was going alright. Ron didn't know if it was working, or whatever, but the mind-palace thing was slowly coming to shape. The Burrow was the obvious choice, as was his dorm room. He had to feel safe there, of course, but he didn't want it to be something so easy to figure out.

He used the Room. Why not. Things never worked out badly for him when he did them for that reason, nope.

It was harder, Ron knew. To do this with something that malleable. But, well, he figured it was worth it.

"It should be somewhere you feel safe." Harry repeated. He sighed, closed his eyes. "Where on earth do I feel safe?"

Ron probably wasn't supposed to hear that. To be fair, he did look like he was asleep on the couch, but that was because Harry's talking had woken him up.

"Wha's'tha'?" Ron asked, kind of, voice sleep-muffled, as he rubbed at his eyes and sat up. "Where you feel safe?"

Harry frowned up at him. He was on the floor, leaning over the coffee table, and there were a bunch of books lying open to various places. "Yeah." Harry said. "Where I feel safe." He sounded a bit sullen about discussing this.

"Don't choose somewhere obvious." Ron said. "The only places are obvious ones, though." Harry said. "Like where?" Ron asked.

Harry shrugged. His face tinged pink, slightly, so Ron didn't press.

"Alright," Ron said. "Don't tell me. But think about it. Uh, what about our dorm?"

"You got attacked in there, remember?" Harry said, "Granted, it was Sirius, but he still got in. And Ginny trashed the place looking for Tom's diary. It's not actually all that safe."

"Alright," Ron sighed. "The castle in general?"

Harry paused. "That's really big, though."

"I used this place," Ron gestured, and Harry snorted. "Go big or go home, I guess," He muttered, and nodded. "Yeah, alright." Harry said. "All of a place I feel safe."

Then, two days before Christmas, Harry wakes Ron up, screaming and hissing and swearing, and Ron's heard enough of Harry's snake stuff over the years to know when the hissing is also swearing.

Then he shouts out "NO" At the top of his lungs, and shits up, bolt upright, and stares at Ron, wild-eyed. "Your dad," Harry said, "Ron, your dad."

---

It saved his life. Harry's night-time wandering saved his dad's life.

If they hadn't gotten there – if – if Harry hadn't demanded – if they hadn't believed him –

Fuck.

Ron kind of just stared at Harry, as did most of the rest of his family. He'd saved Arthur's life. A husband, a father. A father figure, even, to Harry, maybe, because Harry doesn't really have one of his own, though – perhaps Sirius counts these days, and well, that's all beside the point.

They're back at Grimmauld, and Ron can't think about the creeping cold slowly inching its way up his spine. Can't, or he'll go crazy, because it's the very same coldness he'd felt when he cast that cruciatus and hadn't felt anything about it, negative or positive. Complete apathy.

Ron didn't do apathy. It just wasn't in his nature to do anything of the sort. And. Well. It was kind of scary. Not feeling anything at all.

So, instead, he stares at Harry for a probably uncomfortable length of time. Everyone goes upstairs at some point, tired out by the ordeal. But it's dawn by the time either of them bothers, and Ron only really moves because Harry did.

"Stop staring," Harry demanded, once they were in the room they shared.

"Sorry," Ron said. "Sorry. I just."

Ron wasn't sure what to say.

"Thank you." He settled for. It didn't feel like enough.

"Thank you?" Harry asked. "Thank – you're thanking me?" Harry demanded, but there was vulnerability under that Ron didn't know what to do with.

"Yeah." Ron said. "You – Merlin, Harry, you saved my dad's life."

"No I didn't," Harry said. "In the dream. I was the snake. I know I was."

"Who cares?" Ron said. Loudly. Too loudly, maybe. "My dad is not dead. He's not dead because of you. He's in St. Mungo's right now because you warned us."

Harry blinked at him.

"I don't know what's going on." He said, and it's different to the loud rage of beforehand. Different to the sombre silence, to the reverent appraisal.

"I think I'm possessed. Am I?"

Quiet. Scared.

"No." Ron said, but even as he said it, he's not sure.

"Liar," Harry accused. Ron couldn't say he wasn't. "Ask Ginny," Ron managed. He couldn't help. He wasn't helpful, here. There were other people that could be, though.

"Oh." Harry said.

"Right."

And then the bespectacled boy was gone, and Ron hadn't meant right now, but okay. Sure.

Ron got into his bed, faced the door, and didn't sleep at all.

---

"So you sent him my way," Ginny said. "Couldn't handle it?"

Ron felt suddenly very angry, and he knew it was that awful Familiar magic, so he squashed it, but that creeping cold, the creeping, insidious cold of that apathetic grey, now he thinks, that apathetic grey magic, it creeps in. Because really, all he feels is guilty.

"I wanted to be able to." Ron found himself saying, but it sounded a little hollow even to his own ears. Ginny paused in her slathering of bright-red jam, and how can a colour he sees in a mirror (or close enough, anyway) every time he looks in one be so conflicting?

"I know." Ginny said, softly. "I got him to stop thinking he needed to close off from us, but I-" She paused. "I don't really know what else I can do. I think the rest might be up to you and Hermione, Ron."

Hermione meant well. But Harry was never all that happy about the way she did things like this. For someone who tried to lambast them both for their tact, she could be incredibly lacking of it herself, sometimes.

"I…" Ron started. He faltered, looked down onto his empty plate. Did he even serve himself anything? Ron frowned. It had been a long night.

"You look tired," Ginny said. "Go, get some sleep." She stared at him, and Ron was too tired to read her expression. "Go on."

Ron did, and that was mostly because she was right. And that he didn't want to be hexed into next Sunday, but that was irrelevant.

---

Ron woke up to Harry reading an Occlumency book, the quiet turning of worn pages the only sound in the silence. Ron couldn't even hear either of their breathing.

"You awake?" Harry asked. Ron had it on record that he snored, entirely due to the fact that brothers and sisters will tease each other about faults that they all share as if they didn't.

So it wasn't really asking, more of a statement, but Ron sat up, looked over to Harry and nodded.

"Lumos," Harry said, quietly, and his wand lit up. He wasn't holding it.

"Huh." Ron said.

"I did it at the beginning of summer." Harry said. "When the Dementors… well. Anyway, I figured, well, if I can do it then I can bloody well do it now."

"Yeah," Ron said. "How though?"

"I don't know," Harry shrugged. "It's not quite wandless, because it uses the wand. But I don't use the wand to cast the spell. So…"

"Maybe it's the core." Ron said. "Phoenix feather wands are notorious for it. Doing weird shit without their owner's consent."

"Great," Harry said, laughingly. Not really amused, but it was nice to hear, anyway.

"We should keep working on the Occlumency," Ron said, abrupt.

"Yeah." Harry said. "Make sure I wake up, yeah?"

Ron nodded. You kind of had to watch over people when they did this. Since, you know, they could get stuck, and need an outside influence to wake up again.

---

Watching someone as they slept was that weird mix of creepy and boring (and kind of nice, but only in certain circumstances and this was most certainly not them, thanks; this was his best mate, not some girl, or Hermione, or what have you, who have you, whatever-) and it was tiring in a way you don't really think it would be.

It had taken a little while before Harry woke up. Ron had only had to wake him once or twice, when he was under for too long, a little while back, and that was apparently because he got a little stuck.

Ron didn't ask. They'd been onto the 'childhood memories' section. He – well. He kind of figured that part would be difficult, if you had to imagine somewhere safe. And you had a life like Harry's.

"Okay," Harry said, after rubbing at his eyes. "Your turn."

---

Christmas came and went and it was actually really nice, despite the coldness in his bones, and really, Ron was fairly happy, even if he kind of wished Hermione could be here, but she had her own family, too, and though they were home now, they'd been in Bulgaria for a week or so.

Apparently, Krum had moved. Ron thinks it might be because his old headmaster had been a death eater and, well, Hermione was a muggle born. And, by all rights, when he thought about it, considering the school Krum went to, it was actually a surprising show of character that the man had avoided being brainwashed.

So, uh. Hermione was sixteen, now. Duh. She'd turned that age back in September. Forever ago, really.

It just means she'll be able to do stuff like cast magic and apparate before the rest of them, annoyingly.

Whatever. She's not here right now.

Ron got some stuff for Christmas, and except for, well, Percy, it was all pretty good. Hermione showed up on boxing day with presents and cards and they have another mini-Christmas, and she confides in them – the both of them, him and Harry – that really, she was glad Krum invited them again, because it stopped her parents taking her skiing, which, well, wasn't really something she enjoyed.

She got them rhyming homework planners. Ron got her – judging by her expression – bad perfume, and well. If he was going to be given a homework planner, he's not going to feel bad about perfume.

Maybe a little.

Bloody hell. Whatever.

---

They visited his dad the day after, and it… went.

It went. Dad apparently thought it'd be a brilliant idea to try out muggle cures on his injuries, and at Molly's ensuing tirade, well, they all kind of scattered.

Best let that happen.

Anyway, well, they – Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny – went elsewhere. Fred and George had gone off, and Ron didn't much care to wonder where.

And, well.

Lockhart. The less said about that encounter, the better. And then Neville, and his overpowering Grandmother – and overpowering is the word, here, not overbearing, and she was a right bit awful about the whole thing, and Ron did feel pretty bad for Neville, having all this aired when he obviously hadn't wanted that, but there wasn't much that could be done.

Given who he lived with, Ron wasn't really all that surprised Neville was like how he was. But – the teen kept the wrapper his mum gave him even against his grandmother's wishes, so. He's got some backbone, there, and it's sad, really, the situation - but how he deals with it… it's respectable.

Apparently, Kreacher had been missing, or something. Sirius got the bright idea to order the house elf to never leave the house unless specifically instructed by an Order Member that wasn't a double agent – thereby excluding Snape without saying that out loud, which was obvious enough, really, you didn't have to think about it much, if Ron could figure it out, then anyone could, honestly – and the elf started grumbling and had a much darker mood, now, than he'd had even before whatever had made him what Harry had tentatively labelled as 'brighter' – at which, Ron had snorted – had been found out.

Anyway. That was all because of what Harry had revealed Dobby was able to do even when under the Malfoys' control, and since Dobby had very much not liked them and Kreacher's distaste was severely obvious, well, you could put two and two together.

On another note – the holidays were drawing to a close. Hermione was going to say goodbye in the next couple days and go home, stay with her family for the last week. Apparently, she said, a little sullen, she hadn't gotten out of skiing.

"Maybe it'd be fun," Hermione had said, sort-of wistfully, "If you all could come with us."

Harry had shrugged. Ron had never seen anything like what she described the mountains of France to be like – they weren't like Scotland's, or Egypt's large dunes. Maybe skiing would be fun, but really, flying was better in every way. From how Hermione made it seem, it was even less dangerous; the flying versus the skiing. Ron didn't really think so, but sure. Whatever.

Anyway. The place got a bit deserted once again; Ginny was allowed to leave to visit friends and to go give out presents because Mad-Eye had gotten paranoid about letters being followed back here by magic or by people exactly the way he had the summer previous and so Ginny was visiting people and staying at the burrow with their Mum for a bit, therefore, once again it was Sirius, Buckbeak, Harry, Ron and Kreacher as the permanent residents.

Well. Remove 'again' from Kreacher, and add a dubious tone to Buckbeak. Since Ron isn't even sure if he's still here or not. He hasn't heard him in a while, but that could just be silencing spells. He had tended to wake up Walburga's painting, after all.

Speaking of which – Sirius was currently having a heated yelling match with said painting, Kreacher was muttering purist rhetoric while cleaning the dresser in Ron's and Harry's room, and neither of them really wanted to hear either right now, so they went into the basement again, and because they didn't want to bother Sirius, they went under the cloak.

"Right," Harry said, when they got inside, and he shut the door behind himself. Ron went over to the couch and dropped on it, and Harry put the cloak on the back of an armchair, sat down on the very same object.

"Right," Ron echoed.

---

It was midday, way to early to be drinking, really, if Ron was honest or cared much about that, but Harry was eying the Globe they'd found that contained more booze. Some muggle, hilariously, and some not.

Hilariously, given the previous owners of this house. Ironic, really.

"Wine has a higher alcohol content." Harry said, absently. "Sirius said to avoid it, but jokingly I reckon, because he was the one that said telling us to do that would be stupid. Since it'd just make us more likely to do the opposite; his words."

"True," Ron said. "What's in there?"

"No idea," Harry said, standing. Once he had moved over and picked up a bottle, he sighed and squinted slightly. "The font's awful."

"Kind of garbage," Ron agreed, grabbed a random bottle and frowned at it. "Why not."

"You know, there's probably a bunch of reasons." Harry said. "But who really cares? We drink beer legally. What's some wine going to do?"

Give them a splitting headache. But that wasn't yet.

"So like," Harry snickered, "You gave 'mione perfume,"

"Yeah," Ron grumbled, face smashed into a pillow. They'd drank the bottle, again. You kind of forgot, at some point, that you should probably stop, and then, well, the bottle was empty, so, well, maybe you grabbed another one, maybe you didn't, whatever, he's drunk.

"Serves her right for giving us homework planners," Ron grumbled, but he'd decided to give her that before he'd known she'd be like that, so whatever. He was bad at presents.

Most of the time it was food, because you didn't have to buy food. Mum made it, or whatever. Ron couldn't – well. Sweets were affordable. So that's what he got people. A few knuts, maybe a sickle or two wasn't too bad. It just kind of added up. Whatever. But, anyway, Hermione's parents were – those muggle teeth people, and so, well, she never ate them. So that was a waste. So. So he'd tried something different, and it sucked, so he wasn't doing that again. Ever.

The fact that Hermione could afford to get this shit – the broom cleaning kit for Harry last year and the other things she's gotten them during the time she's known them… eh. Ron kind of wishes – but there's no point in that, is there? So… nevermind.

---

A few – however long later, or whatever, Ron woke up on the floor. Harry had fallen asleep on the armchair at some point, and Ron frowned at him for a second as his brain caught up to what had happened.

Alright. They'd got drunk, talked, and passed out. Alright.

It was late, but not like, overly so, and the house sounded deserted. The muffled shouts of Sirius and his Mother could no longer be heard, and Ron wondered about that for a second before his brain reminded him he needed to fix this headache.

He got up, stumbled over to the cupboard. He grabbed two doses of the hangover stuff, returned to the couch and put Harry's on the coffee table, then drank his own.

Harry woke up a little bit later, when Ron's hangover was mostly gone. He still felt a little fuzzy, but that was probably due to falling asleep at two in the afternoon.

"We should do the occlumency stuff," Harry said. They didn't really have much to do, aside from get drunk, or practice magic. Hermione had badgered them into finishing their homework before she left, so he couldn't even do any of that. Not that he would have, but still.

"Right," Ron agreed.

Occlumency was going alright. Ron could tell the difference between the creeping cold of the house and that strange coldness in his bones he'd had when he cast that curse, but it wasn't all that different, and he certainly couldn't get rid of either. Ron had never noticed that coldness before, not until this year, and he knew full well it was because of this house, because of that Locket, the one that was Tom Riddle but not, and he wondered why it was still here.

Ginny was better, now. Sometimes when someone did something she'd hex them a bit too hard and too much, at least, when Ron was around to see it. Or just Harry, since she didn't tend to do it when only Ron was there, but now wasn't the time to be thinking about that, now he needed to focus on this; fix it up, put his memories away, kinda just – shove them in there a bit haphazard because, well, he's a teenager, it's going to be a little messy, but whatever.

Ron gets first-year sorted out. When he wakes up, it's to Harry tapping him on the shoulder.

"C'mon," He said. "Food."

Ron nodded, suddenly noticing how hungry he was. "Yeah - yeah." He nodded, stood, and the two made their way upstairs.

---

When Ron saw Harry next, he looked a little pale. He'd been talking to Ginny – or maybe Ginny had been talking at him, because she turned around when she heard Ron approach, stormed off.

"What was that about?"

"Well, she's still pretty pissed I forgot she was possessed," Harry said, dryly, but he looked and was guilty about it, and really, Ginny's probably yelled at him enough. Ron still narrows his eyes slightly, but he shrugs and lets it go, and Harry relaxes, just a little. "Right." Ron said, and Harry winced, rubbed at the back of his neck. "She, uh, she also just kind of wanted to rant at me a little."

"Why?" Ron asked.

"Something about the Locket." He said. "How it felt familiar. How – how something else felt familiar, and how she wanted me to know but she knew telling me would just end up with me doing something stupid, so she couldn't, and she was pretty fucking tired of it, and also that the occlumency was helping a little in figuring out what it was, the thing, but it wasn't – whatever it was, she wasn't happy about it."

She wouldn't be. Ron knew telling Harry would be a recipe for disaster, so he didn't.

"No idea what it is myself," Ron said.

"Yeah, you do." Harry said. "You're a truthful drunk."

"Right," Ron let out. "What'd I say?"

Harry tapped his forehead. He looked disturbed, quite rightly so. "That it felt familiar. The magic around it."

"It does," Ron admitted. "A bit. Like the Locket."

"Like the diary," Harry let out. "All three. Similar. Familiar. The same, right?"

"I don't know." Ron said. He hadn't really known much about the diary Tom Riddle. "Ginny knows better."

"Which is why she was ranting at me," Harry said. "And now, full circle."

Harry went into their room, and Ron followed.

---

When he woke up, Harry wasn't in his bed. He wasn't in the kitchen, or in the basement room – Ginny was there, though, and she looked concerned enough, so he figured letting her help look wasn't a bad idea, really – he wasn't in Buckbeak's room either… or what was his room, and Ron can remove the animal from the list of people here.

(Ginny was back, duh. She'd been added back onto the list a few days ago.)

They didn't find him – Ron thought that, well, Harry had probably donned his invisibility cloak and disappeared off somewhere.

And. Well. It gave Ron time to write another letter to the headmaster since he hadn't really responded to the last one.

And Mad-Eye didn't like letters, but he'd asked for updates, so Ron figured maybe Dumbledore could pass them on if it wasn't too much to ask? You know, for security reasons. And, well, Mad-Eye's paranoia.

---

Headmaster Dumbledore,

So Harry figured it out. Kind of. I mean, I guess, me and Ginny might have… I don't know. Let something slip. Anyway, we can't find him.

I think maybe none of us here can really do much about him being all… well. He disappeared off somewhere and we're looking all over Grimmauld, but we can't find him.

Anyway. Could you give the other letter to Mad-Eye? He doesn't want them sent, but how he expects updates if we can't send them… eh.

And, I'd like to know if you got my last letter, too. Otherwise, I can send it again.

Ron.

---

"So you've given the boy a book on Occlumency, old friend?" Dumbledore asked, eyes twinkling, tone practically bubbling with mirth.

"The lot of 'em need to close off their minds if they're going to be around the Order," Mad-Eye said, gruffly. "It's just sense."

"Constant vigilance," Dumbledore agreed. "Here," He said, and slid the letter over to Mad-Eye. "I didn't read it all, but he hadn't sealed it properly - or at all," Dumbledore sighed. "Forgive an old man for his curiosity?"

Mad-Eye grunted and pocketed the letter.

The school year passed by quick enough, for the rest of the students. But those who knew, those who understood, were on edge, and time seemed to crawl as they waited for it – the other shoe to drop, the time when the Death Eaters announced their presence.

Ron still hadn't gotten anything from Dumbledore, but Mad-Eye hadn't seen fit to hide the fact that the man had read Ron's letter, so that was annoying, but there wasn't much he could do. Anyway, they'd moved on entirely from the last topic, and were now on defensive magic and, just as something Moody thought they should know, battle strategy. And proper Duelling. Not the fancy stuff Lockhart attempted to teach them in second-year, but real duelling, the kind you'd find between mortal enemies, between people on opposite sides of a war.

Regardless - it didn't go by quickly for them. People like Harry and Ron and Hermione and Ginny and even Luna, Neville, other people who were paying attention.

---

It didn't take too long to get his Occlumency mind place thing built up, though it was nearly exam time by that point. And it didn't take too long for Harry or Hermione or Ginny, either. Apparently, the girls had been working on it together, and Ginny had been sharing with Neville and Colin, and Parvati had badgered Hermione into sharing with her dorm mates. Which included Lavender.

"Honestly," Hermione huffed, as she slid onto the bench in the great hall across from Harry and Ron. "She couldn't focus enough. Too busy wondering if Dean's dating –" Hermione pursed her lips and sighed. "Well, to paraphrase, she's too busy wondering who's dating who and how best to style her hair and which lipstick went best with her skin tone."

"Sounds tiring," Harry said. He looked a lot better, now, actually, come to think of it. Ginny had cornered him about a week ago and seemed to be performing some kind of emergency therapy or something, and while she was obviously no professional, she had experience, and that seemed to work well enough.

"I want to go into Quidditch first," Ginny had said, one night, staring after Harry when he went up to bed. Ron had stayed down to finish a chess match he was this close to winning.

"I do." She glanced at him. "But maybe going into mind-healing wouldn't be so bad, when I'm too old. Helping people like that. Therapy."

People like me, she didn't say, but Ron figured he knew his sister well enough to guess. Ron had nodded, and that had been that.

"Very," Ron agreed, and shared a supressed grin with his friend. "Oh, honestly," Hermione snapped.

"Come on," Ron said. "You were just complaining, we're only agreeing."

She harrumphed; made that sound of deep disapproval, then started eating.

---

O.W.L.s came and went. Harry had passed out in HOM, but Ron managed to catch him before he hit his head on the stone floor, and that apparently woke him up. They both had to retake the exam, but that was fine, or whatever.

Still. They came and went.

"I'd had this -" Harry sighed. "It wasn't that I passed out or fell asleep or something. It kind of felt like something was forcefully dragging me out of my own head and into theirs, or something. It hurt, anyway, that's why I fell."

"What was it?" Ron asked.

"A – like a fake memory," Harry said. "Watery. Strange. Dreamlike." Harry paused. "Not like the one with your Dad and the snake, not like the ones last year; with Voldemort and Pettigrew." Harry frowned. "Sirius was there." He said. "Being tortured. But why would he be there? He hasn't left the house, and he's reckless, but not that reckless, and anyway, after the exam I just had a look through the mirror. He picked up and lo and behold, not in the ministry being tortured, so." Harry shrugged.

"Ministry?" Ron asked.

"Oh." Harry said. "Yeah, all year, I've been having these dreams. I mean, you've noticed, right?" Harry eyed him, and Ron nodded. "You're not exactly subtle about it, mate." Ron said. Harry shrugged. "Well, it's this corridor. Like – on the level of the ministry my hearing was on. And there's a door, the one Malfoy Senior was standing in front of while talking with Fudge just before the hearing." Harry frowned. "This was the third time I've seen past the door... it was the first time that didn't just show me some orb thing."

"Prophecies," Ron said. "You must have seen the DOM."

"The what now?" Harry said, raising an eyebrow at Ron.

"The Department of Mysteries." Ron said. "Fred and George managed to catch some stuff, remember? That was one of the bits of info they got."

"Right, of course," Harry nodded, remembering. "Yeah, well, anyway, I guess we know what Voldemort wants." He said.

"What?" Ron blinked at Harry. "Wait – you think he wants a prophecy?"

"Yeah." Harry said. "And I think it's the one with my name on it."

They waited until Hermione was done with her Arithmancy exam, and then explained to her what they'd figured out.

"Oh, good thinking," She nodded, gaze critical, staring at nothing as she worked it over in her head. "Yes, of course. He would believe in prophecies, wouldn't he?" She frowned. "But, from what I've read, a prophecy can only be taken by the person that it bears the name of. People, in some occasions." She frowned at them, assessing. "So he could only get it if you got it for him."

"Clever, then." Harry said. "The vision with Sirius."

"Shoddy work though," She sniffed. "From what you've said."

"It would have worked if I didn't have any defence against it." Harry said. "Or contact with Sirius literally right here." He patted his bag.

Hermione eyed Ron, and he frowned at her. "I'm glad you got the book from Professor Moody," She said. "Otherwise we'd have been sitting ducks."

Ron nodded, shrugged, immediately uncomfortable at the thought.

"Right," Harry said, and Ron knew he was grimacing just from his voice. Hermione sighed and brushed her hair away from her face – though it didn't stay gone – and nodded, decidedly.

"Let's visit Professor Dumbledore," She said. "He should know."

Harry's grimace briefly turned into a glower, then he shrugged, turned around.

"Where are you going?" Hermione asked after him.

"Might as well get it out of the way," Harry said, bitingly. "So that we don't take too much of his time, and all."

---

The gargoyle did it's very best to frown at Harry, and Ron sighed.

"Could you please tell Dumbledore that –" Hermione sighed. "That Hermione and Ron are here to see him?"

"Of course," The farm girl in the painting just to their left said. "By the way – I like your 'air today," She smiled, winked, and fled out of her frame.

Hermione blinked rapidly, then shrugged. She tentatively picked up a strand of her hair and stared at it, stretched it out straight and watched as it bounced back into it's tight curls. "I haven't done anything different," She said. "The farm girl's seen it every time I've come down this corridor."

"Maybe she just likes giving out compliments?" Harry offered, ignoring the complaints of the occupants of the painting he was leaning against.

"Stop leaning against the sentient paintings, Harry," Hermione sighed.

The gargoyle seemed to perk up, then nodded at them and moved aside. They ascended to Dumbledore's office, and the three entered.

"Ah – Harry." Dumbledore paused. "Of course." He nodded and gestured to the two chairs opposite. "I'm afraid there's only two chairs, but please, sit," He picked up a sweet from his candy bowl and smiled at them, eyes twinkling. "Sherbet lemon?" He offered.

"No thank you, headmaster," Hermione said, politely. "We've come here because of something…" She hesitated, glancing between Ron and Harry before sighing. "Voldemort tried to convince Harry to go to the Department of Mysteries with a false vision of Sirius being tortured, sir."

"Ah." Dumbledore sobered, slightly. "False, Miss Granger?"

"False," She confirmed.

"Sirius picked up when I called him on the mirror," Harry said. "And the vision wasn't very well made."

Dumbledore's eyes began to twinkle again. "I imagine it was masterfully crafted, my boy, but Tom was always arrogant. What one can do with a proper mind palace will always beat any legilimens, regardless of whether they're naturally talented or trained to be such."

Dumbledore gestured to the chairs, again, then said, "Why, but we have magic," And conjured up a third, which Harry sat on. "A shortage of chairs need not be a problem." He smiled at them.

"Now," He continued, sobering – his expression deadly serious. "Do you know yet why Voldemort wished you to go to the Department of Mysteries?" He asked.

"A prophecy," Harry said.

"I've read all about it," Hermione added. "They can only be picked up by the person who's name they bear."

"Or persons," Ron added.

"Good! Good," Dumbledore smiled at them. "Well, I certainly feel as if a tragedy has been avoided today, don't you?" He added, nodding to himself. "Yes, indeed." He looked at Harry, then sighed. "If you would, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, leave us for a few minutes? We have something to discuss."

Ron felt a little reluctant, and it was obvious Hermione did too, but she nodded, and Harry gestured for them to go, so Ron got up and followed Hermione out of the Office.

---

Harry explained to them exactly what Dumbledore had told him in the office – about the prophecy, about everything. None of them were to know, not until the next morning, thanks to a rushed article and not a few overworked and severely tired Prophet staff, that You-Know-Who was back, had attacked the Ministry, and that, in his ire, the Department of Mysteries had been destroyed, along with the atrium, and the statue held within.

The following summer, after they got back from Hogwarts, was bound to be interesting, Ron reckoned. And not in a good way.

The war had finally started.

The Middle of the War. (It's... Quieter Than We Thought It Would Be.)

Chapter Summary

That summer is - strangely quiet, given they're now in the middle of a war.

Chapter Notes

This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful ViviTheFolle, without whom it would not exist. 3 Thanks man!

It's been ages, so my writing style might have changed? I'm not sure. I think so, though I have tried to emulate how I wrote this fic. Anyway, this has been left as incomplete for too long. One more chapter to go after this one. Like the last two; one chapter per book. This fic started in book four, and goddamn it, but it's going to end at the end of the story. Might do an epilogue, we'll see.

Also: Some parts are lifted somewhat verbatim from the books, in terms of dialogue, however I have attempted to re-write everyting into present tense. As it stands, I think the context is changed enough for me to not have to signify which is 'borrowed' and which is not through formatting, and I hope that's okay. I don't really wanna take people out of the story bc of that sort of thing. All credit for all recognisable parts goes to JKR... unfortunately.

Also... yes, this is 59,000 words long. I recommend reading it in parts. Or one sitting, if that's your thing.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

That summer is - strangely quiet, given they're now in the middle of a war.

Kreacher's stuck at the Burrow, keeping it clean, and for some reason he's wearing that merlin-be-damned locket, even though it's got a hole clean through the centre like it was pierced with a sword or something. The feeling Ron used to get from it is gone, though, the piece of jewelry now inert, and he's glad of it. He's also glad that Kreacher's gone, firstly given how much of a bigoted arsehole he is, and secondly, since this summer Hermione's here with them at Grimmauld Place (while her parents are safe with Krum's family in Bulgaria, far away from any purist wizard or witch that would kill them in a heartbeat) - alongside Krum, who's joined the Order likely thanks to his relationship with Hermione... well, the point is - Ron's glad of it, because Hermione doesn't have to hear that shite, and also, they don't have to deal with Hermione trying to rehabilitate the clearly unhinged elf.

Fleur's been around a lot, too. She's working for Gringotts, apparently - and, in turn, is working alongside Bill a lot. They're both helping those that really need to get out of the country get out without arousing suspicion and it's working, thereabouts. A fair few students end up leaving the country (some of which Ron knows) - and that's how it is. For the summer.

It's not all great, though. Quiet, sure, mostly because at some point Sirius and the others managed to get Walburga off the wall - but... Sirius is still stuck in this house. Something about Harry is just - familiar in an awful way, and Ginny keeps staring at him with a conflicted look on her face. Harry's a lot better now than he was this time last year - loads better, the sort of better you'd call 'recovered', in that he's - acting more like himself, less... constantly angry and tired and guilty.

Occlumency is coming along good, too. Neville's done surprisingly well at it, Ginny's done logically well at it. Hermione's doing just fine, about as well as Ron is, and Harry's...

Struggling. But he's getting there. And, obviously, given what happened when You-Know-Who tried to send him that fake vision, well, he's gotten good enough - and that's all anyone can ask of him, frankly.

The problem with the war being on in full force, now, is that this isn't any time for the ministry to be in upheaval; but yet, here they are, scrambling to find a new Minister. Amelia Bones is appointed by the mid-point of the summer, and Moody immediately requests she has a double guard of vetted Aurors at all times. He's paranoid, but it's a good idea, and Amelia can't fault it; her house is put under Fidelius, and then a safe house where she and her niece will actually live is put under its own Fidelius. Ron doesn't know the secret keeper, which is a good thing, and he hopes they'll be fine.

Like always, a few weeks through summer, Harry arrived. Now they knew why he had to stay at the Dursley's, it was a little easier to bear for all of them... but still, Ron wants to punch Harry's aunt and uncle, of course - unfortunately, that's just not possible.

(He's nowhere near them.)

Harry, when they'd gotten a moment alone, had told Ron and Hermione about what Dumbledore had had Harry do; stand around and just exist in the same space as Slughorn long enough to get him to come and teach.

"Sluggy?" Sirius had said, leaning against the doorframe. "Haven't heard that name in a long time. What's Dumbledore want with the old potions professor?"

"Wait, potions?" Harry asked.

"Yep," Sirius nodded. "Potions. Thought your mum was great - always praised her to high-heavens when her and her snivelling little friend would do something interesting, or make a correction to what the book told them to do."

"What?" Harry said.

"Oh." Sirius scowled. "Yeah, your mum wasn't... the best judge of character, at first. Friends with Snape, of all people..." Sirius rolls his eyes, as if he hadn't just completely rocked Harry's understanding of the people around him.

"Then he called her a - you know," Sirius scowled harder. "And she dropped him like the Death Eater he is."

"He called my mum a mudblood," Harry said, coolly.

Ron glared at thin air. As if they didn't have enough reasons to hate Snape - here was yet another one.

"Snape's not a good person, Harry." Sirius said, firmly. "He works for the Order, but not out of the goodness of his heart."

---

"We need to start something." Hermione says. "There's no point just - sitting around. Once we get back to Hogwarts we should... gather everyone. Make a group of people who will be ready, if V-Voldemort attacks." She states, firmly.

Ron flinches.

"Oh do stop, Ron," Hermione says, impatiently, ignoring the fact she'd just stuttered herself, but whatever. "The point is - it's our sixth year. We're not doing our O. anymore and our N.E. are next year, if the school lasts that long. We can take some time aside this year to focus on preparing for the war ahead."

"How?" Harry asks.

"I was tossing around an idea last year," Hermione admits. "But with Moody, we didn't really need it. Now, though..." She pushes a sheet towards them. "The defense association," She states, primly. "We upgrade it to an army."

"Or, well, a militia, I suppose." She adds, belatedly, at their expressions.

They use the summer to plan, mostly. The order, and them; Ron and Harry and Hermione send letters to the people they can send letters to, carefully wording them as inconspicously as is possible. Hermione plans the lessons, Ron strategizes with Harry on how to teach it all.

"Actually." Hermione stops, her quill hovering above the parchment. "That's a good idea."

"What?" Ron asks.

"Strategy," She says, pointedly. "Does anybody we know, know battle strategy?"

"Well, we know someone who can learn it easier than most," Harry says, and he's just looking at Ron - like he means -

"I suppose I could spend some time," Hermione frets lightly, looking through the plans she's laid out.

"Hermione." Harry says, firmly. "You're terrible at chess."

"What - oh." She looks up. "Oh, that works yes - look, here." She scribbles on a scrap of paper and hands it over to Ron, who takes it, numbly. "Read these, they'll help."

"Think of it like a quidditch book," Harry suggests, grinning. "They might even help you with chess."

"Generally the other way around," Hermione states blithely, and Ron's ears redden, awkward and unwanted.

---

The house is still there, in the back of Ron's head. It's quieter than before, softer. A content cat rather than a feral one, curled up in its little hollows and fairly happy to not disturb him. It's... less noticeable now than it was even at the start of summer, probably because Ron's been really focusing on Occlumency, on those stupid strategy books he might as well look at even if they act like all other books and stop working after too long looking at them, like how he struggles with writing without a grammar and spelling quill - but it's fine.

There's been other stuff on his mind, too.

Mostly Harry. Not - not in a weird way, just... mostly just the forehead thing. The thing about his scar that feels familiar. There's also seeing Hermione and Krum together and it's... conflicting. He's happy she's happy but... it's nothing. Maybe he wishes that were him, and maybe he couldn't tell you what he means by that, and maybe the only reason he's admitting this is that it's late enough and he's tired enough and he can hide behind the caveat of 'maybe', and the 'you' he's telling is his own brain.

"Can't sleep?" Harry asks, from his place on the other side of the room.

"Guess not," Ron says. Too many thoughts in his head, and it's too quiet. You might think that helps; the dark, the silence, but... the Burrow is so vastly different. It's never quiet; the house is always groaning, the ghoul in the attic always banging around. In the countryside, the stars are out at night, and the sky seems brighter for it. Here, outside the grimy window, the horizon is orange and the sky is a dark, murky blue, the only bright point that of the waxing moon.

It's odd, too. The noise that does manage to get into the house is... uncomfortable. Ron's never been more aware of how much he just doesn't know about the muggle world; large vehicles called trucks roam the streets, rumbling loudly and looking just, dangerous, in a way busses and cars just... don't. Then there are the party-goers, in short tops and short (short, barely existent) skirts or with their shirts half-open, and frankly, the only times Ron's ever seen so much just, skin, is when people go swimming or are changing for a quidditch match. It's not - like he's a prude or anything, it's just that the way muggles dress around here is different from what he's used to. It's like... culture shock or something. That's what Hermione calls it, anyway.

"C'mon," Harry says. He stands. "Someone's probably up - if we ask, they might let us go out."

"Huh?" Ron turns his attention to the other teenager. "What?"

"We've been cooped up all summer," Harry says. "Or, well, you have. And I rarely stick around the Dursleys if possible, and you live on a farm, mate. We're not used to being inside so much. C'mon. It's only eleven, anyway, not like it's one in the morning or anything."

Ron sits up. "S'pose not," He says. They dress in the dark, then leave their room - make their way through dark, quiet-too-quiet halls, down the carpeted, soundless stairs (Sirius has been doing renovations) and through the atrium. Sirius and Lupin are in the living room and Sirius brightens when he sees Harry.

"Shouldn't you boys be asleep?" Lupin says, amused. "Sit down," He gestures, and they do, on the couch opposite the twin armchairs.

"Restless, eh?" Sirius grins, wolfishly, and if Ron hadn't even known for sure he'd have pegged the guy's animagus form as a dog, easy. As it is - like with Professor McGonagall or Rita Skeeter - or even unfortunately, Peter Pettigrew - well, you can just... tell.

"Don't really stay inside much," Harry says. "And Ron lives on a farm, so..."

"Well, Bill's pretty much finished on the wards for the burrow," Lupin notes. "If you want to visit..."

"I was fine in Surrey, where everyone knows I live and nobody ever shows up, for weeks." Harry reminds them. "And if they were going to attack us, they'd have done it already. Camped outside and waited until someone showed their face... then sent an Avada Kedavra their way. You've all been leaving the front way, and nothing's happened."

"Diagon was attacked recently," Lupin reminds them, but really, they hadn't needed that.

"We're nowhere near," Ron says. "And why would the Death Eaters be hanging around in the muggle world, anyway?"

"I know London well enough," Harry adds, cajoling. "The Dursleys never let me stay in the house alone, so if they were going here for whatever reason - Grunning's business or not trusting the school to look after Dudley properly on a trip - I would have to go with. Besides, Ron's never seen muggle London properly, not like how I've seen the wizarding world."

Sirius shrugs. "Fine, why not?" He says, and Lupin sighs, but doesn't openly protest. "Take the mirror with you, though. The two of you can't do magic out there, remember."

Harry nods. "Alright," He says.

They stand, and Harry walks in the direction of upstairs. Well, Muggles don't wear robes, that's for sure - Ron will need to change clothes, at least.

---

On the street, you mightn't know it was night-time; despite the dark sky, and the glowing orange street lamps, London at nearly midnight might as well be midday. There's... just a different sort of people hanging around the streets.

Harry walks with purpose, a map in hand that he'd bought from a corner store with the few bits of muggle money he's scrounged up over the years of the Dursleys sending mocking presents that would be entirely useless in the wizarding world; fifty-pence pieces and one-pence coins, and memorably once an old shilling, as Harry called it, before he rolled his eyes and tossed it unceremoniously into his trunk, to be forgotten at the bottom.

They come across a park; Joseph Grimaldi Park, according to a sign. It's not empty; in the play area, there are a few teenagers hanging around, cigarettes firmly held between their lips, beer cans passed around between them. The park has no lamps, so Ron has to trust the light that leaks in from the street, as they make their way over to an empty swing set.

Harry sits down and looks around. Ron follows suit.

It seems... unkempt, the area; crisp packets and plastic bottles and empty cans litter the floor. Ron kicks at some old gum, as he breathes air thick with a tang he doesn't understand; it's nauseatingly sweet-bitter, heavy and hard to swallow. Nothing like the light breeze of the Burrow, or the slightly gross scent of the surrounding farms (manure's not exactly pleasant) , or the clear nature of the woods nearby. It's like... like a really strong version of the exhaust the Ford Anglia used to emit, mixed with smoke and too many people.

