After all that he'd survived, Ron couldn't believe that this was how his life was going to end. At least fifty wands stood against the throats of those he loved while his fingers grasped uselessly at empty air. He was positioned as best he could to cover both Harry and Neville—an advantage of his height—yet he didn't think for a second that his cover would save them. The effectiveness of noble sacrifice had been depleted years ago, Ron thought bitterly.

He wondered if Lily Potter's faith had been stronger.

Unfortunately for Ron, he was a strategist. He knew how to count moves, predict outcomes. He'd only grown sharper since the War had made him maneuver real people. His work was in reality, and lately reality had little room for faith.

Ron could see that, like so many others, his loves would not survive him. They would all die here. Yet, Gods, he loved his husbands enough to pretend otherwise, if only for a moment.

Ron closed his eyes. How had they come to this? He knew intellectually, but he didn't like to think about it. But with the ozone tinge of spellsmoke hanging as heavy in the air as the sorrow in his heart, he was heedless to fight the memories. He lost himself in them, mind drifting relentlessly to that first terrible summer.

May 1998. They'd lost Tonks and Ron's father at the Battle of Hogwarts but not so many others. That was due mostly to the surprising change of the Malfoy family's heart, Ron could admit now. They'd driven Voldemort from their ancestral manor in the summer of fourth year and turned informant for the Light in the same breath. With that one move, the Dark fractured.

The War had still been hell, but time had given Ron room to recognize at least some of the blessings that had taken place. The death of Sirius Black, some two weeks after the Battle, hadn't weathered time so well at all.

Ron's stomach twisted. Harry's howl upon learning the news still haunted him. They'd taken some peace in knowing that Sirius had died as he would have wished, defending his husband, Severus, and their unborn child. But his sacrifice had been in vain. Severus' life and that of their child had been taken before the grass had grown over Sirius' grave. Revenge taken by the leaderless Dark, the aurors had eventually declared.

With Sirius and Severus gone, the Black fortune had fallen to their remaining heir, Harry, and his wife, Ginny Potter nee Weasley. With that inheritance Harry had also received a desire for revenge. He'd volunteered his services to the aurors hunting down Dark remnants, planning to find his family's killer one last time. Ron had joined, too. He'd been unwilling to let his best friend get himself killed. His own wife, Hermione, had opted to remain at home like Ginny.

Or, well. That had all been done immediately after the funerals. It felt like they'd spent all of May '98 burying people. Hell, by now it felt like burying people was all they'd ever done.

Despite throwing themselves into hunting down the Dark, the first week of July had finished before Ron had even an inkling of how much danger they were truly in. He'd come home early from auror training, hoping to surprise his wife. He'd brought flowers. He'd figured that she could use some cheering up after all those awful lies Rita Skeeter had written about her in the paper. Or maybe he was just trying to alleviate his own guilt. By that point Ron had known that he'd fallen in love with Harry. He'd also known that his feelings for Neville weren't much less.

Before he'd had the time to drag himself further over the coals, however, Ron had heard the words that he would never forget:

'"The papers will be talking about us for ages, Hermione! 'Heart-broken War Widows Mourn Heroic Husbands!' It's perfect.'" The sound of a pair of wineglasses clinking together had rung across the kitchen. Ron had just barely been able hear them from the foyer, but the sound was unmistakable.

'"No, especially after all the shit we've been through. Thank God Molly had that Amortentia recipe on hand or this would have all been much harder,'" Hermione had mused aloud.

Ginny had hummed agreeably. '"Hiding it in the muffins was genius."

"Yes. And soon we won't have to bake them at all.'" They'd giggled together, then. A high, girlish laugh that had haunted Ron in his dreams for weeks to come. Still did, some nights.

Though obviously not for much longer, Ron thought, staring at the people primed to kill him and those he loved.

Ron closed his eyes again. At least they'd managed some revenge. Little had the women known, Ron and Harry had only eaten those genius muffins when they couldn't refuse them. They'd been hard as rocks, after all. Harry and Ron had thrown them out every chance they'd had. That certainly explained why the love they'd felt for their wives had seemed to fade while they were away at auror camp.

He and Harry had both felt so terrible for falling in love while they were away. If falling out of love with your wife was bad, falling into love with not just one man but two had to be worse. Finding out about the Amortentia poisoning and murder plot had nearly been a relief.

