Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Man
……………………………………………………………

It was two and a half weeks – seventeen days – later when they were all called to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, probably about to give up on the search. It hadn't been long enough. Harry knew that if they would only keep looking, even for just a few more days, that they would find Ron. He was sure of it. But they had already dedicated the last seventeen days to looking for Ron. They had hardly slept, hardly eaten … hardly done anything other than Wandering Spell after Wandering Spell, raid after raid … Harry's head was still spinning. They had put ads in the Daily Prophet. Harry, Hermione and the Weasleys had done interview after interview after interview. He was seriously considering crawling to the Minister and asking for his help, in exchange for Harry's endorsements. They had put off everything – Bill's honeymoon, the hunt for Horcruxes – but they hadn't come up with anything yet. They had searched Malfoy Manor, but found nothing. The Malfoys were on the run, wanted, just as Sirius had been. Wherever the Death Eaters had relocated to, they must have taken Ron with them. There were no leads. That didn't mean they wouldn't eventually find something, Harry told himself daily.

The search couldn't be over. It just couldn't be. They couldn't be giving up, not on Ron. But they were. Harry could tell by the look on McGonagall's face.

McGonagall cleared her throat and Harry tightened his grip on Ginny. His ex-professor had tears in her eyes … they were running down her cheeks, actually. McGonagall was crying, and it was the first time that Harry had ever seen her so open and honest about her emotions. It made him feel uneasy – even more than he already did.

Security had been increased tenfold around The Burrow and Headquarters since Polyjuicing Ginny had become a possibility for the other side. Mr Weasley was enforcing more security measures, including more passwords than ever before, but nobody was complaining much this time around. Harry had dug out the book Hermione had given him for his birthday (Defense Against the Dark Arts Volume IV: Ancient Curses and How to Deflect Them) and Lupin had used it, in conjunction with other various spells, to put some sort of protective seal around Ginny. This way, they couldn't "do anything funny to her", as he'd explained to Harry.

And – Harry hated this – they were starting to make Ginny change her appearance. It had started out subtly enough – she had to wear a sort of tracking bracelet on her arm that she wasn't supposed to take off. Now, though, she had gotten a haircut (her hair now came to her shoulders, and while it still looked brilliant, Harry knew that Ginny hated it) and she was now sporting a few blonde highlights. Mr Weasley had even discussed bringing home some Muggle contact lenses to change her eye colour, but McGonagall had said that they had changed enough for the moment. Harry thought that all of this was rather unnecessary, as he hadn't really let Ginny out of his sight since she'd been back.

According to McGonagall, the way a Polyjuice Potion worked was that it only made the brewer look the way the person did when the hair had been taken from them. Basically, whoever was trying to be Ginny would still have totally red hair down to the middle of her back.

Nobody knew, at this point in time, how long Ginny would have to continue to alter her appearance. Their side had no idea how many hairs had been taken, or when they were going to be used.

Ginny was shaking in Harry's arms, not taking her eyes off McGonagall. She had spent three days in St Mungo's before being released back home to The Burrow. For a week after that, she was still experiencing some pain and discomfort, but she hadn't let it stop her from going to Headquarters and trying to find Ron. She had even done a few Wandering Spells, though Harry and Hermione did most of them, whenever they could. Ginny was fully recovered now, physically, though Harry occasionally saw the shadow of something in her eyes, and he wondered how long it would be until she was fully healed. Perhaps she never would be. He didn't know. But he knew that finding Ron would help a great deal.

Hermione was sandwiched between Fred and George, who, surprisingly, had hardly let the girl out of their sight in the past two weeks. The twins had put their assistant, Verity, in charge of the shop and hadn't left Headquarters in a week. The entire Weasley family, plus Harry and Hermione, had been living out of Grimmauld Place, actually. Harry didn't like it, because it reminded him of fifth year, when Sirius and Ron were with him and everything was simple … but it was better than the alternative, which was going back to The Burrow and sleeping in Ron's bedroom by himself, trying to fall asleep to the sound of the ghoul in the attic instead of Ron's loud, even snores.

In a way, Harry could sympathize with Hermione's parents. Really, they hadn't spent any quality time with her since last Christmas. If his parents were still alive, and he was spending all of his time with another family, they'd probably be a little ruffled by it, too. They had redeemed themselves, in a way. Clearly, they were aware of the turmoil at The Burrow, because they hadn't stayed long. In fact, they'd left right before Ginny had gone to St Mungo's. Hermione had hugged them and thanked them for understanding that she needed to stay, though her tone was distant and cool. Her mother only asked that Hermione contacted them as soon as she was ready to come home. Harry would never be sure, but once they had left, he thought he heard Hermione mutter, Don't hold your breath.