Harry sighs. "This always happens to play parks," Harry says. "Kids don't come here often, then people our age skive off school to drink and smoke and do drugs or some bullshit." Harry swings, lightly, a resigned twist to his expression.

"Not much else to do," He adds. Ron kicks the floor again.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Harry tilts his head. "You want to go bowling? Fifty per group. Do you want to go swimming? Got to pay for that too, most of the time, unless you want to leave your stuff out in the open to get stolen. Movies cost money - it's just pricey to have fun." He shrugs. "And it's not like beer or fags or whatever is free, but it's... just what people do. Rebellious, maybe."

Ron swung, slightly, back and forth on the swingset, ungainly height forcing his feet to drag along the ground.

"London's maybe not the best place to show you first," Harry admits. "It's big and bustling and pretty crap. Surrey's an example of a place close-by that's... pretending to be better than it is, at least where I live. But there is something to London - it's a city, and there's always a lot to do in a city. Especially one like London, given it's the Capital. And if I've not forgotten my geography, the most populated one in Europe."

"Where do you think would be good to visit?" Ron asks.

"Not sure," Harry shrugs. "There's not many places near enough. Islington's mostly pubs, I'm pretty sure. Pubs and parks and houses. I think..." Harry loosens his grip on the map, un-scrunching it to check what's nearby. "Yeah, there's a theatre. Don't think they'll have anything on though; it's too late."

Ron nods. His grip loosens on the swing's chains, as he frowns at the starless sky. "Why did we come out here, then?"

Harry shrugs. Under the distant orange glow of the streetlamps, everything looks softer, less sharp, less real; Harry is no different. He's staring up at the sky, head tilted back, and Ron can't help but try and follow the shape of his jawline; it's stronger than it was, just last year. They're all growing up, growing older. It's a realisation Ron has at this moment; come September, Hermione will be an adult.

They aren't kids anymore, as much as his Mum thinks they should be. They've seen too much; Harry most of all, except perhaps Ginny, and Ron himself, and Neville, and Luna, and Hermione... all for different reasons.

Harry looks over, and Ron looks away, ears burning red, hidden by the dim light.

"Come on," Harry says. "I can at least show you what a theatre looks like."

They walk through the streets for a while, lined on all sides by - as Harry said - mostly houses, with the occasional pub, restaurant, or park. Eventually, though, they arrive at the Theatre in question;

The Lilian Baylis Theatre, a sign reads, and there is pretty much nothing there.

"Oh," Harry says. "I guess it got knocked down."

Harry kicks the ground. "I'm sorry," He says, awkwardly. "Not a very good tour, is it?"

Ron shrugs. It's a nice enough night, and it's not like spending time randomly roaming around London with his best friend is any hardship.

"Not really," Ron grins, and Harry shoves his shoulder half-heartedly. He opens the map again back up and squints at it under the light of a nearby streetlamp.

"There's an art gallery? And - there's a few things, honestly - um, cinema..." He offers. "Might be closed though - I mean that doesn't matter really," He tilts his head. "Come on."

Ron shrugs and follows.

Less than 15 minutes later, if Ron's internal clock is to be trusted, down steadily more urban streets, they arrive outside a very bright building. Ron's seen the like, of course; magical lights used to spell out words is common enough, but this is still interesting because he's not sure how muggles would do it, especially since he can't see any bulbs that would be creating the lines of red light, the red and green words, along with the other colours, let alone the boxes that seem to be lit up themselves, but the words printed on them aren't drowned out.

"Neon," Harry says. "It's a... kind of light source, I guess." He glances at Ron. "I only got a primary education, so I don't know much about it."

Harry walks towards the building. It's quiet, but not closed - though there doesn't seem to be anything on. Still, the doors open, and they step inside to the entrance foyer. There's a person cleaning the floor, who gives them a suspicious look before carrying on with his work.

"So this is what a cinema looks like," Harry says. "Granted, this one's nicer than most."

Ron glances around. There's a woman not much older than them, maybe about eighteen, standing behind the counter. She catches Ron's eye and raises a drawn-on brow. "You buying a ticket or what?" She says, leaning forward. "Card or cash."

Ron grimaces and looks away.

"... unless you accept solid gold as payment," Harry says, dryly.

"I might," She tilts her head. "So long as you've got enough for me and Stanley here. That right, Stanley?"

The cleaner looks up, eyes narrowed, but he shrugs, grunts, and carries on with his work. "See? That's right. Come on. Cough up."

Harry takes out a few galleons and drops them on the counter.

"Fuck, and here I was thinking you were joking." She blinks at them. "Shit, alright, go ahead. That's more than a months' paycheck in there." The woman looks back up at them, and Ron notices her nametag - small and scratched and not easy enough to read. "Well, what do you want, then?" She asks. "Got some new shite, got some of the oldies. Everyone always wants me to put on the classic trilogy, Star Wars, you know what it's like. I like Bladerunner, but that's me. Trainspotting - you know, came out February? - that's been a hit." She snorts like she just made a joke. "Fargo, Die Hard, Braveheart - but, between us, that's a fuckin' travesty to history, so I don't recommend it." She tilts her head. "Actually; how old are you? 'Cause that'll limit what you can watch."

"Sixteen," Harry says. "Alright," She nods. "What d'y' say, then?"

Ron doesn't know anything other than what she said; he looks at Harry, who looks at him then shrugs. "Never got to see Star Wars-"

"Don't even finish that sentence," She says, vaulting the counter. "Come on. I'll get it set up."

---

It's very impressive what Muggles can do. Apparently, what muggles could do, because apparently the first Star Wars film was released in '77, or something like that.

"Around then, anyway," Harry says. They're walking, generally, back in the direction of Grimmauld Place. Probably stayed out too long, since the lady at the register insisted they watch all three films, and they'll probably get reprimanded - Ron's not looking forward to the inevitable shouting match between his mum and Sirius over the whole thing. Be new, that Remus'll be involved in it, this time - might spice things up.

(But. He's had a good time. And - they were really cool. Muggles know what they're doing - wizarding entertainment can be a bit... lacking.)

"It was in space," Ron says, again. Harry grins, looking straight ahead. Ron catches it, in profile view. "Yeah," Harry says, "But not really. Special effects - they didn't actually film it in space, those weren't actual spaceships. Sets and stuff. I'm not - I don't really know much about it, I'm not the best person to explain this sort of thing."

"It's impressive," Ron says. He eats some more of the 'popcorn' from the bag he's holding. It's nice. Muggles make some wicked shit. People make fun of his dad for it, but he's not wrong - the whole thing is fascinating, how things are different, for Muggles, how they handle the world without the ability to do magic. It might be a bit run down, at least the parts he's seen of it, but that's probably just because it's bigger, and you can't repair and clean it all with a simple reparo, scourgify. There are more muggles in more space with more things to do, and it takes longer to do it all. That's the difference. Doesn't mean much, in the long run, 'cept that they're better at adapting than wizards are, and that's just sensible; no magic. You need to make more stuff to make up for it, so, by nature, muggles are less stagnant, more innovative, than wizards could ever be.

"It is," Harry agrees. Ron holds out the bag, and he takes a handful of the popcorn.

It's quiet, for a little while, four streets' worth of silence, between them. London isn't quiet, though, not by a long shot - cars are driving around, people in the streets, men and women speed-walking or drunk-walking or plain-walking around, doing their own thing, or group things, and it's - busy, even at this time of day, even with all the pubs they've seen closed for the morning.

Yeah, they're out too late.

Harry looks up at the sky. It's dark, cloudy, no stars or moon to be seen, the horizon a deep orange, weirdly light before it gets to the black-blue that stretches over, up and around.

"Light pollution," Harry says. "I know that much from primary science - the lights we use, to make places like this navigable at night - they make the sky go orange at the horizon, and stop the stars from being visible."

That's kind of sad. Ron misses the Burrow for a lot of reasons, and - the stars are one of them. It's plenty bright at night, where he lives, without all this - but he supposes, if you're not used to it, you'd find it hard to walk around.

"Yeah," Ron says.

"It's nice, though," Harry says. Ron looks around. As he said - it's just a tad run-down, a strangely samey sort of appearance for all the buildings, no impossible overhangs or leaning towers - just two or three or four storey buildings, mostly boxes, brick and plaster, but there's something interesting, below it all - the odd building that does have an overhang, white-and-black patterns on the walls, or painted bright blue, or something else - splashes of colour and personality. People have painted all over some walls and it's probably not something that's supposed to be there by the look of it but it's cool, what he can make out - and it's interesting, at least. to see. It's different. It lacks the same charm that Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade has, but it's got its own, and Ron doesn't think it's buried under anything - not even the rubbish littering the streets, and the weird spikes in the ground in front of some buildings.

It's where they are, Ron thinks. Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley. There's a pretty face and an ugly one to all places - and then there are the ones in between. This feels like that - like he's seeing the 'normal', at least for the part of London they're in, a place so much bigger than Ron is used to. Everything about the wizarding world is small, if not in scale, then in number. Hogwarts might be big, but it holds all the young witches and wizards in this group of countries - it's one school, and it's all they need. Muggles have hundreds, if not thousands, and doesn't that mean something? Ron saw at least five on the map, just in this one area, like that's necessary. It's so odd.

"It'd be better to come out in the day," Harry says. "Though, I think we'll have to find a way to get some muggle money. I can't keep paying in galleons, most places won't accept that - we got lucky with her."

"Maybe we can ask - I mean, we'll be needing to go to Diagon, anyway. For supplies."

"That's true," Harry says. "Maybe - I could go to Gringotts -"

Ron nods. He offers Harry some more popcorn, which he accepts. Back in Islington, in the area of mostly houses, they turn onto the right lane, and Number 13 Grimmauld Place is sitting quietly in front of them, invisible to the muggle eye. They enter and it's quiet, and they go upstairs, and that's quiet too. Everything in here has to be near-silent all the time, otherwise, you wake up Walburga and that's never fun - except she's gone now, Ron has to remember that - so it's unnerving, something that sets you on edge because you have to be. The house is dangerous, and it was never just because of purist paintings that yammer on about the nobility of their name being sullied by the current residents of their home - it's the magic, too, which has once more made itself known, settling around Ron's shoulders like a favourite scarf, if he had one.

It'll be back inside the nooks it's made for itself soon enough, Ron's sure.

They enter their bedroom. Ron places the popcorn bag on his nightstand, as Harry swaps his t-shirt, getting ready for bed. Ron does the same, and he's tired enough, all of a sudden, that he's asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

---

During one of their visits to Diagon Alley, Harry notices something interesting. Of course, he and Hermione follow, because letting Harry trail the Malfoys into Knockturn Alley alone is just asking for trouble.

They climb up to a vantage point, and keep low to the roof, eyes trained on the blonde family through the grimy window. Malfoy Sr looks a lot more haggard than the last time Ron saw him, though Mrs Malfoy looks the same as ever; cold and sneeringly superior. She's got a hand on Malfoy's shoulder, while he and his dad talk to the shady guy at the counter - presumably Borgin or Burke - about a cabinet in the centre of the room. Ron knows that one; Fred and George shoved Montague into a vanishing cabinet once and had gotten multiple howlers from Mum for their trouble. Now, they were getting Howlers because they'd done their sixth year and promptly refused to go back to Hogwarts - part of being here was to witness the grand opening of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes.

"A vanishing cabinet," Hermione mumbles. "I wonder..."

They huddle down until the Malfoys are gone, and after that make a swift exit from the dingy back alley.

Diagon itself doesn't feel very different from Knockturn, these days, by which he means... well, everyone's tense, heads bowed and walking quickly, avoiding lingering around on the cobbled street for too long, after what happened to Ollivander's. Yet, still, there's life here - and it might just be because of what Fred and George have done, or it might be because wizards are stubborn and goblins are worse, or it might be a combination, but - while Diagon feels somewhat closer to the atmosphere of Knockturn, it's not quite all the way the same, just yet. Hermione turns her nose up at checking out the twins' joke shop, and so they separate, Ron and Harry heading for said store whilst Hermione wanders over to the post office. She's got a letter for her parents and one for Krum, Ron's pretty sure, but he hadn't badgered her for the details. It wasn't any of his business, and not in a way that made it his business.

The twins have a lot of things in stock, and of course hike up the price for Ron, so he can't buy anything. Harry doesn't seem inclined to purchase anything, either, but the twins dump a box of stuff on him anyway, which... whatever. Ron heard them say something about 'reimbursement for capital', whatever that means. And he knows what it means, but he's going to avoid thinking about it, because he remembers the twins got him new dress robes rather uncharacteristically just before fifth year, and if he thinks about all this being possible because Harry helped them out monetarily, then he's going to have to wonder what Harry's stipulations were about it. And Harry making the twins get him new robes feels... stranger than the twins mocking his old ones and giving him some new ones on his birthday, you know?

It's just. It's - there's something different about it. But it doesn't matter, because Ron isn't thinking about any of that, because he never heard the twins say anything other than their usual jokes when they dumped the box of wares into Harry's arms.

After that, they head for Gringotts. Harry transfers some muggle money, because they need it for exploring muggle London, and after that, they visit Florean Fortesque's ice-cream parlour. It's good stuff, and the owner's a nice man, gives them both a discount. He's got his hand tightly clasped around his wand the entire time they're there, eyes surreptitiously darting about like he's expecting what happened to Ollivander to happen to him.

Hermione joins them when Ron's halfway through his ice-cream. She tsks, but buys herself one scoop of something simple, and is finished with it before either Harry or Ron are finished with theirs.

"So, we'll buy our books, next," Hermione says, primly.

"Last," Harry corrects. "You'll want to stay there all day - easier to get the other stuff out of the way."

Hermione huffs. She nods. After Ron and Harry are finished, they buy all the supplies they'll need for their classes, blissfully lacking any Potions books in their lists - well, except for Hermione. She's doing fewer classes than either Bill or Percy did because the last time she tried to do all of them she worked herself half to death, and since then she's learnt her lesson. Sort of. Hermione is still pretty bad at pacing herself, she just doesn't try to do too many things at once as much as she used to.

Harry and Ron take a look at the quidditch supplies, when as expected Hermione gets absorbed in the wares on offer at Flourish and Blott's. There's nothing particularly new, and though Ron's knee pads are wearing out, they've been wearing out for years now, since they were Charlie's first, like a lot of the things Ron owns.

After that, it's back to Grimmauld. Harry's frowning, because now the rest of the distractions are over, all he can probably focus on is what they saw in Knockturn. And what the Malfoys are up to is plenty suspicious, that's for sure, but Ron's not sure about Malfoy - Junior - being the main threat. It's just, Malfoy's not been a credible one since they were twelve, and even then not really.

Still.

It's something to think about.

---

The Burrow is all set for them returning there, semi-permanently, but of course, Harry has to stay in Grimmauld, just in case, and Ron's not going to just leave him there alone. Sleeping in a room with Phineas Black isn't pleasant when someone else is there with you - alone, it's just plain creepy. Ron would know; he had to do it, before Harry arrived, this and last summer.

Ginny and Hermione and Mum and everyone except Sirius move their stuff to the Burrow. Ron doesn't pack his trunk, and besides, it's literally just a floo away. Harry can be at the burrow for a couple of hours a day, most days before Mad-Eye gets antsy and as the security guy, they have to listen to him. And they should, probably, Ron thinks - and Ron is inclined to do that, regardless. Mad-Eye, out of all the adults, has been the most reasonable, in a weird way. He's treated them less like children that need to be coddled and more like people that know what's going on and have seen more of it than most anyone else in the Order. He's never, not once, acted like he thinks they're stupid. Ron's not particularly fond of when the Order acts like they're stupid, just because they're young. The Order was young, once, too, barely out of Hogwarts themselves, but with age comes hypocrisy, sometimes, because you don't want the bad that happened to you to happen to someone else.

Ron knows they're just trying to keep them safe, but that's a moot point, by now. Ron's nearly died at least once a year, so far; keeping him safe by keeping him ignorant isn't helping, clearly. Mostly because Ron couldn't leave well enough alone even if he wanted to - if he can help, he has to. It's the right thing to do. And besides, Harry's always going to throw himself into the nearest large helping of danger. Someone has to have his back, and while Hermione does, Ron means - in a different way. Hermione doesn't really help, he can admit, when Harry gets like that. She told Ron, once, that Harry has a 'saving people thing', and Ron could've told you that without reading the dozen of 'psychology' books Hermione has professed memorization of. Sometimes, it's just obvious what's up with someone, and you don't need to read a book to know that. Still, Ron's not entirely sure it's a bad thing, wanting to save people. Hermione wants to save the elves from - well, what she's invented about their situation, but she's not wholly wrong; something's clearly up if the Malfoys can get away with treating Dobby like they did. Ron's just not sure either of them, him or Hermione, have the whole thing straight. You'd have to ask a lot of House Elves about it, to get a kind of census, and there just isn't time for that in a war. Of course, whenever they got to talking about it, apparently he never phrased what he meant right because Hermione always ended the conversation in a huff.

Their bickering has gotten less - well, it's gotten more… Ron's not sure. Since she started properly dating Krum, it's just, it's different. Ron's not sure how it makes him feel, that different, but it's a weird feeling, he can tell that much. Not pleasant, but not wholly unpleasant. Ron would like his emotions to sort themselves out, at some point, but he thinks he needs some distance from this house for that - and he's not going to get that until Hogwarts starts up again, because, as he said earlier, he's not leaving Harry here alone.

Even if it wouldn't really be all that alone, since Harry could visit the Burrow, and Ron could visit Grimmauld, and et cetera, but still. They have Occlumency to practice, and that's easier when you have something to defend against. Like the house's magic. So yeah, maybe that's a part of why Ron's staying, on top of the Harry thing; the house's magic has carved itself a home in Ron's self, and Ron needs to find the holes and fill them back up again. The house's magic is grey, somehow, despite how… slimy it feels, despite its insidious nature, but maybe that makes sense, in a round-about way. He doesn't feel the same coldness he did last year, at any rate, at least not as often, so everything's clearly working as it should be.

Mostly.

---

Harry takes a long drink from the Firewhisky, head tilted back. They found one glass, and Ron's got it in his hands - When Harry's done, he pours the alcohol into Ron's tumbler, nearly to the brim, and then sets the bottle down on the low table.

They're not drunk. Just, pleasantly buzzed, as Seamus would put it.

Ron knocks back his drink, then sets the glass on the table with a soft clink. He watches the stream of fire he blows out, watches as it turns to steam, and as the steam rises, swirls into indistinct shapes, then evaporates.

Harry leans back on the sofa, neck resting against the back, eyes focused on the ceiling.

"Summer'll be over soon," He says. "Quiet'll be over."

The quiet before a storm. Maybe that's what's most unnerving about the silence of Grimmauld Place. There's a war going on, right now, but it really doesn't feel like it. Ron's just waiting for something to blow up, but other than the attack in Diagon Alley, there's been nothing. Ollivander's was the only explosion so far, and it feels… tense. They're waiting with bated breath for the next strike, and the Death Eaters know it, Ron's sure of it. The Order, as always, is on the back foot. It's not a pleasant feeling, but it's a truth that shouldn't be covered up.

To be fair - very few truths should be covered up. Ron knows of a couple, but that doesn't happen to be one of them.

"Yeah," Ron says. He pours a drink into the glass, and takes a sip, thinking.

"Who do you think's teaching Defence this year?" Harry wonders.

"Well," Ron says. "Slughorn can't be."

"Can't be," Harry agrees. "He's good at transfiguration, but he didn't seem the DADA type."

"Maybe he's not," Ron says. "Maybe - I mean, Snape's on both sides, right? Maybe Dumbledore's not having him teach this year, so he can focus on spying."

"We can only hope," Harry says, lips quirking up. "Merlin, but that'd be the best news we've had all year."

Ron snorts. He takes another sip. Harry sighs.

"Quidditch?" Harry offers. Ron shrugs. "I could do with some practice," He says, and drains the glass, knocking it back. Harry clears his throat, steps past him, and walks through the door. Ron puts away the Firewhisky, so Sirius can call plausible deniability, and goes upstairs, follows Harry through the fireplace. The Burrow is sunny and decently warm, not necessarily a stark contrast to London, outside Grimmauld, but the difference in the atmosphere is enough to notice. It doesn't feel warm and sunny there, but it does, here.

Ron goes outside, catches up with Harry on the path to the quidditch posts. Harry gives Ron his broom, shifts around the quaffle and his own broom so they're both easier to carry, now he's got less to.

They walk in amiable silence to the field. Harry's always been kind of quiet - not in a bad way, just, he's prone to thinking too much, and not saying any of it. Like he's used to not being listened to, when he talks, so he might as well not bother, but also, that's mostly how it feels when it's with other people - Ron likes to think Harry knows by now, after six years, that Ron would always listen to him, at the very least. Ron's not sure he could ignore Harry anymore, even if he wanted to - they'd been rather bad at it, in their fourth year, after all. Kept bumping into each other, even though they hadn't been 'speaking'. The whole thing was a dramatic, embarrassing mess, and Ron doesn't like to think about it, because then he has to think about it, and Hermione's postulations of jealousy keep ringing in his head when that happens.

It wasn't - that wasn't it. Not really, looking back. Hermione has always been very convincing, so her lectures were taken to heart, at the time, but he's had years to think about it, and he knew then, too, really, he just would rather it be simple jealousy than something more complicated.

It was probably very stupid, but Ron had felt betrayed. That - that was the problem. Not a problem that matters now, because the whole thing was just a stupid misunderstanding anyway, but that was what it was, regardless. Ron thinks that's what it was for Harry, too, with Hermione's very helpful analysis thrown into the mix.

Ron launches off, up to the hoops. Harry's not a chaser, but he's assumed the role when necessary during these sorts of exercises and the mock-matches they hold here, during summer, so he's good enough that he can stay balanced on the broom and throw the ball, an action that needs both hands to accomplish. People think Quidditch is easier than it is, but it takes a lot of multitasking… and mostly very strong thighs.

"Let's make triple-y sure you're going to make the team again," Harry says, smiling. Ron's a little boosted from the implication; Harry doesn't think for a second they're practising because Ron needs it, necessarily any more than Harry or Ginny or Angelina or anyone else would, he thinks - well, he thinks that it's a sure thing, Ron getting on the team again. A sure thing twice-over, at the very least.

It's nice. To be thought of as capable.

Harry throws the quaffle, and Ron catches it, a few easy throws for warm-up, for the both of them. Once again - Harry is a seeker, not a chaser, and it shows in his movements, but he's used to flying without a hand on the broom, so he gets used to the differences pretty quickly - still, it's an adjustment every time, to swap position in a game like this, so it's a few more throws still before he tries anything more interesting. Ron catches almost all of them, a few of the ones he misses just being bad throws on Harry's part - but they're both, at least, decent. After a while it gets a little dull, so they swap games; Harry needs to train as much as Ron does, so they drop down to the ground. Ron grabs the bucket of acorns and starts throwing them at Harry's signal. Harry catches, as expected, a lot of them, most misses being from the fact that they're acorns, and therefore not, you know, meant to fly around in the air.

It's a simple way to pass the time, playing mini-games made from aspects of quidditch, having a laugh, talking about everything and nothing -

But it's nice. Ron likes hanging out with Harry, more than he really likes hanging out with anyone else, he's found. That's why they're best mates. Or, at least, it's part of it. And it's part of something else, too, but Ron's not thinking about that.

---

Summer imperceptibly fades into autumn. Ron wakes up the morning that they're going to Hogwarts feeling... vaguely tired, and not in the 'I need another few hours of sleep' way.

(He needs to get out of this house. This happened last year, too, before they left; the house wants Ron to stay. The magic needs people to infest, as much as it can 'need' anything - or maybe it just likes it. Either way... it doesn't want them to leave. Ron's not asked if anyone else feels the same sort of bone-deep tiredness thanks to the house's magic, because - well, nobody really talks about it. The subjects almost become taboo, in a strange way. Ron thinks that's the house's doing, too.)

Ron shrugs it off, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. It's half-dark outside, as it's getting darker earlier now, but not by much. Ron casts a quiet tempus, and groans at the time; it's six. He must have been woken by Harry - who is, as Ron figured he would be, not in bed.

Harry falls back on old habits when he's worried about something, or not feeling amazing; waking up at six in the morning to make breakfast is one of those habits. The Dursleys deserve a good punch or five-hundred, but Ron's been thinking that since he was twelve, when he first properly realised what the Dursleys were doing to Harry - and, well, it's never actually happened. He reminds himself that next year after Harry turns seventeen and is, legally, an adult, he will never have to go back to them, before he stands up and gets dressed.

Ron looks out the window; Sirius is curled up, in dog form, on a bench; Lupin and Tonks are sat, speaking in hushed whispers. Ron shrugs, deciding it's none of his business, then turns away, and heads downstairs.

Harry, he finds in the kitchen (as expected, but after six years, he should know his best mate well enough to predict these things). He's eating half-heartedly, a tired droop to his posture, light purple smudges under his eyes. He's been dealing very well, but - Ron understands, really; this house is draining, in more ways than one. No matter how much London air they go out to get, no matter how many quidditch games they play at the Burrow, they still have to come back here. Here, where the house's magic curls up in their empty spaces and makes itself a home they can't destroy.

Ron shivers, a chill in his bones, as he sits down across from Harry. Harry, who the longer Ron's been hanging around this summer, the more he feels familiar in a way Ron can't put his finger on.

Which is strange, still. That Harry feels like the locket. That to Ginny, perhaps most incriminatingly, he feels like the diary. In a strange, familiar sort of way.

"Hey," Harry says, tiredly, shortly. They've got to leave in a few hours; whatever it is, they can take their time to figure it out. 'They' being Ron, because Ron knows if he involved anyone else, Harry wouldn't take it well. Hermione - well, Harry's never been good with accepting Hermione's particular brand of help, and Harry's been half-avoiding Ginny lately since that one time she told him explicitly what he reminded her of because Harry had pushed and the House's magic had pulled, tugged, and yanked at Ginny's hard-earned resolve.

The locket is gone, and they've got Occlumency now - but you can't block out what you've already let in, Ron's found. At least in the case of foreign magics.

(Especially if you're like Ron. More... susceptible to certain forms of - these things. Dark. Grey. Because he's Light, which is a relief, but also, in some cases, it doesn't help much.)

"Hogwarts today," Ron says. Harry nods, a frown fixed on his face, adding wrinkles between his brows and on his forehead. He looks... old, in the way a soul can be old but the body can be young and new; world-weary and worn down, and Ron thinks he's seen a similar sort of countenance in all of them, as of late. Especially at night, when he's about to leave the bathroom, and he catches a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror.

"Pointless, really," Harry mutters. He stabs his bacon with his fork, still frowning. "There's a war going on."

"We still need to... finish up what we're doing." Ron agrees, privately, though. Hogwarts is a danger zone in and of itself; half the kids there being death-eaters or at least adjacent, and with Snape as a teacher (well, potentially)...

Harry scoffs.

"Anyway," Ron adds, "Hermione's idea is solid. We've done enough work on it - it'd be a right shame to drop it now, wouldn't it?"

Harry inclines his head. Ron stands, makes himself a sandwich, then goes over and claps Harry on the shoulder, carefully. He squeezes, slightly, reflexively, and Harry's lips quirk up, just a little, at the corner. "Come on," Ron says, quietly. Soft. "Might as well pack."

(He moves away, in the direction of their bedroom, and if Ron's hand had lingered perhaps slightly longer than necessary, well, he was tired, and Harry seemed like he needed the comfort.)

---

They're escorted to King's Cross in Ministry cars, and Harry is sat next to Ron, squished between him and the door. On Ron's left is Hermione, nose buried deep in one of her many books with no sleeve and no discernible title, probably borrowed from either Grimmauld's library or Hogwarts'. If it's the former, Ron's quietly glad he can't find a title to read.

Ron stares out the front windshield, peripheral awareness noting the way Hermione tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear before she lifts her book slightly. He notes Harry shifting his elbow on the door, slightly adjusting the way he leans on his palm. He notes the buildings the pass them by, and he notes that the people milling about the streets look no different than they ever have, this summer.

Ron grabs a comic book from his bag, because talking in front of these ministry people would be weird, and settles in for the drive.

Not too much later, they arrive at King's Cross. Harry gets out first, then Ron, then Hermione, who gets her luggage first, inversely. Ron gets his out after Harry's got his own, and then the three make their way over to the barrier.

Platform Nine and Three Quarters is the same as always - loud, jam-packed with witches and wizards of all ages. There's a new crop of firsties as there always is, despite the war, which… Ron's not sure about. Eleven-year-olds shouldn't be involved in a war, he thinks, and he's pretty sure that's not hypocritical. Eleven-year-olds shouldn't be abducted into secret chambers or facing down trolls and giant chess sets, either. Just because it happens doesn't mean it should, and being fifteen, experienced, and treated like babies is different from being eleven and first experiencing the horrors the world has to offer. You can be mad about both of them in different ways.

They board the train. Ron and Hermione put their stuff in with Ginny, Neville, and Luna, as does Harry, because that's safest, and they're probably the best people to tell about the Plan, first, anyway. None of them know Luna very well, except for Ginny, but she seems nice enough, if a bit off.

Hermione doesn't like her. Ron doesn't see why something so harmless as reading a tabloid upside down is such a problem, but what does he know. He doesn't read, according to Hermione. Comic books don't count.

They go to the prefect's cabin, and that goes about how it normally does, what with half of them being alright and the other half being literal death eaters - or sympathisers, a-la Malfoy. Harry's suspicious of him, thanks to what they saw in Knockturn, but Ron's not so sure. Malfoy's never been a credible threat - but looking at him, he does seem… different. He's still haughty, obviously, still a giant prat, but maybe Harry's not wrong. Maybe whatever he and his dad have planned with that vanishing cabinet isn't something to scoff at.

They were wrong about Snape, in first year, took too long to figure it out and never really did, in second year - they were told what was going on by those involved - and in third year, that was a whole 'nother mess. Fourth-year, again, suspected the wrong people. Fifth-year was different, almost pleasantly so, particularly because nobody died.

Ron doesn't want to make a mistake because he dismissed something as 'not dangerous' when it actually could very well be so.

After the meeting, they go back to the cabin, where the others are still seated. They play exploding snap, for a bit, then Hermione pulls out her notebook, clears her throat, and starts talking about The Plan.

"We don't have a name, just yet," Hermione says. "We were tossing some things around, like Defence Association, but I suppose it could wait until the first proper meeting. Everyone gets to vote, that way. It's fair."

"There is a war going on," Ginny agrees. "I'm in." That wasn't a hard sell, Ron knew. Nor would it be for Neville or Luna, by the looks of things - so they have their first three members, and, hopefully, it will grow from here. Hermione's being somewhat drastic in calling it a militia, but she's not entirely wrong - they're preparing for war, after all, because since none of the adults around them are helping them to do it (well, except maybe, technically, for Mad-Eye) it might as well be themselves. It would be better if they could get training from people who've done this before, but none of them want that. They want - well, they want anybody below the age of seventeen to be as uninvolved as is humanly possible.

But... unfortunately for that wish, it's just - that's not possible. At all. Ron knows that much and - looking around the cabin at the set expressions on everyone's faces - everyone else here knows it, too.

---

Halfway through the journey, Ginny returns from the cabin that Slughorn had called her and Harry to alone.

"Where's Harry?" Ron asks. Ginny shrugs, grimacing. "He followed Zabini to where the Slytherins are sat," She said. "I think he wanted to spy on them."

Ron shares a glance with Hermione. What they'd seen in Borgin and Burke's had been suspicious, of course, and they did need to look into it - but Harry shouldn't just run off alone. After his sister sits back down, there's some silence in the cabin - Luna turns a page of her magazine. Hermione huffs, and takes out a book from her trunk. Ginny's leaning against the window, watching the scenery pass them by, and Neville's got some plant or another that he's carefully looking after.

Ron gets concerned after fifteen minutes, when Harry isn't back. Worried, at twenty. Ginny's frowning, and Hermione's reading the same two pages for the fifth time, which he knows because she hasn't turned to the next one in the past three minutes.

The train whistles for them pulling up into Hogsmeade station.

"He can't have got too lost," Luna says. She stands, placing a pair of interesting looking glasses on her face. "The wrackspurts seem to like him; I'll be right back."

Luna leaves the cabin. Hermione sighs, puts away her book and stands. "We can't miss the carriages," She says, "And she's - right, anyway," Hermione adds, begrudgingly. "Harry's probably just waiting for Malfoy and the others to leave the compartment they're in." Hermione leaves, following the crowd of students as everyone starts piling out of their cabins. Ginny frowns, but nods and she leaves with Neville in tow.

Ron hesitates.

He waits.

---

Tonks walks the three of them back up to the castle.

"So you think he's a Death Eater, then?" She asks Harry, for confirmation. "Yes," He insists. "At least working with them," Ron adds because he's not sure they'd Mark Malfoy, if only because he's still a Hogwarts student. "We caught the Malfoys in Borgin and Burkes - they were looking at a vanishing cabinet."

Tonks frowns, hums, considering. Her look is much different from what Ron is used to - bright bubble-gum hair now a mousy brown, with purple-tired eyes and simple, lazy clothing. She seems under the weather, but not... in a health way. She kind of reminds him of how Cho Chang was acting, last year, just less outwardly expressed (in the form of crying - changing your dress style is a pretty outward expression, really), and less intense.

Heartbreak, maybe, but Ron can't begin to wonder why. He's missing, he thinks, a lot of context.

"He broke your nose?" Tonks asks, again for confirmation.

"Yes," Harry says, pointedly. Tonks had been there when Luna had fixed it.

"Right," Tonks says. They're at the gates, and Snape is on the other side, waiting for them with an ever-present unpleasant scowl.

The walk up to the school is tense, mostly because of the presence of Snape, and totally quiet entirely because of it. Their identities are checked, a new measure, and then they're herded into the castle. Much like when they were late in their Second Year, they're not put in with the feast - it would interrupt the sortings - and instead, they're sat in the side-room and a House Elf places a plate of sandwiches on the table, then leaves.

"Eat. And then go straight to your common rooms." Snape snaps. And then he's gone.

Luna picks up a sandwich. Harry's frowning into the middle distance, thinking, and he grabs one at the same time as Ron does.

"Well, that was interesting," Luna says, happily. "Did you find out anything particularly useful, Harry Potter?" Her eyes are wide, owlish, and her head is titled, but she looks and sounds genuine. Harry nods, distracted. "Yeah," He says. "We need to keep an eye on Malfoy, this year."

"Great," Ron says. "That sounds fun."

Harry snorts. He takes a bite out of his sandwich. "Well," Harry shrugs. "What else can we do?"

"I can help, if you'd like me to," Luna says. "He leaves a trail of nargles everywhere he goes."

"What are nargles?" Ron asks.

"Well," She blinks. "They like to infest mistletoe, and they tend to like people who aren't very nice," She says. "They're mostly harmless, because they're small and invisible herbivores, but you can see them with these." She taps the side of her glasses. "Along with wrakspurts, which are creatures that fly in your ears and make your brain go all fuzzy. So, for nargles - if you've lost something, because someone took it, or if you need to find someone who doesn't like many people, then you can follow the trail they leave behind. And it's a good idea to steer clear of mistletoe."

"Right," Harry says. "We'll keep that in mind."

Luna smiles, brightly. "Good idea!" She says, then takes a large bite of her sandwich.

A bit off, Ron thinks, but definitely a good sort. He likes her. Luna seems like a good friend to have... and like a person who needs a good friend or two of her own.

---

"I'm not sure," Hermione says, and Ron does have to agree, at least somewhat. Harry had told him what he'd heard in the Slytherin compartment, and while of course it's concerning and generally awful, it sounds like your average Malfoy shit, bragging and posturing.

Harry's convinced, though, which means they're not going to drop this any time soon - and Ron. He's said it before; he doesn't want anything bad to happen just because he dismissed a potential threat as totally harmless. Malfoy was harmless, ish, in the past few years... but that doesn't mean he is now. Malfoy Sr had looked haggard, and Malfoy looked - different, in a sense. The whole family had, in Borgin and Burke's. It was something Ron had noticed.

So. He's not sure, but he's not sure not because he's dismissing Malfoy. He's not sure because Malfoy would be - well. A poor choice, at the very least. It's not like he's the smartest guy around, and he's definitely not very cunning. Having him do something really important just seems like a complete gamble, and Ron's not - he's not convinced they'd risk it. But then, the Death Eaters' plan in their fourth year had been a total gamble too, so - there is precedent for them doing something utterly convoluted and somehow pulling it off.

Well. Now Ron's convincing himself that they should keep an eye on Malfoy.

"Maybe," Ron says, slowly, "But maybe not. I - think we should keep an eye on him. Just in case."

Hermione hesitates, then nods. "if it makes you happy," Hermione says, "We'll - keep an eye out."

It's not making Harry happy - but it's for easing the tense line of his shoulders, which their words do seem to do. Harry nods, and that's that. Hermione smiles tiredly, bids them goodnight, and heads upstairs.

"Harry!" Colin says, cheerfully, with the same excitable tone as his normal voice, but said in half a whisper. "Ginny said something about a Plan? A group, for defending against - against You-Know-Who?"

"Right," Harry sighed out. "Yeah, Colin. We're working on something - it's Hermione's idea, though. We'll be inviting some people tomorrow."

"Cool!" Colin grins. "You know you can count me and Dennis in!"

Colin bounds upstairs. Ron shakes his head, slightly. Barmy kid. Definitely a Gryffindor.

Harry heads up to their dorm, and Ron follows. The other boys in their year are already there - Seamus and Dean are lounging around on their beds, Neville is tending to a plant in the window alcove on the left of his bed. Harry heads into the bathroom, and Ron flops down onto his four-poster.

"Ron," Seamus greets. Seamus had been kind of a dick, last year, but he'd apologised for it, and it hadn't lasted that long, anyway. "Seamus," Ron returns in greeting, slightly muffled against his duvet, before he rolls onto his back. "Dean. How was your summer?"

"Saw a West Ham game in-person," Dean says, "Did some rock climbing. Stayed at Seamus' for a week. You?"

"Same old," Ron says. Harry re-enters the room, and starts getting changed for bed.

"Fun," Seamus says. "If we knew what same old was."

Ron waved a hand at the canopy of his bed, let his arm flop back onto the covers. "You know. Mock quidditch. Reading comic books. Sitting around, not doing homework."

Seamus snorts. "Did you finish it?"

"Yeah," Ron says.

"Well, that's more than me," Dean says. He yawns, then shrugs. "Night," He says, and closes his curtains.

"Lame," Seamus says. "Everyone else?"

"Also tired," Ron says. Neville's already in bed, and Harry's getting into his.

"Hmm." Seamus sighs. "Right." He shuts the curtains of his own bed, and then it's quiet. Ron gets changed, gets into bed.

"Hey, Ron?"

Ron turns onto his side, facing Harry. He props himself up on his elbow and frowns, vaguely, a little expectant.

Harry hesitates, then shrugs. "Forgot what I was going to ask," Harry says, grimaces. "Night," He adds, and then spells shut his curtains, his arm briefly appearing past them to place his glasses on the nightstand.

Ron stares at Harry's closed curtains for a moment, before spelling shut his own.

---

A few people after Harry, Ron has his session with Professor McGonagall.

"Given you professed potentially wanting to join the Aurors," She says, "You must be aware that a NEWT in Potions is a requirement, yes?"