At the time, he and Harry had naively thought that the annulment would be enough to serve Ginny and Hermione right. Ron, Harry, and Neville had dropped out of the auror camps and spent the rest of the summer together in the tropics, courting each other and figuring out the little details of their relationship. They'd traveled in the Muggle World, spent days spoiling each other rotten, and generally forgotten about magic.

On the final day of August, Ron had said his vows—this time free of Amortentia, magic filling his soul in a way he'd never imagined.

But while Ron had been getting married, in Wizarding Britain Lucius Malfoy had bled out on the Ministry steps. Without his voice moderating a conservative, extreme-Light Wizengamot, a slew of laws had passed. One of the most terrible legalized the euthanasia of dangerous magical creatures. Werewolves were near the top of the list. Groups of wizards and witches had branded themselves as hunters and stormed across the nation.

Remus Malfoy, blindsided by the bill and in London to organize Lucius' final affairs, had been struck down in the streets. Teddy Malfoy, toddler son of Lucius and Remus, would have perished as well had it not been for Narcissa Shacklebolt. She'd been able to spirit the boy away, though not for long. Caught attempting to flee to the MACUSA with Teddy and Kingsley Shacklebolt, all three had been executed.

Kingsley's status as interim-Minister for Magic had been stripped from him only two days before. The Wizengamot had cited "Dark bias" as justification for his removal. Ron could only assume that the tossers had meant his fair treatment of magical creatures. His marriage to the former Lady Malfoy probably hadn't helped, either.

By all accounts, Magical Britain had lost its mind at that point. Riots had broken out and been viciously suppressed. The subtle attacks on purebloods, Dark magicals, and other opponents to the extreme Light became blunt. Mad-Eye Moody had roused something of a resistance, but he'd fallen after no less than thirty-four aurors attacked his base of operations. Ron had heard that his famous last words ran along the lines of: "I would have been dead by now if you'd learned fuck all from me! CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

Ron, Harry, and Neville had arrived back in Britain a day late and a penny short. Or, well, maybe a few months late. Ron often tortured himself wondering if they could have put a stop to all the bloodshed if they'd just remained in England. Maybe they would have died. But maybe that would have been better. Ron would never know. All he knew was what had been.

He knew that when they'd tried to floo back home after their wedding, they'd been cut-off from their destination and detained by the Ministry. He knew that their detainment had been its own kind of hell, one they wouldn't have escaped if not for, of all miserable people, Dolores Umbridge. She'd freed Harry, Neville, and Ron from the bowels of the Ministry, then died by an Aveda Kedvra meant for Harry. She'd saved his life. Ron still wasn't quite able to wrap his head around that.

Her last words had been to Harry, as she'd guided them through the halls. "I will not lie, Mr. Potter. The Ministry is no longer worth saving. I do not think it is able to be saved."

Life became a haphazard blur of movement, desperation, and violence. They'd gathered the fragile embers of Moody's resistance, shamelessly using Harry's fame to stoke what they could to flame. They'd set up safe houses for hunted magicals and persecuted creatures. They'd played jump rope with the lines between Light magic, Dark magic, and plain evil.

The Ministry had hunted them. Harry was branded a Dark Lord. Safe houses were destroyed. So, so many people had died.

Of Ron's family, he was the only brother left. Desolation clawed at him daily; he buried it with a smirk. At least they'd all made it to the new millennium, even if some hadn't seen the year close out.

Ron swallowed, pushing back his swelling grief.

Rita Skeeter, Merlin bless her soul, had done her very best to expose what was going on. Her articles had started with the War, detailing the entire torrid reign of Minister Rufus Scrimgeour. She'd dedicatedly covered the Final Battle, asking hard questions about how the War was fought. Why were children on the frontline? Why was Voldemort's takeover even possible after the first war fought against him? Then, when the officials had proclaimed the War was over but the fighting and death hadn't seemed to stop, she'd gone deeper.

Even in the days before Sirius had died, she'd been writing exposés on Hermione Weasley's moves in the Ministry. On the suspicious deaths of Amelia Bones and her niece, Susan. On the horrible attack on the Avery & Patil law firm and the murder of Parvati Patil. As the violence had worn on, Rita had only become more critical of the Ministry. She'd been forced from the Prophet by October of 1998. She'd then gone underground, working with Luna and Theo Nott to distribute a rebel newspaper, the Cassandra Times.