'Yesterday afternoon,' McGonagall began, and Harry unconsciously held in his breath, 'before leaving Headquarters, Kingsley Shacklebolt did one final Wandering Spell. What he saw was … well, we were hoping that it wasn't true. But after careful investigations, and a few more spells, we have determined that it was, in fact, true.'

Harry tried hard to listen, he really did, but nothing that anyone said was sinking in. All he could think about was what giving up this search meant for Ron and for everyone else. This was the end of the world. Honestly. It was.

Ginny squeezed Harry's hand tightly – painfully – and it brought him back to reality.

'I'm so sorry,' Kingsley was saying. 'But it's true. Ron is … he's gone.'

'You're wrong,' said Hermione.

'I can't imagine how difficult this must be,' Kingsley said softly. 'Hermione, dear, I saw it with my own two eyes.'

'Well, you saw wrong!'

Kingsley bowed his head apologetically and took a step back, clearly unwilling to argue with Hermione.

'He's in a better place now,' Harry heard Lupin say, his tone soft and comforting, something like a father's would be, Harry imagined.

But was it really a better place? Ron wasn't with Harry or Ginny or Hermione, so, really, how great could it be?

He looked around the room and couldn't quite make out anything. Everything had gone blurry, and Harry would've thought that he was crying if he hadn't known better. Truthfully, Harry didn't even think he was capable of crying anymore.

When Sirius died, Harry had thrown things around and practically destroyed Dumbledore's office. It made him feel just the slightest bit better. And it gave him answers to questions he hadn't even asked – answers about the prophecy and Voldemort, about Harry's purpose and role in the war.

He had shed a few tears at Dumbledore's funeral, but where had that gotten him? He had only felt worse. He had come close to crying for Ginny … he had come close to completely breaking down over her … and it wouldn't have helped in the least.

No, he couldn't cry for Ron.

Crying made it real.

Crying was basically saying, Ron is dead, and I accept that.

'You … shut up,' whispered Hermione, leaning into Fred. 'You didn't see anything! There was nothing to see!'

'I … I watched it all,' Kingsley said, speaking more to Arthur than anyone else now. 'The Avada Kedavra. One of the Death Eaters did it. I couldn't tell who it was. He didn't suffer,' Kingsley added, as if that actually meant something, as if Ron being dead was somehow easier because he hadn't suffered. Harry wanted to laugh at this, but all that came out was a choking, wheezing sound that he didn't even know he could make. If he was perfectly honest with himself, he would admit that in the past, he had dreams – no, nightmares – in which Ron was dying at his side, fighting the brave fight, dignified and heroic. While these nightmares had been awful, they would've been better than the truth. Ron died alone and who-knows-where, probably tortured and without a wand, while Harry was back home, safe and sound, at Headquarters or The Burrow. It didn't seem fair. And if Harry thought that it would make even the slightest of differences, he would offer himself up to the Death Eaters in a second.

'We need to do more,' said Harry after a minute. He had never before realized just how long a minute was. One minute – sixty seconds – could make a world of difference. One minute, Harry was dancing with Ginny at the wedding, and the next, they were all being attacked. One minute, Harry was sure that everything was going to be okay, and the next, Ron was gone. One minute, Harry was agonizing over where his best friend could be, and then next, his best friend was dead and gone and never coming back. In a single minute, people were born and people were dying. People laughed, cried, smiled and frowned. And it didn't really matter, in the grand scheme of things, because the next minute would only bring the winds of change. 'We need to at least get his body. We need to bring it back, or something. We … we just need to do more.'

Perhaps it had been more than a minute since they'd gotten the news, actually, because Harry realized that everyone with red hair, except for Ginny, had disappeared somewhere. Somewhere to his left, Hermione sniffed. In his arms, Ginny buried her face in his chest and sobbed, the sound cutting through the air like a knife.

McGonagall sniffed. 'I … I am so sorry, Harry.'

Harry, she had said, and it made him shudder because it wasn't right – because McGonagall only called him Potter … because Ron was actually alive … because Dumbledore couldn't have been killed in June … because although Snape was a bastard, he couldn't have been the one to do it … because everything was still okay. It just bloody had to be.

Harry shrugged at McGonagall's words and dropped his gaze to the floor, ignoring Lupin's attempts to catch his eye, ignoring Hermione's insistent tone when she said that Ron was alive and that they were all misinformed, ignoring everything but the feel of Ginny in his arms, of knowing that she was in unbelievable pain, of knowing that he had caused it. Later, she would say it wasn't his fault and he would want to believe it. Maybe he would believe it. Maybe it really wasn't his fault. He didn't know. He probably never would. He had no bloody idea about anything anymore. But did it matter? Did it bring Ron back?