Ron nods. Professor McGonagall sighs. "And I imagine your reasoning for not choosing the subject this year was a lack of an Outstanding in your OWL for the subject?"

Ron nods, again. "Well then, you'll be pleased to know Professor Slughorn has Exceeds Expectations as his minimum grade," The transfiguration professor says. "So you are more than capable of taking the subject."

"I don't have the books," Ron tells her. "You can borrow them," She counters. "I'm sure you'll find Potions to be... different, taught by Professor Slughorn. Perhaps even enjoyable." The corner of her mouth twitches, ever so slightly. "The password for the prefect's bathroom this year is 'cornucopia', Mr Weasley. You may go."

Ron now has most all the same subjects as Harry and Hermione, meaning (nearly, though who counts Astronomy?) Charms, Herbology, Transfigurations, and now apparently Potions too - though she's also taking Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. Ron's pretty sure she's not taking Astronomy, but he'd have to ask, and if she is, he doesn't want her frowning at him about it.

... None of them are taking COMC. Ron kind of feels bad, because Hagrid's great, it's just that - they're not really massively into the subject, and they don't need it, so, it doesn't make sense to take. Hopefully he won't be - too upset.

Harry was waiting outside, stood in one of the empty alcoves and leaning against the wall, allowing the throng of students to pass through the corridor. "I'm thinking of when we should hold tryouts," Harry says, eyes facing up towards the ceiling, expression vaguely contemplative.

Harry's Quidditch Captain this year, which is cool. It means they can commandeer the quidditch field whenever they like for practice (well - not past curfew or during lesson time) so long as no-one else has it booked (meaning, they can kick any non-quidditch people off the field), and Harry has keys to the broom cupboard... not that nobody had ever used 'alohomora' on it before, but, you know. It's the principle of the thing. Now Ron won't have to subtract any points for just wanting to toss about a quaffle or, on the very rare occasion, do maintenance on the school brooms so no small first years fall to their deaths.

"Soon," Ron says.

"Yeah." Harry looks down from the ceiling, at Ron. "Maybe this weekend?"

"Bit early," Ron says. "Give people some time to settle down. Put up the notice this weekend, hold tryouts the following?"

Harry shrugs. "Makes sense," He says.

They join the crowd, let the flow of students carry them through the halls towards the grand staircase.

"Oi, Potter," A voice calls out, and it's Seamus. Deans standing next to him, looking at Ron with a vaguely, confusingly wary expression, a step behind his friend - like Finnegan's a shield, or something.

Ron frowns at him, confused.

"Yeah?" Harry asks.

"Heard from Ginny there's a group or something," Dean says. "Count us in."

Seamus nods, and that's the conversation.

"What's up with Dean?" Harry asks once they're gone. "No idea," Ron says. He didn't know they were friends with Ginny. Harry shrugs, then turns in the direction of the great hall. It should be dinner soon enough, and anyway, neither of them have anything else to do (not yet, at least - they'll have a load of homework soon enough) so Ron follows.

Well. He'd follow anyway - Ron knows the other students, probably better than Harry or Hermione do - but he doesn't really hang out with them. Harry's his best friend and - well, most of the time, they don't really... do stuff apart, unless Ron's hanging out with Hermione because she's also his best friend, and maybe Harry's otherwise occupied. Generally speaking, over the past five years, they've spent time apart, sure, but not... usually necessarily by choice, unless you count their argument in their fourth year, which, well, that doesn't count, because it was by choice and they were miserable.

So.

There's that.

---

Hermione drops down onto the bench across from them, expression tense. "I forgot to mention," She said, tersely, "But - Professor Dumbledore announced that Professor Snape is teaching DADA this year." Her lips pursed tightly, and then she sighed, attempted to relax her expression.

"What?" Harry says, glancing over to the head table. "They put Snape in charge of Defense?"

"Yes," Hermione confirms.

"We thought that might happen," Ron sighs. Harry grimaces, and nods, jerkily.

Hermione frowns at them.

"Uh, well," Ron says, then - "Lupin's friend told us Slughorn used to teach them, when they went to Hogwarts," Harry says. Hermione's expression clears. "Yeah," Ron says. "So, since Snape's - well, you know, there were a couple of options. We hoped not this, but..." Ron gestured helplessly to the head table. Hope, obviously, hadn't helped the matter - because there he was, greasy hair and all, sat at the head's table in the DADA professor's seat, scowling (just in general, but it looked like he was angry at his food, which was kind of funny).

"I see." Hermione plates herself some food and then nods. "So," She says. "I came up with this."

She places a galleon on the table in front of her. "For the DA," She says, having gotten attached to 'Defense Association'. "A way to communicate safely and securely - and most importantly, discreetly."

"What does it do?" Harry asks. Hermione takes out two other galleons and hands them over. Ron looks his over; spins it around, but it looks like a normal galleon. "It's - well, really very complicated, but it's simple, really," Hermione says, a proud tone to her voice. "I got the idea - well, it doesn't matter. But the point is -" She taps the galleon she's holding, and Ron frowns as the numbers on his galleon change from all zeros to -

"That's a date," Ron says.

"Yes, exactly," Hermione smiles, nodding. "The point is," She repeats, "It's a way to communicate. I used the protean charm - this galleon," She holds it up in gesture, "Is the master coin. The date on this one changes, and it changes the date on all of them. I've also decided on some number codes for things that might be useful." Her expression is very pleased, and Ron gets it - this is a pretty good bit of spellwork.

"So everyone in the DA would get one of these," Harry says.

"Yes," Hermione says. "The both of you or I would keep a hold of this one, plus a spare of the member galleons just in case, and everyone else would get one of those - the member galleons - so they know when meetings are going to be."

"That's not a bad idea," Harry says.

Hermione nods. "It's a great idea," Ron says, and Hermione smiles, chuffed. "Thanks," She says. "But anyway - I figured I should tell you because we're having a recruitment meeting on the first Hogsmeade weekend."

"Really? Why?" Harry asks.

"Well," She says, "We can't - I mean, we could do it in the school, but it wouldn't be very secret, and besides, we don't really want anyone below thirteen involved in this anyway," Hermione says. "I'm thinking of holding the meeting in the Hog's Head, but there are a few other options."

"Well, we know the Shrieking Shack isn't actually haunted," Ron says. "Hog's Head gets some - bad clientele."

"I know," Hermione says, worrying at her bottom lip. "That's why I was thinking about other options. We don't want to get spied on by - well, you know."

Harry nods. "I don't see why the Shrieking Shack can't work," He says.

"Professor Lupin isn't here, after all," Hermione muses. "And it's very out of the way - most nobody ever goes near it, except tourists."

Hermione taps the table with the galleon. "And it could warn away the more..."

"Cowardly sort?" Ron offers.

"Well," Hermione shrugs lightly. "I suppose."

Harry nods. "Shack it is," He says.

"Shack it is," Hermione repeats.

---

After they finish up in the great hall, and Hermione rushes off for her next lesson, Ron and Harry head up the Gryffindor tower. They've barely stepped inside before they're accosted by Katie Bell; the portrait hasn't even swung shut yet before she starts speaking.

"Harry," She greets, grinning, and gestures to his badge. "Knew you'd get that," She says. "Well done. Tell me when you call trials, yeah?"

"Weekend after next," Harry says, shrugging. "Pretty sure you won't need to, though, you've been consistently great for the past five years."

"Careful, there," She says. "For all you know, there's someone much better than me out there. Good teams have been ruined before now because Captains just kept playing the old faces, or letting in their friends..." Katie warns.

"Well," Harry says, "I'm not about to compromise a quidditch match. Better hope you play well at the trail, then, Katie."

Katie nods. "I'll spread it around. Later, Potter, Weasley," She nods, and walks away.

Ron shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, uncomfortable.

"Stupid," Harry says, "Like I'd do that. Come on," Harry says, and enters the Common Room proper.

Right.

Ron follows.

---

Their first lesson is, unfortunately, Defense Against The Dark Arts, though at least they're getting Snape's introduction as their 'new' teacher out of the way. Most everyone's angry about it to some degree - Neville and a few others are either equally or more scared, as well, which doesn't help the atmosphere; there's a tense feeling encompassing the room, conversations hushed and minimal.

Hermione arrives, and drops down onto the chair next to them, on Ron's right. (Harry's on his left, and then it's Neville, Dean, Seamus, and that's the table. Snape's kind of made the place like a sort of... amphitheatre-esque layout. He's imposed his personality upon the room already; it's gloomier than usual as the curtains have been drawn over the windows and therefore the room has to be lit by candlelight, but he's only used a couple of those - just enough, but Ron's eyes still had to adjust. There are a lot of new pictures all over the walls, many of them showing people who look like they're in pain, sporting grisly injuries or strangely contorted body parts. It's probably not appropriate decoration - a bit too gruesome. Ron feels bad for the firsties whose first experience of DADA is... this. Much like Snape did in potions, he's going to make a lot of people hate the subject, and a lot fewer people proficient at it.

Hermione thinks they need the DA more for war reasons than for actual learning DADA reasons, but Ron disagrees. Snape's just a bad teacher; very few people learn well in this sort of - tense, anxious environment. Also, Ron's pretty sure one of the paintings in the back is of a flayed man, and that's really, really disturbing to look at. He forces his eyes away from the walls.)

"We got so much homework for Runes," Hermione says anxiously. "A fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and I've got to read these by Wednesday!"

"Shame," yawns Ron.

"You wait," she says resentfully. "I bet Snape gives us loads."

The classroom door opens at the tail end of her prediction. Some people flinch the second it's thrown wide and Snape enters, robe billowing menacingly behind him.

The 'professor' sneers at all the students present, and by that Ron means the Gryffindors. This year, they share DADA with the Slytherins, which is... who keeps making these decisions. If it was up to Ron, he'd keep the most volatile house relations as far apart as possible. Especially with the war going on. A class of Slytherins and Gryffindors (death eaters and not stupid people) is bound towards disaster at some point, inevitably.

"I have not asked you to take out your books," says Snape, closing the door and moving to face the class from behind his desk; Hermione hastily drops her copy of Confronting the Faceless into her bag and kicks that under her chair. "I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention."

His black eyes roved over those present, a dangerous glint present within them.

"You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe."

Off to a good start, Ron thinks, rolling his eyes mentally.

"Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion, I am surprised so many of you scraped an . in this subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be more advanced."

Ron grimaces. He knew it'd be bad, because it's Snape, and he was, of course, completely right. He wishes Snape had really been sent to spy more by being assigned a different job entirely, stopping him from being a plague on the castle any longer than he has been already. Oh well.

"The Dark Arts," Snape continues, as he started walking around the edge of the room, speaking now in a lower voice. Ron turns, following Snape's movements around the classroom, keeping a wary eye on the spy. "Are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible."

Way to give them hope, Ron thinks. Snape said all that with the same dangerous glint in his eyes, and Ron thinks not for the first time about how much of a spy Snape really is. He sounds - strangely invested, and really very creepy, like - it's not just interest, exactly, that's present in his tone, but something all the more sinister.

It's almost... fond. Ron's pretty sure and has been for a long time, that Snape's Dark, in his magic leanings, but really - this just confirms it.

Your defences," Snape says, a little louder, "Must, therefore, be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures - he indicated a few of them as he swept past - "Give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse" - he waved a hand toward a witch who was clearly shrieking in agony - "Feel the Dementor's Kiss" - a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall - "Or provoke the aggression of the Inferius" - a bloody mass upon the ground.

Yeah. Not really very appropriate, like Ron thought earlier. Blimey, he's going to scare half the students to death before they even have a chance to put his 'teachings' into practice.

"Has an Inferius been seen, then?" said Parvati Patil in a high pitched voice. "Is it definite, is he using them?"

"The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past," said Snape, "which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again. Now... " He set off again around the other side of the classroom toward his desk, and again, they watched him as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind him. ,
"...You are, I believe, complete novices in the use of nonverbal spells. What is the advantage of a nonverbal spell?"

Hermione's hand shot into the air. Snape took his time looking around at everybody else, making sure he had no choice, before saying curtly, "Very well - Miss Granger?" "Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform, which gives you a split-second advantage," Hermione tells him. "An answer copied word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six," says Snape, dismissively. Malfoy sniggers from his spot in the back corner; Ron glares, for a moment. Snape ignores him and continues; "But correct in essentials. Yes, those who progress in using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some "-
his gaze turns, maliciously, upon Harry - "lack."

Well, fuck you too, Ron thinks. Bloody hell, does he have to target Harry every lesson, without fail? Malfoy's cronies start their Morgana-be-dammed tittering again, and Ron goes back to glaring at them.

"You will now divide," Snape went on, "into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence. Carry on."

Mad-Eye had been a pretty good teacher last year and had in fact finished off the last lesson with a small primer on non-verbal casting, as it would be what they'd be focusing on in sixth-year, and the man is all about preparedness. Nobody had managed it that day, and he hadn't expected them to - there's one thing he said that stuck;

"No wizard or witch does these things right the first try," Mad-Eye had said, gruffly. "Practice, that's what it takes. Very few people are prodigies at anything. I couldn't hex a man standing three feet away when I was fourteen - my aim was shaky. So I practised, and I got better, and here we are." He grinned, which always looked a bit nasty on his face, but probably wasn't meant to. "Half my Aurors struggled with non-verbal casting. It's a very internal thing - if you're not doing it for everything, you find it harder to use when fighting. Ease yourself into it - spells you use all the time, learn to do those non-verbally when you can. Failure is expected, at first. But you'll get it eventually, otherwise, you'll die. There's a war going on, and you'd best get yourself ready for it. Constant vigilance!"

The ending was very Mad-Eye-ish, but that didn't make it unhelpful.

Still. None of them had ever cast protego without speaking, however, though thankfully it had been one of the spells Mad-Eye drilled incessantly into their heads. And, of course, because why wouldn't it - Snape hadn't actually told them how they were supposed to do this, just told them to do it like that was helpful in any way at all (it wasn't) - a reasonable amount of cheating ensued; many were merely whispering the incantation instead of saying it aloud. Snape swept between them as they practised, looking just as much like an overgrown bat as ever, lingering to watch Harry and Ron struggling with the task.

Harry had his wand raised, waiting on tenterhooks to repel the jinx at any moment, anxious expectation written clearly in his expression. Ron had his lips firmly pressed together, and was repeating, in his head, very simply, expelliarmus, because if that worked, well, Harry was good at catching things. Unfortunately, it didn't seem like it was going to work any time soon, and with frustration mounting it was getting harder and harder to focus on casting the spell instead of his own annoyance at the spell not being cast, even though he's been casting some smaller nonverbal spells for about a year now, but maybe it's harder to cast jinxes and curses than things like the tempus charm? maybe -

"Pathetic, Weasley," Snape says, as unhelpful as ever. Ron lowers his wand, resigned, shooting an apologetic expression Harry's way, which is returned momentarily with a grimace, before - "Here - let me show you -" Snape turns his wand on Harry so fast that Ron barely realises he's even done so, and by that point, Harry is already halfway through casting "Protego!" in a much louder yell than he should have, out of surprise. Ron glares at Snape - what does he think, doing that? It won't help; in situations like that, people rely on instinct. Harry's never really used non-verbal magic, before, so of course, in a surprise attack, he won't react with it.

Bloody hell!

Harry's Shield Charm is so strong Snape is knocked off-balance, hitting the desk behind him mid-stumble. The rest of the class watch on as Snape rights himself, scowling. "Do you remember me telling you we are practising nonverbal spells, Potter?"

"Yes," Harry says, tone stiff, eyes mutinous, but expression mild. He was always good at that, but Ron is better at reading him than Harry is at acting.

"Yes, sir," Snape says, pointedly, frostily, angrier than a teacher really should be with any student, because it's Harry, and he's Snape, and Snape's a git beyond all measure.

"There's no need to call me 'sir,' Professor," Harry says, immediate, tone flatly mocking, something he'd use against Malfoy, what he uses when he talks disparagingly about the Dursleys. Ron grins. Harry blinks, registers, and then the corner of his lips momentarily quirk up in response, before he schools his expression again - but there's nothing really to be done here. He might as well grin, because either way;

"Detention, Saturday night, my office." Snape glowers, all of that the expected response. "I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter... not even 'the Chosen One.'"

Mumbling starts amongst the others in the class, for a very short moment, before they remember who their teacher is and immediately quieten down. Ron frowns. Snape shouldn't have said that. Not many people know about the Prophecy - that's the whole point. They can't have it slip out, can't have Voldemort know the whole thing. It's safest not to talk about it at all.

He hopes everyone thinks Snape's just being his usual miserable self.

---

"That was brilliant, Harry!" Ron says, as soon as they're past the threshold of the classroom door. He claps a hand on Harry's shoulder, congratulatory, while Hermione frowns on in disapproval, because -

Because, well. Of course, she does. Wouldn't be Hermione if she didn't.

"Y-"

"Can't believe he said that, though," Ron says, a little quieter. "I mean - nobody should know about it, right?"

"About -" Hermione frowns. "Oh, of course. Yes, he shouldn't have." Her disapproval now aimed in another direction, Ron dropped his hand from Harry's shoulder.

"What's Dumbledore playing at, anyway, letting him teach Defense?" Harry snaps out. "Did you hear him talking about the Dark Arts? He loves them! All that unfixed, indestructible stuff -"

"Well," says Hermione, "I thought he sounded a bit like you."

Harry gapes at her, momentarily. They stop walking, pushed off to the side of the hallway by the flow of students rushing through. "Like me?" Harry says, incredulous.

"Well," Hermione says, tentatively. "I mean - you know - 'your defences must, therefore, be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo', that sounds like, when you say things like, having to rely on quick-thinking and the like, being - steadfast in the way of danger, that sort of thing."

Harry's never said the word 'steadfast' in his life, but Ron knows what she's paraphrasing. And without Snape breathing down their necks, Ron can think about it a bit more objectively, and she's not really wrong - but what Snape said, the rest of it - there's just a different feel to it, at least to Ron. Something a little slimy and appreciative of the way the Dark Arts are 'eternal' and all the rest of what he said.

Harry's scowling, ever-so-slightly, just a little furrow between his brows and a downward pull to the corners of his lips. "Oh really?" He says. Before anything else can be said, thankfully, a voice rises above the chattering crowd. "Harry! Hey, Harry!"

The three of them turn their heads towards the noise; Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters on last year's Gryffindor Quidditch team, is moving towards them down the hall, squeezing through the crowd, holding a roll of parchment tightly in his hand.

"For you," Sloper says, panting harshly. "Listen, 1 heard you're the new Captain. When you holding trials?"

"Weekend after next," Harry says. "So, not this one. Next one."

"Great," Sloper nods. "Cool, okay. I mean, I was hoping it'd be this weekend - but, uh, Here. I was told to -" He hands over the parchment, which Harry takes, vaguely confused. "Give this to you by-"

Harry grabs Ron by the arm and drags him away down the hall, eyes trained on the roll of parchment, attention thoroughly taken away from whatever Sloper was about to say by the document. Hermione says a quick apology and hurries after them.

"What is it?" Ron asks. "It's from Dumbledore," Harry says, and then they're quiet until they find an empty classroom.

Hermione locks the door with a simple "Colloportus," and then Harry opens the note. Ron leans over his shoulder to get a better look.

Dear Harry,
I would like to start our private lessons this Saturday. Kindly come along to my office at 8 P.M. I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school.
Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops.

"He enjoys Acid Pops?" Ron says, squinting. "What-?"

"It's the password to get past the gargoyle outside his study," Harry says, voice low. "Ha! Snape's not going to be pleased... I won't be able to do his detention!"

"I wonder what the lesson could be about," Hermione ponders, excitedly. "I mean - there's so many things Dumbledore knows-"

"Spectacular jinxes and hexes, maybe?" Ron offers, "Stuff death eaters wouldn't know, can you imagine-"

"Don't be ridiculous, Ron, those would be illegal-"

"You don't know that!" Ron says, "I mean like you said, he knows a lot of stuff, does Dumbledore, and most hexes and jinxes aren't illegal anyway, otherwise, diffindo would be on the register because you can split a neck open with it-"

"Right, because you care about things being illegal, anyway," Harry says, grinning. "Come on, Hermione. Spells they don't know how to deal with could be a good idea," He says. "I mean, it's not like most Death Eaters didn't go to Hogwarts - they'll know everything we do. Something different could give us an edge."

"Dumbledore's been all over," Ron agrees. "He knew Nicholas Flamel, who's French, right? So, he probably knows other people. Maybe it'll be magic we don't really use so much here?"

"Maybe," Hermione says, dubiously. "Different schools of magic are very different, though, and I just don't think that would be very practical, it's takes a long time to master something so new - he's probably going to want to build on what you're already good at."

"And what's that?" Harry asks.

"Oh, I don't know," Hermione says, "Advanced defensive magic? You're very good at DADA, you know, the best in our year."

"Which includes hexes and jinxes," Harry points out, flatly.

"Well," Hermione says. "Yes, it does. But V-Voldemort probably knows a lot about those, doesn't he? And it would be something that fits 'the power the dark lord knows not', so it can't be that anyway."

"Well, in that case, it can't be advanced defence stuff, either," Ron says. "The guy's like, seventy, or something, right?"

"Really?" Hermione blinks. "Oh, of course, he is. That seems -"

"Young, for a wizard that looks like he does," Ron grins. "That's Dark Magic for you. Anyway - what I'm saying is, it can't be advanced defence stuff, because he'd know that too. Maybe - I mean, was there anything Riddle didn't do well at, in school?"

"I don't know," Hermione hums. "That's a thought."

"Voldemort knows what he's doing," Harry says. "At least - potions, fighting. I'm pretty sure Riddle got straight Os - I mean, he was Head Boy and all."

"Not necessarily," Hermione says. "There's no grade requirement for being Head Boy or Girl - or a prefect, for that matter. It's the head of house that chooses you, for the former, and the headmaster, for the latter."

"That doesn't seem like the most brilliant plan," Harry says.

"Not really, no," Hermione agrees. "But - that's how it is, I suppose."

---

Potions is - very different. Despite it taking place in the same classroom, in the same dungeons, the whole feel of it has changed drastically. It's warmer, in lighting, and brighter. The atmosphere is cosier, friendlier, and Ron finds himself relaxing without meaning to, and he can see many of the other students have done the same, despite the class being another Slytherin-Gryffindor mix. Well, Ravenclaw, too; quite smartly, or maybe very stupidly, they're acting as a buffer between Ron's house and the Snakes.

Slughorn stands, his great walrus moustache curving above his beaming mouth, as he greets Harry. "Ah, Harry, my boy! So you did decide to join Potions, then?" He says, decidedly pleased. Harry looks somewhat uncomfortable, though he does manage a tight smile and a short nod. "Very good! Ah, and Mr Weasley." He turns his smile in Ron's direction. "Two of Hogwarts' very own heroes, right here in my classroom!"

A beat. Then: "What?" Ron says. He catches Hermione's eye, and she looks just as confused as he feels.

"Dear boy, you have an award for services to the school, do you not?" Slughorn chuckles. "Why, the last time that was awarded... well, it got in the newspaper! A very rare occurrence, that. I'm surprised that didn't happen this time, when was it, again?"

"1992, Professor," Hermione pipes up, tone vaguely hesitant. "When the Chamber was opened."

Slughorn's smile twitches, eyes turning for a short moment vaguely cold. "Much like the last time, then," He says, and then clears his throat, jovial countenance returning in full. "Though I think you boys will find you're both rather more impressive than the last person to win that award - why you were twelve at the time! Not very often that a twelve-year-old saves the day, you know."

Ron blinks. "How - 'd'you find out?" Ron asks.

"Oh, I take a stroll through the Trophy Room occasionally," Slughorn says, cheerfully. "Reminds me of the students I've taught over the years... you know, that sort of thing. I happened upon a cabinet near the front - they're arranged by year, you see - and there both of you were! Front and centre in that year's display."

Ron's blinking increases in rapidity.

"Huh." Harry looks even more uncomfortable than before. "Didn't know that."

Slughorn looks between them; at Ron's confusion, and Harry's discomfort. "Come now, boys, you should be proud of your achievements!" He says. Someone coughs, and he glances around the classroom. Ron does, too; looks like everyone's arrived - and at that realisation, of everyone hearing about that conversation, his ears burn, just a little, out of awkwardness.

"Ah. Yes, has everyone arrived? Good." Slughorn smiles. "Now, everyone get out your books and set up your cauldrons - if you've no books, and I know a couple of you don't, there are a few in the cupboard over there," He points towards a cabinet in the back corner of the room. "I found a few spares; some of them might be older editions, so compare and contrast with your neighbours if something doesn't seem right. I shall hand them out today, but not to worry if you forget next lesson - just borrow a book from the cupboard." Slughorn strode over to a corner cupboard and started rumaging.

Ron, Harry and Hermione are sharing a table with Ernie MacMillan, who the last time Ron had a real conversation with was when he was apologising to Harry for thinking he was the heir of Slytherin.

Suffice to say, it's been long enough for that to not really matter - but that was still enough of an issue for the air between them all to be a little awkward if nothing else.

"Good to see you, Harry," Ernie says, pompus as ever, yet still genuine in tone. He holds out his hand to shake, which Harry does, bemused, before he turns to Ron. "You too, Ron, Hermione," And he shakes both of their hands in turn.

"Right," Ron says, equally bemused. "You too, Ernie."

The table they are stood at is situated next to a bright gold cauldron, from which the most wonderful scent emintes - something like, like - like a crackling fireplace, warm and comforting, and - and chocolate, really good chocolate, and - and - and that expensive broom polish which was the only thing Harry splurged on - which was fair, because it smelt really nice, and somehow ties the rest of the scents all together in a way that - that really is lovely, and Ron finds himself breathing deeply, slowly, and he feels a little drunk but, lighter than that, it's not got the same kick as firewhisky - he feels like he's halfway towards floating on a cloud of something pleasant and happy and content, and he catches Harry's eye, who grins at him lazily. Ron grins back, feeling strangely flushed.

Slughorn returns at that moment from his trip to retrieve supplies, emerging with two very battered-looking copies of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage, which he gives to Ron and Harry along with two sets of tarnished scales. "Here you go, boys," He says, cheerfully. "Now then," Slughorn continues, as he returns to the front of the class and leans back on his heels somewhat, hooking his thumbs onto his suspenders - he's wearing a somewhat eclectic mix of high-end but kind of old muggle and wizarding fashion that Ron's only seen on a few other people in his life; it's how they used to dress, in the tens and the twenties up to near the end of the forties, because Wizards were more involved with muggles back then - some even fought in the wars, so blending in was more of a priority. It was usually older wizards who dressed like that, and Ron suddenly started wondering how old Slughorn actually is, if he taught Riddle in school, and was already well established by that point...

Slughorn continues. "I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you'll to be able to make after completing your N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of 'em, even if you haven't made 'em yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?"

The professor indicates the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table. Ron tilted his head at it - to him, it looked just like boling water, but he remembered something - something Bill had said about - dangerous potions - because that was part and parcel of the job training - and this one was really dangerous, because you couldn't tell what it was at first glance -

Hermione's well-practised hand his the air before anybody else's, and so Slughorn picks her to answer.

"It's Veritaserum, a colourless, odourless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth," She says.

"Very good, very good!" Slughorn nods, happily. "Now," he says, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table, "This one here is pretty well known. . . . Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too . . . Who can - ?"

Hermione's hand, once again, rises into the air - Slughorn doesn't pick her before she speaks, interrupting his question.

"it's Polyjuice Potion, sir," she says, quickly.

That one was an obvious one, at least to people like Ron and Harry and Hermione, who had used the potion themselves - though, they couldn't really say anything about that, since Hermione brewing it back then was illegal, and all.

"Excellent, excellent! Now, this one here... yes, my dear?" says Slughorn, now looking slightly intrigued, as Hermione's hand shoots upwards into the air again. "It's Amortentia!" Hermione practically shouts, smiling - very pleased with herself and Slughorn's clear praise.

"It is indeed. It seems almost foolish to ask," He says looking mightily impressed, "But I assume you know what it does?"

"It's the most powerful love potion in the world!" Hermione is outright grinning now - all these years of Snape, and now this; Ron gets it. They might actually have a good teacher, for once, and her faith in them won't be misplaced.

'Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?"

"And the steam rising in characteristic spirals," Hermione agrees enthusiastically, extrapolating, "And it's supposed to smell differently to each of according to what attracts us, and I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and -" She smiles awkwardly, "Well - something else very nice, you know." There's a blush decorating her cheeks.

'May I ask your name, my dear?" Slughorn requests, ignoring her embarrassment, delighted interest clear in his features. "Hermione Granger, Professor," Hermione replies.

"Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Pioneers?"

"No. I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born, you see."

Ron heard sniggering; from the back of the class, Zabini and Malfoy are hunched somewhat close together, and Ron glowers at them.

"Oho! 'One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year!' I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?"

"Yes, sir," Harry's grinning. Ron's grinning, too; Malfoy is looking rather put-out, in a shocked way - he's got a very similar expression on his face as the one he had after Hermione slapped him, in their third-year.

"Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger," Slughorn says, genially. Hermione beams widely, nudges Harry and mouths 'thank you', as Slughorn carries on with the lesson:

"Amortentia doesn't really create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room - oh yes," he says, nodding gravely at Malfoy and Nott, both of whom are smirking like gits, and look somewhat surprised at being called out on it. "When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love..."

Ron shudders, mentally, and takes half a step away from the potion, the intoxicating smell a little less pleasant and inviting, all of a sudden, a little more cloying. And what's so attractive about broom polish, anyway? He smells it every day. Harry can get - a little obsessive over taking care of his Firebolt, after what happened to his Nimbus 2000, you know, when it was smashed up by the Whomping Willow. Also, Sirius got it him - so it's... sentimental.

"And now, it is time for us to start work." Slughorn walks back to the front of the classroom. As he's walking, Ernie pipes up. "Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one," he says, pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn's desk. Within the cauldron, the potion is lively, splashing abour merrily but never spilling past the rim, despite the large globs of the substance that leap above its surface - those only dive right back in, a performative arc, like the mermaids in some of the stained glass windows.

"Oho," Slughorn says, turning dramatically, a grin plastered on his round face. "Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it," he turns again, this time to look directly at Hermione, who had let out an audible gasp. "That you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?"

"It's liquid luck," Hermione says, "It makes you impossibly lucky - on the day you take it, nothing can go wrong, but at too high a dosage -" Hermione hesitates. "Well, it's very toxic. Small doses you don't notice, but too much and it can kill you."

Ron frowns, slightly, but sits up, just a little, because - that's useful, if you're careful. And, frankly, they need all the 'useful' they can get.

"Splendid, take another ten points for Gryffindor. You are quite correct; it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis," Slughorn extrapolates. "Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavours tend to succeed... at least until the effects wear off."

"Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?" Terry Boot asks, eagerly, halfway out of his seat in the back of the classroom, straining to get a good look.

"Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence," Slughorn explains. "Too much of a good thing, you know... highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally... "

"Have you ever taken it, sir?" asked Michael Corner with great interest.

"Twice in my life," The professor admits. "Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days." The man has a look in his eyes like - far away, and wistful, and pleased, but somewhat - in someway - a little sad, too.

"And that," Slughorn says, snapping himself out of it, "Is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson."

Ron stares at the wizard. A prize? He looks around at the other students, who seem equally bewildered and interested in what Slughorn had to say next.

"One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis," Slughorn tells them, taking a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his pocket and showing it to them all. "Enough for twelve hours' luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt."

The room is so quiet for a moment that everything in it seems louder; the bubbling of the potions, and the hissing, and the spitting, the breathing of the students, the scuffing of shoes on the floor, the creaking of wooden chairs...

"Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a banned substance in organized competitions... sporting events, for instance, examinations, or elections. So the winner is to use it on an ordinary day only... and watch how that ordinary day becomes extraordinary!"

"So," Slughorn says, "how are you to win fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of Advanced Potion Making. We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!"

I do not expect a perfect potion. Well, that was new. At any rate, Ron does as asked - he opens his textbook, turns to page ten, and looks at the recipe.

Ron gathers up the ingredients quickly, and focuses intently on his own potion - follows the instructions to the letter like he normally does (though for some reason, unlike Hermione, that never seems to work out completely in his favour), but gets somewhat distracted when he hears conversation.

"Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?" Ron looks up - he sees Harry do the same, along with a couple other students. Hermione is buried metaphorically nose-deep in her brewing, and doesn't seem to notice a thing. "Yes," says Slughorn, without looking at Malfoy, "I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course, it wasn't unexpected, dragon pox at his age... "

Ron grins, and turns back to his potion. Take that, git, he thinks.

"Can I borrow your silver knife?"

Ron looks up again. It's Harry that spoke, this time; He's looking at Hermione, who's potion is pretty close the correct colour the book asks for, but there's a frustrating crease in her brow that tells Ron she thinks it isn't anywhere near good enough. Harry takes the knife she offers, distracted, with great impatience, and starts - squashing the bean?

Ron frowns. He turns back to cutting up his, which is going somewhat poorly; the thing doesn't want to stay under the knife's edge, no matter how he holds it - it keeps slipping free, which is wasting him precious time. Ron scowls, picks it up, crushes it in his palm and shakes the juices free of his hand - much more than expected from such a shrivelled up old thing.

"How are you doing that?" Ron hears Hermione demand, louder than she probably means to be, thanks to the clear annoyance carried in her tone. Ron looks up from his potion - a kind of, murky-medium-purple-red, somewhere close to Hermione's colour, but a bit off. Her's was thinner-looking, but not clear, a shade darker, and stubbornly purely purple.

Harry's is a pale pink, and getting lighter as he stirs - differently to how the book says he should.

"Add a clockwise stir-" Harry says, or starts to. ""No, no, the book says counterclockwise!" Hermione snaps glaring heatedly at him, completly ignoring her potion; as she speaks, it's turning darker, her hand still on the stirring rod.

Harry shrugs. He goes back to stirring; Hermione looks incredibly frazzled.

Ron adds a clockwise stir, somewhat randomly (since Harry didn't get to finish), and his potion, sporadically, sometimes, gets a little brighter. It's still too thick - something the consistency of liquorice, but the colour is getting lighter, slowly, getting paler...

Ron still curses at it, though; he's definitely not winning this prize. Harry, though?

"And time's... up!" Slughorn calls, turning over a sand timer. "Stop stirring, please!"

Ron stops stirring. Harry looks pleased, and Hermione looks - well, her hair is even bushier from the fumes (she's not the only one; Harry's hair, usually a mess, is standing even more on end, and Ron's pretty sure he's only been mostly saved because his hangs down straight), her eyes are somewhat crazed, and she looks simultaneously very worried and very angry.

Slughorn arrives at their table; Ron's cauldron is the first he looks into. He smiles ruefully at the congealed substance in Ron's cauldron. (Ron winces.) He passes over Ernie's navy concoction. Hermione's potion he gives an approving nod.

He stops at Harry's, expression changing dramatically, a shocked sort of - incredulous delight taking over his features.

"The clear winner!" Slughorn shouts out to the class. "Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it's clear you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab hand at Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here you are - one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!"

Harry smiles, probably at the mention of his mother, and grins after catching the furious expressions Ron can see spread over the faces of Malfoy and his cronies.

Though, looking a little closer - Malfoy looks... disappointed. Frustrated? He's not just angry. There's something else going on there.

Still, what's more, important is Hermione's reaction; her glare is frosty, and Harry's smile is dimming every second she spends focusing it on him.

Everyone starts packing up - Hermione's extra careful with her's, and Harry, specifically, is careful with his 'new' book. Ron tidies up quickly, but they're still the last three left in the room - Ernie says goodbye, and Ron's the only one to return it.

Harry looks contemplative. Hermione looks furious.

"So," Ron says, leaning against the table, "How'd you do it?"

"He cheated," Hermione says, furiously. "Didn't you, Harry?"

"I used the instructions in the book," Harry says. "Just, not the ones the author wrote." He opens it to the page of the recipe's instructions, and pushes it towards Ron, probably because he's less likely to tear it to pieces.

Ron squints, and he's not entirely sure what he's looking at - but it's definitely writing in the margins, and all over the words. "Blimey," Ron says. "I mean, I get annotating, but couldn't they have just got a notebook or something?"

Harry snorts. "If they did that," He says, "I wouldn't have the help today."

Ron inclines his head. He flips through the book, back to front. Every page is covered in the tiny scratchy writing - he's half glad he didn't get this one, even if the instructions are helpful, because they're barely legible. There is something, on the back page though - something written a little bigger, a little clearer - done with care.

"This book is property of the Half-Blood Prince?" Ron reads out, eyebrows raising of their own accord.

"Huh?" Harry says, looking away from Hermione, with whom he'd been arguing about the classification of cheating.

"Well there you go," Hermione says. "The Half-Blood Prince." She turns to Harry. "Nobody who calls themselves that would mean well, would they?" She glances between them. "I mean - You-Know-Who did something similar. It could even be his - half-blood, 'prince' and 'lord' are both lofty titles -"

"Don't be stupid," Harry says. "It's not his writing, anyway, I'd recognise it. Hell, if you're that worried, ask Ginny."

"Don't ask Ginny," Ron says. Hermione shuts her mouth very quickly. "Of course not," She assures. "Just - could I?" She takes out her wand. "Specialis Revelio!" She enunciates clearly, and nothing at all happens.

"Well, there you go," Harry echoes, "Now, do you want to wait until it does a backflip, or can we drop this? It's just a book. Someone annotated it. People do that."

"It seems all right," Hermione says, still staring at the book suspiciously. "I mean, it really does seem to be ... just a textbook."

"Feels like one," Ron agrees. There's nothing of the locket about it - nothing of whatever's in Harry's scar either, for that matter. It's... just a book. Probably owned by an asshole at some point, but - just a book. Nothing evil about that, he figures.

Ron hands it back over to Harry, who puts it away in his bookbag.

Hermione glares at them both, swings her bag onto her shoulder, and walks off in a huff.

"Not again," Harry sighs, as the door slams shut behind her.

---

Five days later, it's Harry's first lesson with Dumbledore, which is frankly more important than 'The Half-Blood Prince', but that's all Hermione seems to want to talk about lately. Probably because Harry's been getting much better marks, and thanks to the parts of the book Ron can decipher in lessons, and the few general instructions the Prince gave on preparing for all potions, well, he's getting some better results, too.

She'd be less angry if she let go of her obsession with 'official' and 'cheating', but that's her prerogative. It is what it is, he supposes - at least she hasn't gone behind Harry's back about it (yet) like she'd done with the Firebolt. He gets why she did that then, now, and to be fair he got why she did it then - it's just the way she went about it. That was the problem. You don't just take things from people and do stuff with them without asking first, or warning them, or anything. You just don't. Even if it's 'for their own good', or whatever, you say something. Otherwise, it's just - betrayal-tinged-theft.

Ron sighs. The homework load this year is immense - like OWL prep, but ten times worse, and constant. Ron's not sure for the reasons behind the sharp uptick in both amount and difficulty, but he's not fond of it at all. Hermione's got her work protectively hidden behind her books and her arms and her bushy hair, so Ron's got no chance of having a read-through and copping any of her points, and this particular essay is just, it's a doozy.

Hermione's been much more adamant about not helping and not allowing them to cheat off of her since this whole Prince business started. And that's fine because it is - because it's not like Ron can't do anything if he doesn't cheat, but it's also not like he's ever copied her word for word. She makes a lot of points, more than she needs to by a mile, and sometimes they're just what the textbook says verbatim. Ron knows because that's how she answers questions in class, too, so looking over her answer half the time is basically like reading all the textbooks at once, anyway.

