She ran, splashing through the blood, nearly colliding with the corner as she turned into the living room. The room was pristine as ever; the only mark that betrayed the evil within was the blood clinging to her footprints. She hurdled over the fireplace grating, plunged her hand into her pocket, screamed "THE BURROW!" as she flung a handful of Floo powder into the air.

The flames stopped burning instantly, and as soon as she stopped feeling dizzy she turned around to face her siblings, to jump out of the fire to make way for her brothers or father.

They weren't there.

The white room tainted with Harry's blood was.

-------

Fred and George looked at each other uncertainly. "Er, George," Fred winced, glancing at the fireplace, "the time…"

"Limit's up, yeah," George finished. "If mum finds out…"

"Merlin, at this point who cares if mum finds out!" Ron yelped, pacing the ground, the floorboards creaking under his weight as if about to fall though- much like most of the Burrow. "Is that really all you're worried about?"

George sighed exasperatedly. "Of course it's not all we're worried about. But it's certainly up in the top three."

Drawing straws probably hadn't been the brightest idea, but all of them had wanted to go, and that wouldn't have worked- what if mum or dad had come home early, or Percy had, for some miraculous reason, paused in his stupid ministry work and come out of his room? Someone would need to cover. And, of course, it would be easier to disguise the absence of one person versus the lot of them.

The hitch in the plan had been when Ginny won. They had been about to protest when Ginny, expecting resistance, whipped out her wand and threatened to bat-bogey anyone who contested her victory.

The Weasley brothers were tough. But who stood a chance against Ginny's infamous bat-bogey hexing skills?

They all were starting to wonder if they should have tried anyway. But nothing, it seemed, could suppress the twin's humor. "I mean, we're worried about Harry's health too," George finished. "We all know what she'll do when she finds him."

"Oh Ginny," Fred sighed dramatically, "did you really need a private moment with Harry so badly?"

"You could have snogged him here," George reasoned outloud, suppressing sniggers.

"We wouldn't have barged in."

"Probably."

"Maybe."

"Anyway," George declared, straightening. "We've got to rescue poor Harry from her."

"Ahh," Fred mused. "the clutches of a Weasley woman."

"Bloke hasn't a hope for escape without reinforcements."

"Call out the cavalry, George!" Fred cried as scooped a handful of Floo powder. He swung his arm back, ready to fling the dust into the flames, but Ron grabbed him by the wrist before he could do so.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"Someone's got to reconnect Harry's place, right?" George answered for him, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Ron stared at the two of them searchingly. "I thought you guys were posing as Percy last time," he told them. "Didn't you fake his handwriting?"

Their identical evil grins were answer enough.

Ron sighed, exasperated. "Don't you remember why you had to do that?"

The pair looked at each other. "There was a reason?" George asked his twin.

Fred shrugged his shoulders. "I thought we were doing it just to piss him off."

Ron hit himself in the forehead with the flat of his palm. "Gods! It was because Dimitri hates you!"

George looked surprised, but comprehension washed over Fred. "Did we prank him?" he asked.

Understanding lit George's eyes as Ron released Fred's wrist to collapse into an who-knows-how-old armchair, looking at the two of them tiredly.

"You really don't remember."

"Nope." The two of them answered, their energetic nature contrasting harshly with Ron's exhaustion and frustration.

"It's not like we remember everyone we prank," Fred expounded.

"Our heads would explode."

Ron flopped his head to lean on the top of the back of the chair. "Last year, June. Dad had invited him over for dinner," Ron sighed, looking at the ceiling. "Nosebleed Nougats were in the experimental stage?"

A dreamy look washed over the twin's faces.

"Oh yeah…."

"Pity now, I suppose," Fred said unrepentantly.

"But the chaos…"

"Shut it!" Ron snapped at them, rudely awakening them from their revival of fond memories. He was sitting upright now, tense, holding his hand palm-up to Fred. "We've got to hurry. Give me the stupid Floo powder, I'll go."

Fred made to do so but then paused, looking at Ron strangely. "Err, Ron…" he asked carefully, "Is something wrong?"

Ron's hand went limp as he looked him straight in the eye, chewing on his bottom lip. Finally he spoke:

"Do you remember… when we rescued him last… the bars on Harry's window?"

--------

Ginny crouched, shaking, in the ashes of the fireplace. It was a poor hiding place: The ornately wrought iron grating did little to shield the figure of the huddled girl.

But what did it matter, Harry, her Harry, was dead, blood rushing from his wounds, crimson steaming from him, forming little rivers that snaked away from his quickly-chilling corpse and meandered around the corner, absorbed into white carpet, stopped in its attempt to reach closer to her… she was hyperventilating, breathing irregular and jagged, arms clutched wildly around her legs. Her mind, though clouded with semi-controlled hysteria, realized that she had to stay quiet… And she was shaking so, if a leg jerked and hit the grating like the inside of a bell, all would be lost.