Harry remembered the conversation he had had with Ron before everything had gone to hell. Harry remembered what he had promised. He wanted to keep that promise … he wanted to give Hermione the message, the one that he and Ron had arranged to be given to either Hermione or Ginny in the event of an accident. He really did. She should know, he reasoned. But Ron was gone. Hermione was not. And Harry had to think about which was worse: betraying a deceased friend, or hurting one who was still alive and could still feel all of the raw, painful emotions that had been dished out to them?

Harry sighed. Hermione deserved to know. He would want Ginny to know, if it had been him. And he was pretty sure that if it had been him, Ginny would want to know, too. But Hermione and Ginny were different. Could Hermione handle it? She wasn't as strong as Ginny. Harry shook his head. Hermione was one of the strongest people he knew. The fact that she hadn't shriveled up and died proved how tough she was, how thick her skin was.

One day, when the time was right, Hermione would know. But until then, Harry would have to figure out a way to let her know how much Ron cared about her without actually having to tell her. He had no idea how he was going to do that, though.

'We cannot do any more than we already have,' said McGonagall. 'You know that.'

Really, the only thing Harry knew for sure was that if the roles had been reversed, Ron never would have given up on him.

……………………………………………………………

'We cannot do any more than we already have,' McGonagall was saying. 'You know that.'

A wave of desperation swept over Hermione as she shook her head, refusing to admit that Ron was dead.

It was one thing to have gone the past two and a half weeks without him, unsure that he would come back. It was an entirely different thing to give up hoping, to accept that he was gone. But what could she do? If they said that Ron was gone, then Ron was gone.

Ron was dead.

It sounded so harsh … so final that Hermione couldn't stand it. Death was so permanent, so irreversible that it was as if she was losing Ron all over again. Why hadn't she realized this before? Sirius had died … Dumbledore had died … so many had died. But none of them had been Ron. It had never mattered so much before.

This wasn't like getting a bad mark on an essay (though she'd never actually experienced this, personally). Hermione couldn't make up for it next time. There was no next time. Hermione would never look into his blue eyes again. Her heart would never again skip a beat when he walked into the room.

She would never get to say goodbye, to tell him that she loved him more than anything, and that if she could, she would trade places with him in a second.

Hadn't she told him not to go? Hadn't she begged him to stay behind with her? Stupid Ron. Stupid, noble Ron. It wasn't fair that she loved him. He was so unpredictable, so completely and totally different from her. He didn't think things through before he acted. He was rude, he swore … he liked Quidditch and hated studying. And he definitely hated S.P.E.W.

But when you got right down to it, how different had they really been? They were both stubborn and difficult. They both fought alongside Harry every chance they could. They were both passionate people. They never backed down from a challenge. They had both made mistakes, some big, like Lavender, and some small, like Victor Krum, but mistakes nonetheless. Hermione wanted to be angry with Ron for leaving, for going off to fight. It was easier not to feel the pain if you could focus on all the rage. But she couldn't, because she would've done the same thing if she could have.

They fought, but it was only because they were so similar. It was because they were the same in so many aspects that was killing Hermione inside. She and Ron were soul mates. They had to be. And now, he was … dead.

She didn't know how long she stood there, listening to the sound of Ginny's tears, listening to the sound of her own. She was tired and wanted to sleep, but it didn't seem fair, somehow, because Ron would never get to sleep again.

She found the rest of the Weasleys and after many long, emotionally exhausting hours, they all climbed the stairs and went to their bedrooms at Headquarters. Hermione was sharing a room with Ginny. They exchanged quick, half-hearted hugs before getting in their beds.

It hadn't truly caught up with Hermione yet, and if she knew anything about the girl in the bed next to hers, it hadn't caught up to Ginny, either.

……………………………………………………………

Hermione awoke sometime in the middle of the night. She sighed and got out of bed, tiptoeing across the room to the door. Harry mumbled something in his sleep and Hermione froze, but he quickly dozed off again. Each night, Harry slept in Ginny's bed, and although Hermione felt certain Mrs Weasley disapproved, she never said anything to either of them about it.

Hermione Floo'd to The Burrow and sat down at the kitchen table, in the spot Ron used to occupy. She didn't know why she did it. She hadn't meant to leave Headquarters. She was probably breaking about a thousand different rules. It was as if she was under some sort of Imperius Curse – except she could still feel the pain.