Ron wiles away the time Harry's at his lesson by attempting to continue his homework (he gets another couple paragraphs in, and he needs to do a bunch more rolls of this, Merlin) and staring at everything and nothing in the room.

It's very boring. He sighs, and is about to attempt to start the next section, but Harry drops in through the portrait.

Ron gladly gives up for the night, and grins over to him. "So how'd it go?" He asks.

"... Well," Harry says, and then stops. He drops onto the couch, and Ron follows the lure of the crackling fireplace and the soft cushions to follow his lead, dropping down next to him. "Well," Harry repeats, "He showed me a memory."

Hermione looks up. "A memory?" She says, uncertainly.

"Yeah." Harry looks at the fire. "Turns out Voldemorts family were - uh, they were Marvolo, Morfin, and Merope Gaunt. Merope was his mother - he was named after his grandfather, Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"Okay," Ron says, tilting his head. "And...?"

"Well," Harry says. "They hated muggles, obviously - inbred as all get out. Parseltongue speakers - that really confused Bob, I don't think he knew. Uh, the point is, Merope had a crush on Tom Riddle. Apparently, she - well, after her dad and her brother were arrested for attacking, respectively, ministry workers and a muggle, Merope trained herself up on magic and dosed Tom with a love potion, most likely, and - married him under it."

A chill runs down Ron's spine at the thought - forced marriage, under a potion. But that wasn't the worst part, was it?

"And she had his kid," Ron says. "While-"

"Yes," Harry affirms. "Sort of. She told him - she stopped drugging him, supposedly, after she got pregnant but before Tom was born, and he - well, he left her."

"Oh that's horrible," Hermione says. "They all were," Harry says. "The Gaunts were as purist as you can get - even Merope, despite her crush, 'cause she didn't really treat him like he was human, did she? Took away his free will, and all. But her family were pretty bad to her themselves. Marvolo wasn't happy about her liking a muggle - he was pretty casual about throttling her so much she couldn't breathe, so I think that was pretty regular, and Morfin had a knife that looked like he'd never cleaned it. And - I mean, Tom was just - he was aristocracy, or looked it - rich, and mean about it, but it's not like the Gaunts ever did themselves any favours, going out and attacking people in the town like they did."

Ron grimaces at the visual that conjures, shuddering slightly.

"Oh dear," Hermione says. Then, tentatively, "Do you know - what Dumbledore has in mind - you know, why he-?"

Harry shrugs. "All he said was that it's necessary," Harry says. "I guess I have to believe him on that."

"Maybe you're going to look through Voldemort's memories," Ron says. "Maybe - maybe there's something in them, like a weakness. There's got to be a reason he survived, right? Maybe - Dumbledore's trying to find it, or he's found it, and he's showing you what he used to figure it out."

"That could make sense," Hermione says. "Maybe," Harry echoes.

"Well," Hermione says, "That's all well and good, but there's not much else we can say about it now." She clears up her workspace. "I'm going to bed," She says, "And - I know it's late, but you should try and get some work done before you head up, Harry."

"Isn't that what you said the free periods were for?" Ron asks, but she doesn't answer, having already ascended halfway up the staircase.

"Merlin," Harry says, on a sigh, head tilted all the way back on the couch, eyes closed, the light of the fire glinting off of his glasses.

"Yeah," Ron says. It's been a long day, and a longer week. They really weren't eased into this new workload, and it's very taxing. Hermione being extra frazzled lately has a lot to do with it. Ron couldn't wait until the Hogsmede weekend - it's already very tense, and a few hours to relax and unwind outside of the castle sounds like paradise.

On the air, there's the smell of a crackling log fire, and a hint of that broom polish Ron's been extra-aware of following him around, lately. The Amortencia lesson is memorable for a few reasons, but the one most applicable to Ron is the one he named it after. It's like a dancing hippogriff - it's one of those things that's hard to stop thinking about when you tell yourself to stop thinking about it. Like a song that won't get out of your head after you've heard it the first time, Ron's been noticing the scents from his Amortencia aroma a lot more, mostly because of what Hermione said about it. And how she reacted.

What could be so embarrassing she wouldn't say? So Ron looked it up, you know. And it turns out - it smells like what attracts you. You know. Scents that relate to things you 'love', in some way; a reminder of home, in the fireplace, good food, in the chocolate. Quidditch, in the broom polish.

But the thing is - it's supposed to remind you of the person you love, as well. And Ron. Ron's... got a fireplace - like here, in the common room. And he's got chocolate, which well, that one's - in context - it's obvious, and the broom polish -

Well, as he'd said; it's the brand Harry gets.

And, the thing is - one of Ron's happiest memories is just. It's hanging out here, in the common room, with Harry. That's it. That's all it is, and it's stupid and it's simple and they do that all the time, so what makes it so special? But it's true.

And it's just. It's a lot of things, and he doesn't think about it, see?

He doesn't think about it. A lot like that dancing hippogriff.

So, to over-explain; he thinks about it all the time.

It's kind of driving him mental, to be honest.

Harry laughs, slightly. Ron sits up, having slid down to mimic Harry's position at some point, then stares at him in confusion. Harry shrugs. "Just - it's a bit mental," Harry says, "But I kind of miss being at Grimmauld."

"What?" Ron says. "Are you mad? Why would you miss that old house?"

"Like I said - mental," Ron snorts. "But - I mean, we could go to the Burrow at any time, right? Play quidditch, not have to worry about homework. It didn't really feel like a war was going on."

No. It hadn't.

"Muggle London was fun, too," Harry says. "I barely got to show you any of it - we couldn't go too far. It's like." Harry pauses. "Stuff I also never got to do, you know? There weren't any arcades nearby, or we'd have gone to one, because I've heard those are cool. Zoos can be fun when you're with good company, and the gallery was a bust but that was probably because it was a Modern Art one."

Ron nods, slowly. "I guess - I don't know," Harry says. "I'm probably just tired." He sits up, and Ron drops back down properly onto the couch, stops leaning over slightly to get a better look at Harry's expression, since he doesn't exactly need to, any more. "I mean, I love Hogwarts," Harry says. "But not..."

"The people?" Ron asks.

"Well, you're - and Hermione's - part of that, so no," Harry says, blithely and then somewhat stumbled. "But, yeah, in a way."

Harry's never liked the staring much. Ron thinks - it's the weight of it all; the prophecy, which he's only had a summer to come to terms with, and the staring, and how thanks to what some seventy-year-old megalomaniac believed about a bunch of nonsense words Harry is the only one that can defeat him, because Voldemort won't leave him the bloody hell alone.

And also, there's Harry's 'saving people thing' to take into account, which is much more serious and less funny than Hermione's phrasing makes it seem. Harry's very reckless, and Ron knows sometimes you do have to make the sacrifice play, and it's hypocritical since he's even done it himself, but he'd like to never see Harry have to do it, yet -

He can't help thinking that's where this is all heading. Ron's not a pessimist, but he's not really an optimist, either. He's - what makes the most sense, given the context. What seems likely, not - the best outcome, or the worst.

"I guess summer was easier," Ron admits. "But the house wasn't."

"It's not so much Grimmauld I miss, really," Harry agrees. "Because - yeah. It was easier. And it's only been a week."

"They really are pilling on the workload this year, huh?" Ron says.

"Oh yeah," Harry agrees. Ron sighs, he stands. "Come on," Ron says, tapping Harry's knee as he walks past. "Bed."

"Yeah," Harry sighs out. "Yeah, alright."

Harry follows.

---

As Hermione had predicted, the workload only grows in intensity as the days go by, and it's only the second week into the school year. Hermione's hair is a little bushier than usual, and he's pretty sure he saw a quill stuck behind her ear, which she never normally does because that ruins the feather and it gets all tangled in her curls. She seems to be forgoing the occasional shower or night of sleep to get an essay done that's due in the next day, and, like he said, it's only the second week. This is reminding him too much of their third-year, but Ron can't say anything, because whenever he does she starts yammering on about the Prince, like that's even remotely relevant, and she drags him into an argument - and it's just. It's not fun anymore.

He's tired of it. He fills her plate at mealtimes when she forgets, and that's all she lets him do about it, and that's fine. When she has a breakdown, because she will - she's been studying like there's an exam every single day, in every single lesson, on top of everything else - him and Harry will be there.

As for Harry - well, he's not as frantic as Hermione, but he seems almost as tense about the workload - Harry's never liked essays, always prefered practical work, and now the former is pretty much all they do, and the latter is much, much harder, since they're also expected at the same time to learn an entirely new way of doing magic. Harry's going a little purple in the face while he stares at his wand. He grunts in annoyance, and drops the thing on the table.

"Lumos," He says, angrily, and the wand flares to life.

"Brilliant," Harry says. "What the fuck? I don't have to hold it. But I can't just not say it."

"Harry," Hermione admonishes.

"Beats me," Ron says. He casts a quick tempus, to check the time - Hermione's nose deep in a book, and he knows she's got a lesson next period - and Harry's eyes narrow in his direction. "What's your trick, then?" Harry asks. "Come on. I've shared the potions book with you."

"What?" Ron says, bewildered. "That." Harry points at Ron's wand. "Time. Non-verbal. How?"

Ron blinks.

"Um," He says, as Hermione's head snaps up from her book. "Well."

"Don't tell me you didn't know you were doing it?" Hermione says, mouth open slightly, like a fish.

"Well," Ron says, and Harry laughs, delighted. Ron kicks him in the shin, and he falls off the bench, but he's grinning when he gets back up, and there was no mirth in his laugh at all, Ron realises - just glee. "Amazing," Harry says. "Brilliant. That's grand. So just. Don't think about it."

"I guess," Ron says, feeling very off-kilter, looking at his wand and the time displayed above it like it had grown a second head at some point without him realising it, which would be quite impressive, since it would have needed to grow a first head, too.

"Oh, look at the time!" Hermione says, shock turning to worry in less than a second - she was packed and gone from the bench only moments later. "See you at dinner!" She calls back. Ron waves.

"Concentrate on something else," Harry says, "Why didn't - why couldn't they just tell us that?"

"Beats me," Ron repeats, still stuck on the fact he'd been doing non-verbal magic without realising it, and feeling somewhat ridiculous because of it.

Ron's ears are burning, slightly. That's grand.

"... You've been doing it for years, by the way," Harry offers. "I kind of just, I mean, it's not like they've ever mentioned non-verbal magic before at all ever, in all five years of Hogwarts - so it just didn't really register as important."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, the most obvious kind of backfired," Harry says. "That was your wand, though, 'cause the spell still worked - when - in second year - you know, when Malfoy-?"

"Yeah," Ron says, suddenly remembering having not actually used the incantation for that particular incident. "But it didn't work, so -"

"Your wand," Harry says, impatiently, "Was broken. It's a miracle the spell even worked at all. Either that or you're just - good at magic."

Ron's ears suddenly resume their earlier burning. "Right," He says, awkwardly. "Well."

"Yeah," Harry says, equally awkward.

"Harry has a point, you know," A very airy voice says, drifting towards them.

"Luna," Harry says. "Hello," Ron offers.

"Hello, Ronald," She smiles. "I do find non-verbal magic to be easiest when you don't pay attention," Luna says, sitting down. "And emotions are helpful, in the right context."

"But you're a fifth-year," Harry says. "Yes," Luna looks at him. "And Ronald was a second-year." She tilts her head, blinking owlishly. "Really, it's somewhat unfair," She admits. "We have a slight advantage - we've been around magic all our lives," She says. "It's a part of us - it flows within, and around, and within and around everything we've ever known." Luna looks over at Ron. "For people raised in the muggle world - well, it's harder, isn't it?" She tilts her head again. "Magic isn't as instinctive. You still ask where the matches are if you want to light a fire, not what the incantation is, not what the wand movement is, so you can flick a stick and turn a cold house into a warm home."

"Well, not really." Harry says. "Not since first year or so."

"Well," Luna says. "Not you, you. The muggle raised in general. Hermione, for instance, is very set in her ways."

"Hey," Ron says. Luna shrugs. "I say what I see," She says, simply. "And she's close-minded. It's fine to be," Luna continues, "So long as you know you are. I don't think she does." Luna stands, brushing off her robes, which are clearly too short - they stop halfway down her calves, and underneath -

"Where are your shoes?" Harry asks, at the same time as Ron.

"Oh, well - the nargles took them, I suppose," Luna says. "They do that, sometimes. I ask my dorm-mates, but they never know where they've gotten off to." Her tone is airy, but there's something - just, something, in her eyes. Ron thinks her dorm-mates know exactly where her shoes are.

His grip on his knife tightens. Luna smiles, serenely. "I'll see you in Hogsmede," She says, happily. "I can't wait to see where we'll be practising!"

Luna skips off, barefoot on stone. Ron wants to find her dormmates and have a chat with them - and it's not like he can't. This is a prefect's duty, after all; the teachers are always so busy, they can't really deal with bullying, since often it happens somewhere they can't see, given the castle is so big. The point of prefects is to be there and be able. He's having a chat with Padma and Terry, that's for sure.

"Where will we be practising?" Ron asks.

"The Room, I thought," Harry says, and, right, that makes sense. "It can become pretty much anything we could ever need - there's a lot of stuff we could learn in there - make arenas for duels, halls for practice, you know. Change the shape to teach different tactics, might even - later on - try some combat on brooms, maybe."

"Well, you are Captain," Ron says.

Harry shrugs. "It's a thought," He says.

"No, it works," Ron says.

"We should go test it out," Harry says, "Before the first meeting - you know, just to see if there really are any limits."

"Yeah," Ron agrees.

"There is something we should do first, though," Harry says, guiltily, looking up at the staff table. Ron winces in agreement.

They'd been trying to find the time - but so much work has been piled on so quickly, that between one 12 roll essay and the next, they haven't found time to go down to Hagrid's hut, yet. And it's a problem, it is, because they like Hagrid, he's their friend, and they know they've hurt him with not joining his class, but Ron can't help but be glad they didn't, because with it on top of everything else, Ron's not sure he'd ever finish any of the essays. He barely gets them done on time as it is.

The main problem so far has been Hermione's lack of Frees - she's doing two more subjects than they are, and it shows; she's barely got any time to herself, and even then she's sleeping less so she can finish the work due tomorrow, all five essays of it. The one thing she's no longer doing is work ahead of schedule, stuff due the day after or next week - because she just can't. There's not enough time in the day.

It's a Friday, though, so...

"Tonight," Ron says, and Harry nods.

---

Harry and Ron almost forget about their promise, thanks to the hefty 14 rolls of parchment Snape sents them for Monday's lesson, probably because he's angry he couldn't set the due date as tomorrow, which is what he's been doing for all their other essays so far (last Friday was no exception; that was 14 rolls, too) however, during supper, there's no sign of Hagrid once more.

"We're going tonight," Ron says, reminding Harry and telling Hermione. She sighs, looking at her bulging bookbag. Ron takes the distraction as a chance to push her book slightly out of the way, and place a sandwich on her plate, just for something to munch on; predictably, when she turns back, she picks up the sandwich absently as she turns the page of her textbook. "After I finish my runes essay," Hermione says. "It's due Monday, but I've only got one paragraph left."

"Your paragraphs take up three rolls of parchment," Harry says. An exaggeration, but not entirely untrue. "Now, before curfew hits."

"I suppose - yes, alright," Hermione says, shaking her head. "He's our friend, after all, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Ron says. "We just have to assure him it wasn't about the skrewts - even if it was."

"Ron," Hermione says. "Come on, Hermione," Ron says, "His lessons were fine, and all, but they weren't enjoyable. I didn't enjoy nearly having my hands blown off, or being bored to death by flobberworms. You didn't hear him going on about his brother - we'd have been teaching Grawp how to tie his shoelaces if we'd stayed."

Hermione presses her lips together but doesn't respond.

"Tonight," Harry repeats. "Before we get so swamped we forget entirely."

---

Everything with Hagrid went surprisingly, gladly smoothly, though there was an even amount of lying employed by the three of them in order to get that result. Hermione reminding Hagrid of what happened last time time-turners were involved in class schedules - namely, her dramatic breakdown - had helped greatly, as had not correcting his assumption that they'd help him run around the forbidden forest feeding giant man-eating spiders giant disgusting grubs if they only had the time.

After a decent night's rest, they're up early Saturday. It's the first Hogsmede weekend of the year, and it looks like many students are happy for the reprieve, especially those in fifth and above.

Hogsmede doesn't really get old, but it gets repetitive, and by now they've got a routine for the trip - and after that's finished, with a few bags of sweets and supplies of other kinds, Ron, Harry and Hermione make their way into the shrieking shack.

After that, a fair few people start wandering on inside. More than they expected, surely, and as it's a Hogsmeade weekend, everyone's out of uniform. Not that that would really let them know who's a spy and who isn't - Ron will not forget Pettigrew any time soon - but it could give them an inkling. Also, people often look different when they can 'let their hair down', so to speak. Ron knows probably most of the people in here, but he doesn't recognise half of them.

"So," Hermione clears her throat. "I'll be blunt; there's a war going on. And - while we are learning many useful things, we do have to admit our backing in Defense is somewhat lacking. And it's certainly sub-par in terms of what an actual combat situation would require. I have never been in a duel. Neither has Ron. But Harry has." She looks down, at her notes, and then back up. "Most of you probably didn't believe him, last year," Hermione says, eyes roaming the crowd. "But now you do, and if you don't, well, that's your prerogative, but I would leave now."

Nobody does; all eyes in the room are trained on the three of them. It's somewhat unnerving, all those expectant expressions.

"Good." Hermione stands. "There are likely spies in our midst." She says. "Not - necessarily right now, but in Hogwarts. At school, blood purity... is not a topic people don't believe in." She looks around. "So if you believe in it, leave now."

Once again, nobody does.

"Good," SHe repeats, and finally; "If you have any concerns, any at all," Hermione says, "If you think you'd break under pressure - if you think, if someone was threatened, you'd betray - leave. Now."

There's rustling, murmuring - but once again, nobody does.

"Now," Hermione repeats.

The crowd settles down.

"... Good," Hermione says. "Let's hope you aren't lying." She sits back down.

"What-"

"It's really true then?" Zacharias Smith says, loudly. "No exaggeration at all? You fought Voldemort in the graveyard that night when Cedric died - and won?" He sounds incredulous. There's murmuring, but not so much as before.

"Is that all you're here for?" Harry asks. "Because if it is, you can leave." He looks at all of them. "And, no. I didn't win. I escaped, barely, with my life, because I was lucky. Cedric was not lucky. Cedric was murdered." Harry stands. "Because that's what he does, Voldemort. He murders people, without remorse. Do you want to know what he said?" Harry asks. There's a morbid sort of curiosity to the silence. "Well," Harry says. He seems to notice Cho in the front row, who's waiting with bated breath - like she does want to know. Like she wants closure.

"Well, alright then," Harry says, a little less sharp. "We took the cup together," Harry says. "Because Cedric said it was fairer that way."

Cho closes her eyes, a small, sad little smile on her face. The girl beside her frowns lightly, then squeezes her hand.

"When we touched it," Harry says, "It took us to this graveyard. I had no idea where we were - neither did Cedric. And then, this figure - a man called Peter Pettigrew - walked over to us. He was holding this, grotesque baby." Harry avoids looking at Cho, and his tone is flat. "The baby says 'kill the spare'. To Voldemort, that's all Cedric was. Spare. Inconsequential. And so, he murdered him."

Harry takes a breath. "In moments like that - when you don't have any options, when you're outnumbered, outgunned - you have only three things; yourself, your brains, and your instincts. Listen to them, because if you don't, you'll die. Voldemort had been fully returned to life that night - and he's been alive for a year since." Harry pauses. "Do you understand? All that time you spent, last year, walking around without a care, not looking over your shoulder - Voldemort was there. Waiting. Quietly collecting his strength, his following. Many of our own classmates, yearmates, are Death Eaters, or adjacent. You told people you trust about this - are all of those people here? Did anyone hear you tell them?"

Harry looks at those gathered; the murmurs have started up again, wary.

"In moments like this," Harry says, "It's like what Dumbledore said. You have to go with what is right - not what is easy. It's easy, to sit back, but it won't help you. Voldemort doesn't discriminate - he kills as many of his followers as his enemies. Nobody, in his eyes, is equal to him. Everyone is subservient, everyone is expendable. A world under his rule -"

Harry shakes his head. He sits down.

"You have a choice," Harry says, "Because we give choices. Voldemort does not. Leave, or sign the parchment."

"If you sign it," Hermione says, "And if you say something... we'll know. We all will."

A line forms.

Everyone in the room signs the parchment.

---

Cho lingers. Hermione grabs Ron by the arm and practically drags him out of the shack, back down to the, and ignores his protests up until he manages to yank his arm free of her grip, making her stumble slightly on the cobblestone street.

"Ron," Hermione admonishes, righting herself.

"Hermione," Ron repeats, "What was that for?"

"Oh, you - couldn't you see she wanted to talk to Harry? Alone?"

Well, yeah, but -

"Well, yeah, but-" Ron starts.

"Don't," Hermione interrupts. "It's a good thing. He was the last person to see Cedric, you know, and they were together. She's gotten better over the year, but - everyone wants closure. Right?"

"... Right," Ron agrees. He looks back at the shack; closure is taking an awfully long time.

It's not that Ron doesn't like Cho - she seems a decent sort. Harry's always liked her, so there must be something to appreciate. She's pretty, he supposes, and she's good at quidditch. She wears a Tornados pin pretty often, which is bullshit - nobody liked them until they suddenly started winning matches - but other than that, he supposes she's probably, you know, fine. A perfectly nice girl.

Yeah. Everyone wants closure.

They wander through the streets for a bit, then settle down in the Three Broomsticks. After Ron's downed two whole butterbeers, which translates to roughly 20 minutes, Harry shows up, looking - a little - pleased?

An uncomfortable feeling settles in Ron's stomach, like a stone dropping fifty feet. He ignores it, and orders Harry a drink. Harry drops into the booth next to him, shoulder banging into his.

"Ow," Ron says, blithely. "Sorry," Harry grins.

"You look happy," Hermione notes, smiling too. "How did your talk go?"

"Well," Harry says. "I think?"

"You think?" Ron asks, taking a drink from his beer.

"Yeah, I think," Harry affirms. "She didn't cry, which - I mean, Cho's been doing that less, obviously, but that's a good thing, right?"

"Right," Ron repeats. Hermione frowns at him. "Yes, of course," She says. "Was it-?"

"Closure, yeah," He says. "Apparently she's Captain this year too, since the last one graduated," He shrugs. "Cho actually takes COMC - and it's as bad as we expected." Harry shrugs again.

"There you go then," Ron says. Hermione smiles, but there's something to her expression Ron doesn't like.

"There you go then," She echoes, then takes a sip of her beer.

---

The first tryout goes pretty well - at least for Ron. McClaggen does decently, worryingly so, and they end up catching the same amount, but in the eliminations, Ron ekes out over him due to the fact that he doesn't try and take over another position mid mock game.

It's like the guy's never played Quidditch before in his life, the way he acts in a 'match'. Harry thanks Cho who shrugs and smiles and nods.

"You know, mock matches for eliminations is a pretty good idea," Katie says, from where she's doing some stretches. "Fun, too. We don't get to play enough in a year. Plus - I mean, it's good to see what we're up against. Chang's fielding some talent this year, by the looks."

It's true. Maybe three, four matches a year wasn't really that much Quidditch - Wood's scheduling always made it feel like there was more going on and more at stake, but honestly, there wasn't.

"Yeah," Ron says. Cho laughs, and its - well, it's pretty. It's kind of like she embodies pretty - Ron can see what Harry sees in her, he's not blind. Now she's not crying all the time, and that was, frankly, perfectly reasonable, since she'd lost someone very important - it's just, she smiles more, and as he said - she embodies pretty. She's kind of exactly Harry's type, except for that whole crying thing.

Harry's a bit iffy when it comes to emotional expression. Once again; Ron wants to punch the Dursleys. Repeatedly. In the face.

"You did well," Katie says. "Glad McClaggen's not on the team, anyway. Where's Granger? Didn't want to support her friends?"

"Busy," Ron says. "She's doing two more subjects than us - I think she's got maybe one or two Frees. Never seems to not be writing one essay or translation or equation or another."

"Ouch," Katie says. "That's not solid."

"Yeah," Ron says, "She'll be... okay, I think."

"Keep an eye on her," Katie says. "Like we weren't already," Ron replies.

Katie inclines her head. "That's kind of cute," She says, lips quirking up. "What?" He asks. Katie points. Ron follows her finger to its destination; that of Harry and Cho, still talking.

"Right," He says, and then, "Yeah, cute." Because - well, she's not wrong.

Katie hums. "Fraternizing with the enemy," She tuts. "Let's hope they don't share Quidditch plays. Actually - let's hope she shares Quidditch plays and he keeps locked tight like Gringotts. Come on, I want to throw some goals."

---

The night of Slughorn's party arrives. Ron and Hermione enter, awkwardly - it's a somewhat uncomfortable endeavour, all around, with a lot of people who don't really like each other all sat at the same table. Zabini sneers the entire evening, though he's nothing if not polite to Slughorn. Ginny's here, too, and she's her usual self, which at least eases the tension in the atmosphere a little. Ron doesn't have much to say, and isn't invited to say much, either. It goes, is what happens, and Ron's happy to meet up with Harry after his detention ends, Hermione having run off immediately after the party ended to go 'work on some arithmancy problems before sleep', which is code for 'do homework in bed until I pass out.'

Ron sighs. Once again, he'd like to say something, but she's very snappish, lately. He's tried. There's not much else he can do, especially since she won't listen to a word Harry says on the matter, at all, so no intervention type deal could work either.

Harry smells kind of disgusting, thanks to the rotten flobberworms, but their conversation is endlessly more entertaining than Slughorn's probing frivolities. The long walk to the common room is, well, long, and they only get accosted once, by Ernie, who figures out the situation pretty quickly and lets them go, since Ron's a prefect and Harry had detention, and all.

"See you at the meeting, then lads?" Ernie says, as a farewell. He signed the list; one of many.

The DA really is - well, it's something. It's staring, and Ron's not sure but - he thinks it's going to mean something. Something big.

He can just tell. It's had that... something about it, ever since Hermione first brought it up, last year, very quietly that one time, when Harry was in detention. And Ron hadn't thought about it since, but - obviously she had, and it had been her idea anyway, and it was - it was a great a idea. It is a great idea. He knows that it's going to help, he just - he does.

It's the sort of thing you know will work out in your favour, the DA. It just has that feeling behind it. Of surety.

When they arrive at the common room, Harry stares at the portrait for a moment.

"Well?" The fat lady asks, drawled.

"Take five points," Harry sighs. "I'm having a bath." He walks off in the direction of the Room of Requirement, then disappears around the corner.

"Ten points from Gryffindor," Ron says, dryly, because this is definitely not a first infraction.

"You shouldn't have let him do that, you know," The portrait says. "Oh, shove off," Ron grumbles, and says the password. She complains as she opens, all the way through closing, and her voice only tapers off because he's too far away to hear her once he's halfway through the common room.

---

They go through the basics, first, with the DA. They listen, most everyone present, and those that don't at first follow quickly, because Harry's - a pretty decent teacher, when he knows what he's talking about, it turns out, and he knows this, because he's lived it. People listen to Hermione, too, though her lessons are more like lectures, and they're much fewer because - well, because people... don't listen quite as attentively to her, and what they're doing here really isn't the theory, unless completely necessary. It's the practical. And, surprisingly... people think this, strategy, what Ron teaches, is part and parcel of the practical.

They listen when Ron talks, and it's a very, very weird feeling, to be looked at like he's - someone you can trust to lead you right. To tell you what works and what doesn't and not be entirely wrong about it.

Harry's grinning at him, after most everyone's wandered away, by the end of the session. "There you go," He says, clapping Ron on the shoulder. "Knew it'd go well. Come on, I need to show you and Hermione something," He says.

They walk over to the bushy-haired brunette, who's sat at a table in the corner, working on a rune translation. "Hey," Harry says, taking the map out of his pocket and folding it open on the table. "I solemly swear I am up to no good," He says, and then asks, "What do you see? Anything out of the ordinary?"

Ron looks over it. He squints at the labels containing people's names, at the halls and the classrooms and the stairwells, but he can't see anything, not properly. He doesn't know what he's supposed to be looking for.

Hermione frowns. She looks at the map, equally as blank on what Harry's going on about this time as Ron is.

"Well?" Harry repeats. Ron doesn't look closer, he takes a step back, looks at the whole. The map is currently focused on their current location like it always is when it opens and -

"We're not on the map," Ron says. Hermione's expression clears, and then her frown reappears, deeper, more concerned than confused. "But I thought-" She says.

"So did I," Harry replies. "So I called Sirius. Turns out? The Marauders never found this place. So it's not on the map. So, when someone's in it -"

"They're not in the castle," Ron says, looking closer. The seventh-floor corridor looks very empty on the map, like - hell, like the Marauders had barely even bothered to label it down.

"Well, that's -"

"A problem," Harry interrupts Hermione, frowning. "Who else knows about this place, do you think?"

They share glances. "Well," Hermione says, tentatively. "Anyone could, I suppose."

"Exactly." Harry taps the map. "I think Malfoy knows about it."

Hermione's expression changes instantly. "Harry," She says, exasperated. "I don't think-"

"Look," Harry says. "I've been keeping an eye out, occasionally. And he's not always on the map. I thought he was leaving the castle, because there are loads of ways to do that, but he doesn't miss any lessons - and you can't see someone on the map when they're in the Room."

It's not a bad theory, Ron can acknowledge. And he's halfway towards agreeing with Harry, anyway, on most days, about this. He doesn't want to dismiss a potential threat because previously they weren't a credible one. People can change, and that can make them more dangerous. Malfoy's always been a thorn in their side - who's to say he hasn't graduated to a knife?

"Say that's true," Ron says, and Hermione huffs, but allows it, "What do you think he's doing?" Ron asks.

"Vanishing cabinet," Harry says. "I've been thinking about it - and it all adds up, right? There was a vanishing cabinet in the school, somewhere, because Fred and George shoved someone into it -"

"I remember that," Hermione says, frowning. "Yes, well, alright. So you think..."

"He's trying to fix it, maybe," Harry says. "Or connect it to the one in Borgin and Burke's."

"Or both?" Ron asks. "Or both," Harry agrees.

"Well," Hermione says. "I mean - it's a theory, but - I'm just not sure. It's Malfoy, Harry, I mean - he's not exactly a transfigurations master, and his charms work isn't the creme of the crop, either."

Harry shrugs. "I didn't say he was doing well at it," Harry says. "I'm saying - maybe that's what the plan is."

"Then we probably don't have anything to worry about," Hermione says. "He's not a furniture maker, is he?"

Ron snorted at the mental image of Malfoy attempting to do any 'menial' job. He'd probably fail even held at wandpoint.

"No, he's not," Harry says, stubbornly, "But that doesn't mean he can't learn, does it?"

Also true. "No," Hermione sighs. "But - look. He's in as much stress as we are, with the workload. I'm not even sure if he'd manage to find the time, with everything going on. And there's aurors stationed at the school now, aren't there? And all mail is being screened, and we were all searched when we arrived at school - filch had a scanner he was shoving everywhere he could reach," She explains, given neither of them had arrived to school normally this year. "So, all I'm saying - he's got his work cut out for him. I just - I don't think he's capable."

Also a fair point.

"I don't know," Harry says. "You saw how they looked in Borgin's."

And they had. Ron remembers - Malfoy Sr had looked decidedly more haggard than usual, and Mrs Malfoy's sneering lips were instead pursed very tightly together, a hardly concealed crease of worry in her brow. They'd all looked a little worse for wear, all told, somehow even paler than usual in that somewhat sickly looking way that made you wonder how a person was living, day-to-day, you know, if the person wasn't a Malfoy and wasn't a git because of that.

"Well," Ron says. "I guess - let's just keep an eye on him."

Hermione huffs. She returns to her runes work, head shaking slightly on the way down.

"Finally," Harry says. He smiles at Ron, pleased, which gets an automatic smile back.

---

They definitely don't get much free time, this year, and the DA is their only real reprieve, outside of Hogsmede - and there's not much that's really interesting or entertaining in Hogsmede anymore, so there's very little point since you can get the same fresh air hanging around the edge of the Great Lake.

Harry lingers at the end of some DA meetings. It's just something Ron's noticed - occasionally, he catches Harry staring at the memorial wall, without really staring - like he's waiting for something, and Ron's always pulled away by Hermione before he can wander over and ask what's up. It's kind of getting annoying, actually, because it feels like she's up to something, but she's never anything but all smiles and amused eyes.

She's hiding something, at least. She knows something she's not telling Ron.

... It's more than kind of getting annoying. They passed annoying a few weeks back; now it's just frustrating, but there's not much Ron can do; putting up a fuss wouldn't help matters. He tried that.

Still. Sometimes they do get free time - but often, that ends up being - monopolised.

Like now.

"... And then there was another flash, of light and I landed on the bed again!" Ron grins, finding the whole thing quite amusing, helping himself to sausages. It was quite the way to wake up, that's for sure.

"Was this spell, by any chance, another one from that potion book of yours?" she asked.
Harry frowned at her.

"Always jump to the worst conclusion, don't you?"

"Was it?"

"Well... yeah, it was, but so what?"

"So you just decided to try out an unknown, handwritten incantation and see what would happen?"

"Why does it matter if it's handwritten?" Harry asks her.

"Because its probably not Ministry of Magic approved," said Hermione. "And also," she added, as Harry and Ron rolled their eyes, "because I'm starting to think this Prince character was a bit dodgy."

Both Harry and Ron shouted her down at once.

"It was a laugh!" said Ron, upending a ketchup bottle over his sausages. "Just a laugh, Hermione, that's all! Plus - levi-corpus, Hermione, what else was it going to do?" He says. "Levi-corpus, levitate corpus, lift body. Not really any worse than mobilicorpus, is it?"

"Dangling people upside down by the ankle?" asks Hermione. "Who puts their time and energy into making up spells like that?"

"Fred and George," said Ron, shrugging, "it's their kind of thing. And, er - you know, it seems useful - disorienting, could be a good spell for the DA."

"No! No way." Hermione protests, even putting her book down quite heavily on the table. "You don't like the Prince, Hermione," Ron points out, pointing a sausage at her sternly, "Because he's better than you at Potions -"

"It's got nothing to do with that!" But her cheeks go a deep enough shade of red that to anyone watching, it's obvious she's lying straight through her teeth.

"Really?" Ron says. "Might want to tell yourself that a few more times, don't think you've convinced yourself properly yet." He gestured to her blush. "Come off it, Hermione. All of 'em have been prank spells, or something along those lines. You're just looking for something to make you right."

"I just think it's very irresponsible to start performing spells when you don't even know what they're for, and stop talking about 'the Prince' as if it's his title, I bet it's just a stupid nickname, and it doesn't seem as though he was a very nice person to me!"

"I don't see where you get that from," Harry says. "If he'd been a budding Death Eater he wouldn't have been boasting about being 'half-blood,' would he?"

"The Death Eaters can't all be pure-blood, there aren't enough pure-blood wizards left," says Hermione stubbornly. "I expect most of them are half-bloods pretending to be pure. It's only Muggle-borns they hate, they'd be quite happy to let you and Ron join up."

Ron gapes at her, momentarily.

"There is no way they'd let me be a Death Eater!" He says, very loudly, and he's glad it's too early for anyone to be paying attention. "Are you mad? I'm a Weasley! My whole family's blood traitors - half the time that makes us worse than muggleborns, in their eyes! Where did you get that idea from?"

"And I'm sure they'd love to have me," Harry says. "You know - if only they'd stop trying to kill me every time we cross paths. We'd be best pals if they didn't keep trying to do me in."

Ron laughs.

So - yeah, maybe the free moments get derailed pretty often, but it's not - all bad.

"Hey, Harry, I'm supposed to give you this." Ginny hands over a scroll to Harry, who immediately looks at the sender.

"Thanks, Ginny... It's Dumbledore's next lesson!" Harry adds, more hushed, directed at Ron and Hermione. He opens the parchment and quickly reads its contents. "Monday evening!" He grins. "Want to join us in Hogsmeade, Ginny?" he asks.

"I'm going with Dean - might see you there," she replies, waving at them as she walks away.

Right - because they're dating. Ron frowns, then turns his attention back to his friends.

---

After the disastrous Hogsmede trip, Ron feels like he needs an actual break, and Harry seems the same way inclined. Hermione heads off to bed pretty early - Ron and Harry wander off towards The Room.

The walk is quiet. All Ron can think about is what happened to Katie - who could have done it. It didn't make sense, and if Harry's theory is right, then Malfoy is even more incompetent than previously imagined, but... Ron can't rule out that he did it. He just can't, because - if he's wrong, people could die. Horribly. Like Katie almost did, today, if they hadn't been there...

They arrive at the room with these thoughts running through Rons mind, still as active as when they set off. Harry paces and the Rom transforms itself into that of their old space, the one they'd used last year - the base of Ron's Occlumency.

Ron wills the door gone, and then they wander over to the couch and drop down.

The room shrinks, a fire lights. Ron just stares at the ceiling.

"I know you think it's crazy," Harry says. "You and Hermione. But I know I'm right."

"I don't," Ron says, and doesn't mention the times Harry had thought he was right before, about things he had not been, because - well, that wouldn't help what's more important. "Think that it's crazy."

"But you don't believe me?"

"There's no - it's conjecture," Ron says. "We've gone off that before. It wasn't Snape in our first year, wasn't Malfoy in second-year, wasn't Sirius in third-year - all that, and more. We need... more than just gut feeling."

"... I get it." Harry says.

Ron turns his head to look at Harry, who he finds is already looking at him.

"Right." Ron nods, awkwardly, because of the position of his neck. "There you go, then."

"There you go then." Harry echoes. He smiles, a small thing, genuine, then looks up at the ceiling again, returning to being properly sat, back flat against the back of the couch. Ron does the same.

He wakes up with a crick in his neck, but Ron doesn't mind it.

---

Time passes.

Slughorns parties carry on, and they're somewhat awkward fare, but Ron's glad, at least, that he isn't - missing out, in a sense. It's probably stupid, but - it's not such a terribly horrible feeling, to be acknowledged. And then, of course, there are Harry's lessons with Dumbledore, which seem more and more... well, usefully useless, to put it bluntly.

But Quidditch?

Quidditch isn't going so well. And Ron knows it's his fault - he's missing most of the throws aimed in the hoops he's supposed to be defending, and it's just. He's failing, horribly, and it's awful, and it gets much worse when he punches Demelza in the face.

"It was an accident, I'm sorry, Demelza, really sorry!" Ron shouts after her as she haltingly flies back to the ground, dripping blood everywhere. "I just -" "Panicked," Ginny shouts at him, angry as anything, landing next to Demelza and examining her fat lip. "You prat, Ron, look at the state of her!"

"I can fix that," Harry says, landing beside the two girls, pointing his wand at Demelza's mouth, and saying "Episkey." "And Ginny, don't call Ron a prat, you're not the Captain of this team -"

"Well, you seemed too busy to call him a prat and I thought someone should -"

"Ginny," Harry says, firmly. "It was an accident - that happens. Everyone, back in the air! Let's go!"

