Those first days back in Brittain were bliss. Ron took temporary residence with his parents, sleeping in the comfort of his old bed. During the day, he'd visit some of his old friends, catching up on old times, or hearing what they'd done those past years. Meeting up with Neville had been a blast; they'd spent all night at the Hog's Head, talking about little things. Infamously susceptible to alcohol, Neville soon lapsed into a confession about Hannah, whom he had been pining over for quite some time.

Ron also visited some places alone. He hiked up to the forest of Dean, spending a night alone at the old campsite. Another day went by in solitude as he tramped around the forest of St. Ottery and Catchpole, a thing he had done for years when he was young. Visiting those old places soothed him. They reassured him that even though he had left for quite some time, not all things had changed.

Ron himself had of course changed considerably. He had grown more introvert, and more thoughtful. The solitude he had sought in those final days of his travels reverberated in his heart; he now shared it with only a handful of people, but the intensity with which he loved them had only increased. The longing to share his thoughts and feelings with them burned hotly in his chest.

Ron was sitting in the back yard. His hands were plucking small weeds from the rosebush. It was a mindless job, and Ron was lost in thought. He remembered the splendid beauty of Yellowstone, its rough edges, the wild streams. He had truly found peace there, in the heart of the park. Surrounded by game and wildlife, breathing the forest's murky breath of dawn, Ron had experienced a moment of tranquility he had not felt since his days in Hogwarts.

His hands reached out and pulled the last of the weeds out. He could have removed the weeds with magic, would probably have done so years back, but the work was therapeutic. Once finished, he selected one large rose and carefully removed it. He went inside, and washed his hands, then changed into something more formal. It was time for him to visit the one place he had been avoiding for years now.

The Weasley cemetary was near a forest west of Peasedown St. John, a small village near Bristol. Ron apparated to a cornfield a few miles south of the village. It was considered rude to apparate to a cemetary, and most wizards chose to visit either via Knight Bus, or to apparate to a repectful distance.

As he moved closer to the cemetary, small fragments of his brother's funeral came to mind. The procession moving steadily along across the old streets, the weeping faces of his mother and sister. He remembered some of the homes that lay scattered across the landscape; farms mostly. One of them was beautiful, a small brown farm with a thatch roof and a white front door. The lot it was on was lined by a large hedge, and covered in grass. There were apple trees all around the house, scattered apart just far enough for the house to still be in full daylight. The cast-iron fence that kept visitors off the property reached no higher than his waist, and served mostly for ornamental reasons.

As Ron watched the house, an old man walked up to him from behind.
'Beauty, isn't she?' he said, as Ron turned to see who approaching. The old man was walking with a cane, and was supported by a woman in her late thirties.
'Been in me family for more than good hundred years.'
'Sure is,' Ron said, as the old man hobbled closer, 'pardon me for staring.'
'Never you mind, young lad. You're not from around here, are you? Never seen you in the village before.'
'No,' he replied, 'I came to pay my brother a visit.'
For a moment, the old man's eyes focussed on the rose in Ron's hands.
'Your brother dead then?'
'Wilbur!' the woman shrieked, 'Where are your manners?'
'Oh, shush you,' he said, adding strength to his point by ramming his cane down on the pavement. It might have worked if he had not nearly lost his balance in the process. 'Nurses an old man, and thinks she's become his mother.'
The woman's eyes narrowed dangerously.

'Yes,' Ron said, hoping to intervene. 'My brother died a few years ago. This is the first time I've visited him in quite a while.'
'Thought you might be,' he said, 'considering the hair and all. Quite a few redheads have taken this route to the cemetary these past few years. I don't have much to do with me health being what it is. Mostly just sit by the window nowadays.'
'Sounds like a nice retirement,' Ron said.
'It ain't. You try sitting by a window alone for three years.'
'Would you like some company today? I've got an hour to spare, and I'd love to see the inside of the house.'
'Anything to get rid of this old crone,' he said, shrugging off the woman's support and hobbling over to Ron. She narrowed her eyes even more, then said: 'Fine, I'll take the rest of the day off. If he falls,' she said at Ron, 'that's on you.'