Rita's assistants, Lavender Brown and Dennis Creevey, had gone with her. They'd flushed the public with vivid photography of what had become known as the 'Light Purges.' Beginning with the Final Battle of the Second Voldemort War, the phrase described Wizarding society's shift to the extreme Light. It covered the book burnings, mass-destroyed portraits, artifacts, family manors, creatures … Anything that might have at all been the least bit Dark had been put on the list to be torched. People, too.

Ron had never stopped kicking himself for not believing Rita earlier.

Lavender and Dennis had died not long ago, back in the middle of April. Executed by a hit squad after releasing one last newspaper. The front page had featured Rita Skeeter's defiant face as she received the Kiss. The story had covered her farce of a trial, including her last words: "For the record, I didn't twist the facts. The truth was damning enough." That paper had whipped up enough of an outrage that a few of the Resistance, including Ron, had been able to get out of Dodge. Luna, Theo, and her father had not been so lucky. They'd been apprehended and executed two days after Lavender and Dennis. They'd hung for more counts of treason than Ron had fingers and toes.

Ron didn't expect to be feeling those extremities much longer. He let himself be drug back to reality, meeting his executioners' eyes head-on.

Albus Dumbledore stood in the lead. He clutched the remains of their snapped wands in his knarled hands. He'd been on a monologue about the shame of their "shift to Darkness" while Ron had been ruminating.

Dumbledore had clung to his power with both bloodied, powerful hands. The current Minister for Magic was as much a puppet as Fudge had been. Even more so; at least Fudge had sometimes changed masters. Here was the Leader of the Light in every way that mattered—Albus Dumbledore.

The aforementioned Minister was also in attendance, likely to get the glory for taking out the newest Dark Lord and his court. He'd brought along what was left of his aurors, who made up the bulk of the killing circle. Ron could understand the tactical advantage in that.

The most damning faces were those that were most familiar to Ron. By Dumbledore was Ron's mother, Molly. Just Molly, as she and Ginny had both been disowned from the Weasley and the Prewett families, Ron thought with vicious pleasure. Ginny and Hermione stood with her, smug. Whatever. If money was still their motive, they would be in for a terrible surprise. With no family left, Harry's fortune would be donated back to the Goblins to help increase their security. There was no telling when the Ministry would come for them. The only condition was that they had to offer to help other fleeing magicals as well.

Molly took a step forward. She attempted to grab Ron's ear, like she had when he was a child, but he managed to avoid her hands. Who knew where they'd been, he thought, disgusted. How could I have ever called this monster my mother? Ron wondered, sick and hurt.

Molly simply sneered at him, running a possessive finger along his cheek despite Ron's flinch. "You should have behaved better, Ronald."

"Like Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon?" He snapped. They were her brothers. However, Ron had the feeling that they wouldn't want to be addressed as such if they'd known that she'd been the one to slip their location to the Death Eaters. Ron had trouble believing it at first, even after everything, but spending so much time with Dark magicals had revealed many terrible secrets.

Her eyes narrowed. "They were in the way. Much like you are, dear."

Ron felt Harry try to push forward, Neville right beside him, but he shook his head. She wasn't worth it. How could Arthur Weasley have married such a cold-hearted woman? Ah, yes—love potions. An even better question would be how such a woman had avoided bringing about another Voldemort. Arthur Weasley's influence must have had a purifying effect. Ron guessed Ginny had spent too much time with her mother to have been saved.

Sickened by the collection in front of him, Ron turned to look at his allies. Dean stood on Ron's left, just as banged up as Ron. Dean held his boyfriend Seamus up with trembling arms. Seamus blinked sluggishly. Concussion, Ron diagnosed needlessly. He remembered starting the cheer when they finally got together in sixth year. Mostly because he'd won the betting pool, but semantics.

Just behind Dean were the sisters, Daphne and Astoria Greengrass. Daphne had an arm slung around Astoria, her right leg crippled by a bone-breaker curse. Astoria's free arm was wrapped around her stomach, failing to keep her blood from flowing free. Daphne sneered imperiously while Astoria snarled like a wild thing. Ice and fire, Ron thought. He'd always been grateful to have their burn on his side, even if that wasn't going to change anything now.