Miserably, Ron floats back up to the hoops. He misses the rest of the throws sent his way, and he knows it's through over compensating, so he doesn't hit anyone in the face again. Once Harry calls everyone down, Ron knows it's not because they should be done today, but because today's practice has been an absolute disaster. It hasn't helped that Katie's at St. Mungo's, and most of them have never flown a match without her. Dean's good, and all, but he's not Katie - she's great at being a chaser - like it's in her blood. So far, for Dean, he's doing alright with Demelza, and really well with Ginny, and that's it - the beaters keep forgetting he's on their team. It doesn't really matter how well Ron works with him, because Ron's the keeper, which is good, because - well.

They trample over to the changing rooms and get back into their school robes.

"Good work, everyone, I think we'll flatten Slytherin," Harry lies, bracingly, and the Chasers and Beaters leave the changing room looking reasonably happy with themselves - mostly. Ginny look vaguely annoyed.

"I played like a sack of dragon dung," Ron tells Harry, feeling all the weight of their future losses on his shoulders, the meaner version of Weasley is our King ringing in his ears.

"No, you didn't," Harry lies, again, tone firm. "You're the best Keeper I tried out, Ron. Your only problem is nerves."

Ron grimaces. "You're good," Harry repeats, "You are." They leave the pitch, and all the way up to the castle, into the castle, and up to the second floor, Harry doesn't stop for a single second - keeps a litany of compliments flowing, a seemingly endless supply, and Ron hadn't realised anybody could even do that, or that Harry has so much stuff to say in his favour all bottled up inside his five-foot-something bespectacled self. Ron's ears are all the way on fire by the time Harry is pushing open the tapestry to take their usual shortcut up to Gryffindor Tower -

And Ron's sister is standing there, entwined with Dean, snogging the daylights out of him, the sound of spit and - other noises - in the air. Ron's face twists into something utterly disgusted - nobody wants to see that, wants to see their little sister doing - this in the middle of a hallway where anyone could barge in.

"Oi!"

Ginny breaks off from Dean, already looking vaguely murderous.

"What?" Ginny demands.

"I don't want to find my own sister snogging people in public!" "This was a deserted corridor till you came butting in!" said Ginny.

"Yeah, a corridor! People use those, you know!"

"Er . . . c'mon, Ginny," Dean tries, "let's go back to the common room. ..." "You go!" Ginny pays him no mind; she's too busy glowering right at Ron. "I want a word with my dear brother!" Dean backs up, then turns the corner and leaves, quickly, looking quite happy to get away from this as quickly as possible.

"Right," Ginny says, tossing her long red hair out of her face and glaring at Ron, "let's get this straight once and for all. It is none of your business who I go out with or what I do with them, Ron -" "Yeah, it is!" Ron says, just as angrily. "D' you think I want peo-ple saying my sister's a -"

"A what?" shouted Ginny, drawing her wand. "A what, exactly?"

"A - a scarlet woman!" "- Ron, stop -" Harry says, during a pause, a beat wherein Ginny stands there, gaping - and then starts laughing, loudly, half a cackle, cutting Harry off, and says 'A - a scarlet woman!" repeating, mocking, and then continues through her laughter, "And here I was thinking you'd say slut!" Ron flinches, "But you wouldn't, would you, you're such a - a prude you can't even talk about this sort of thing without - without breaking out into hives-"

"Both of you -"

"Shut up, Hary - he doesn't get to say shit, just because he's never snogged anyone in his life, just because the best kiss he's ever had is from our Auntie Muriel -"

"- Ginny! -"

"Shut your mouth!" bellows Ron, feeling utterly humiliated, bypassing red and turning maroon.

"No, I will not!" yells Ginny, beside herself, her wand suddenly in hand, and Harry's suddenly stood between them, blocking any attempt at casting a spell, "I've seen you with Phlegm, hoping she'll kiss you on the cheek every time you see her, it's pathetic! If you went out and got a bit of snogging done your self, you wouldn't mind so much that everyone else does it!"

"- For Merlin's sake -" Harry tries - Ron pulls out his wand, too, to be on an even playing field, and shouts, "You don't know what you're talking about! Just because I don't do it in public - !" a protestation, a complete lie, and he knows it, and she knows it, her expression morphing into a mocking sneer, malicious intent dancing behind her eyes. Harry's standing there with his arms outstretched, and Ron can't see his face - he's looking at Ginny - and Ron's trying to aim at Ginny without hitting Harry - and Ginny's screaming with derisive laughter, again, at his obvious, obvious, stupid attempt to pretend he'd done anything of this sort of thing before, her laughter not dying down at all even as she's using all her effort in trying to push Harry out of the way.

"Been kissing Pigwidgeon, have you? Or have you got a picture of Auntie Muriel stashed under your pillow? You -" "Ginny! -" Harry interrupts, "That's -" At the insinuations therein Ron's anger flares and 'shut up shut up shut up' runs through his mind, causing a streak of orange light to fly under Harrys left arm and miss Ginny by inches; Harry spins around and pushes Ron up against the wall behind him, none-too-careful; Ron's head bangs against the stone.

"Don't be stupid -" Harry mutters - "Harry's snogged Cho Chang-" Ginny shouts over him - Harry blinks, looking a mixture of very surprised and very confused, and something very heavy drops in Ron's stomach - "-What -" They both say, but Ginny continues:

"Hermione's snogged Viktor Krum! She's been doing that for over a year now!" Ginny says, desperately, "It's only you who acts like it's something disgusting, Ron, and that's because you've got about as much experience as a twelve-year-old!"
And with that, she storms away, fury clear in her shaking form, the grip on her wand white-knuckled.

Harry's staring at him, a little wide-eyed. "I," He starts, but there's a foreboding meow from somewhere to their right, and the both of them curse loudly. Harry steps away very quickly, lets go of his grip on Ron's robes.

"C'mon," says Harry, as the sound of Filch's shuffling feat reaches their ears. They don't stop running until they're sure they can't hear Filch anymore, at which point their pace slows down. Harry stops them in the middle of a corridor, and they stand there in uncomfortable silence, not looking at each other, and Ron feels something very horribly like - like -

He didn't know Harry'd kissed Cho.

"Did-" Ron says, then cuts himself off.

"I - not - " Harry stops himself.

"Not yet." Ron finds himself saying. Harry doesn't reply, and the walk to the common room is the most uncomfortable he's felt with Harry since - since fourth-year.

"Dilligrout," he says darkly to the Fat Lady when they arrive, and they climb through the portrait hole into the common room. They go upstairs, immediately, both because it's late and because, well, at least for Ron, he doesn't want to come across Ginny at any point for the foreseeable future. Neither of them speak to each other at all, and Ron finds himself lying in bed, staring at the canopy above, with the last thing he'd said being Not yet, sharper than he'd meant, and he can't - he can't bring himself to think about why, because it's that dancing hippogriff again; that thing he's been not-not thinking about for - for -

For a while, if he's honest with himself.

Ron stares at the canopy until he falls asleep. His dreams are dark, worried, and uncomfortable. Ron wakes up feeling like he needs another ten hours sleep, his rest having been not all that restful, and gets ready for the day without sparing Harry so much as half a glance. He stomps downstairs, avoids Hermione's gaze, and heads down to breakfast alone.

Ron's in a horrible mood all day.

---

Half the time, for days after that argument, Ron doesn't even want to show up to Quidditch practice. He doesn't want to see Ginny, and he doesn't want to see Dean, and he -

He can't bring himself to even look at Harry. There's something deeply uncomfortable about it, lately; Harry's wide-eyed, vaguely panicked expression keeps flashing through his mind, and his I - not - keeps repeating in Ron's head whenever he catches sight of the shorter Gryffindor.

Ron feels miserable if he's honest. The last time he avoided Harry was two whole years ago for like, a month, and that had been some of the worst weeks of his life, which says something if you think about it for more than a second. And Ron doesn't really want to think about it for more than a second, and neither, it seems, does Harry, because it's not like this whole 'not speaking for nearly a week' thing is one-sided.

It's very mutual. Harry doesn't talk to him in class, outside of class, at mealtimes, or during, most notably, Quidditch practice, which is quite the feat, given he's the Captain, and all. Not that Ron's blameless; Ron's not likely to respond even if he tried.

Like he said; it's mutual. Ron could try talking, but he doesn't want to, as much as - of course he does. Harry's his best mate - it's awful being on the outs with your best mate. Ron doesn't recommend it.

And Ron's doing worse and worse at his job of being the Keeper each practice. The first match of the year is looming ever closer, and he's not improving at all, which isn't helping his mood. He knows he's doing nothing but bringing the team down, he knows that - he knows it so much that after one too many misses, he swears loudly, fluently, and angrily enough that Demelza thinks it's at her, and not at himself.

"You shut up and leave her alone!" Peakes shouts, and Ron complies because it's - he doesn't want to hurt anybody. This is his own shit, whatever's going so utterly wrong with him, and - and -

Ginny files over, eyes bright with anger, glowering at him. "What the fuck is wrong with you -" She starts.

"ENOUGH!" Harry bellows, making a few of the team, who haven't heard him shout like that before, jump on their brooms. "Everyone!" Harry flies on up, situates himself between Ginny and Ron, again. "Peakes - pack away the bludgers - Demelza, stop crying, would you, you played really well today, pull yourself together - and Ron..." Harry pauses as if suddenly realising who he's talking to.

Ginny huffs.

"Go away, Ginny." Harry snaps.

Ginny blinks at him, then rolls her eyes. "Pull yourself together, Captain," She snaps. "If he keeps going on like this -"

"If you would," Harry says, very tersely, eyes hard, "Let me, the Captain, as you say, talk with the Keeper about that sort of thing, since it's clearly not your job, that would be great, thanks."

Ginny presses her lips together. "Fine," She snaps. "Whatever, Harry." Ginny flies away, and suddenly they're the only two people still in the air.

Harry is very quiet, for a moment, and doesn't look at Ron. Ron isn't looking at him, either.

"Ron..." Harry says, helplessly. "Ron, look, if this carries on - I'm going to have to kick you off the team."

A pit opens underneath him, and Ron falls right into it. "I know." He says, despondently. "I resign. I'm pathetic." And he is. He's saved maybe ten goals across all practices this year - it's like whatever confidence he'd gained before summer had been drained out of him, like the house had found his insecurities too precious to not bring right back up to the surface.

"You're not pathetic and you're not resigning!" says Harry very fiercely, all of a sudden, seizing Ron by the front of his robes. "You can save anything when you're on form, it's a mental problem you've got!"

"You calling me mental?" "Yeah, maybe I am!"

They glare at each other for a moment. Harry seems to remember himself, and lets go, floating backwards somewhat, that tense awkwardness returning tenfold.

A beat of silence, and then Ron sighs, shaking his head, a bone-deep sort of weariness taking over. "I know you haven't got any time to find another Keeper, so I'll play tomorrow, but if we lose, and we will, I'm taking myself off the team."

"We won't," Harry says, eyes bright with something other than fury. "We will not."

"You can't be so sure of that," Ron snaps.

Harry presses his lips together, averts his eyes, and suddenly Ron finds it very hard to meet Harry's, as well. They sit there, twenty feet in the air, looking at everything but each other.

"You're a great Keeper, Ron," Harry says, simply. He files away, after that, leaving Ron alone on the pitch.

---

Hermione is looking between them, a strange expression on her face, something almost worried and confused, but mostly uncertain.

"How did... practice, go?" She asks. Ron stabs his steak more viciously than he means to, and she winces, chasing her green beans around her plate with her fork. "I see," She says. Harry does not say anything; his nose is buried in the Prince's potions book, and his plate is sparsely populated with one bit of chicken and a single potato, to look like he's going to eat something, or like he's finished eating what he could of what he originally had on his plate.

"Well," Hermione says. "I wonder who's going to come to the Christmas party. Viktor isn't here, so I do need to find a plus one - a friend, you know, someone who couldn't come otherwise..."

"Invite Neville," Harry says.

"Oh, that's a great idea," Hermione nods. "What about you both?"

"Why not take Cho?" Ron says. Harry stills, then shrugs. "I don't know," He says. "Maybe."

Hermione frowns again. "Well, it seems like a good idea," She offers. "And - Ron, who will you take?"

"Not sure yet," He says. He takes a bigger bite of his steak so she won't keep talking to him, and as expected, Hermione wrinkles her nose and returns to reading her textbook.

"You could take Luna," Harry says, flatly. "She thinks you're funny."

That much was true, yes.

"I could," Ron says. "Maybe."

Hermione frowns, again, not hidden very well by her book.

The common room that evening is no less tense and uncomfortable than supper had been; the rest of the team is sat in the corner, muttering and sending Ron many nasty looks. Ron doesn't linger very long - in fact, he doesn't even go up to the dorm; Ron leaves the common room after Harry and Hermione have both gone up to bed, and walks the short walk to the seventh-floor corridor.

Ron collapses on the couch, tired, and drained, and not at all looking forward to the match the next day.

---

Ron arrives at breakfast a little later than Harry and Hermione had, having dragged himself through the process of getting ready this morning so as to avoid Harry in the dorm room (having to explain where he'd gone last night to either him or hermione would, also, be something he didn't want to do). Still, Ron drops down beside Hermione, across from Harry, and grimaces at the cheers of his housemates.

"You'll do great, Ron," Lavender says, smiling prettily at him, total faith in her eyes. "I know you'll be brilliant!"

Ron winces and tries for a smile, but it probably looks very pained. Lavender frowns, slightly. "I know you will," She repeats.

"Of course he will," Harry says, "Just pre-game nerves, you know." and that's all he says. Lavender smiles widely again.

"Drink?" Harry asks.

"Whatever," Ron says, glumly, chewing half-heartedly on his bacon. "Here," Harry says, setting a glass of pumpkin juice in front of him.

Ron picks it up.

"Don't drink that," Hermione says, "Don't - Ron -" She grabs for his arm, but Ron dodges. "Bloody hell, woman, what, do you think Harry would poison me?"

"No, of course not - but he put something - you put something in it!" Hermione accuses Harry, as Ron rolls his eyes and takes a drink from the pumpkin juice. "You're still holding the bottle!" Ron looks up, and Harry's just sitting there, innocently, hands on the table. "What bottle?" He asks, tilting his head, very convincing.

Of course, Ron knows Harry very well. But he's already taken a sip, so whatever it was, well, he's already drunk it. Nothing to be done, now.

"Harry!" Hermione hisses loudly, and then leans across the table and starts whispering to him furiously. Harry says something that makes her glare at him, and storm off.

"What was that?" Ron asks.

"Nearly time/' says Harry blithely, dodging the question. Ron frowns at him, suspiciously, but the whole team stands up to go to the pitch at that moment, and Ron's dragged away with the crowd.

---

"Pretty lucky the weathers this good, eh?" Harry asks Ron, leadingly.

"Yeah," Ron says, looking up at the pitch, feeling dread fill his stomach... but there's a tiny inkling in the back of his head.

Lucky.

Ginny and Demelza are already wearing their Quidditch robes and waiting in the changing room when they arrive.

"Conditions look ideal," says Ginny, ignoring Ron. "And guess what? That Slytherin Chaser Vaisey Urquhart - he took a Bludger in the head yesterday during their practice, and he's too sore to play! And even better than that - Malfoy's gone off sick too!"

"What?" says Harry, wheeling around to stare at her. "He's ill? What's wrong with him?"

"No idea, but it's great for us." Ginny's grinning brightly at this point. "They're playing Harper instead; he's in my year and he's an idiot."

Harry smiles back vaguely. Ron knows he's thinking about his Malfoy theories - and he does have to admit; it is suspicious. Malfoy has done this sort of thing before, but never in a way that stops him from playing a game himself. He always gets the match rescheduled.

"Fishy, isn't it?" he said in an undertone to Ron. "Malfoy not playing?"

Yes. But...

"Lucky, I call it," Ron says, feeling... some mixture of wary and elated. "And Vaisey off too, he's their best goal scorer." Ron doesn't say anything else, just finishes getting his uniform on.

"You didn't..." He starts asking, once he's done.

"What?" Harry looks over at him.

"I... you..." Ron hesitates, lowering his voice in case of eavesdroppers. "My drink... my pumpkin juice... you didn't...?"

Harry raises his eyebrows, but says nothing except, "We'll be starting in about two minutes." Harry finishes lacing up his boots. "I think there's more important things to focus on than what you had to drink this morning, mate."

Ron grabs him by the arm before he can leave, though.

"Did you?" He asks, tone tense.

"Did I?" Harry returns, expression unreadable. He yanks his arm free, then goes onto the pitch.

Ron, hesitantly, a mixture of wariness and hope flooding his veins, follows him.

---

The atmosphere in the changing room is jubilant, after the match. They won.

They won.

"Party up in the common room, Seamus said!" yells Dean exuberantly. "C'mon, Ginny, Demelza!"

Ron and Harry are the last two in the changing room, after the rest clear off for the celebrations. They're just about to leave when Hermione enters, hesitant.

"I want a word with you, Harry." She's twisting her Gryffindor scarf in her hands, looking upset but determined. She takes a deep breath, then:

"Yon shouldn't have done it. You heard Slughorn, its illegal." "What are you going to do, turn us in?" Ron demands. "Illegal doesn't seem to bother you normally!" "Excuse me?" Hermione says, affronted. "What are you two talking about?" asks Harry bizarrely, facing the robe hooks. Ron can see, via his profile, that the corners of his mouth are raised.

"You know perfectly well what we're talking about!" Hermione protests. "You spiked Rons juice with lucky potion at breakfast! Felix Felicis!"

"No, I didn't." Harry turns around, still grinning.

"Yes you did, Harry, and that's why everything went right, there were Slytherin players missing and Ron saved everything!"

"I didn't put it in!" Harry repeats. He reaches inside his jacket pocket and surfaces with the tiny bottle the Felix Felicis is held in, brandishing it dramatically. It is still full of golden potion, and the cork is still tightly sealed with wax. "I wanted Ron to think I'd done it, so I faked it when I knew you were looking." He looks at Ron, something proud in the depths of his smile. "You saved everything because you felt lucky. You did it all yourself."

He pockets the potion again. Ron feels lighter than he'd felt even before his argument with Ginny.

"There really wasn't anything in my pumpkin juice?" Ron says, halfway towards disbelief. "But the weather's - and Vaisey couldn't play." Ron pauses, then, tentatively asks, "I honestly haven't been given lucky potion?"

Harry shakes his head. Ron gapes at at him for a moment.

Then: "You added Felix Felicis to Ron's juice this morning, that's why he saved everything! See! I can save goals without help, Hermione!" He mocks, halfway to angry, now, glaring heatedly at Hermione. She blinks rapidly, then winces.

"I never said you couldn't - Ron, you thought you'd been given it too!"

"The only reason it worked is that Harry knew you'd think he'd done it!"

"Uh - " Harry says, "Guys -"

"Well," Hermione says, "You know how he gets about Quidditch-"

"Hey-" Harry says.

"- But you - "

"Hey." Ron is interrupted, which is probably a good thing - but still, leaning past the entrance, Ritchie Coote is looking between them. "Are you two coming to the party or not?" He asks. "Men of the hour, and all. Everyone's waiting for you guys."

"Yeah, 'course," Ron says, and walks past Hermione. "Wouldn't miss it."

"I have homework to do anyway," Ron hears her say. "Have fun at your party, Harry."

"Not mine," Harry says, and jogs to catch up with Ron, who's anger has switched it's target, at least a little, though he can't say he didn't also think he'd been dosed. She's right there like she is about a lot of things, or at least - like she seems to be about a lot of things.

Ron gave up on them as a - a thing a while ago, because - she's happy, isn't she? But he's realised, lately, that it's not just him giving up on an idea, any more, of the two of them.

Ron doesn't feel that way about Hermione, anymore.

He hasn't for a while.

There are some things that are true. And, lately, Ron finds that - Hermione makes him feel worse about himself, a lot of the time. It's her lack of faith, more than anything, that rankles. They're friends. Ron thinks she can do most anything - but it doesn't seem like Hermione thinks he can do anything. At all. And maybe that's an exaggeration, but it feels true because it - it hurts when the people you believe in don't believe in you.

"So," Harry says.

"So," Ron repeats. "You didn't dose me."

"No," Harry says, and there's a tone of a smile to his voice. "I didn't."

"If you hadn't," Ron says, "Faked it if you hadn't. I'd have lost us that match." Ron knows he would have. Harry does too, because he doesn't seem to know what to say to that.

"Well, you didn't," Harry says, after a few beats. "So you can't resign."

Ron laughs, weakly. "Well, it won't work again," He says.

"No," Harry says. "But - you know you can do it. You know you can block goals, you know you can -"

"I know," Ron says. "But -"

"Stop it," Harry snaps. "I don't want to hear it. You're good at this. I know you don't think you are but you are."

Ron looks away. Harry makes a very annoyed noise, and they're silent up to the common room. The Fat Lady congratulates them on the win, and then once inside -

"I knew you could do it!" Ron hears, and suddenly there's a crowd of people surrounding him, and at some point he ends up in the centre of the room, and there's whoops, and cheers, and a glass of Firewhisky is pushed into his hands, and Harry's off somewhere, and Hermione's nowhere to be found, because of course she wouldn't be, and he doesn't want to see her anyway, and Lavender's beaming at him, bright and pretty, and she says, "I knew it! You were brilliant!" And then she's throwing her arms around his neck, and he has to catch her waist, and there's some whistling and suddenly, Ron's kissing Lavender Brown.

And he keeps kissing Lavender Brown. She pushes him onto a chair in the corner, and - and then he realises where they are, and it's - he's not so comfortable with all the stares, and she seems to get it, because when he pulls back and she looks at him, she smiles prettily, and winks, and takes him by the hands, grabs two butterbeers from the drinks table, and they're outside, and she's giggling slightly, keeps glancing at him with these eyes like she's the luckiest girl in the world, and Ron follows her lead, and she pulls him towards her, against a wall near a classroom, and presses her lips to his, again, and they stay like that for a moment, while she uses a free hand - after pushing the butterbeers into his right one - to wrestle with the doorknob, and then they enter, and -

And they continue.

---

Ron feels somewhere near cloud nine, the next day. It looks like Harry got up early - or maybe Ron got up late, because nobody else is in the dorm room. He wanders downstairs, and neither Harry nor Hermione are in the common room, but Lavender is. She smiles at him, and Ron smiles back.

For the next week, Ron is sufficiently distracted from most other thoughts by one Lavender Brown.

But not all of them. It starts to get obvious that he keeps 'missing' Harry - and when they don't miss each other, they don't have much to say. After the match, they'd been on good terms again, but, Ron knows - there was still. That... tension. Something unsaid, something unspoken, and so at breakfast Harry reads the Prince's book, and Ron listens to Lavender talk about everything and nothing, and Hermione is nowhere to be seen, and Ron doesn't pay attention to either Dean or Ginny, who sometimes can be seen glaring smugly at him (not Dean - Ginny) - and.

Ron doesn't think about that dancing Hippogriff, because he's too busy snogging Lavender Brown.

For some reason, though, Ron keeps coming across Harry and Seamus, of all people, talking like - like they're best mates all of a sudden. And it makes sense, he supposes; Dean is nearly always with Ginny, and Ron has found himself nearly always with Lavender, so it's not like he expects Harry to not talk to anyone when Ron's otherwise occcupied. And Ron finds Harry staying behind after the DA more and more, and sees Cho walk over to him more and more often, and when Harry's teaching them the Patronus charm, he takes Cho's arm and gently shows her how to do the spell, and she's looking at him when she casts it, her dove flying high into the rafters.

"Hey," Lavender says. Ron looks at her. "When did he learn it?"

"Third year," Ron tells her. "Huh," Lavender says. "Okay. Can't be too hard, then, right?"

"Supposed to be," Ron replies. "Well," Lavender says. "I think that's mostly because most people don't know what their 'happiest' memory is. Memories are hard to keep track of." Lavender shrugs one shoulder, delicately. "I mean, unless you do occlumency."

"Right," Ron says. "Unless you do that."

Ron does that, and he still only getting mist. Mist with a vague shape within, but mist none-the-less. Lavender manages her rabbit before he manages anything more concrete, and the session is over for the day.

Lavender holds his arm, to stop him from leaving. "What are you thinking about?" She asks.

Ron presses his lips together.

"See, 'cause I don't think it's memory," Lavender says. "Not exactly." She pauses, watches her rabbit run around the room, follows it as it disappears in the architecture of the ceiling. "I think it's happiness. Think about what makes you happiest. Even if it isn't real." Lavender twirls her hair around a finger, then let's go, blonde curl bouncing freely. "Or, well - it has to be based on something real. But the situation itself doesn't have to be. It's emotional magic. I think - I think you have to be honest with yourself, for it to work. That's why it can change, I think. Because what makes someone happiest can change, too. I think," Lavender hesitates, "I think... it's safety. What, to you, is safely happy?"

What, indeed.

Ron shrugs. "I used my friends," Lavender says. "My mum. Just... being at home, with the people I care about. Safe."

Ron tries something similar.

From the end of his wand, a dog bursts forth, bright, and starts loping around the room, quick and happy, barking once, twice, and then dissapearing into the wall.

"Great!" Lavender says, brightly, and clutches his arm as she pulls him down for a kiss. "I think that was a St. Bernard," She says, after pulling back. "Those are rescue dogs, you know."

Ron blinks at her. Lavender ducks her head, smiling. "Dad has a couple of dogs, at his house." She says. "He's a vet."

"Oh," Ron says. Lavender tucks her hair behind her ear, biting her lip. "I know it's not - usual, in the wizarding world," She says. "Divorce. But -"

"It's not unusual," Ron says. "Wizards live for nearly two-hundred years. People don't always stay together for a hundred-and-seventy of that."

Lavender smiles, brighter. "Okay," She says. "That's good to hear."

In the back of the room, Cho and Harry are stood, talking. Something starts growing down above their heads, and Ron remembers it's winter, now. It's Christmas, soon. Harry looks up and says something; Cho ducks her head, smiling slightly.

"Come on," Lavender says, quietly. "Let's give them some privacy."

They leave, and Ron doesn't even think about looking back, because he knows - deep down - that he won't like what he'd see.

"Would you -" Ron says, stops, then, "Would you like to come to the Christmas party, with me?"

Lavender smiles brightly and nods happily and Ron focuses on that, and on her, for the rest of the evening.

---

Ron and Harry don't avoid each other, exactly. It's just that they're equally as busy as each other, lately. Ron spends a lot of time with Lavender, and Harry's spending more and more time with Cho, after - that DA meeting, and so, they just don't... on top of everything - homework, girlfriends - which is what Lavender is, to Ron, now, and that's still something that's hard to wrap his head around - and everything else, well, they just. They don't have much time to talk.

Ron practices his Occlumency alone, and that's fine. They trade words during Quidditch, and DA sessions, and that's fine. They're fine, really - it's not like they're arguing, or anything. They just don't have any time to talk to each other.

Similary, Ron hasn't had much time to talk to Hermione. And with her workload, the only times she really has are in the evenings, and at that point, well, either they're in DA or Ron and Harry are at Quidditch practices, or Ron is somewhere with Lavender, and... well, they just don't have time for each other, either. And - and they've not really spoken, since the match. Ron's not really upset with her, not exactly, just... perhaps a little miffed.

But, still, they all sit near each other at mealtimes; Harry, Ron, Lavender, Parvati, Hermione. Cho is on the Ravenclaw table, and Harry's on the side that lets them look at each other, and smile across the gap between the tables. He's lucky she's not a Hufflepuff, Ron thinks.

"Hi, Parvati!" Hermione greets, when the girl sits down. "Are you going to Slughorn's party tonight?"

"No invite," Parvati says, gloomily. "I'd love to go, though, it sounds like it's going to be really good... You're going, aren't you?"

"Yes," Hermione says. "I don't have a date though - Viktor can't come, obviously, and apparently Neville's working the party, so I couldn't ask him as a friend, you know..."

"Oh," Parvati says, sympathetically, "Well, I hope you all have a good time," She says.

Ron nods, extracting his arm from Lavender's grasp so he can plate himself some food. Lavender helps herself to some of what's on offer, and everyone digs into their meals.

It's a somewhat awkward affair, all told. Still, at the end of dinner, they make their way to their common room and then split up to go to their dorms, and those that are going get ready for the festivities, putting on their dress robes - Ron's glad of his new ones, the simplicity a welcome reprieve from the state of his last set.

Harry leaves first, to go meet up with Cho, and Ron heads down with Lavender and Hermione. Lavender chatters the entire way, and Ron cracks jokes that she laughs at, and Hermione stays very quiet except for the occasional half-smile.

Slughorn's office is much larger than usual, which is immediately noticeable upon arrival. The ceiling and walls have been draped with emerald, crimson, and gold hangings, enough so that the ceiling has been completely obscured. The room feels very crowded and stuffy, bathed in red light cast by an ornate golden lamp hanging from the centre of the ceiling in which fairies are fluttering, each a brilliant speck of light.

Loud singing accompanied by mandolins emanates from a distant corner. All the while, a haze of pipe smoke hangs lowly over several elderly warlocks deep in conversation, and a number of house-elves are making their way squeakily through the forest of knees, obscured by the heavy silver platters of food they bear.

Hermione frowns at them, looking rather annoyed.

"Ah, Hermione, my dear! Ronald, my boy! Come in, come in, so many people I'd like you to meet!" Slughorn booms, smiling widely. "And who might you be, Miss...?"

"Lavender Brown, Professor," Lavender says, smiling.

"Lavender Brown! You wouldn't happen to be related to Hamish Brown, of Brown and Brunnings' -" And he's off, chattering, and leading the three of them through the crowd, a whirlwind of introductions and famous faces being thrown at them then almost as quickly taken away. When Harry and Cho arrive, the both of them looking splendid in their best attire, Slughorn picks them up and takes them with them, so they're all circling the room, mingling, as he practically shoves them in the direction of various well-known witches and wizards. Eventually, he leaves the five of them be, and Hermione excuses herself to talk to some witch very versed in Ancient Runes, while Harry and Cho end up deep in conversation with a few quidditch players.

Lavender spots someone she wants to have a chat with, and Ron follows, dutifully. After that, it's not the worst evening - they talk, and it's nice. Lavender is, above all else, very nice. Ron likes being around her. Minutes pass, and nearly a half-hour into the party, Ron and Lavender find themselves standing at the edge next to a confused looking Cho Chang.

"Hey, Cho," Ron greets, and then, after looking around, " = uh, where's Harry?"

"He said he had to go to the bathroom," Cho says. "Personally, I think he's gone to spy on Draco and Professor Snape's 'talk'."

"What?" Ron asks.

"He showed up," Cho says, "Saying he was trying to gate crash, which was really very funny - but he looks very under the weather, you know?" Cho tilts her head. "Harry's caught him on the map, lingering around the DA's meeting place while we're there, occasionally - he thinks he's up to something."

"I know that much," Ron says, "What's he told you?"

Cho shrugs. "Enough," She says, "I mean - it makes sense, doesn't it? The Malfoys aren't the nicest people, and Draco's been wishing death on muggle-borns since his second-year, and that's just out loud."

"That's true," Ron says. Cho's a very smart girl, and Harry's instincts, while not always correct, aren't always wrong, either. Ron doesn't exactly not believe him, not like Hermione, but...

Hermione, as if summoned by the mere thought of her name, chooses that moment to show up.

"Hello," She says, half breathlessly. "Has everyone been having a good time?"

"Oh, yes," Cho smiles. "That's good," Hermione replies, and then, after looking between them; "What were you talking about?"

"Malfoy," Ron says. "He showed up. Harry's gone to spy on him."

"Of course he has," Hermione says, disparagingly.

"You don't think he's being suspicious?" Cho inquires. "I mean - he's being awful quiet, this year, and usually half of our meals include him and Harry having a shouting match across the great hall - Marietta hasn't had to cover her ears in months."

Hermione hesitates. "Well, alright yes, I suppose he's been a bit more... dull, lately," She admits.

"We caught him and his parents in Borgin and Burkes, before school," Ron says. "They were looking at a vanishing cabinet."

Cho's shoulders straighten. "A vanishing cabinet?" She asks.

"Yeah," Ron says. "Well," Cho says. "You know, that could be quite dangerous."

Hermione frowns at her. "How so?" She asks. "Well, you know - vanishing cabinets send things between them," Cho says. "It's a way to move things from one place to another. We have one at home, it's for transporting things between our houses." Cho looks between them. "I think - I mean, it could be... that he's trying to get a dark object into the school, somehow."

"Katie," Ron says and looks at Hermione.

"Katie Bell?" Cho frowns. "What about her?"

"We were the ones that found her," Ron tells the Ravenclaw. "She was holding a necklace - it was a dark object, nearly killed her." "If Malfoy had been at Hogsmede," Hermione reminds him. "He wasn't there-"

"There are secret passages out of the school, you know that as well as I do," Ron says. "You've used them. Hermione, he didn't have to get out through the security measures, he could have gone around them."

"There are secret passages - of course, there are," Cho sighs. "It's an ancient castle, they would have needed ways out in case of siege - regardless," Cho presses her lips together. "I'll wait here for Harry."

With that clear dismissal, Lavender tugs Ron away, and they wander over to the drinks table.

---

Christmas break, for the second time, and the first time entirely by choice, Ron and Harry do not stay at the castle. They get on the train with everyone else. Lavender sits in the compartment next to Ron, and Cho kisses Harry goodbye and wanders away with Marietta and Terry Boot, who apparently they're friends with. Luna and Neville and Ginny and Dean are in the compartment next door, and Ron still hasn't spoken to Ginny since - technically - just before the match, but really since their argument. Mum's going to notice, she's bound to, but Ron hopes she keeps quiet about it. Neither of them said anything nice, but Ron knows calling his sister a scarlet woman is going to go down much worse than what Ginny had said, even if that wasn't - quite what he'd meant, he'd still said it.

Hermione is deep in her book, and Harry is deep in the Prince's potions book. Lavender is reading some fashion history book, looking at the artwork, and Ron's staring out of the window.

Suffice to say, it's a quiet trip.

---

Ron and Harry find themselves the morning before Christmas peeling sprouts in the kitchen, wandless despite the new wards coating the Burrow in magic that would let them use their own.

"This is stupid," Ron says, even though he and Harry haven't really had a proper conversation in weeks. "If we were at Hogwarts, or Grimmauld -"

"Good thing we aren't, though," Harry says, simply, "For the latter."

Yeah, s'pose so."

They continue peeling in silence. Ron had heard, through Hermione (who had heard through Cho) about what Harry was thinking, regarding Malfoy. There was just one thing...

"About - about your theory..." Ron hesitates.

"You don't believe me?"

"I don't know," Ron says, "I mean - I do believe Malfoy's up to something - but you're sure Snape said unbreakable vow?"

"Yeah, why?" Harry asks.

"Well," Ron says. "See, the think about Unbreakable Vows - is, well, they're unbreakable-"

"Figured that one out for myself, thanks," Harry says. "No, I mean," Ron hesitates, "I mean, if you try and break them, you die."

"Oh." Harry pauses. "Well."

"When I was - when I was about five, Fred and George tried to get me to make one, you know? I guess they didn't really get seriousness - they were seven - but I've never seen Dad so angry, and they definitely got how bad it was after that. Fred reckons his left but-tock has never been the same since."

Yeah, well, passing over Fred's left buttock -"

"I beg your pardon?" said Fred's voice as the twins entered the kitchen.

"Oh, nothing," Harry says, "We learnt about Unbreakable Vows in DADA recently."

Fred hops up onto the table, and ignores him. "Aaah, George, look at this. They're using knives and everything. Bless them."

"Unbreakable Vows, huh?" George says. "Bet that was a lark." Harry shrugs.

"I'll be seventeen in two and a bit months' time," Ron says, annoyed, "and then I'll be able to do it by magic!"

"But meanwhile," said George, sitting down at the kitchen table and putting his feet upon it, "we can enjoy watching you demonstrate the correct use of a -"

Harry grabs Ron's arm, stopping him from slicing into his thumb thanks to his vaguely angry distraction.

"Careful there," Fred says, dryly, "Wouldn't want to lose that, now, would we?"

"You wait, when I'm seventeen -"

"I'm sure you'll dazzle us all with hitherto unsuspected magical skills," yawns Fred. Harry frowns at the sprouts in front of him.

"And speaking of hitherto unsuspected skills, Ronald," continues George, "what is this we hear from Ginny about you and a young lady called - unless our information is faulty - Lavender Brown?"

"Seriously?" Harry mutters. He peels his next sprout with slightly more force than is really necessary, despite all the other perfectly peeled sprouts laid out on the table in front of him. Ron isn't about to start discriminating when he meets the Dursleys; he's punching all of them, regardless.

"Mind your own business," Ron says, sharp, wanting nothing more than for the twins to leave him alone, for once. Just once.

"What a snappy retort," Fred says, dashing all of Ron's hopes in one fell swoop. "I really don't know how you think of them. No, what we wanted to know was... how did it happen?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "He won a quidditch match and she kissed him at the party," He says, before Ron can say anything, "Really, could you mind your own business?"

"Well well," Fred says, "Someone's cranky today, aren't they? And Ron isn't the only one with someone on their arm - I've heard things about you and Chang."

"Interesting choice, there," George says. "Wasn't she dating Diggory?"

"And that matters...?"

"Well, I suppose it doesn't," George says. "But really," Fred continues, "What does Miss Brown see in you? Did she have an accident or something?"

"What?" Ron turns his head to face Fred.

"Well, how did she sustain such extensive brain damage?"

Various emotions flicker through Ron's brain; annoyance, frustration, anger, and a fleeting, horrible thought that he's probably right, and that she probably doesn't really like him, exactly; that what she wanted was a boyfriend, or just someone to snog, because they do talk, sometimes, but most of what they do is kissing, and Ron doesn't know her that well, really, and maybe that's what she wants? And he's angry again, because none of this is their busienss, none of it, not who Ron's dating, not why he's dating them, and the same goes for Harry, too - whatever they think about Harry dating Cho, given who she was to Cedric, that doesn't matter, and they should fuck off and keep their gobs shut about it.

Harry slams the knife into the cutting board, jolting Ron into awareness; He's halfway through the motion of throwing the knife at Fred, which, while Fred could defend himself of that very easily, would definitely get him in trouble with mum.

"Right," Harry says, firmly. "We're done here."

"Careful there, Harry," George says, something behind his tone. "Seriously, what's got into you two?" Fred demands, looking between them.

"Oh, I don't know," Harry starts, and then Mum enters.

"Fred, George, I'm sorry, dears, but Remus is arriving tonight, so Bill will have to squeeze in with you two."

"No problem," says George, shrugging.

"Then, as Charlie isn't coming home, that just leaves Harry and Ron in the attic, and if Fleur shares with Ginny -" "- that'll make Ginny's Christmas -" mutters Fred, as Harry snorts, quietly. "- everyone should be comfortable. Well, they'll have a bed, anyway," says mum, sounding slightly harassed. "Percy definitely not showing his ugly face, then?" asks Fred.

Ron's grip tightens on his knife.

"No, he's busy, I expect, at the Ministry." His mother's voice sounds tightly controlled, but a note of sadness escapes despite her efforts.

"Or he's the world's biggest prat," says Fred, as mum leaves the kitchen.

Right. Well, she's right about the latter.

Harry wanders off upstairs, having finished his portion of the sprouts - he's pretty quick at prep, and he knows a lot of blander sorts of recipes off-by-heart; the simple, muggle meals the Dursleys prefer. Again; meet, punch.

"Seriously," George says, after a beat, and Ron quickly returns to doing the sprouts. "What is going on there?"

"Something up in his head, or what?" Fred extrapolates.