She sighed. How could this happen? How could Ron be dead?

She'd promised him once that she would never leave him. He had never promised her the same. But he wouldn't dare leave her, not after what he'd said.

I love you.

He had meant it, hadn't he?

He hadn't promised her, personally, that he'd always be with her ... but maybe he'd promised himself. Maybe he'd meant to promise her and simply hadn't gotten around to it. It was a possibility, wasn't it?

She looked up at the clock. Ten hands, including hers, were pointed at Mortal Peril.

But one – Ron's – was pointed at Lost.

She felt something catch in her throat and her heart lifted slightly. She knew then – she understood better than she had ever understood something before – that Ron was alive.

Ron was alive.

She smiled and climbed the stairs to Ron's bedroom. It was cold and dusty. Nobody had stepped foot in it for weeks. She crawled into his bed and sniffed the pillow, even though it didn't really smell like Ron anymore. This didn't bother her in a way it would have an hour ago.

Ron would come back eventually, and when he did, the first place he would go would be his bedroom. Hermione would be waiting for him. And even he didn't stay long … even if he didn't, for some reason, bother to tell anyone that he was back … even if he went back to wherever he was now without so much as leaving a note, it would be okay. Because Hermione would go with him, wherever he wanted.

……………………………………………………………

A man squinted against the rain and watched as his friend – Joe, someone the man had met only five days ago but was the closest thing to a friend that the man had in this strange place – rushed toward him holding a newspaper. The man sighed and ran a hand through his short black hair. He didn't naturally have black hair, though. He was altering his appearance with a spell that Joe had taught him (he didn't ask how Joe knew of such a spell, or why he seemed so good at putting it into practice). He naturally had bright, flaming red hair. And he had freckles. But it was easier to just do a simple spell and get rid of everything that made him stand out. Nobody took notice to the tall, dark stranger. Everybody noticed a man with bright red hair and obnoxious freckles. The man didn't fancy getting asked questions – mostly because he couldn't answer any of their questions. He couldn't even answer his own.

'Hey!' called Joe. Joe was the only other person who around this area who didn't speak with a clear American accent. The man didn't speak like the rest of them. His accent was British, and he wondered if maybe he had lived there once. But Joe had traces of the same accent, and he said he had never even been near Europe.

The man grunted in response. 'What is it?'

Joe wordlessly handed him the paper and the man's eyes skimmed the front page, which was spattered with raindrops.

'Another Death Eater attack?' asked the man.

Joe nodded, his eyes oddly sparkling. 'Yeah, they never stop over in England, it seems. Muggles, this one was.'

The man sighed.

'Turn to page five,' said Joe, after a moment, with a tone that the man couldn't quite figure out. The man turned to page five and his eyes were immediately drawn to the picture.

'Who is that?' he asked urgently. He knew her … but from where? Maybe, he thought, if he could contact her, she would be able to fill him in on his past. Maybe she would help him discover why certain parts of his memory were gone.

Or maybe he was just desperate for a link to his past, and he was tricking himself into believing he knew the beautiful girl on page five. He certainly wished that he knew the beautiful girl on page five. Every other bloke probably did, too.

But the way her curly brown hair cascaded down her back … the way she kept her shoulders back and her chin high, even though she was clearly grieving in the picture … the way she wrung her hands and worried her lip … there was something about her that he knew. It was on the tip of his tongue.

'Who knows,' said Joe dismissively. 'But she's awful pretty. She looks a little sad, though. I wouldn't mind cheering her up, you know, give her the old –'

The man felt his fist clench and he looked up from the paper. 'Don't talk about her like that,' he spat.

Joe stared at the man with a startled expression for several seconds. 'Do you, um, know her?' he asked in a measured voice.

The man sighed. 'No,' he admitted, realizing how foolish he sounded in his own head. Joe seemed to relax. 'But still …'

'Yeah, you're right. There's no damn point. She's too close with that Harry Potter. Lucky bloke, he's probably –'

The man didn't hear the rest of Joe's sentence because he walked away, taking the newspaper with him. He tried to read the article attached to the pretty girl's picture.

The man shook his head in frustration and tossed the paper in a nearby rubbish bin. The rain had soaked through and the ink had run across the page. There was no way he would be able to read the article. Was it really worth it, anyway?

He wondered where he knew the girl from. But if what Joe had said was true, she was friends with Harry Potter. Perhaps he only knew her because she was famous, too. He imagined the picture of her in his mind again. Joe had been right. She looked sad. He wondered what could make her feel that way and then laughed aloud. What did he care? He wasn't about to solve anyone else's problems.

He had his own to deal with.

……………………………………………………………