On Ron's other shoulder was Draco, a huge slash pulling his face out of shape. He was nearly painted in blood. Draco's husband, Blaise, stood in line with Neville and Harry. The white of his left eye was blood red and he was missing most of his fingers on his wand hand. Ron winced. Blaise's passion was music. He'd even been in the choir at Hogwarts. For him, at least, death might be kinder than a life unable to play instruments.

Draco met Ron's eye and nodded once. Draco, too, knew what shape they were in. He turned to kiss Blaise and Ron looked away. He'd been Draco's best man at their wedding. Neville had said the blessing, having been one of the few who knew the traditional words other than the grooms. Harry had stood for Blaise.

Their wedding was one of Ron's last happy memories.

Completing their beaten huddle were husbands Marcus and Oliver Flint. Both had been Quidditch professionals, once upon a time. They didn't look like they would ever be playing again, though. Marcus was all but carrying Oliver, who had lost his lower arm to a bombarda. Even without the wands aimed at them, Oliver wouldn't survive the hour. Ron closed his eyes against the rage roaring in his throat.

Gods. What had they ever done to deserve this?

Someone put a hand on Ron's shoulder and he turned to see Neville. He'd filled out since school, making Harry the smallest, but Ron still had a few inches on him. Neville was blood-soaked, his right arm hanging brokenly at his side. He looked somehow lopsided without Gryffindor's sword, which had become his main weapon since the War. The poor thing lay in pieces half-way across the room, shattered by some obscure curse from Dumbledore. Ron had thought Neville had been hit with a crucio when he'd realized the damage done to the sword.

Neville already had his good arm looped around Harry's waist. "I love you both," he said, his signature sheepish grin creeping out from between his bloodied lips. Tears blurred Ron's vision.

"I love you both, too," Ron croaked. He'd been hit with a strangulation hex early on. His words left a coppery taste in his mouth. It was worth it, though, to see Harry's sad smile.

Harry only ever smiled sadly anymore, and even those were hard to pry out of him. Harry had taken each death personally, cloaking himself in Sirius' beaten leather jacket like a walking memorial. Still, he was vicious and confident and managed to be funny, sometimes. Even covered in brutal bruising, out of all of them he was the only one who still looked like he could put up a fight.

Giving up any pretense, Ron turned fully towards his husbands and swept both of them into his arms. Neville buried his face into Ron's shoulder and pressed a kiss against his neck. Harry clung much the same, slipping his arms around Ron and Neville as though to lock them in place. His words were a gentle hiss of parseltongue and Ron took a moment to realize the sibilant whispers were their wedding vows. Harry had a penchant for the language, even after all that had happened, and their vows had become a favourite oath of his to whisper. As the battles had crashed by, Neville and Ron could almost mimic him.

Ron closed his eyes. If there was a prayer of a chance, even if it was without him, Ron hoped that Neville and Harry would live. So that maybe in the future there would be a green-eyed baby with messy brown hair and a round face.

Ron liked Orion for a name, after their favorite constellation. The constellation, their constellation, was made up of three bright stars.

Those stars shone above them tonight and, silently, Ron made a wish. He wished that he, his husbands, their friends and Resistance leaders, their murdered family members, their persecuted allies, could have a second chance at this life. He wished it so hard.

He faced back towards his death. He would die before his husbands would. He would have it no other way.

Spells were shot. His world went black in a burst of colour.

Hello, everyone! Here's hoping you like what I've done with the first chapter of Orion's Belt, which I've been lucky enough to adopt from the wonderful Lone-Angel-1992! In other news, this chapter has been beta'd! Thanks, LoonyLaLuna! Also, I recently (07/08/2022) edited this story again—for the last time.

Terminology:

The War - Refers to the Second Wizarding War against Voldemort and the Death Eaters.

The Final Battle - May 2, 1998, the Battle of Hogwarts during Deathly Hollows.

The Light Purges - Takes place from May of 1998 through to 2001, when Ron and company die. Essentially, this is when all the deaths and awful things done by Molly, Ginny, Hermione and other antagonists take place.

The Resistance - The good guys who don't wind up dead in those first few months of the Light Purges. Led by mainly by Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, and Daphne Greengrass.

If you have any questions, feel free to PM me. Otherwise, reviews are always appreciated!

Sincerely,

BlackRoseGirl666