"You haven't spoken a word to each other since we arrived, except whatever you were on about before we arrived -"

"Can't believe you told him about that," Fred says, darkly, and George tilts his head, expectant.

"None of your business," Ron says, tightly, because there's nothing going on. And that's the truest thing he's said all month. There is nothing going on.

"Well, see, that just makes it our business, little brother," George says.

"Look," Fred starts, "Just fuck off," Ron says. "For Merlin's sake -"

"Fine, fine," George says, standing. "We're off to the village, there's a very pretty girl working in the paper shop who thinks my card tricks are some-thing marvellous... almost like real magic..."

"That's illegal," Ron says, as they leave, and Fred responds, "When did you become Hermione?" and Ron snorts at that, because Hermione cares about illegality in so far as it affects her, and is perfectly willing, sometimes even more so than Harry, to break a few laws to get her way. But then, Ron supposes, Fred wouldn't know that.

As much as they pretend to, occasionally, Ron knows that really - they don't care all that much. Especially not about Ron.

---

Ron bumps into Ginny, that evening, before supper, and it's as awkward as he expected.

"Look," Ginny says, "You were a prat, or whatever, but - truce? For Christmas? So mum doesn't start breathing down our necks about it?"

"Fine," Ron says. Ginny nods, jerkily, and walks off. He wasn't expecting an apology, or anything, of course not - but still, it's not much of a resolution. Ron thinks it really is what she said; a 'truce'. They're still not going to talk about it.

Ron finds Harry in his room, on the usual cot they pull out for him. He's lying back, staring at the ceiling, and - Ron just sits on his own bed, lies down, picks up the comic under his pillow and starts reading it. Harry doesn't say a word, and neither does he, Ron just - turns the pages of his comic until Mum calls them all down for supper.

Christmas Eve is Christmas Eve - a decent meal, people talking and cracking jokes and laughing and what have you, but Ron doesn't look at Harry, and Harry doesn't look at Ron, because -

It sort of feels like they've forgotten how. Like - whatever it was, whatever possessed Ron to ask, after his argument with Ginny, about - and whatever possessed him to ruminate over it, like that had taken over, and now Ron didn't know quite how to act, despite everything. That, even - even though they'd talked, before the match, even though Harry had talked at him, even though they'd - sort of - hung out, since, they've... misplaced their ability to - be - normal, or, not be normal, just - be how they usually are, or how they were when moseying around muggle London in summer.

Ron... Ron gets what Harry said, now, about missing being in Grimmauld. It was a horrible house, sure, but it hadn't felt anywhere near as strangely unpleasant as this.

And they'd been alone, that entire time - but it hadn't felt awkward at all. And even surrounded by everyone here, crammed onto the dining table like this - Ron can't help but be hyper-aware of every time their elbows bang together, or Harry's shoulder is shoved into his by virtue of everyone jostling into each other to get at the food.

After the celebrations, in which there's a lot of very loud Celestina Warbeck and Ron, just occasionally, glances at Fleur and Bill, who are being very couple-y in the corner, in a way that seems rather more genuine than both Ron and Lavender and Harry and Cho act, generally speaking, though Ron supposes he can't know how Harry and Cho act, because he doesn't really - see them together all that much, what with her being a Ravenclaw - that's been half the problem, he supposes; they can't hang out in the common room, so Harry's rarely around anymore, and Ron keeps forgetting he isn't there, partly because half the time Lavender seems determined to keep her lips locked onto his. And it's not that that isn't enjoyable, but, Ron would like to do other things too, he just - hasn't really - it's not that he's being a coward about it, but he hasn't figured out how to put 'I want to do other stuff too' without it coming out all wrong and making him sound like an arse, or worse.

Or, worse, he supposes; he does get it out right - but Ginny gets wind of it, and twists it into something else entirely.

Well, anyway - after the evening's celebrations, Ron heads upstairs; he's there before Harry, by the looks of things, which is, internally, somewhat of a relief. Ron gets ready for bed, pulls the covers over himself, and falls asleep before he arrives.

---

Ron wakes to the presence of a stocking at the end of his bed. The top present is one from Lavender; inside is something... somewhat unexpected, but not entirely so. It's a little figurine, a gold-coloured chess piece, and on the base, in cursive, it takes a moment to read - but it says 'My Knight'.

Ron blinks. He got her chocolate, because he couldn't really think of anything else, and... well. Ron isn't sure what he'd expected her to get - he thinks, belatedly, that he'd been somewhat dreading finding out.

Lavender isn't exactly the type for subtlety.

"What's that?" He hears, blearily spoken, from Harry's place on his cot.

"Um," Ron says. "... It's Lavender's present."

"What is it?" Harry asks, tone a little... different. Harder to place.

"It's a chess piece," Ron says, and shows it to Harry.

Harry looks at it. "Inventive," He says. "Better not let the twins see that."

Ron grimaces. Yeah. Better not.

"Well." Ron says, gestures. "Cho get you anything?"

Harry opens his stocking.

"Yes," He says.

"Great," Ron says.

Harry clears his throat and stands. "Guess - better get. Ready, before - the bathroom -" And then he leaves the room.

Yeah. Ron misses the summer.

---

New Years isn't much better. Hermione's still in Bulgaria, because of course - either that or she's with her parents, skiing in the Alps - and... well.

Harry's sitting on the couch, reading his potions book. Ron's playing chess, by the window. Ginny is furiously scribbling onto some parchment, and she sends it off with Errol in a huff; she heads upstairs without so much as a by your leave.

Ron sighs. He wins the match because playing against the board doesn't really hold the same challenge as playing against a person; Ron knows all its strategies, and it doesn't really learn from its mistakes. It's not as sentient as the car, and by law it shouldn't be, but Ron would like if it could at least learn to be less easy to beat. It's also old as anything - Ron's got Uncle Billius' chess set, it's the one he takes to Hogwarts, but this one is from his mother's side of the family, and it's been theirs for what looks like a century or two.

The rest of the day passes, and the rest of the days pass, and then they're back at Hogwarts.

The walk back up to the common room is silent; Harry, Ron, and Ginny aren't a superb combination of people, these days, which is, frankly, an unpleasant thought - and perhaps, Ron thinks, one of the most unpleasant ones he's ever had. Ron's distracted from this by the fact that the password doesn't work, and the fact that Professor McGonagall hadn't bothered to tell them the new one - but Hermione shows up, and they enter, and -

"Ron!" Lavender greets, enthusiastically, and launches herself at him. Ron catches her, automatically, and smiles awkwardly. "Hey," He says, "How was your holiday?"

"Great," Lavender says, "It was dad's turn, this year - anyway, how was yours?"

"Not bad," Ron lies through his teeth, and sets her down. Lavender pouts jokingly, then smiles and leads him over to the couch. "That's good," She says. "Did you like my present?"

"Yeah," Ron says. Lavender's smile brightens. "Great!" She chirps. "Thank you for the chocolate - it was lovely," She adds, and over her shoulder, on the table behind them, Ron can see Parvati, who's lips are so pursed he can't even see them. She nods at him, sharply, and looks down at her book. Dean and Ginny are sat at the next table, with Seamus, and only one of the three look any happy to be there - Dean's smiling animatedly, saying something to the two of them, and their expressions are somewhat strained, eyes trained on each other, tense. The next table over, it's Harry and Hermione - she's telling him something, too, while Harry reads through the note Dumbledore's sent, and Ron would really like to be over there, but Lavender can't hear about any of it.

It wouldn't really matter, normally, but Ron's not sure he'll get a chance to ask, later. Harry's probably going to find Cho, and Hermione's going to disappear off to - wherever she's been disappearing off to.

---

Ron signs up for the apparition licence and hopes beyond all hope he manages it because 12 galleons is quite the hefty fine for such a necessary skill - and paying it twice would be an issue. Plus, Fred and George did it first go, and he doesn't want them mocking him about having to do it more than once, nevermind that Charlie failed his on the first try.

Ron and Harry don't get to talk alone, that day, and the day after, nor the day after that, even though they share the same desk at potions - during those lessons, they let Ernie do most of the talking, though Ron has to elbow him occasionally when he seems about ready to start nattering on about the DA.

During their first Apparition lesson - or, rather, at the end of it, however - Harry grabs Ron's arm and drags him off towards the common room. Bewildered and surprised, Ron lets this happen, for a moment, before he yanks his arm free and asks, "What's got you in such a rush?"

"Look, hurry up, will you, there's something I want to do... " Harry says, distractedly, in response. Ron does, keeps up with Harry, all the way up to the Tower, even though they had to double-back to avoid Peeves, who was on one of his more frustrating kicks - that of forcing students to set fire to their trousers - but once there, they didn't slow down at all, like Ron expected; Harry kept the same speed, even through the common room (this did draw some confused stares), all the way up to their dorm.

"Harry... " Ron says, awkwardly, as the teen in question shoves open his trunk and starts rifling through the contents.

"Malfoy's using Crabbe and Goyle as lookouts. He was arguing with Crabbe just now. 1 want to know... aha."

Harry pulls out the map, and sets it out on the bed, tapping it with his wand and saying "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good ... or Malfoy is, anyway..."

Harry doesn't look away from the map for a second, tapping his wand impatiently against his thigh as he waits for the school to appear in full.

'Help me find Malfoy,' says Harry urgently. Ron shrugs, and leans forward, eyes roving over the school. After about a minute, Ron finds him, and it's nothing suspicious at all, really. 'He's in the Slytherin common room, look - with Parkinson and Zabini and Crabbe and Goyle... " Ron points out.

Ron looks at Harry. In profile view, he's no harder to read; he's disappointed, for a moment, but it takes no time for him to rally himself.

"Well, I'm keeping an eye on him from now on,' he says firmly. 'A better eye on him. And the moment 1 see him lurking somewhere with Crabbe and Goyle keeping watch outside, it'll be on with the old Invisibility Cloak and off to find out what he's-"

"- Harry, just -" Ron tries.

"What?" Harry demands.

"... Don't do that alone," Ron says. "If nothing else, there's three of them. One of you. Bring me and Hermione along, at least."

Harry presses his lips together. "Hermione doesn't think there's anything going on," Harry says, flatly. "She wouldn't come."

"Well - " Ron knows Cho would, because she clearly agreed with Harry, at the Christmas party, but there's something that stops him from bringing her up. " - just. I will."

"I know that," Harry says, and - and there's something infinitely fond in his tone. "You always do."

Harry blinks, and looks away, awkwardly, and it's quiet again, and it's awkward, again, and it's like Harry realises he'd just grabbed Ron and dragged him off like they haven't - hardly spoken the past month or so.

The door opens, and Ron jumps, slightly, in his skin - Harry's hand tightens on his wand, but it's only Neville, looking a little singed, and he doesn't seem to register them - the other Gryffindor just heads towards his dresser and starts rummaging around for some fresh clothes.

Ron glances over at Harry, for a second, but - it's back. That tense... something.

Harry clears his throat. "First DA session," He says, and Neville perks up, glancing over, "When do you think would be easiest?"

"Next weekend?" Neville offers. "It's not Hogsmede..."

"Makes sense, thanks Neville," Harry says, briskly. "See you there, then."

"See you in Herbology?" Neville counters, awkwardly, looking mightily confused. Ron leaves the dorm after Harry, but doesn't follow him - Harry leaves the common room.

Ron sighs, turns to his left, and smiles when Lavender catches sight of him. Parvati, sat next to her, looks a little disgruntled when Lavender's hair nearly whips her in the face thanks to Lavender's quick movements and sheer enthusiasm - she practically flies over to greet him, and drag him down to sit with them.

Parvati's greeting is genuine, as always - she's a nice enough girl. Nicer than her sister, anyway. And - that's all fine. "Hello," Ron greets in kind. Lavender starts talking, and then listen to her, and it's... all fine.

---

"I'm right."

Ron turns to look at Harry, who is staring at the map splayed across the table.

"What?" Ron blinks at him. It's been nearly a fortnight, and Ron had almost forgotten about Harry's new obsession - he's almost forgotten about reading the potions book; these days, it's the map he's got spread out in front of him, instead of the DADA essay due the next day.

Lavender taps him on the shoulder and greets Ron with a kiss, then walks past and out of the portrait; she's got Divination, next period. "If you'd pay attention," Harry says, and Ron looks back over to him. Harry's expression, what Ron manages to glimpse of it, before he looks down at the map again, is some form of tense. Not anxious, just, not pleased. Uncomfortable.

"Right," Ron says. "So, you're right?"

"Well, Cho and I - there's been some signs," Harry says. "And - look." He taps the map. Ron looks at it; Harry's focused the view on the Room, or at least, where the room should be; there's nothing on the map, except two dots that say Crabbe and Goyle, stood strangely spaced against the wall the door would be on.

"Oh," Ron says. "That's -"

"Suspicious," Harry says, grimly. "Unusual. That's where the room is - and Malfoy isn't in the castle."

"So... he's using the room?" Ron asks.

"We were thinking that already," Harry says, and yes, Harry had had that particular theory for a while. "This just confirms it."

"So..."

"Well, now all we need to do is catch them in the act," Harry says. But it turns out to be much harder than that - despite the DA, and despite showing up in the corridor at random times, and despite hiding there for an hour under the invisibility cloak, they never catch Malfoy or Crabbe or Goyle in the corridor, or really anyone, for that matter.

Harry's frown only grows deeper as the weeks pass.

"Look," Ron says, sighing. "I just..."

"What?" Harry snaps.

"We're not going to catch them," Ron says. "They're doing something. But this isn't working."

Something complicated flashes across Harry's face, and then he sighs.

"Fine," He says. "You're right."

And Harry doesn't drag him off for recon after that, which means, once again, Ron doesn't see Harry around all that often. In fact, when he does, Harry is rarely separate from Cho - and, more than once, he's actually caught them kissing, which was just - he knows it was happening, obviously. They're dating. It's just... for some reason, it's something he never expected to see. It's a strange thing, and he's glad of Lavender, at least, because she keeps him from thinking about much of anything, most of the time.

---

As it turns out, Hogsmede has been cancelled, which is - well, it's bullshit, and Ron feels mad about it, but mostly because it was going to be on his birthday, and - and he's wanted an excuse to... get everyone back together, so to speak. But on the day, there's nothing, just another apparition lesson, which nobody seems to be doing any good at - which is, at least, something of a reassurance.

Still.

That morning, Ron wakes to a pile of presents on his bed, and nobody else in the dorm. Ron gets ready quickly, and has to rush through the presents - Harry got him new Keepers gloves, which he's needed for a while - and Lavender got him some bits and pieces; chocolate, fudge, and the like - and Hermione got him chocolate frogs, and Mum and Dad got him this heavy gold watch with odd symbols around the edge and tiny moving stars instead of hands... because he's turned seventeen, hasn't he? It's tradition, but he doesn't recognise this watch.

Huh.

Ron gets ready and goes downstairs. "Happy birthday!" He hears as Lavender throws her arms around his neck, forcing him to catch her. "Hey, Lav," He says. "Thanks." She smiles at him, leaning her head back, and then leans back in to kiss him, lingering.

"Oi, some people have to use the stairs, you know," Seamus says, grumpily, and Ron winces, stepping aside to let him up.

"Happy birthday, Ron," Hermione says, from her place at one of the tables, a spread of homework and textbooks laid out before her. "Yeah," Parvati says. "Happy birthday."

Ron smiles awkwardly. "Thanks," He says. Harry is not in the common room - in fact, Ron isn't sure where he's gone off to. Probably to hang out with Cho, Ron thinks and pushes it aside.

---

"I got the memory."

"What?" Ron says. Harry blinks at him. "Oh, right," He says, awkwardly - then, to Hermione; "You didn't -"

"I haven't had the chance," Hermione says, apologetically, "You know - I barely have any free periods - and you're both always so busy with... everything, you know," She says, hesitantly.

"Well, it's not like you aren't busy yourself," Ron says.

Hermione shrugs, smiling slightly. "Yes, well, he's not here, so I'm somewhat less busy in that regard."

"Right," Harry says. "Well. Uh, Dumbledore gave me this task," Harry says, and then explains how Dumbledore has asked him to get a real memory from Slughorn about what he told a young Tom Riddle regarding Horcruxes.

"Well then," Ron says. "So, you got it?"

"Yeah," Harry says, frowning slightly. "I did - you know, Felix Felicis, one teaspoon, and - well, it wasn't exactly what I planned, but I guess... I guess the potion thought it was more important."

"Really?" Harry nods. "Really," He echoes. "I'm not entirely sure it's even worn off yet - anyway, the point is - I got the memory off Slughorn."

"Brilliant," Ron says. "Well, what are you waiting for?" He asks. "Go see Dumbledore!"

Harry nods distractedly. "Yeah," He says. "Look - it wasn't the only thing that happened," He says.

"What?" Ron frowns. He glances at Hermoine, who looks concerned. "Well," Harry says. "It turns out this drink of his was poisoned." Hermione gasps. "Oh no!"

"He's fine," Harry says, quickly, "There was a bezoar in his cupboard - anyway, the point is, I'm pretty sure - I mean, he said the - the 'Oak Matured Mead' he had, it was meant for Dumbledore. And it was poisoned."

"You're not thinking -"

"No of course not," Harry says, interrupting Ron. "I think it was Malfoy, I think that's been his plan this whole time - to get at Dumbledore -"

"Oh for - Harry," Hermione snaps. "You need to drop this, it's getting ridiculous -"

"You're the only person who doesn't believe me!" Harry snaps. "If you'd just listen - if you'd just think for one second - he's the most likely person in our year to be a Death Eater, you know that, that's been true since our first year -"

"Harry it's nonsensical," Hermione tries, "There are so many other ways - and how would he have known that mead was for Dumbledore, anyway? It's not a very direct method - you said it yourself, he didn't even save it for Dumbledore! Otherwise, you wouldn't have had to save his life-"

"That's not the point, Hermione - Malfoy's a suck-up, and Slughorn gets drunk at his parties; it couldn't have been that hard to find out he had some mead or something he was going to give Dumbledore as a gift -"

"It's just-"

"Fine, you don't believe me." Harry looks at Ron, who takes a step back at the force of his glare. "You?"

"I mean," Ron says, "We've tried to catch him in the act, Harry, and I just-"

"So you don't then," Harry says, sharply, and that's not true - "I do," Ron says, equally harsh, "Obviously I do! Otherwise, I wouldn't have let you drag me all over the castle trying to get proof, for Merlin's sake, Harry-"

"Right, sure," Harry says, "Fine. Look, I just - I have to - Cho!" He calls out, "Hey, wait up!" And then he's gone, into the crowd, the muffilatio spell cancelled as he'd shouted out.

"Well," Hermione says, looking at Ron. "I suppose that's good news. And... could have gone better."

"You suppose?"

Hermione laughs, slightly. "Well, yes - it's definitely good news. And it certainly could have gone better. I guess - see you in potions?" She says, and then drops into the throng of students, and Ron loses her in the flow of people.

So. Hermione's right about one thing, at least; Ron's birthday could have gone better.

---

"Horcruxes," Harry tells them. "They're what's keeping Voldemort alive. And he's got six of them. Soul magic."

"Pardon?" Hermione frowns, and then something like recognition, or dawning recognition - like the last piece of a puzzle had just been put in place for her. "That must be - the books I was reading, over summer," She says, "That must be what they wouldn't talk about."

"I thought they were a myth." Ron looks between them. "You're telling me, there's some awful, horrible way to keep yourself alive forever?"

"Yeah," Harry says, "Sort of - like an anchor, Dumbledore said. Anyway, what do you mean, you thought they were myth?"

"Well, Bill finds a lot of stuff, in his line of work," Ron says. "And a lot of it is just, stories. Ancient warnings, you know? Half of it isn't real, and - I thought that was one of those bits. I mean, you'd think, something like that - people would do it all the time, wouldn't they?"

"Ron!" Hermione protests.

"I'm just saying," Ron says, "Not saying I would, Merlin, just, there's a lot of people that don't want to die. That's why ghosts exist - they're so afraid of what they'll find beyond that they refuse to go."

"Well, either way," Harry says, "We've got three of them destroyed already."

"We do?" Hermione asks.

Ron has a sinking feeling in his gut.

"Yeah," Harry says, and he's decidedly not looking at Ron, at all. "Riddle's diary, that locket that was at Grimmauld, and the Gaunt family ring, which Dumbledore destroyed before school started. Dumbledore thinks that Helga Hufflepuf's cup is another one, too, and Nagini, most likely. So if he's right, that's five we know about for sure."

Something horribly familiar. About Harry, and the Diary, and the Locket. Ron doesn't like this, not at all.

"Oh, well then," Hermione says, "That's good news, isn't it? Only three left to deal with, and we know what two of them are?"

Ron doesn't say anything, and Harry doesn't agree, either; for a moment, there is a decidedly awkward silence.

Hermione looks between the two of them. "Isn't it?" She repeats. Another awkward pause ensues, during which her expression turns annoyed, but with a furrow to her brow that speaks of worry. "Is there something you're not telling me?" She asks.

"No, Hermione," Harry says. "... Nothing."

Ron does not contradict him.

---

Ron waits long enough outside the Headmaster's office that a lady in one of the portraits next to the statue sighs, disappears, and then comes back when the stairs start appearing. Ron stands on the second step and rides the stairs up to the door.

Ron knocks. "Come in," The Headmaster says.

"Mr Weasley," Dumbledore greets. "Is there something you wish to talk about?"

"The Horcruxes," Ron says, "Two of them, I've - at least seen. I've held one of them." Ron pauses. "Ginny was possessed by one of them."

Dumbledore bows his head.

"You never gave me a reply," Ron says. "I mean, I know you were busy, and all, last year, but you never gave me a reply."

Dumbledore steeples his hands together, and for the first time, Ron gets a closer look at the damage on his hand.

"Tell me, Ronald," Dumbledore says, "What about Harry feels... familiar, to you?"

"His scar," Ron says. "Just his scar."

Something flickers in Dumbledore's eyes. "I see," He says, and doesn't add anything useful to that.

"Well?" Ron asks. "Is he - I mean - "

Ron can't bring himself to say it, because that would make it real.

"I rather think," Dumbledore sighs, "That is a question for later. If you would like, I can tell you that my suspicions... are just that, for now. My sessions with Harry must continue before any decisions can be made any... conclusions can be reached. Do you understand, Mr Weasley?" Dumbledore looks very old, now that Ron looks at him closer; more haggard, more tired, more weary. "I ask of you, for now, to put this out of your mind."

Well. Lately, Ron's been unfortunately good at putting Harry out of his mind. And by that he means, he's been very good at the whole 'dancing hippogriff' thing. Thinking all the time about something, but not paying that one lick of real attention.

But this is different.

"I don't think I can do that, sir," Ron says.

Dumbledore sighs again. "It is a lot to ask of you, Mr Weasley." There is a pause, drawn-out, something... tense, and tired, and unwanted hanging in the air. "But ask it of you, I must."

Ron leaves Dumbledore's office feeling worse than when he entered, that nebulous knowledge just on the edge of his awareness. He could, if he thought, for just a second, put his finger on it, link the pieces of information together... but if he does that, Ron knows that he won't like any of it. Any of what it means, any of what it is, any of what it represents.

Ron finds his way back to the common room, which is nearly deserted. Ginny is working at a table, alone, and though they've not spoken properly, in a while, Ron knows she's the only one he can really talk to about this.

Ron sits down across from his sister. She looks up, registers that it's him, scowls, and then returns to her work.

"What do you want?" She asks.

Ron casts muffiliatio, just in case, and then... sits there, in silence, because he's not sure how to put any of it.

"Well?" Ginny requests. She looks up from her work again. "What is it?"

"There's..." Ron trails off. Ginny looks at him, really looks at him, and a furrow forms between her brows. "What is it?" She repeats, tone ever so slightly less cold.

"There is something that links the Diary and the Locket," Ron says. He explains what Horcruxes are, tells Ginny about the ring. Tells her that Voldemort has seven of them, or had and that three of them are now destroyed.

"So the Diary and the Locket..." Ginny says, leadingly.

"They're the same type of thing," Ron says. "They're similar. They're -"

"Familiar."

Ron doesn't respond; he doesn't have to. Ginny's expression runs through various emotions, but settles on something that's a mix of all of them, and utterly unreadable because of it.

"So... H-"

"Maybe," Ron says. "Dumbledore told me not to think about it."

Ginny snorts. "Right, and tomorrow you're going to pretend Harry's dead and you've never met a Potter in your life, right?" She says, rolling her eyes. "He's our friend," She says. "If he is - if - then. There's got to be a way to deal with it that doesn't include -"

"Destroying the vessel," Ron says, quietly.

There's a pause.

"Yeah," Ginny says, equally as softly. "That."

---

Apparation... is going. Hermione's done well at it, because of course, she has, but Harry, who won't be 17 for a few more months and can't take the test because of it, doesn't seem to be paying very much attention.

Now he's got nothing else to focus on, all he seems to be doing is trying to catch Malfoy in the act. And since the last time he had a talk with Ron and Hermione about it went - well, it went, Harry hasn't been dragging Ron off anywhere for it. So Ron sees him even less than he has been so far, which is to say, Ron sees him pretty much only at some meals and in the dorm room at night, before bed, and occasionally they wake up at the same time in the morning (but mostly, Harry is long gone before anyone else in the room).

Ron isn't the only one who's noticed.

"Where the hell is he now?" Seamus grumbles. He's got a letter in his grip for Harry, but he hasn't been able to find him anywhere; he came over to ask Ron, despite Lavender having situated herself pretty much on top of him, and his expression is one of resigned annoyance.

"Uh," Ron says, after pulling away from Lavender, "Not sure, why?"

"I've got this for him," Seamus says, waving the note around. "From Dumbledore. Why's he been getting so many of these, anyway?"

"Not sure," Ron repeats. "Look, I don't know where he is. Ask Cho Chang."

Ron is doing a very good job regarding the whole 'not thinking about that thing he's supposed to be not thinking about'. It doesn't count that he told Ginny because he didn't, really. The words never passed his lips.

Seamus' eyebrows raise, incredulous, but Lavender pulls Ron's attention back to her.

"Do we really have to talk about Harry? Don't people do that enough already?" Lavender says. "Come on, let's get out of here. So we can't be interrupted." She sends a somewhat nasty look in Seamus' direction.

Ron doesn't protest, simply allows himself to be dragged out of the common room, leaving Finnegan standing there looking vaguely disgruntled.

"We're all fecking idiots," He hears, however, before the portrait closes shut behind them.

---

"That was a good session," Harry says, at the end of the next DA meeting. "Everyone. See you all -"

"Harry, someone's outside!" Colin is looking through a peep-hole in the door. "Some girls-"

"Let me see," Ginny says, "Couple of Slytherins," She says.

"Let me have a look." Tracey Davis had joined up with the rest of them, and given the people outside are Slytherins, and she's the only one here, Tracey is the most likely to recognise them.

"God's sake," She mutters. "Right. We'll have to sit by."

"Why?" Ginny demands.

"Because they've been hanging 'round Malfoy a lot, lately," Tracey says.

"Right," Harry says, "Well, I guess we'll have to leave through a different door."

"What?" Tracey says.

"The Room," Ron starts "It can - make passages to other places. We tested it out last year - anyway, come on." They get everyone dispersed out into the school's various corridors, and after that's done with, and Harry and Ron and Hermione and Ginny are alone in the room (except for Cho Chang, that is), they close up the doors and leave through the main one.

The girls stare at them, very quiet.

"What are you lot doing here so late?" Ron asks. "It's almost curfew," Hermione says, kindly. "You should get going - the dungeons are kind of far from here."

They don't budge.

"Scram," Ron says. Ginny's glare seems encouraging enough, and the two girls leave the corridor.

"They were definitely Crabbe and Goyle," Harry says, putting the map away after taking off the cloak from him and Cho.

"Great," Ginny says. "What are they up to?"

"We think it's something to do with a vanishing cabinet," Cho says, "But we haven't been able to get the room to show us what he's up to."

"Brilliant," Ron says, sarcastically.

"Yes, well," Hermione says, "I suppose - there's not much we can do."

"I suppose," Cho agrees, reluctantly. She leans over and kisses Harry on the cheek, says goodbye, and wanders off towards the Ravenclaw Tower.

"Come on, you've got to think of something," Harry says. "There has to be something -"

"I don't think there is," Hermione says. "If Malfoy's using Polyjuice - and we've used it before, he'll be expecting something, so we can't do that to find anything out. And it's not like we can sneak veritaserum in his drink, or what have you, because he'd never answer anything we have to say anyway. And it'd be too suspicious, regardless. And the imperious curse is illegal, so we can't use that-"

"I know that," Harry says, sounding very much like he didn't care about the 'illegal' part, but rather the fact that Malfoy would probably be expecting all of those things. "But, for the record - Polyjuice is also illegal, Hermione, and you didn't care much about that at the time."

"I was twelve," Hermione says, primly. "We should get going - after all, it is nearly curfew."

"You get going," Harry says, "I've got some things to sort out-"

"Harry," Hermione says. "What you need to do, for now, is leave very well alone-"

"Right, because we've ever done that in the past six years-"

"Harry, if you don't come with us right now we'll have to take points-"

"Fine! Take points," Harry says, starting to pace. "Do whatever you think you have to because it's against the rules you care so much about, Hermione," Harry mutters sarcastically.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor," Hermione says, cooly, "For what is likely a hundredth offence."

"That's a bit of an exaggeration," Ron says, awkwardly. "Oh, don't you start," Hermione says. "We should get back to the common room."

"Er," Ron says. He glances at Harry, who is ignoring them completely. "Right."

"Come on," Hermione says, emphatic, and grabs his arm, starts marching off towards the Tower. "What's got into you, lately?" She asks.

"Nothing," Ron says.

"I'm serious," She says. She lets go of his arm and slows her pace. "Ever since... I think before Christmas, there's been something... off," Hermione tries, looking like even she can't find the words to describe what she's talking about.

"Dunno what you're on about," Ron says. He's always been a bit crap at hiding things, though; it comes out somewhat more mulishly than he'd meant.

Hermione looks at him, askance. "I think you do," She says, simply.

"What, then?" Ron says. "If you've got such a good grasp on the situation-"

"Don't start with me, Ron," Hermione snaps. "You've just been - lately, you and Harry-"

"We've been what?" Ron demands. They stand still, in the middle of the corridor.

"Well, you know." Hermione turns suddenly very hesitant. "You've not really spoken since before Christmas."

"And neither have we," Ron says, truthfully. "We're all just -"

"Busy," Hermione says.

"Yeah," Ron says, a little forceful.

Hermione looks down. "It's strange, isn't it?" She says. "How things can change so quickly."

Ron shifts, uncomfortable. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," Hermione says. She tucks some hair behind her left ear. In the dark, Ron can't read her expression. "We're just so different from how we were just in August. That's only a few months, Ron. I'm an adult." There is a strange tone to her voice; half thrilled, half confused. "You're always with Lavender, Harry's always with Cho, I'm always - busy," She says, and Ron thinks maybe it's not just homework she's busy with, now, and wonders why he hadn't realised that earlier.

"You're an adult," Ron says.

"Yes," Hermione says.

"Your parents aren't in the Order," He says.

"No, they're muggles," She smiles. "They're in Bulgaria."

"There's nothing Mum can do, is there?" He says. "If you want to help out."

"No, there isn't," Hermione agrees.

"So you've been..."

"Helping," Hermione says. "Somewhat." She presses her lips together. "You can't tell anyone," She says, seriously. "That I'm - with the Order. You can't. I shouldn't have even told you, but..."

"I won't," Ron says, because who would he tell? Harry? Hermione's right; they don't really talk much, lately. And Ron doesn't really have any other close friends, ones he'd trust with this sort of thing.

"What have you been doing?" Ron asks.

"Just, some things," Hermione says. "I can't do very much, not until I get my licence, and obviously I have to focus on my schoolwork - but I have been visiting Grimmauld. The library still hasn't been fully looked through, so... that's what I do, mostly. And sometimes I help out with the task Viktor's been assigned to. And sometimes - other stuff. Just, simple things, because, you know - I'm still a student, and all, and they don't really approve, but... they can't say no. There are not enough members for them to refuse help, even if I am seventeen - all that does is make me an adult they can't claim is 'too young', anymore."

"Lucky," Ron says. His mum wouldn't let him do anything, even if he was fifty. There's nothing that could change her mind; to Molly, they're always, all of them, going to be 'too young'.

"Well," Hermione says. "Not exactly. It's dangerous, you know. But... it's something. I'm helping, at least a little." She sighs. "Come on," She says, sufficiently distracted from her original topic, and they arrive outside the common room within two minutes. Hermione heads up to bed. Ron does the same.

Harry is not in the dorm, come morning.

---

"Hey," Lavender says. Ron smiles awkwardly at her. "Hey," He responds.

Lavender ducks her head down. "So," She says, and then, all in a rush, "I don't want us to break up but I don't think you like me as much as I like you and I don't know what to do and Parvati said we should talk about it and my tactic of just shoving my tongue in your mouth isn't really helping matters." And then she takes a quick breath. "Her words," She adds, awkwardly. "I wouldn't have put it like that."

"What?" Ron says.

"I," Lavender hesitates. "Do you - Do you like Hermione?" She asks.

Ron blinks. "No," He says, for the first time. "... No, I don't."

"Then what's stopping you from liking me?" She asks, almost a plea to just - just know. To understand.

"I do like you," Ron says, because he does, but -

Well, that's enough, isn't it?

'But'.

Lavender giggles, softly. "Yeah," She says. "But not like how I like you, huh?"

Not exactly. It's not a no; she's very pretty, and Ron doesn't find her awful to be around or anything like that. And kissing her is pleasant, but they don't really do anything else, do they?

Ron looks down. "I..." He starts, but he can't figure out how to put it without sounding horrible.

He looks back up, and Lavender's smile is watery. "I figured, you know?" She says. "And, I mean, it might help if I... if I didn't think the only way to keep you around was to not let you think about anything else."

"I don't - that - I mean -"

Lavender interrupts him; presses her mouth to his, just briefly, enough to shut him up, and then pulls away.

"I'm sorry," Ron says, helplessly.

"Oh, it's okay," Lavender giggles, but her eyes are still suspiciously bright. "We're teenagers. Isn't this how it's supposed to go?"

Ron shrugs. Lavender pats him on the arm. "See you around," She says, and walks away.

"What was all that about?" Ron glances over to Ginny, who clearly knew what that had been about; she'd been watching the entire encounter.

"Shove off," Ron says. "Oi," Ginny replies. "If it makes you happy, I'm not dating Dean anymore."

"Honestly?" Ron says. "It doesn't."

"You're hard to please," Ginny grumbles. "First you want me to have nothing to do with him, and now you're not happy we've split?"

"Ginny - I stopped caring," Ron says, sharpish, because he didn't really want to be broken up with in the middle of the common room. He's just glad there aren't many people here to have seen the - whole thing play out.

"I thought that's what you wanted?" Ron adds. "You were right angry with me when I did."

"I just didn't want you bossing me about," Ginny says. "I can date who I want to date. You, or mum, or the twins or anyone, none of you have a say in it."

"Well, there you go then," Ron says. "I no longer have anything to say."

"Good," Ginny says, tersely.

Ron leaves the common room, because inside it the atmosphere is tense, and - there's nobody there he'd want to hang out with, anyway.

---

Ron hears them before he sees them, and he feels very awkward about it, but he hides in an alcove because he can't go back down the corridor - and maybe he's the sort to eavesdrop, sometimes.

"Cho," Harry says.

"Don't," Cho says. "Just... I think - I think you need to drop this."

"But," Harry says, and cho sighs. Explosively. "Harry," She says. "I don't think - even with all the evidence - we've tried. For months. And... nothing. I think we just - we've got no choice to drop it. And I've got my NEWTS this year - I really need to focus on my schoolwork. And don't - don't look at me like that. You need to focus on yours, too, the Auror exams are brutal."

"Cho..." Harry tries, again.

"No," Cho says, forcefully. "Harry, please." There's a bit of quiet, for a moment. "Just... whatever Malfoy is up to. Let the teachers deal with it? We've tried everything. Let's go to Hogsmede tomorrow. Have a real, proper date."

Another pause.

"Okay," Harry says.

Cho sighs. "Great," She says, followed by another pause. "See you later, Harry."

Ron swallows, awkwardly. He steps out of the alcove, turns the corner, and finds Harry standing there, his back to Ron.

"Hey, Harry," Ron says. Harry stills, and then turns, expression - simple. Easy, and probably a cover-up for whatever's running through his head at this moment. "Ron," Harry greets.

"Quidditch practise, later," Ron reminds him. "Right," Harry says. "See you there."

Harry brushes past him, walks the way Ron came.

Ron goes in the opposite direction.

---

Practise does not go brilliantly. With Dean and Ginny now broken up, the chasers aren't as in-sync as usual - in fact, Dean seems miserable every time Ginny so much as appears in his field of view, and Ginny refuses to pass the quaffle to him.

Harry, if he were anyone else, Ron is pretty sure he'd have his head in his hands. Instead, his exasperation is evident in the countenance he's holding himself with; his posture is tense and his expression flat.

"Right," Harry says, sharply. "You three. On the ground, with me."

Harry takes the chasers down for a chat; Ron floats around the hoops, while the beaters take turns hitting the quaffle at each other.

Ginny ends up stomping off the pitch; Dean looks morose, and also wanders away, with slightly less alacrity. Everyone else wanders off, because at that point practice might as well be over. Ron files down to the ground, stands awkwardly a few feet away from Harry.

"That could have gone better," Harry mutters, loud enough to hear. He runs a hand down his face, then puts his glasses back on.

"Yeah," Ron says, and Harry jolts, slightly, then looks over at him. "... Yeah," Harry repeats. "I heard you and Lavender broke up," He says.

Ron shrugs.

"Sorry," Harry offers, not sounding really very sorry at all.

"Yeah, right," Ron says. "What's that supposed to mean?" Harry retorts.

"You never really liked her," Ron says, which is true. "Neither does Hermione. Both of you have always found her a bit annoying."

"A bit?" Harry says.

"She's not that bad," Ron defends - because she isn't. He's not dating her anymore, but that doesn't mean he suddenly finds her irritating.

"Right," Harry says, "Suppose you'd know, wouldn't you?" Harry shakes his head. "See you at dinner," He mutters, and stalks off the pitch.

Ron sighs. He heads up to the castle, after getting changed back into the uniform. He heads straight for the common room. Ron only sees Seamus sat at a table. He gives Ron a strained sort of grimace, in greeting, before he returns to the Charms homework set out in front of him. Ron drops down in front of the chess set, and has a very boring match against the Hogwarts pieces, which are even older and even worse opponents than the ones at the Burrow, except these ones also try to cheat - so they're also far more annoying.

Ron plays a match, and then figures he does have to get his homework done at some point. He situates himself at the only sort of free table - the one with Seamus on it - and settles down to work, but it doesn't take long for the words to start swimming on the pages. Ron sighs, leans back, and stares forlornly at his paper.

"Which one's that?" Seamus asks. "Transfigurations," Ron says, somewhat glumly. "I've finished that," Seamus says. "How far's your charms?" "Done," Ron says, and they swap essays. Just to check them over, you know. After that, his Transfigurations one is slightly easier to deal with, and he gets it done by dinner time, which is good, since it's due tomorrow.

"Thanks," Ron says. "Don't mention it," Seamus says. "Where're your other thirds, anyway?" He asks. "Harry's barely around anymore, and Hermione even less," Seamus says. "She's not barged in before I've got my trousers on once this term."