She wouldn't believe he was broken, wouldn't, wouldn't, wouldn't cry, what was her pain to his, to…

--------

The twins were staring at him. "Yeah, I remember the bars," Fred said. "What about them?"

Ron took a deep breath. "Don't you think it seemed a bit off? Why would there be bars on his window?"

The twins paused at this. Back then, the heat of the moment had prevented them from questioning the presence of those bars.

"Eh, you're overreacting, Ron." George said finally, shrugging his shoulders. "They were probably to keep out burglars or something."

"He's on the second floor!"

"Ok, scratch that theory," George conceded.

"Look," Fred told him, "who knows? Maybe they were there for decorative purposes- Harry didn't seem concerned."

"the catflap?"

"I dunno, maybe it's a muggle thing."

Ron was becoming frustrated again. Didn't they get it, why were they dismissing it as normal?

"He was locked in the room! You had to pick the door open to get his stuff with a hairpin!"

Fred threw his hands in the air in a form of mock surrender. "How am I supposed to know? You're his best friend, not me!"

"You should ask him," George said reasonably.

The statement seemed to hit Ron like a punch to the stomach.

"I'm sure there's an explanation," Fred continued, but Ron wasn't listening: he steadily grew paler and finally clutched the back of the armchair for support. George was right… why hadn't he asked? The whole affair had always felt…off… to him, but he had never…. never questioned it.

Another blow, one that made Ron double over in self-disgust and fear- how many other hints had he dismissed, never asked about? At the thought scenes played, unbidden, before his eyes: Harry, saying his Hogwarts letter was addressed to his cupboard under the stairs; the Burrow, Harry's first time with Floo powder, explaining to mum that his relatives wouldn't mind if he got trapped in a chimney; the first time they met, Harry dressed in taped glasses and oversized hand-me-downs even a Weasley would throw; Harry, the end of their second year, telling him and Hermione his relatives would be upset that he hadn't managed to get himself killed…

He felt like he wanted to be sick.

"Empty your pockets George, we'll need to give him some bribery material…" Fred's voice drifted to him as if through water, hazy and undistinguishable.

Why? Why had he accepted it all?

"Hmmm, this isn't very much," George mused from worlds away, "Do you reckon 6 gallons, 9 sickles is really going to sway ol' Dimiti?"

Why had he never asked?

"Looks like it's time to raid our savings. Ron, sit tight for a bit, we'll be right down."

The two had never noticed his moment of epiphany. Chatting lightly, they bounded up the stairs two at a time.

Oh Gods, oh Merlin, no, if he was right… Ginny! The though jerked him from his reverie. He forced his breathing to slow. Calm down. He was jumping to conclusions, that's all. He was overreacting, just like George said. All those times Harry had been joking about his relatives didn't mean anything; Ron did it all the time: "Mum will kill me if I don't clean my room", etc. It didn't mean Mum was actually going to Avada Kadavra him. The clothes… maybe their family had been going through a really tough patch. Ron could understand that. And the glasses… he'd probably stepped on them or something, and there hadn't been enough time to get them fixed. That's all.

If Harry's relatives were really that bad, he would have told Dumbledore or someone. Hell, the way he was twisting facts, he could be the next Rita Skeeter!

Ron smiled wanly at the thought, and it steadied him. Harry was fine. He was the Boy-Who-Lived for Merlin's sake. And Ginny… Harry had battled a basilisk for her, hadn't he? It wasn't like he'd let a bunch of muggles hurt her. And Ginny was a competent witch; they would never stand a chance. Ron felt his heat slow to a normal beat pace. Why was he panicking? He was jumping to conclusions. They were fine.

George leaned out over the banister, still on the second floor, to cry to Ron:

"Catch!"

Imitating a bombardier, he theatrically released his grip on a small, coin-laden pouch, which fell like a heavy stone. Ron, more focused on his own thoughts than him, didn't hear the warning and instead was hit by the bag in the back of the head.

"AARGH! BLOODY…"

Clutching his head, he continued to curse while spinning his head to look for the offending projectile. George grinned.

"Imagine what mum would say…"

"…if she heard her Ronnikins now!" Fred finished, face popping over the banister.

Growling half-heartedly, Ron ignored them and instead picked up and proceeded to open the pouch. His jaw dropped.

"Wha…Where did you get all these galleons?" he almost gasped. "How many are there?"

"Forty-two." Fred said in a satisfied tone. "Should be enough."

"It's supposed to be a muggle 'lucky number'" George chimed in.

His head was starting to throb now. Pocketing the pouch, he scooped a handful of Floo powder from the flower pot.

"What was it, Fred? 'Answer to the world'?"

"Something like that."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Whatever, be ready when I come back," he called up to them. But he didn't need to: Ron would never leave.

He couldn't. The fireplace was currently blocked by one Charlie Weasley, who was brushing soot off his robes and looking at Ron suspiciously.