Ron shrugs.

"Seriously," Seamus says. "I never thought I'd say this, but I miss it. At least when that's happening, you lot don't look fecking depressed whenever I see you."

"Oi," Ron says.

"Well, that's an exaggeration," Seamus admits. "But, ya know. Me mam always says - when you've got friends like that, y' should try and keep 'em. 'Uman instinct; we're social animals, yadda yadda."

"Shove off, Seamus."

Seamus shrugs. "Can't say I didn't try," He says. "Neither o' you two are any use, I'm tellin' ya." Ron blinks at him, but Seamus doesn't extrapolate; just packs his bag.

"Dinner," He reminds Ron, then leaves.

---

"I can't believe you did this -" Ron stops, and presses himself against the corner. He's near the hospital wing, it's a few days before the match; Katie's back, which is all well and good, but Demelza's got dragon pox. Harry hasn't been to see her, far as Ron knows, and Ron's pretty sure someone needs to check she'll be good for the match.

Instead, Ron hears Cho, when he's nearly at the door. He pauses, and against his better judgement, he listens.

"I know! I know I shouldn't have - but Cho, he threw a crucio at me - it was instinct - "

"Oh, so it's instinct to throw around spells that slice up your opponent is it, now? Since when did that happen? I thought your favourite spell was expelliarmus - you know, disarming - getting rid of the issue without bloodshed -"

"I'm not defending myself - I know I fucked up -"

"Harry, you could have killed him - you promised, after we saw what it did, that you wouldn't use it-"

"I know! I'm sorry! What else am I supposed to say? -"

"I don't know!"

There's silence, for a moment.

"Look," Harry says, "I didn't mean to hurt him. I didn't. But he attacked me first, Cho, and he tried to crucio me. I couldn't just stand there and take it."

"But you could have used stupefy." She says, helplessly, in response. "You didn't have to use sectumsempera - not after we saw what it did to that dummy."

There's another pause.

"I know," Harry says, hollow. "I suppose you'll be wanting to break up with me, then?"

"Don't be stupid," Cho says. "Why would you think that?"

Another pause.

"I don't know," Harry says, still hollow. "Because if Snape showed up any later, you'd be talking to a murderer, right now?"

"... Like you said," Cho says. "You didn't mean to."

"I shouldn't have used it," Harry says. "You were right. I should - I should have left well alone."

More silence.

"I just..." Cho sighs. "We should probably just... have some space, for a while. To - gather ourselves. So we can have a proper talk."

"Cho," Harry says, and then Cho makes this sound, something sad and awful. "Harry, don't do that, please," Cho says. "Don't close up on me. I hate when you do that."

"Do what?" Harry says, very defensively.

"I hate - whenever this happens - whenever I say we should talk, or you need to think, or we need time, or I need time, or - whenever something comes up that's even a little emotional, you just, you close up," Cho says, and she's starting to sound very upset. Ron winces, sympathetically, because - yes. Often, Harry is a very, very closed book. It can get - difficult to deal with, sometimes. Especially if you're not used to it... and this has to be very different, doesn't it? From Cho's last relationship.

Cedric and Harry are not particularly similar people. Harry's a lot less open than he was, from what Ron could gather about him. Cedric was well-liked. Harry is well-known... as a name, but not as a person. Cedric Diggory had the opposite problem.

"Right," Harry says, uncomfortably. "Well..."

"Like that," Cho says, simply. "Exactly like that."

More silence.

"I think - I mean, this is a terrible time to say it," Cho says, "But I suppose - you're right, in a way."

"I am?" Harry asks.

"I do think we should break up," Cho says. "But not because of what happened in that bathroom. Because of this."

Another pause.

"This?" Harry asks.

"This distance," She says, and there's a short bit of quiet, like she does something physical to gesture to that distance, to represent it. "Emotionally. If you can't open up to me, we're not going to work in the long run, Harry. In a relationship - you've got to be with someone you can talk to. Someone who makes you feel comfortable in your own skin." Cho is quiet, again.

"But..." Harry says. "I mean - I like you."

"I know you do," Cho says, and it's a little wobbly. "I like you too. But we handle emotionality in entirely different ways. And - and you know that. I know that you know that - every time I cry, you look away."

"I'm sorry," Harry says. "It's not really okay," Cho says, "So I won't say it is. Because I think - you need to talk to someone about that, Harry. Crying is okay. It's perfectly healthy. When someone feels too much, all at once, it's... better to cry, than to lash out. It's like a... safer way to explode. It doesn't hurt anyone, and it's... like, catharsis. That's what my therapist said, anyway."

More silence; Ron finds himself growing more uncomfortable by the second, but it's - like he can't bring himself to move an inch. What if they hear? He doesn't want to get caught eavesdropping, because - he hadn't exactly meant to, it's just... it sort of happened.

"I am - I am sorry."

"I'd like... if the next time we speak," Cho says, "You know what you're sorry about. And I'd like," She continues, "For us to be friends. If that's okay? Because I do like you, Harry," She says, "But we're not... romantically compatible. And I think you know that as well as I do, and I think we've known that for a while, now."

It's been a few months, Ron thinks, and they didn't exactly spend all that time together - but neither did he and Lavender. Ron thinks... if you don't work, you don't work, and it's - obvious when that's the case, even if you don't want it to be.

It's quiet, for a bit. Then, Ron hears shoes down the hallway, and a sigh, masculine in tone; it's just Harry there, and Ron hiding here, and Ron knows now's not a great time to round the corner, but he really does need to check in with Demelza. If she's not okay, Katie might have to substitute, and she's not certain she's ready for that just yet.

And, obviously, Harry's not going to be in the right mindset to Captain well, right now.

Ron quietly retreats down the corridor, then walks a little loudly back in the direction of the Hospital wing. When he turns the corner, Harry looks - composed, somewhat, but he relaxes minutely when he sees it's Ron.

Just Ron.

"Harry," Ron greets, as if surprised. "You here to see Demelza?"

"Yeah," Harry lies, "That I am."

They go inside; one bed, off in the back, has its curtains pulled. Harry stares at it, for a moment, before shaking himself out of his stupor. They go over to Demelza, who is clearly still very under the weather.

"You'll haff to sub me in," She mumbles. "I'ff got only a slim chance of recoff-ring by the match..." She says, morosley.

"Alright, Demelza," Harry says. "Katie's back now, and Dean and Ginny-"

"Hate each other," Demelza mumbles. "-Are plenty good themselves, so you don't need to worry," Harry continues. "...Listen out for the commentary?"

Demelza groans. They leave her to it.

The walk back to the common room is quiet. Harry is lost in thought, and he doesn't notice when Ron leads him down a different seventh-floor corridor.

"Uh," Harry says, "This isn't the common room."

"Don't miss a thing, do you?" Ron says. "Come on."

They enter the room they'd used last year. Ron drops on the couch, and Harry sits down, uncertainly, looking around as if he doesn't recognise the place at all.

"I, uh," Ron says, and then hesitates, and then, because he's not a coward, "I heard... you and Cho," But he says it uncomfortably, because he is Harry's friend, and he really hadn't meant to eavesdrop.

"... Oh," Harry says. "... How much?"

"All of it," Ron says, "Mostly. What, um..."

"What's sectumsempera?" Harry asks.

"Yeah," Ron says.

A dummy appears before them. "Sectumsempera," Harry intones, with a wave of his wand; what follows is a grisly tearing of the dummy, cuts opening on its surface, spilling forth stuffing until the dummy barely resembles the human it previously kind of did, now all... deflated.

"Malfoy didn't look like that," Harry adds. "And Snape stopped the bleeding... before..."

Ron nods. Harry falls quiet.

"Don't - don't tell Hermione," Harry rushes out. Ron wasn't planning to, so he nods. It's not that she'd be all 'I told you so' - because she certainly would - but... Hermione doesn't deal well with Harry's - Harry-ness. About this sort of thing, there aren't many that do.

"And..." Harry sighs. "And what?" Ron asks.

"Well, Snape is the one that saved Malfoy," He says. "And - my occlumency's alright, now, but he - I think he knew. It was like he recognised the spell - I mean, obviously, he did; he fixed the damage. So... he gave me detentions."

"Oh," Ron says. "Anyway," Harry says, standing. "Come on - I need to call up a different version of the room, so I can get the book back..."

"Are you - I mean, if Snape..."

"He won't," Harry says. "Besides - I don't want anyone else finding it."

They leave the room. Harry goes back in, after pacing, and Ron follows. Inside, towers of old junk fill the space, barely-there pathways through the mounds of various objects snake through, like winding rivers. "Dobby calls it the room of hidden things," Harry says. "I think this is why."

Ron nods, distractedly, looking around. "This way, I think," Harry says, and Ron follows him through the stacks, all the way to -

A bust.

With a diadem on it.

And that -

What is that?

Ron frowns at it. It's -

Familiar.

Harry frowns at him, and then... tilts his head.

"Huh," Harry mutters. "I didn't..."

They look at the diadem, and then at each other.

"Do you think-?" Harry says. They look back at it.

"I do," Ron says, surer of this than anything else he's ever been sure of. Harry takes off his robe, stands there in his oversized t-shirt and jeans, Dudley's old castoffs, and then attempts to bundle the diadem inside the fabric. It works, and with great care and an attempt at nonchalance, Ron grabs the Prince's book as they leave the room. They walk, through the corridors and passages of the school, until they reach the Headmaster's office.

Harry says the password, and they enter up the stairs, into the office; the door is unlocked. The portraits awaken, say some sleep-garbled words at them, and then a door opens, revealing Albus Dumbledore, dressed for bed with fuzzy slippers on his feet but otherwise looking very, very alert.

"What do you have there, my dear boy?" He asks. Not one, not two, but ten of the gizmos on his desk are alight in motion; whizzing, popping, beeping, and all manner of other noises emanate from the strange devices.

"Another one of those, we think," Harry says, gesturing to - something probably in Dumbledore's desk, Ron thinks.

"Put it down on the table, quickly," Dumbledore says, flying into motion; he opens the cabinet, retrieving the sword of Gryffindor from within, as Harry places his robe on the table and unwraps the fabric.

The diadem lays there, dormant. But only for a moment.

From nowhere, heads burst forth, smoky, dark shapes, not quite formed but not formless, and they lunge for the three of them; Dumbledore is thrown back, sword clattering to the ground; Ron and Harry are thrown up, against the ceiling, and Ron hears something crack when he lands on the ground - he staggers to his feet, but there are voices, loud, dominating voices, yet somehow they whisper, perhaps directly into his brain, secrets, words of wisdom, things he should know, would want to know, what he desperately wants to hear... Ron struggles forward, as does Harry, as does Dumbledore; all attempting to reach the sword, just out of reach - just a bit further - a bit further - and with great effort, a bit further - and Ron, the tallest, with the largest stride, reaches it first.

"Stab... the diadem... Ronald... cleave it if you must..." Dumbledore manages.

But at this, the heads turn, and though Ron has the sword in his grasp, he can no longer see past the darkness encroaching on his vision, and the whispers in his brain grow all the louder... Knowledge, they say, and Wisdom, they say, Can be yours... Listen to us... to me... Ronald Weasley... We can tell you the secrets you hold so dear... What you need to know... Place me upon your head... And listen... For we know what they think, Ronald Weasley... What she thinks, what they think... What he thinks... And if you listen, we can tell you... You can know, for certain... That they do not care, or that they do... All the understanding in the world, of your loved ones, of your friends, of the great -

Suddenly, the diadem is in his path, like it was shoved in front of him, or perhaps the other way around, and Ron remembers, all of a sudden, what this thing is, and he raises the sword, and he strikes it down.

It goes very quiet, and very, very still. Ron can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and he's sure everyone else in the castle can hear it, too.

"Ravenclaw's Diadem," Dumbledore says, very gravely, after a moment. "So it was, indeed, another Founder's artefact..."

He sits down, heavily, onto his desk chair, and with an afterthought, conjures up two cushy armchairs for Harry and Ron to collapse down onto. Ron places the sword on the desk, feeling a great weight slowly lift itself from his shoulders.

"May I ask," Dumbledore requests, "Where it was you two found this Horcrux?"

"The room of requirement, sir," Harry says. "In the Room of Hidden Things." His glasses are in two pieces.

"Ingenious," Dumbledore murmurs. "To store a Horcrux here - right under our noses... in a place that no-one would ever think to look, because first, they would have to know where... truly, what more poetic a place could he have hidden this? The Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw... no longer lost... but still forgotten... In the home of its own creator."

Dumbledore shakes his head.

He fixes Harry's glasses.

For a moment, they sit, and then he clears his throat, waves his wand, and a teapot stirs to life, a jug of milk starts pouring into three cups, and teaspoons start stirring themselves. "I think a spot of tea is in order," He says, suddenly lively. "That is, if I am not mistaken, the fourth Horcrux we have destroyed. If my calculations are correct, we have only two more left to find, and we know what those ones are." He steeples his hands together, looking all the more cheerful as each moment passes. "I think, Harry, Ronald, that we find ourselves closer to Voldemort's defeat tonight than we have been for nearly seventeen years."

Ron looks at Harry, and they share a grin, something like triumph flowing in the air of the room. Dumbledore floats two of the teacups and their saucers over to them, then takes a sip of his own with great relish.

"Yes, yes, this is all well and good," Phineas Nigellus, that old codger from the portrait in their room at Grimmauld, pipes up. "But have you forgotten the fact that The Dark Lord keeps his snake on him at all times? And that, though you know - perhaps, maybe - that the last Horcrux is the Cup... you have no idea where it could be?"

"Ah, Phineas," Dumbledore says, "As always, you keep us grounded. However, as for the cup... I have my suspicions."

"Always with the suspicions, Dumbledore," Phineas sneers, tone snide.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkle. "Could you, perhaps, go to Grimmauld Place and fetch us Sirius? I shall open the floo network for an hour... If you would be so kind, Phineas..."

The old headmaster huffs then leaves his portrait with an attitude of severe annoyance.

Dumbledore chuckles.

"Why are you asking for Sirius, sir?" Harry asks.

"Oh, it is a thought, I have, you see," Dumbledore says. "But, as you both have just gone through a very taxing evening, and if I am not mistaken, there is a Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match on in a few days -"

"I can't play, Sir," Harry says. "I've been assigned detention."

"... Ah, well." Dumbledore steeples his hands again. "In that case, and - as I did promise... you may stay." He turns his head to Ron. "As for you, Mr Weasley - I think... yes. For the both of you," His eyes twinkle again, "Another set of school awards should suffice - and Mr Weasley, 200 points to Gryffindor, once more, for bravery in the face of evil. You may go, Ronald - as I said, you will be needing sleep after this ordeal, and Gryffindor needs their keeper in top shape!" He says all this very cheerfully. Ron's ears burn as he stands, and Harry's grinning at him, really very brightly.

His eyes are very, very green - but Ron's known that for years, and he tucks it away with the rest of his dancing hippogriffs.

"Go on," Harry says. "I'll tell you all about it later," He adds, blatantly, and Dumbledore's eyes twinkle brighter and more jubilantly. Ron leaves the office feeling... strangely uplifted, despite having just battled a piece of Voldemort's soul. This keeps all the way to the Gryffindor tower, all the way up the stairs, and all the way into bed.

---

In the morning, Ron realises he's slept in his robes, and that he's still got the Prince's book grasped tightly in his hand. His dreams had been - stranger than usual; filled with amorphous shapes, and deep, dark whispering, pulling him down, down into nothingness...

Ron shivers and sits up. He opens his curtains and chucks the book at Harry's bed - Harry, who is awake, catches it blearily. "Don't start throwing books at me, now," Harry says. "I can't control Snape giving me detention at the same time as the match."

Dean falls out of bed.

"You're - you're what?" Seamus says. "Yeah," Harry grimaces. "Congrats, Seamus; you're a new chaser. Ginny's going to have to take over as seeker for this match..."

"Merlin, Harry," Dean says, standing. "And you couldn't have given us more warning?"

"Got the detentions last night," Harry admits. "Couldn't have if I tried."

"Blimey, Harry," Dean says, shaking his head. Neville looks vaguely confused. "You didn't have defense, yesterday." He says.

"You know how Snape is," Harry replies. Neville grimaces - because he definitely does.

Harry and Ron walk downstairs together, for the first time in what feels like forever, which seems a bit weird, and definitely sappy and it's not something Ron would normally comment on, it's just - strange that it doesn't feel strange. Because it had done, for a bit, but now... it's like - back to normal. Back to before that argument with Ginny.

Hermione smiles at them when she sees them, and, again; they walk down to breakfast together, all three of them. For the first time in a while.

"So," Harry says, when they're alone in a passageway with Hermione, "We found a Horcrux last night." Harry recounts the tale, because admittedly Ron's a little fuzzy on the details, and his ears burn when Harry takes to describing the part where Ron 'saved our arses' with great relish.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Hermione says brightly, beaming at them both. "So there's only two left, now?" She says.

"Yeah," Harry says. "Thanks to Ron."

Hermione nods. "Thanks to Ron," She repeats, grinning when his ears burn crimson.

---

After that, it's like the past few months never happened. And Hermione's a bit more honest, too; she doesn't say 'I have homework to do, bye' nearly as often; it's 'I have work', which means Order Business, or 'I have to go talk with someone', which means 'I'm going to go see my Bulgarian Boyfriend, see you later.'

Obviously, Harry and Ron don't have any reason to not hang around each other, anymore, so it's back to sitting around in the common room, trying to do homework and copying off of each other. It's back to playing chess matches (Ron wins when he's paying attention, and he doesn't always pay attention because winning all the time isn't really that fun - it's not like it's a competition; it's just Harry), it's back to hanging around the Room, in that version they'd made last year, and it's back to properly planning and carrying out DA lessons; joining all their efforts instead of keeping them wholly separate.

However.

The day after the incident with the Diadem, a day before the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match: Ron is about to enter the dorm room when he hears -

"So you talked, then?" Seamus ask... Harry?

"Not right now, Seamus," Harry says. "And - no, no we didn't."

"But you are talking again, and I thought you said -"

"Doesn't matter what I said, Seamus," Harry says.

"Funny," Seamus says, "That it took you both being single again-"

"That's not it," Harry says. "Shove off, would you? What if he barged in, right now -"

"Shove off, yourself," Seamus says. "Look, I've spoken to him - he missed you just as much as you missed him, you dolt-"

"Now you sound like Hermione," Harry grouses. "She said the same thing in our fourth year-"

"As much as it horrifies me to sound like Hermione Granger, and trust me, it does," Seamus says, "She's not wrong, at least about that. Come on, mate. I could've told you the same thing, then; he hung around me and Dean, at the time, and he was a right mope about it -"

Ron shifts, awkwardly. The door creaks, and he winces.

"Shut up," Harry says. Seamus does, and Ron waits, bated breath. Silence, for a few moments, then Seamus snorts.

"You're paranoid, you are," Seamus says. "Look. If -"

"Do you want me to start talking about Dean?" Harry says.

"Oh, low blow, Potter." Seamus grouses. "Fine. And here I was, thinking we commiserated on our mutual stupidity the night of the match. Fine! I'll leave you be."

Ron makes his way very quickly down the stairs, and out of the common room. He waits an hour, just milling about, before he dares go back inside.

What was all that about? He thinks. He heads up the stairs, into the dorm. Neville's there, ready for bed. Dean and Seamus are no-shows, but Harry's sat, reading the Prince's book, on his bed. In his school robes, still.

"There you are," Ron says. Harry looks up, smiles at him, vaguely, and looks back down at the book.

Neville looks up. He looks at them, then seems to think about something - and then, very quickly, for some odd reason, he grabs his plant and hurries out the room, after throwing on his robe over his pyjamas.

"What's up with him?" Ron asks after the door closes.

"No idea," Harry says. "I've been thinking about something."

"What?" Ron asks. He sits down, on the edge of his bed. "Just... Snape knew the spell," Harry says. "Or at least, how to cure it."

"Right?" Ron prompts.

"Well," Harry says. "Either it was used on him, or it was common in the war, or - or..."

"Or he made it," Ron says.

"Yeah." Harry looks up. "So I was thinking. If - maybe and very unfortunately -"

"If Snape is the Prince?" Ron asks, eyebrows climbing.

"Well," Harry says. "It's a thought. Not a pleasant one, mind you, and I'd like him to not be - but if you think about it - he's a half-blood, isn't he?"

"Snape isn't a wizarding name," Ron allows. "So, yeah, I guess." He'd never really thought about it - stalking about the dungeons, dressed in all black with a sneering contempt of muggleborns, if how he treats Hermione is any evidence... Ron hadn't really thought about it. He just seemed like any other stereotypical death-eater purist, to him. But, it's true; Snape is not a pureblood name. Ron's never heard it on anyone else.

"And - he's - well, he's a potions expert, isn't he?" Harry says.

"So what are you saying?"

"That's he's a bloody hypocrite," Harry says, "That he invented Sectumsempera as a teenager - doesn't bode well for his disposition back then - might've used it on people at school. He fought with my dad a lot - maybe all the spells were, in the book - maybe they were ones he used on the Marauders when they crossed paths."

"Merlin," Ron says. It makes sense, in a really dark way.

"Muffilatio, also, to be left alone with his Death Eater pals," Harry adds. "Levicorpus - seems like a prank spell, doesn't it? But... And - tongue to the roof, it's all - they're all spells a teenager would come up with, but - "

"Sectumsempera doesn't seem like that," Ron says.

"It seems like something a Death Eater would come up with," Harry says, "And we know they recruit young. And if - Snape's a half-blood, and he was hanging around all these pure-blood purists, let's say he wanted to - make an impression. Show he could do it. Couple of spells for tormenting, like levicorpus, and Sectumsempera, for -"

"Right," Ron says, everything fitting together a little too well. "For..."

"For enemies," Harry says. "What it says in the book. Nothing else - no... remedy, or anything - that's all it says. 'Sectumsempera - for enemies.' And the shorthand for everything - remember how Snape writes on the board?"

He does. Snape has his own key for everything, and you've got to figure it out yourself, or tough luck.

"It's similar to that," Harry says. "Not the same - but then, he's had around twenty years to refine it - that sort of thing is bound to change. But the fact is -"

"They both use them," Ron says.

"Yeah." Harry pauses. "Are you going to stop using it?" Ron asks. "What?" Harry frowns. "No. I think -" Here, he grins - "I think he'd hate that I am."

Ron laughs, because he would. He really, really would.

"Oh," Harry says. "And I had to use your copy - to prove I wasn't using this one - sorry."

"How'd you get away with that?" Ron asks.

"Well, I didn't, really," Harry says. "Hence the detentions."

"Oh, right, yeah." Ron pauses. "Well. The match shouldn't go too badly, I don't think."

"Ginny's good," Harry agrees. "And so is everyone else. You'll be fine."

Ron sure hopes so.

---

The match does not go badly. Since Ginny's seeker, they don't have to worry about her working poorly with Dean, who works just as well with Seamus and Katie as expected, even though they only had one last-minute not-technically-scheduled practice to try them out together. And Ginny does spectacularly as Harry's replacement for the event, and the beaters hit the bludgers like they're supposed to, and Ron guards the goals like he's supposed to, and it goes well.

They win, if it wasn't obvious.

The party afterwards is uproarious; Gryffindors cheering and beers being passed around, music blaring on the radio, the usual fare. Ron's had his turn being paraded around like the rest of the team, on the shoulders of a bunch of vaguely-tipsy teenagers, and he's grinning at Katie, up on the shoulders of a few seventh-years, clapping along with the chant the rest of the students had started up at some point before Ron's arrival and hadn't let up in since.

The portrait door opens; There's an immediate hush, and then, with great alacrity, everyone rushes Harry.

Someone shoves the trophy in Ron's hands - he doesn't get a good look - and he's there first, still grinning like a loon. "We won!" He yells, shoving the cup practically under Harry's nose. "We won! Four hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! We won!" And then Ginny's hugging Harry, and then Harry's being pulled into hugs by the rest of the team, clapped heartily on the back by Seamus, given a butterbeer by - of all people - Neville, and then the party gets back into full swing.

The evening ends very late; the sun is poking up above the horizon before the first person heads off for bed. That person, it turns out, is Harry, who sneaks out between Seamus and Lavender snogging in the corner (Ron thinks he hears Harry mutter "Hypocrite," as he passes them, but he might have been mistaken) and Dean staring morosely off into the far distance, sat awkwardly at the same table as Ginny, who is chatting happily with Luna, who for some reason has been snuck into the common room, and nobody really seems to mind. (She's not the only person from another house - there's quite a few people here, people's friends and girlfriends and boyfriends because everyone knows Gryffindor throws the best parties.)

Ron excuses himself, feigns post-game exhaustion and drinks-based-drowsiness, then heads upstairs. There's a token protest because it's much harder to be stealthy when you're six-foot-something and not five-foot-something, but not much, because it really is morning, morning. Getting a couple hours kip in seems sensible, and following his example, a few other Gryffindors head upstairs.

But that's not the point, really.

Ron closes the dorm room's door behind himself, a solid click reverberating in the air.

"Hey," Harry greets, looking at his canopy; he's not gotten ready for bed, for some reason - he's just lying there in his robes, staring up at nothing.

"Hello," Ron says, and cracks himself up, because - it's stilted, their conversation, still, and he's at the point of drunkenness when everything feels vaguely humorous, if not outright hysterical. Thankfully, because otherwise, he'd have to wonder why it's stilted. Still.

Ron flops down onto his bed.

"Enjoy the festivities?" Harry asks. "Yeah," Ron says, "You?"

He thinks Harry shrugs; Ron lifts his head up to check, but of course by the time he's managed that, Harry's still again.

"Right," Ron says, anyway, dropping his head back down onto the pillows. "Well."

"Well," Harry repeats.

Ron thinks they both pass out, around then, because he doesn't remember any more conversation after that.

---

So yes. After the game, and the after-party, things return to a strangely normal state, between the three of them; Him, and Harry, and Hermione. Time passes, and Ron almost forgets the awkwardness and odd distance that had been hanging between them all; even only by the time June starts encroaching on them along with the summer sun, Ron can hardly remember what it was like. That whole time period feels both very alien and very far away.

It's a good thing, Ron thinks, that they can all just hang out like good friend again.

The DA starts going even more smoothly than it already was, with the three of them properly collaborating, and at the end of one session, Seamus says to Ron; "Glad you three are back together again," grinning at Ron's vague discomfort. "These sessions were getting awkward. Especially with you and Harry avoiding each other and sticking your tongues down a couple poor girls' throats. Really, you should practice your tecnique," He winks, then wanders off with Dean, and Ron wonders briefly why there's a strange flush to Dean's face.

That distraction doesn't last particularly long, though, because Harry's talking to Cho Chang in the corner of the room. It's a perfectly friendly conversation; she's stood two feet away from him, expression open but vaguely long-suffering, her smile nothing but platonically kind and welcoming. Still, something about it makes him want to turn around and walk oout of the castle and not talk to Harry for a week, for some reason.

Ron remembers his argument with Ginny very vividly, because you don't tend to forget being accused of the things she accused him of. And, even then, even with those insinuations being thrown around all willy nilly, the thing Ron focuses on the most, even now, is Harry's snogged Cho Chang! Even though it wasn't true at the time, it doesn't matter, because the point is -

Why should that matter? Why should he care about that? Harry has a girlfriend or could have one, or had one; so what? A lot, apparently, because it's yet another of Ron's dancing hippogriffs. He's collecting a whole fucking zoo of the bloody things.

Most of them have something to do with Harry.

Harry smiles simply at Cho, no trace of want or longing or anything hidden behind his eyes even remotely, and walks away from her. Ron tries to look like he wasn't staring, which is pretty easy when there are sheets of strategy plans laid out in front of him on a table.

"Hey, Ron," Harry says, supposedly announcing his presence as if Ron wouldn't know where he's standing whenever they're in vaguely the same location regardless of whether or not Harry has decided to tell him.

"Hey, mate," Ron says. "What do you think of this one? Practice battle next time - 'course, limit the spells, so we don't have a bunch of idiots dragging themselves over to Madam Pomfrey and compromising this whole thing -"

"Looks good to me," Harry says. Ron nods.

"Well," Harry says, "We should get going." They leave the Room, the last two people to do so.

---

For some time, things once again pass normally; about a week, all told. Then, one evening, Ron doesn't see Harry after he leaves the common room. Harry had an argument with Hermione about the half-blood-prince, Ron wondered if Eilleen Prince could be Snape's mother (Once Hermione was out of earshot, of course), which Harry seemed to think was plausible - and then Jimmy Peakes came by with a note from Dumbledore, and Ron hasn't seen him since.

But that doesn't rightly matter, when horrified screaming starts happening.

Ron awakes, bleariily, to being shaken rather forcefully by Neville, who is half-dressed in a very hap-hazard, maximum ease-of-movement manner, pyjama-bottoms and a t-shirt and running shoes, no socks, looking very, very frazzled.

"Ron, wake up," He says, and he sounds scared, but determined, "The castle is under attack," He explains, and Ron swings his legs out of bed, grabbing his wand as he stands. "What?" Ron asks, but he's already - Felix Felicis, if they're under attack by who he thinks they are - and who else would it be? - They're going to be up against a bunch of fully trained adult wizards and witches, and they'll need all the bloody luck they can get, in that case -

"Death Eaters got into the castle," Neville says, "Nobody knows how - I found Harry's coin, I've called the DA - emergency, I used the emergency alert code -"

"Great one, Neville, here - just take a sip, just a sip of this - we need to max it out for everyone -"

Neville takes the lucky potion and takes, as Ron says, the smallest sip he can, and immediately looks a little more alert, "Great," Ron says, and takes some himself, feeling somewhat like they need to go find Ginny and Hermione and Luna right now, and Neville seems to be of the same opinion; they run, quickly, down the stairs, two at a time, and Ron calls out, "Hermione!" He yells, "Ginny!" And Hermione catches him by the arm, spins him around - Ron pushes the Felix felicis into her hands, "Take a sip, just a sip!" He says, and she does, and hands it over to Ginny, and then takes it back, and then they're running through the castle, and Ginny and Neville split off down the first corridor - "Be careful!" Ron calls out, "Don't get killed!" Ginny calls back, rounding the corner, and then Ron and Hermione are left - left to follow their instincts, all of a sudden, though Hermione looks hesitant; Ron takes her arm, to keep her moving, and they sprint all the way through the castle, no Death Eaters in sight - and when they reach the Entrance Hall, the great doors open wide, and Harry and Dumbledore are standing at the entrance, looking somewhat worse for wear but here, alive, and Ron feels immediate relief, and takes the lucky potion from Hermione and hands it to Harry, who takes a sip, and then hands it to Dumbledore, and there's so little left, but after an unspoken conversation the old wizard takes the smallest, smallest sip possible, and Hermione takes it from him, and says - "I need to find Luna," And makes a break for it, thoughts no longer driven by precise planning but by -

Magic.

Ron takes a breath, because he feels like he can, just for a moment. "We need to secure the students," Dumbledore says, gravely, "And make sure - we cannot allow the Death Eaters into my office - the Horcruxes, the sword -"

"Right," Harry says, "I must find the Professors," Dumbledore says, taking out his wand, "Take the utmost caution, boys, for tonight could very well be the most important event of this war," He says, and then he takes off, and it's just Harry and Ron in the hall.

They share a glance, and without further thought, head up to the seventh-floor corridor.

"It's Malfoy - I knew it, I knew he was up to something - but there was no time -" And Harry explains, between breaths, what he'd found on his way to Dumbledore; he'd found Professor Trelawney, outside the Room of Requirement, and she'd been attacked, and a male voice had been whooping, whooping, gleeful, and he'd succeeded, and Harry and Ron are running full pelt, and suddenly they round the corner, and there he is - with - with -

"Potter!" Bellatrix cackles, gleefully. This does not feel particularly lucky. "Weasley! So nice of you to join us!" She grins, wide, maniac, and sends a loud, shrieked crucio their way - Ron, instinctively, without thought, accios a suit of armor in the way of the spell, blocking it from hitting Harry. "Don't let him get away!" Harry shouts, because Malfoy is backing up, "Ron, go! I can take her-"

Ron doesn't think twice, almost like he can't, or he doesn't need to - He runs, full pelt, the entirety of Bellatrix's attention focused on Harry's declaration - and Ron chases Malfoy down the hall, and the next, through the corridors, each of them sending spell after spell at each other, Ron dodging red and feeble green bolts of light, and, as luck would have it, when he rounds the corner, it's a dead end, and Malfoy looks very, very trapped.

They stare at each other, warily, wands raised, breathing heavily after that marathon. "So, Weasley," Malfoy sneers. "How does it feel? To have failed? Despite your... Defense Association, here we are." His eyes are bright, feverish, and there's a pallid tinge to his face, a sheen of nervous sweat coating his brow. His hand is shaking, but he doesn't seem to notice - what he does notice, is his surroundings; his eyes are darting about, cataloguing, but there's nothing here. No window, no suits of armour, no statues, no braziers, no nothing, just smooth stone walls, a high ceiling, and a cold floor.

And a secret passage, to his left, that he doesn't seem to know about.

"End of the road, Malfoy," Ron says, dispassionately. "What, did you really think you'd get away with it?"

Malfoy's sneer deepens, but there's a clear fear in his eyes he's incapable of hiding.

"I think this is what he wanted, you know," Ron says, suddenly. "What Voldemort wanted."

"You think you're so brave, now, do you?" Malfoy keeps sneering. "Saying the Dark Lord's name-"

"No," Ron says, "Just not a coward." He tightens his grip on his wand. "I think he set you up, Malfoy."

Malfoy's eyes narrow, but he doesn't look unaffected by Ron's words. "I think," Ron says, slowly, "This is a punishment for your father, isn't it? Because - I mean, you're you. Voldemort probably didn't even think you could do it, and if you did, well, he'd think you'd get caught in the crossfire, right? Delegated execution."

"What makes you so sure?" Malfoy sneers.

"Look, ferret, you're useless," Ron says. "Can't even aim a crucio properly, if what Harry said about your spat was true. And I'm inclined to believe my best mate on that sort of thing."

"Yes," Malfoy sneers, "The Boy Who Lived. Funny, how your gallant hero nearly killed me."

"Oh, shove off, Malfoy," Ron says. "How many times have you nearly killed him, or wanted to? He was defending himself."

They're at a standstill - but, instinctively, Ron knows, if he just stalls... just for a minute longer... just give him another couple minutes... that secret passage...

"And I suppose you'd know how to aim a crucio properly?" Malfoy sneers even more excessively, pointy ferret face turning ever more jagged and unpleasant. "After last year's lessons on the subject - didn't you take all of them? Funny, the biggest Golden Boys doing the darkest magic with such ease. You're no better than we are, weasel."

"Sounds like you don't think all that highly of yourself, anymore, ferret," Ron says, eyes trained on Malfoy's wand, making sure he's not about to cast a spell non-verbally. "Stooping so low as to say you're on the same level as me? That's new."

Malfoy snarls, flexes his grip on his wand. Ron keeps his level with the Ferret's face, and Malfoy still looks so very uncomfortable, like a mouse caught in a trap.

Just a little longer...

"I'm better than you," Malfoy insists. "I always will be."

"Keep telling yourself that," Ron says. "Look, are you going to cast a spell or what? I don't have all day."

Malfoy blinks.

"You see," Ron says, "I'm feeling lucky."

The door, the secret door in the wall to his left bursts open - a death eater flies through, colliding with Malfoy, who's taken by surprise, turns to face him - and is caught with the full brunt of his weight - and Ron sends an incarcerous his way, walks over, and yanks his wand out of his hand.

"There you go," Ron says. "Have a good nap. Stupefy."

"Hello, Ronald," Luna says. Ron turns to look at her - and stares, horrified. "Yes, we are in a bit of trouble," Luna says, shifting her stance; one leg looks broken, put in a makeshift splint with some of a table and a misused incarcerous, and her grip on her wand is shaky but strong. "Hermione needs medical attention, and soon - I stemmed the flow, but I wasn't sure what she was hit with - "

They rush off towards the Hospital wing, the two death eaters held up with a quick Mobillicorpus, by Ron, floating along behind them and banging into corners. They swing onto the hall with the Hospital's door, and Ron sees the Death Eaters trying to enter before they see him; two bolts of bright red light emanate from his and Luna's wands, and then they bang on the door.

"Madam Pomfrey!" Ron yells, "We've got wounded! And some unconscious Death Eaters to restrain!"

"Tell me something only you would know, Mr Weasley!"

"In - In second-year," Ron says, "You caught me visiting Hermione under Harry's cloak - please let us in, Madam Pomfrey, she's badly hurt - Luna's leg is broken -"

The doors burst open, inwards, and they're ushered into the room; the beds are full, many students unconscious or close, and Madam Pomfrey transfigures another bed for Hermione, tells Luna to take a chair and wait while she works, because a leg can be replaced, but not a heart.

Ron takes a breath.

"Has Harry -"

"No, Mr Weasley - and if you must go, lock the door behind you -"

Ron bolts, leaves Hermione and Luna in the capable hands of the school's mediwitch, unable to truly concentrate on Hermione's state, yet, it's barely even registered, because his little sister and Harry and Neville and everyone else he knows is still out there, somewhere, in the school -

"Ron!" He hears, and spins, and it's - Tonks, and Remus - "Thank god, there you are -"

"Have you seen Ginny?" Ron demands, "Harry? Neville - Dean - Seamus - Lavender -"

"No, and you can't think about that right now," Tonks says, "Shoulders straight, Ron - keep a cool head, we've -"

"Last I saw Harry he was duelling Bellatrix Lestrange," Ron states, forcefully, "For all I know he could be dead-"

"He isn't, Ron, Sirius is with him," Remus says, "Neither of us have seen him - but Sirius caught sight of him and ran off -"

"Great, alright, then Ginny? Where's my sister?" Ron says, and Remus shakes his head, "We need to go to Dumbledore," Tonks says, "Ron, come on - the whole Order's here - "

"Fine, alright, let's go -"

And they run, run fast, to the Headmaster's office, and as luck would have it they don't run into anyone other than Neville and Ginny, who are perfectly fine if a bit bruised and battered, but luckier than the rest of the student body, by miles, and they all enter the office to find it deserted.

"Dumbledore said he'd be here -" Ron says and he makes a beeline for the desk; the destroyed Horcruxes are still in the drawers - the sword, however, is carelessly lain on the desk, and - there is a cup, cleaved in half, situated in the center of the mess; and it is a mess - Ron looks around - it looks like a tornado decided to have a party in the office - paintings are crooked, some even on the floor, shelves toppled, books laying open and half-torn-apart, many of Dumbledore's gizmoes and contraptions in pieces, on the floor...

"Did he now?" Remus says, looking around suspiciously.

"IF you would like to know," Phineas Nigellus says, "He was. Then, for some unknowable, entirely Dumbledore sort of reason, he went off to the Astronomy Tower."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm a Hogwarts Portrait, Mr Weasley," Phineas says, cooly. "Now, if you don't excuse me, I'm going to go check on the state of my school..." And he wanders away, through the portraits of hiding headmasters - not all of them are here, Ron notes, and he thinks he sees the Fat Lady and her friend in the back corner, drinking through a keg of mead with nothing less than dying desperation -

"Astronomy Tower it is," Tonks says, and they start running again, off towards the Astronomy classroom, but they're interrupted by the sound of explosions, and Ron can see straggling sparks of set off fireworks fly around the corner of the next corridor, "Looks like the Twins are here," Ginny says, and gestures, "Go on! We'll help them out!" And her and Neville take a left while Ron, Remus and Tonks go right, through a secret passage. and arrive nearby the Tower.

Here, it is eerily silent. Far, far too quiet. Ron doesn't like it; his instincts are screaming at him to get out of here. Instead, he keeps his wand very steady, pointed straight ahead, and his eyes roving over all of his surroundings - it's nothing but a feeling, but it's all Ron's been going on since he took a sip of that Felix Felicis.

They climb the stairs; the air, as they ascend, gets colder.

"Get behind me," Ron finds himself saying.

"Ron-"

"I took Felix Felicis," Ron snaps at Tonks, who blinks, "Get behind me."

Upstairs, there is nothing, really, save for one Severus Snape, staring out over the horizon - or looking down, rather, at the castle grounds below.

He is wandless, by the looks of him. That doesn't mean anything - what means something, Ron thinks, darkly, is the mark sitting quietly above their heads. And Snape, standing here, below it, not helping the students defend the school at all.

"So you did it again, did you?" Ron calls out, angrily, because Harry's brief words flash through his head - Snape was the one, Ron - he was the one who told Voldemort about the prophecy - about me -

"Ron," Tonks hisses.

"It is about time you made yourselves known," Snape states, turning around. "I was wondering if the Order really is as incompetent as they seem to the Dark Lord."

"So you admit it, then," Ron grits his teeth. "You were a triple agent, this whole time."

"I am loyal," Snape says, "To the Dark Lord." He looks down to the ground. "I carried out... his wishes."

Snape steps aside. "You're not going anywhere, Severus," Remus says, dangerously. Ron is flanked on both sides; Tonks on his left, Remus on his right. They block the path to the stairs; Snape has little chance for escape, unless he wishes to give jumping off the tower a good go.

Or, of course, by going through the three of them. Ron tightens his grip on his wand, knuckles white.

"You don't have any say in the matter, Lupin," Snape sneers.

"You're under arrest, Snape," Tonks says, cooly. "We have all the say in the world."

"I think you'll find I am not, in fact, under arrest, Nymphadora," He says, just to get her riled up. "Stand aside."

Snape looks at Ron, right at him, and Ron is so angry, because - because Dumbledore trusted Snape - and Snape did this, and Snape told Voldemort about Harry, told him about the prophecy, and Ron needs to know, just know, what was running through his sick and twisted mind behind that unreadable glint in his black eyes - and then - and he's not tried it before, he hasn't - but he has to, he has to - and Ron thinks, very loudly, Legilimens - his wand pointed straight at Snape, his eyes in direct contact with the man's own -

A flash of something - "Please, Severus," Whispered - "A pig for slaughter-" "- debt-" ""I'm dying -" "- the boy must die-"

Ron stumbles; Tonks notices, tries to catch him; Remus realises Snape is moving, but with the other two distracted and Remus looking so haggard, and being so haggard, he misses Severus, who - even wandless - only has to barge on past him, throwing his hand out; Ron has to catch Remus so he doesn't fall down the stairs - and then Snape is gone, down, into the castle proper, and they're left standing there like lemons, having done nothing at all of any use in stopping him.

"My wand," Remus gasps, winded, and it's gone; Snape took it when he banged into him.

And this, Ron thinks, with a sinking feeling in his gut, was Lucky.

---

Ron, and Tonks, and Remus, do not see anyone in the halls. They make their way to the Hospital Wing, in which Hermione is situated, and Ron wonders if her dose was faulty, because how can she be lying there, a dark curse having been cast on her, a wide, open, sluggishly bleeding gash over her chest?

Ron sits there, head in his hands, wondering if - if he'd told her to take more of a dose, if he'd asked, if she'd listened, if she'd had more, a larger dosage... if she might be sat like he is, watching over Luna, instead of lying there, behind a curtain, as Madam Pomfrey tries to work overtime to save her life.

"The problem," Madam Pomfrey had said, freely, "Is that it's a curse scar - I can't heal it normally, or she'd be fine in a jiffy - it didn't penetrate too deep; scratched the ribs, but no further - she's very lucky, I can tell you that right now, Mr Weasley... just settle down - drink this - I don't want you hyperventilating your way into unconsciousness - I've got more delicate situations to worry about -"

Ron had drunk his due dosage of Calming Draught. He is, now, sat beside Luna, staring at Hermione's closed curtains through lowered eyes.

"It's not your fault, Ronald," Luna says, dreamily, a little high on pain nullification and calming draught, herself. She reaches over and pats him on the shoulder. Her leg is now in a proper splint, and with Madam Pomfrey's talent, she should be able to walk by the morning - it would be sooner, if the mediwitch's attention wasn't so split between so many serious cases. Thankfully, after another few minutes pass, the doors open - and in flows a steady supply of more healers, all from St. Mungo's by the looks of them, and Ron blinks at them all blearily before realising - if they're here - it must be over.

Twenty minutes later, Harry wanders in, looking... dazed.

Ron stands. He walks over.

"Dumbledore's dead," Harry says, hollow. "Even with the potion... He's dead."

"I know," Ron says. "I saw Snape." He's not surprised by the vitriol in his voice, and the dark scowl that takes over Harry's expression mimics Ron's own emotions perfectly. "Me too," Harry says, as dark in tone as in expression. "He confirmed it," Harry adds, hollow again. "He's the half-blood prince."

Ron nods, slow.

"And he killed Dumbledore," Harry snarls, "Bellatrix - she said - Dumbledore said - he said please -"

Ron would protest, but suddenly, a flash, a pain between his temples - "Please, Severus," He hears, but not really, and he can see - in front of him, at the end of his wand - Dumbldore - haggard, so haggard - his hand, dark, infected, and it's going to kill him anyway - and the plan... the plan...

("Ron!" Harry says, sounding both very far away and all too close - "Madam Pomfrey-"

"She's busy," A mediwizard says, "What seems - ")

"The plan, Severus," Dumbledore reminds him. He looks old, so very old. "It is what it has to be."

Ron's temples throb, his head pounds, a migraine like no other -

It is a dark hilltop, murky and unknown, perhaps, even, unwillingly remembered; the area is dark, and the man he looks at yet darker, cast in shadow but lit from behind with an unearthly glow...

"And what will you give me in return, Severus?"

"In — in return?" Ron stares at the shadowed figure, bewildered but sure - it's Dumbledore, Ron knows, deep in his bones, this man to be the dead Headmaster, "Anything." Ron hears, and then - And then Ron is no longer on a hilltop; he is in a room, a room very much like Dumbledore's office, but - again, darker, taller, looming - and Dumbledore looks so, so very old...

"Why - why did you put on that ring? It carries a curse, surely you realized that. Why even touch it?"

Marvolo Gaunt's ring lay on the desk before Dumbledore. It was cracked; the sword of Gryffindor lay beside it.

Dumbledore grimaced.

"I... was a fool. Sorely tempted..."

"Tempted by what?"

Dumbledore did not answer.

There is a jolt; Ron finds himself, in the Hospital Wing, because that is where he is; not in Dumbledore's office, green, green eyes staring worriedly at him, concerned voices raised - but yet -

He is wrenched back, attention grabbed; Dumbledore says, plainly, "How long do you think I have?"

Dumbledore's tone is conversational; he might have been asking for a weather forecast. Ron stares at him, confused, and hears; "I cannot tell. Maybe a year. There is no halting such a spell forever. It will spread eventually, it is the sort of curse that strengthens over time.-"

Another jolt; Ron grabs at his head, and realises - these jolts are within, not without; the memories are hazy, disconnected, jumping around -

"This makes matters much more straightforward."

Ron stares at him in confusion. Dumbledore smiles.

"I refer to the plan Lord Voldemort is revolving around me. His plan to have the poor Malfoy boy murder me."

"The Dark Lord does not expect Draco to succeed. This is merely punishment for Lucius's recent failures. Slow torture for Draco's parents, while they watch him fail and pay the price."

"In short, the boy has had a death sentence pronounced upon him as surely as I have," says Dumbledore. "Now, I should have thought the natural successor to the job, once Draco fails, is yourself?"

There is a short pause.

"That, I think, is the Dark Lord's plan."

"Lord Voldemort foresees a moment in the near future when he will not need a spy at Hogwarts?"

"He believes the school will soon be in his grasp, yes."

"And if it does fall into his grasp," says Dumbledore, almost as if s an aside; as if it was not something horrible, a thought that made a pit open beneath Ron; the idea, of for - even just a second - You-Know-Who taking over the school... "I have your word that you will do all in your power to protect the students of Hogwarts?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkle; it appears he got an affirmative answer to his question, though Ron does not hear one.

"Good. Now then. Your first priority will be to discover what Draco is up to. A frightened teenage boy is a danger to others as well as to himself. Offer him help and guidance, he ought to accept, he likes you —"

"— much less since his father has lost favour. Draco blames me, he thinks I have usurped Lucius's position."

"All the same, try. I am concerned less for myself than for accidental victims of whatever schemes might occur to the boy. Ultimately, of course, there is only one thing to be done if we are to save him from Lord Voldemort's wrath."

It souns almost as if - but he can't mean -

" Are you intending to let him kill you?"

"Certainly not. You must kill me."

There is a long silence, broken only by an odd clicking noise. Fawkes the phoenix is gnawing on a bit of cuttlebone.

"Would you like me to do it now? Or would you like a few moments to compose an epitaph?"

"Oh, not quite yet," Dumbledore says, eyes twinkling with mirth, and smiling, smiling about a joke regarding his future demise - "I daresay the moment will present itself in due course. Given what has happened tonight," he indicated his withered hand, "we can be sure that it will happen within a year -"

- Another jolt -

" - D eath is coming for me as surely as the Chudley Cannons will finish bottom of this year's league. I confess I should prefer a quick, painless exit to the protracted and messy affair it will be if, for instance, Greyback is involved — I hear Voldemort has recruited him? Or dear Bellatrix, who likes to play with her food before she eats it."

His tone is light, but his blue eyes pierce - pierce right into Ron's own, as sharp and direct as he'd never seen them.

Dumbledore seems satisfied, after a moment; Snape, Ron thinks, with horror, must have said yes...

"Thank you, Severus..."

But it is not finished; once again, Ron finds himself - once again, in the man's office, with the old Headmaster, but the day seems... different. Once again, Dumbledore seems... older.

"Harry must not know, not until the last moment, not until it is necessary, otherwise how could he have the strength to do what must be done?"

"But what must he do?"

"That is between Harry and me. Now listen closely, Severus. There will come a time — after my death — do not argue, do not interrupt! There will come a time when Lord Voldemort will seem to fear for the life of his snake."

"For Nagini?"

"Precisely. If there comes a time when Lord Voldemort stops sending that snake forth to do his bidding, but keeps it safe beside him under magical protection, then, I think, it will be safe to tell Harry."

"Tell him what?" Dumbledore takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

"Tell him that on the night Lord Voldemort tried to kill him, when Lily cast her own life between them as a shield, the Killing Curse rebounded upon Lord Voldemort, and a fragment of Voldemort's soul was blasted apart from the whole, and latched itself onto the only living soul left in that collapsing building. Part of Lord Voldemort lives inside Harry, and it is that which gives him the power of speech with snakes, and a connection with Lord Voldemort's mind that he has never understood. And while that fragment of soul, unmissed by Voldemort, remains attached to and protected by Harry, Lord Voldemort cannot die."

"So the boy... the boy must die?"

"And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus. That is essential."

"I thought... all these years... that we were protecting him for her-" A jolt, a minor one - but the pain is worse, somehow; each jolt compounding onto each other -

"We have protected him because it has been essential to teach him, to raise him, to let him try his strength. Meanwhile, the connection between them grows ever stronger, a parasitic growth: Sometimes I have thought he suspects it himself. If I know him, he will have arranged matters so that when he does set out to meet his death, it will truly mean the end of Voldemort."

"You have kept him alive so that he can die at the right moment?"

"Don't be shocked, Severus. How many men and women have you watched die?"

"Lately, only those whom I could not save. You have used me."

"Meaning?"

"I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to be to keep Lily Potter's son safe. Now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter —"

"But this is touching, Severus," says Dumbledore seriously. "Have you grown to care for the boy, after all?"

"For him?" shouted Snape. "Expecto Patronum!" -

And Ron is wrenched, painfully, an abrupt stop to the most concrete memory - he is pulled out, perhaps even thrown -

"Ron!" He hears, and Harry's hands are solid and grounding, clasped onto his shoulders - Ron, shakily, lowers his hands from his head. Harry's eyes are wide, his expression strangely frightened -

"I -" Ron tries, but his throat feels oddly hoarse -

"Be quiet, Mr Weasley," Madam Pomfrey says, and presses a cup to his lips; he is forced to drink the awful concoction, and then she is gone, and Ron is sat on a cot, another transfigured bed in the crowded Hospital Wing, and he is not sure how he got here.

"What happened?" Ron says, feeling - and sounding, even to his own ears - bloody bewildered.

"You - " Harry hesitates - "Well, I'm not sure -" His eyes darken, something like anger taking over his features; "Remus - Tonks, they said - when you came across Snape, at the Tower -" He spits out Snape's name like it's the worst curse he knows, or worse, perhaps, than any swear word that exists; something awful, and despicable, something horrible to say, the most disgusting thing he can think of - and Ron shakes his head, feeling cloudy, and he says, "I think - we can't - not here-" And Harry, looking still concerned, but allowing; he helps Ron stand, and then, feeling bizzarely wobbly, they leave the Hospital Wing.

"What was it?" Harry asks, or - half demands, once out in the corridor.

"I..." Ron isn't sure. But he thinks...

He looks at Harry, at his bright, fervent eyes - greener than anything except one particular bolt of magical light -

"I think he planted some memories in my head," Ron says, slowly, "About..." He frowns, shakes his head. "It's not clear," He says. "And -"

And I don't think you should see them.

Ron shakes his head again. Because that isn't true, is it? Harry should see them. Ron doesn't want to show them to him.

"And I think he did it distract us," Ron says, "I think - I think - because of the Luck potion - I think he ended up planting more than he meant to." Ron feels much steadier on his feet, now, but he doesn't dislodge Harry's grip on his shoulders, even though he has to hunch down for the shorter teenager to reach them.

"Do you think - they could be - because of the Luck potion -"

"I'm not sure," Ron repeats. "I don't - I don't even really know what they were - and - and they were disjointed - like he'd edited them, somehow -"

Harry looks vaguely disappointed, but his expression clears, after a moment or two.

"Hermione should be okay," Harry says, "Madam - Madam Pomfrey said she'd be fine."

Ron sags with relief, and Harry's shoulders drop, too, the tense line of his form relaxing, minutely.

Because it's over, isn't it? It's over. At least for tonight.

---

All lessons are suspended, all examinations postponed.

None of that is really on anyone's minds, however. Dumbledore had lain dead at the foot of the Astronomy Tower.

What everyone is thinking about, is the war. Is Dumbledore's funeral, is paying respects. Is vengeance, is retribution. The DA converge in the courtyard the next day, wands raised; not a meeting, but a minute of silence. Other stragglers join them.

They change their name. Hermione jots it down, on the front of a notebook; Dumbledore's Army.

They need more than one sheet, now.

It's solemn, the atmosphere. By the day after, the Patil Twins are gone before breakfast. Zacharias Smith is taken by his pompous father. Seamus, on the other hand, has the biggest row with his mother in the Entrance Hall. She concedes, after an hour of yelling, for him to stay for the funeral - and finds it very hard to get a spare bed somewhere; Hogsmede is filling up with all manner of people who wish to pay their respects to Albus Dumbledore.

There are others, too. Madame Maxine, who arrives by way of carriage, a strangely nostalgic reminder of times past, not even three years prior. Ministry officials, including the Minister of Magic herself, Amelia Bones - and, as he said, many others.

Nobody was there, that night, except Snape, and Malfoy, and Malfoy is currently under watch by Aurors, until the time can come he can be taken to the ministry for interrogation and trial; it was him, after all, that let the Death Eaters into the school, via way of vanishing cabinet. Even if he didn't kill Dumbledore himself, he planned on it, and Hermione has very pursed lips about the whole thing; Harry and her are at a stalemate. She figured the prince was dodgy; he knew Malfoy was up to something. One matters much more than the other, and they'd known the Prince was Snape for a while, or at least suspected... but it didn't really matter.

For now. Ron knows she won't be able to keep quiet about it for too much longer. Ron hopes he's there, just to stop it - getting out of hand.

Speaking of which:

They're sat, in the common room. It's a lovely day out, almost mockingly so; Ron feels as if the weather should be horrible, miserable, that it should be cold and raining and cloudy, but instead - outside, the sun shines bright, there's a nice breeze in the air to offset the heat, and the sky is a wonderful shade of blue.

But Hermione, despite the mood of the room, despite Harry staring despondently out of the window, cannot leave well enough alone.

'Harry, I found something ou( this morning, in the library ..,'

Harry didn't look at her.

"It's about ... well, Snape.'

She looks nervous even saying the name again.

'What about him?' asks Harry heavily, slumping back in his chair, turning to look at her.

'Well, it's just that I was sort of right about the Half-Blood Prince business,' she said tentatively.

"Hermione-" Ron says -

'D'you have to rub it in, Hermione? How d'you think 1 feel about that now?'

'No - no - Harry, I didn't mean that!' she said hastily, look-ing around to check that they were not being overheard. 'It's just that 1 was right about Eileen Prince once owning the book. You see ... she was Snape's mother!'

"We knew!" Harry slams a hand down on the table; Hermione flinches back, eyes a little wide. "Pardon?" She says, reflexive, and Harry practically snarls. "We knew, Hermione. I've known about that for a while."

Hermione blinks rapidly, then turns on Ron. Ron sighs. "Hermione, leave it," He says.

"You - you knew?" She says. "And you - you didn't -"

"What was there to say?" Ron says. "At the time - what was there to say?"

Hermione hesitates.

"You wouldn't have minded much, then," Harry reminds her, "That It was Snape's. He was a teacher, after all."

Hermione flushes, angrily. "I -" She says.

"Save it, both of you," Ron says. "Please."

"I should've shown the book to Dumbledore," says Harry, regardless. "All that lime he was showing me how Voldemort was evil even when he was at school, and I had proof Snape was, too -"

"'Evil' is a strong word," says Hermione quietly.

"You were the one who kept telling me the book was dangerous!"

"I'm trying to say, Harry, that you're pulling too much blame on yourself. 1 thought the Prince seemed to have a nasty sense of humour, but I would never have guessed he was a potential killer... "

Harry gapes at her. "You were saying he was a death eater!" He says. "You - I can't believe you -"

He stands up, and he storms off.

"Thanks, Hermione," Ron sighs, then stands.

"Well - I was just -" Hermione says, and Ron shakes his head, because - this really, really wasn't the time for any of that.

Ron follows where Harry went.

---

Ron finds Harry in the Room of Requirement. Or, he catches him just before he enters, and Harry doesn't turn him away when he spots Ron; just lets him follow him inside.

Harry sits down, on the couch. Ron sits next to him. It's very quiet, a sad sort of tiredness lingering in the air. Ron thinks it's going to be a while before that leaves any of them; Dumbledore was a great man, and now he is gone.

Harry takes a breath, deep and slow. "Ron," He says, quietly, and Ron looks over to him, and Harry leans over, and he doesn't stop him; Harry presses his lips to Ron's, simple, nothing - there's nothing behind it, Ron insists, just - seeking comfort, nothing just - just a slow, lingering press, no movement, no nothing, and then Harry leans back, sits with his hands clasped, and they don't say a word, not about that, or about anything; they don't speak in the Room, and they don't talk on the way back to the common room, and they talk once they're there; with Neville, and Seamus, and Dean, and Hermione, and Ginny, but they don't talk so much to each other, and they don't talk about that, and they don't talk on the way up to the dorm when it's time to sleep, and they don't talk in the dorm, just get ready for bed, get into bed, and go to sleep.

And they don't talk about it. Ron feels, for a moment before he drifts off, very strange; staring up at his canopy, the only proof he has it happened is his memory, but it was so quiet, so isolated, that Ron could think he had imagined it, if he couldn't, somehow, impossibly, still feel the press of Harry's mouth against his own.

---

"It is nearly time," McGonagall announces, her tone unsteady, just the slightest waver of grief present in her voice. Her eyes are clouded. "Please follow your Heads of House out into the grounds. Gryffindors, after me."

They file out from behind their benches in near silence. Slughorn leads at the head of the Slytherin column, wearing magnificent long emerald-green robes embroidered with silver. Professor Sprout leads the Hufflepuffs, looking more worn than ever in a paradoxically cleaner outfit than she would ever normally don. Professor Vector, looking distraught, is leading the Ravenclaws, wearing robes of blue and bronze; Ron has the sudden, hollow realisation that Flitwick, the old half-goblin head of Ravenclaw and student-favoured Charms professor, is dead.

In the Entrance Hall, when Ron resurfaces from the thoughts of the dead, he notices Madam Pince standing beside Filch, she in a thick black veil, he in an ancient black suit and tie, both with surprising emotion written clear on their faces.

They head towards the lake.

The warmth of the sun beats down on them as Professor McGonagall leads the Gryffindors in silence to the place where hundreds of chairs had been set out in rows. An aisle runs down the centre of them: there stands a marble table at the front, all chairs facing it.

It is, Ron thinks, the most beautiful summer's day.

An extraordinary assortment of people have already settled into half of the chairs: shabby and smart, old and young, including members of the Order of the Phoenix: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-Eye Moody, Tonks, her hair miraculously returned to vivid pink, Lupin – who is sat with Tonks, holding her hand – and mum and dad… Bill, also, sup-ported by Fleur and followed by Fred and George, who are wearing jackets of black dragonskin.

Next, there sits Madame Maxime, who takes up two-and-a-half chairs, and next to her, Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron, an old woman, Donaghan Tremlett, Ernie Prang. There's, additionally, Madam Malkin, of the robe shop in Diagon Alley, the lady who pushes the Trolley on the train, and the bartender of the Hog's Head.

The castle ghosts are there too, barely visible in the bright sunlight, discernible only when they move, shimmering insubstantially in the gleaming air.

Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny, Luna and Neville file into seats at the end of a row beside the lake. Ron doesn't pay much attention to the new arrivals; instead, very simply, he watches the altar, upon which he imagines Dumbledore's body will be placed…

Ron felt Harry tap him on the arm; Harry points to the lake; a chorus of merpeople hang, singing in a strange language he does not understand, their pallid faces rippling, their purplish hair flowing all around them. It is, Ron thinks, a song of sadness. Ron feels his eyes burn; he blinks, looks away, and catches sight of Hagrid who is walking slowly up the aisle between the chairs. He is crying quite silently, his face gleaming with tears, and in his arms, wrapped in purple velvet spangled with golden stars...

Ron could hardly believe it, still; Dumbledore is dead. He – he saw it happen, he remembers, suddenly, very vividly, one of the implanted memories… a flash of green light, and he falls, falls down… down to the earth below… just a man.. an old, tired, man…

Hagrid retreats down the aisle, blowing his nose with loud trumpeting noises. Ron follows Hagrid with his eyes; situated at the back, dressed in a jacket and trousers each the size of a small marquee, sits the giant Grawp, his great ugly boulder-like head bowed, docile, almost human. Hagrid drops, heavily, down next to his half-brother and Grawp pats Hagrid hard on the head, so that his chair legs sink, somewhat, into the ground.

The music stops. Ron turns, to face the front. A little tufty-haired man in plain black robes has got to his feet and stands in front of Dumbledore's body. Ron, really, doesn't hear a word he says. There is a soft splashing noise to his left and he notes, absently, that the merpeople have broken the surface of the lake, in order to listen.

Ron is not, however, unaware; he sees, in his peripheral vision, to his left, that Harry is – very silently, utterly inaudibly, but still nonetheless, he is – crying. Ron doesn't think about it; he takes Harry's hand, simply, and lets Harry squeeze as hard as he can as the little man in black drones on… and Ron finds himself squeezing back, just as tightly. Ron pays little attention to the wizard in black; he thinks, instead, on his interactions with the man on the alter, before his untimely – or perhaps, too timely – demise… and he does not resurface, until he hears the screams of several people and sees – in front of him, right before all of them - bright, gleaming white flames erupt around Dumbledore's body and the table upon which it lies: higher and higher they rise, obscuring the body. Ron has to blink against the glare, and as white smoke spirals upwards Ron could swear he can see shapes within… like the ghostly silhouette of a phoenix… but moments later, the smoke disappears, and in its place there stands a white marble tomb, encasing Dumbledore's body and the table on which he had rested.

There are yet more cries of shock as a shower of arrows soar through the air, but they fall far short of the crowd. It was, it seems, the centaurs' tribute: Ron sees them turn tail and disappear back into the cool trees following the display. Likewise the merpeople soon after sink slowly back into the green water, disappearing from view.

Harry's face, though he would not likely admit it, is streaked with tear tracks; Hermione's eyes are glistening, and she is still sobbing, freely; Ginny is stoically staring, eyes bright with something unyielding, and there are stains of recent tears on her cheeks, too, and Neville is sniffling into a handkerchief, Luna to his right, staring uncertainly, distantly, at the sky high above.

Luna, Ron thinks, has seen a lot of people die, in her short life.

There is, a moment of silence, but the buzz of conversation grows louder around them as they sit there, silently, mostly, and people start getting to their feet.

"I am… sorry I am late," A voice says, accented, and Hermione stands, throws herself into Viktor's arms, sobbing renewed; he simply strokes her hair, stoic eyes watching the still tomb, a respectful bow to his head.

"Why are you?" Ginny says, coldly.

"There was an attack," He says, "I was sent out…"

Ron tunes them out; He turns, instead, to look at Harry, properly. Before he can say anything, however;

"Harry!" A voice calls out. It's Rufus Scrimgeour, head of the DMLE, walking on a cane alongside Madam Bones, the minister of magic.

"We've been hoping to have a word, if you would, Mr Potter," Madam Bones says, simply. Ron can see Susan hanging awkwardly in the background.

"No," Harry says, indifferent, simple, plain; hollow.

Harry stands. Ron stands too. Neville looks away from Luna, who appears to have awoken from her daze; she is staring, unnervingly hard, at the pair - but more specifically, at Rufus Scrimgeour.

"'Harry, this was a dreadful tragedy,' says Scrimgeour quietly, "And we would love if things were as they should be, and we could give you time to grieve, as you deserve," Madam Bones interrupts, placing a hand on Scrimgeour's shoulder and stepping past him, slightly closer to Harry and Ron, "But I am afraid, with the war on, as things stand –"

"What do you want?" Harry says, closed off, cold, but not demanding; just, endlessly tired.

"Mr Potter," Amelia says, "With Dumbledore gone, it is most imperative… if we are to defeat Lord Voldemort, then we need all the information we can gather…"

"Word is," Scrimgeour interrupts; Madam Bones presses her lips together firmly, tightens her grip on Rufus' shoulder, but he does not stop, "That you were with Dumbledore, the night he died."

"I wasn't," Harry says, tiredly. "Not when he died. Not even after he died. I found him on the ground, dead, and yes, I was the first one there – I was outside chasing his murderer out of the school."

"So it was Snape, then?" Amelia says, very coldly.

"Yes," Harry says, an equally hard tone to his voice.

"But what we need to know-" Amelia tightens her grip, again.

"Can wait, Mr Potter," She says, simply. "But, I would like, if you could make an appointment to see me, at the earliest convenience? If nothing else, I would like to know what happened at the battle... but if you do wish to divulge what Albus no doubt wanted you to hold very closely to your chest, I will be here to listen." She presses her lips together. "I cannot force you, Mr Potter," She says, simply, "But please – think of the fate of our world, if you will, for the fate of your friends and their families… if Lord Voldemort were to win…" Her expression turns very severe.

"Well, you're right," Harry says. "Where I went with Dumbledore and what we did is my business. He didn't want people to know.'

Madam Bones tilts her head in acknowledgement; her grip on Scrimgeour's shoulder is so tight her knuckles are white, and her nails must be digging in something severe – Scrimgeour looks to be suppressing a constant wince.

"So," Harry says, cooly. "I have something to ask of you."

Madam Bones looks surprised, but willing; Scrimgeour, on the other hand, looks… shifty.

"Released Stan Shunpike yet?"

Madam Bones frowns. "Stan Shunpike?" She murmurs, and then slowly turns to Scrimgeour.

Scrimgeour turns a nasty purple colour. Ron wonders if that's healthy.

"I see you are –"

"Rightfully concerned an innocent man is imprisoned despite being cleared as simply cursed? He should be in St Mungo's, Rufus, not in holding –" Madam Bones sends an incredibly apologetic look Harry's way, and then hauls Rufus off with her in the direction of the castle "- If I were still head of the DMLE-" She hisses, but that is the last Ron hears.

Susan waves awkwardly, and follows her aunt; the protection detail assigned to Amelia does the same, but without the wave.

Ron turns back to face Harry; behind him, Hermione has turned away from Viktor, but she is still holding his hand. "So," She says, quietly.

"So," Ron repeats.

"'I can't bear the idea that we might never come back.' Hermione says, softly. "How can Hogwarts close?"

'Maybe it won't,' Ron tries, but he doesn't feel as optimistic as his words sound. For all Ron knows, something much, much worse could happen… because – Dumbledore had sounded so blasé, like it was a sure thing… Like it was only a matter of time, after he was gone, that the school would fall to the Death Eaters and their master… "We're not in any more danger here than we are at home, are we? Everywhere's the same now. I'd even say Hogwarts is safer, there are more wizards inside to defend the place. What d'you reckon, Harry?"

"I'm not coming back even if it does reopen," Harry says, looking very solid in his choice; Hermione's eyes widen, and then relax, looking as if she had sort-of expected this, but hadn't expected it.

"I knew you were going to say that. But then what will you do?"

"I'm going back to the Dursleys' once more, because Dumbledore wanted me to," said Harry. "But it'll be a short visit, and then I'll be gone for good."

"But where will you go if you don't come back to school?"

"I thought I might go back to Godric's Hollow," Harry mutters.
"For me, it started there, all of it. I've just got a feeling I need to go there. And I can visit my parents' graves, I'd like that."

"And then what?" asks Ron.

There is a long silence. The crowd has almost dispersed now, the stragglers giving the monumental figure of Grawp a wide berth as he cuddles Hagrid, whose howls of grief were still echoing across the water.

"I have to kill Nagini," Harry says. "She's the last Horcrux."

'We'll be there, Harry,' Ron promises.

"What?"

"At your aunt and uncle's house," said Ron. "And then we'll go with you, wherever you're going."

"No -" says Harry quickly; somehow, he looks especially frightened at the thought, more so than ever before – before, he just tended to look bewildered that they would; now he looks desperately like he wants to stun them and run away before they can grab onto him.

"We're with you," Hermione says; Harry's head jerks over, to look at her. "But you've got – with the Order," He says, and she shakes her head. "This is more important," She says, simply.

"We're with you whatever happens," echoes Ron. 'But, mate, you're going to have to come round my mum and dad's house before we do anything else, even Godric's Hollow."

'Why?'

'Bill and Fleur's wedding, remember?'

Harry looks at him, startled; like the idea that anything as normal as a wedding could still exist seemed incredible and yet wonderful.

'Yeah, we shouldn't miss that,' he says, finally, after a few moments of stillness; just the sounds of the lake on their air, and their breathing.

"There you go then," Hermione says, softly.

"There you go then," They echo. Catching each others' eyes, the corners of their mouths quirk up into something like a smile.

---

That last day is... strange. It's warm, and pleasant, and sitting in the sun with Harry and Hermione is something he's done so many times over the years that he's lost count, but it feels different, somehow, now.

Final.

Ron looks out to the horizon; he thinks about change. About choices. He thinks, for one horrible moment, about the one he holds, fragile, between his hands, too big and cumbersome to treat it delicately; he thinks, for a moment, about the memories he gleaned, through some strange twist of luck, from Snape.

He thinks about the boy must die, and he thinks at the hands of Voldemort, and the Prophecy, he thinks, really is self-fulfilling.

Ron almost wants the choice taken from him - he wants to have never seen this, to have never even thought, for a second, about trying to see how Dumbledore was killed, he thinks, for a moment - he wants, desperately - for the ignorance he had, just a day ago, about -

About Harry.

About Harry... being, Ron knows, and can say, at least to himself... a Horcrux. Because that is what he is, isn't it? It is what the Diary was, the Locket, the Diadem, the Cup...

But Harry is right. There is, indeed, one left that they know about, if you don't count Ron among the 'they'. Just Nagini, as far as they know. And all you need, Ron thinks, is to cleave into her with the Sword... and then...

And then, Ron thinks, someone has to tell Harry, because - Harry, he knows, won't listen to a word Snape has to say about anything.

Ron has a sinking feeling in his gut; he thinks, for a moment, that might be why he did it.

A back-up plan.

Just in case.

"Why're you so quiet?" Harry asks. Hermione is in conversation with Neville and Ginny and Luna. Harry's voice itself is quiet, low, so as to not draw attention. In the back of the courtyard, in full view, Dean and Seamus are sat, very close together, hands clasped and heads bowed.

Ron is not, even remotely, surprised by that development.

"Just... thinking," Ron says. "Walk with me," Harry says. Ron stands; Hermoine spares them a glance and a smile, but returns to her conversation. Harry walks over to the wall, overlooking the edge of the island Hogwarts is situated upon. In the shade, the air is almost chilly, thanks to the breeze, and the wind-tunnel effect of the side-passages.

They walk through the passage, around the courtyard. It's quiet. They're not the only ones; many people, in pairs, threes, fours, and more, or standing there alone, are staring out across the lake's calm waters, speaking softly, but intently, and carefully.

They find a section that isn't covered in people. "Muffilatio," Harry casts, and then sighs. He leans against the arch window, turns his head towards the lake. He's going to be seventeen, soon, in a few months, Ron thinks; he looks it, but also, he doesn't. There's something to all of them, these days, that Harry's had for a bit longer than the rest - a quiet oldness in his countenance. A sort of tiredness.

Ron looks out across the lake.

"If it came down to it -" Harry starts, then stops, then starts again, "If It came down to it - if I had to choose just one person to fight this whole war with, if I got stuck with only - just one person with me, that person - I'd pick you. In a heartbeat."

Ron blinks. He glances at Harry, who's turned his face so much to the side there's not enough visible for Ron to read. This is probably a good choice, because Ron got very adept at reading Harry's profile over the last two summers.

"If you keep something from me," Harry says, "I just want to know it's for a good reason."

Ron blinks.

"Whatever Snape showed you," Harry's voice is terse, just bringing him up, but he still does it, "Whatever you saw - was it true? Was all of it true?"

"Yes," Ron says, because... Ron could tell. Much like Harry, last year, Ron thinks he would know, thanks to his Occlumency, what is fake and what is not.

Harry swallows. "Should I know about it?"

Ron pauses.

"Not yet," Ron says, remembering what Dumbledore said. "Dumbledore... didn't want you to know. Not until... not until Nagini is gone."

"Well then," Harry says, simply. "We'd best get that dealt with quick, shouldn't we?"

"After the wedding," Ron says, equally plain. "We just need..."

He trails off, unsure of how to put it. Harry seems to get it, though, judging by his posture. Ron looks back out to the horizon.

"I..." Ron looks over at Harry.

Harry looks down. He looks over at Ron, properly, vivid eyes clouded with something hard to place. "I wanted to say I'm sorry," He says, and then he stands properly, pats him on the shoulder - Ron grabs his wrist before he can step past him, past the boundary of the privacy spell.

"About what?" Ron asks. Harry looks at his hand, but Ron doesn't let go. He just - waits.

"Just take the apology, Ron," Harry says - half sighs.

"About what?" Ron repeats. It's still, for a moment, the silence in the air somehow stagnant, and then, a little sharp, Harry says, "Not about kissing you, if that's what you're after," He says, "But we can't talk about that either not - not right now, so, just, accept the apology." And Ron's so surprised he brought it up that Harry's wrist slips free of his grip all too easily, and Ron watches him go.

"Oh my god," Ron hears, he turns, and Seamus is banging his head into a column. "Er," Ron says. Dean shrugs, as confused as Ron is, and pulls Seamus away from the solid stone, towards the castle proper.

---

Ron wakes up the next day, gets ready, all packed for going home, getting on the train.

"Two weeks," Harry says, "That's all it's been before, so that's all I'll need this time, right?"

Ron shrugs. "Who knows?" He says.

"I guess we'll see how long I have to stay there for," Harry says. "I guess it's up to the order, at least until I'm seventeen."

"Yeah," Ron says.

They head down, head out, board the train, find a carriage. They sit together, him and Harry and Neville and Luna and Ginny and Hermione, and it's a nice enough journey. Leaving Harry with the Dursleys is less than pleasant, and Ron finds himself worrying for more than just the normal Dursley-related reasons.

The war's fully in swing, now, Ron thinks.

He's pretty sure he's just going to have to get used to his new-found paranoia.

---

AO3 Chapter End Notes;

Also, I kind of forgot to mention that so far, I was skimming over things, because this is actually where I wanted to get to and most everything else was background setup. Yeah, I do write 32k words for setup, sometimes. The point is: this goes more in-depth, but still not entirely in depth. If something isn't mentioned, and then comes up later, like a canonical event - it like... it actually did happen. I either just skimmed too much in the setup (a valid criticism) or I forgot (an equally valid criticism). Imagine those instances happened the same as in canon, or at least mostly adjacent. (Adjusted for the changes within this AU, I mean.)

Major thanks to ViviTheFolle, without whom this would not have been posted. Probably ever. Oops.

Yeah, also, finally managed to write Harry/Ron... sort of. Well, took me long enough either way. (I also got other ships in there without using jealousy as the only crutch, ha, take that Jake)

(also, idk why it says that for the publication date... I think that's when I started writing this chapter. Wow, it really did take me a whole ass year, didn't it? Jesus.)

And finally - yes, it does say this is the first in a series! There are some missing moments and other perspectives I'd like to write for this fic, but FWIW's purpose is to be centrally Ron-focused, so I don't want to add a random chapter from a bunch of other POVs. For once, I'm sticking to Third-Person Present-Tense Limited POV. I am! I mean it! Ignore the previous chapters!

These are jokes, but yes, I'm aware the tense is inconsistent. Sorry boys.

This was made entirely because Ron needs more love in this fandom. It has spawned me wanting to write various fics from various perspectives that flaunt their canon-divergent nature in the face of the Epilogue and Cursed Child, yep.

(I don't /hate/ the Epilogue, per say, but IRL things just... they don't always turn out that clean, and for HP, sure, why not, but like... HP is also a story with what amounts to /child soldiers/. And literal martyrdom. Some tweaks to the endgames aren't gonna kill anyone.

Anway! I'd love to hear your thoughts on all this :).

A/N: So the whole '93 thousand words in one chapter' thing was an accident, I meant to take each chapters eparately, but i just. I didn't, I'm sorry. Transferring from AO3 to FFN is almost as much of a pain as transferring from FFN to AO3. Meaning, you can't import a fic either direction. Ah well. I hope that the wordcount didn't put you off, and I should, hopefully, update this as i carry on with FWIW. As far as catch-up goes with my other fics, you'll find most of them are at the same place as I am over on AO3, at least I think they are anyway, though I'm going to go double-check that after I post this. Anyway, the point is; we should be all caught up, which basically means... uh, not much really! Other than updates being as and when I write, like they've always been.

Hope you guys are doing fine, and see you in the next thing I post :).