A few minute later, Ron was inside, putting on a kettle of water for tea.
'This has been me home for all me life,' the old man said, as he shakily took his place in an old chair by the window, 'Never once moved away from me parents, save for the war.'
'You were a soldier then?'
'Yes,' he said, gesturing over to a picture on the fireplace. Ron crossed the room and examined it. On it was a much younger looking man, barely out of his teens.
'That was taken a few day before Normandy.'
'You landed on D-Day?'
'Yes. What carnage. Never once saw such a grisly scene before in me life. I arrived a few hours after the first assault. Them nazi's were still mowing down people on the beach, while our engineers were trying to blow a hole in their defences using bangalores. Had to hide behind one of them iron crosses for a good ten minutes before I had a chance to scurry ahead.'
The old man turned out to be quite a chatterbox. He talked for a good hour about many different things. Ron listened attently, while he took in the interior of the house.

Unlike most farms, it was quite spacious. The livingroom was rather big, with a stone floor and brick walls. There was a fireplace in one corner of the room, blackened in soot and in desperate need of a good cleaning. There was a tiny kitchen in another corner, mostly there for making tea. Heavy oaken crossbeams kept the ceiling up, giving the room an authentic feel. Ron's interest did not go unnoticed.
'I had a contractor remove some of the old walls. Used to be a maze of little rooms here, but I grew tired of opening doors all the time.'
'I must say, you live in a beautiful home.'
'Thank you lad, now pour us some tea.'
Ron moved to the kettle and poured two cups.
'I'd like me tea black as the devil's soul, with enough sugar as to be able to keep the spoon upright.'
Grinning, Ron added six large spoons of sugar to the cup. When he sat back down, the old man moved forward.
'You're one of them Weasleys, right?'
'Yes,' Ron said, his surprise clearly present in his reply, 'How do you know the Weasley family?'
'I was a gardener once, before me back gave out. Wasn't all too bad I reckon. I was asked a few years after I'd begun my own business by one of your grandparents if I'd mind keeping the graves tidy. Offered me a hefty sum to do so too. Naturally, I accepted. I kept those graves free of weeds for more than three decades.'
'I see,' Ron replied, 'Small world.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'Quite small.'
For a moment, silence lingered between the two men. Ron sipped his tea, while the old man stirred his without taking his eyes off Ron.
'I did me job quietly, as requested by your grandparents,' Wilbur continued, 'Mostly worked on it in the early mornings, when everyone but the baker is still on one ear. Once, I was working on removing some ivy from the older gravestones when I saw a ginger such as yourself enter the graveyard. Wishing her some privacy, I moved behind a tree.
'Strangest thing happened. She seemed to conjure up some flowers out of nowhere, and placed them on the headstone.'
Ron took another sip from his tea. The old man's eyes had not moved away from his yet.
'Naturally, I took her for some artist. Perhaps a magician in a circus. But the feeling that something was off never left me.
'A year later, a small group of elderly Weasleys visited another grave. This time I clearly saw them doing something nigh magically to the grave, and a piece of the headstone that had fallen off was somehow reattached. When I inspected it after they'd left, it looked right as new.
'Then I saw the dates.'
'The dates?' Ron asked.
'Members of your family don't want to die, do they? I checked the dates on the headstones. Half of them died at an age of over a hundred.'
The old man stopped stirring, and took a sip from his tea. His eyes were still fixed on Ron's.
'Can you keep a secret?'
'Nope, but since I have no friends or family, I doubt that makes any difference.'
'We're not a- typical brittish family, in the general point of view.'
'How so?'
'Well,' Ron said, hesitant to break the statute of secrecy, 'We're...'
'You're wizards, aren't you?' Wilbur said, effectively relieving Ron of the burden of having to say so. The ministry was a lot more forgiving if a muggle found out about wizardry on his own.
'Yes.'
'I knew it!' the old man said, slapping his leg in joy, 'What with that strange coin one of them payed me with once.'
'A golden coin?'
'Yup!'
'A galleon. Must have mixed it with his regular money by accident.'

Wilbur was quite impressed. He spent a good half an hour asking questions. He seemed to be running low on energy though, and soon had to stifle a yawn.
'I'm afraid I'll have to be off soon, Wilbur. I still need to visit my brother's grave, and with all due respect, you look like you could fall asleep any moment.'
'That's fine, me boy. Can I ask you a small favor?'
'Sure.'
'Would you mind coming over in a few days? I might have a proposition for you then.'
'All right,' Ron said, 'Three days?'
'Three days it is.'

Ron left the small farm and greeted the old man as he closed the fence on his way out. Then, he turned back to the path he had been on before. The old man had been a delightful person, but the encounter had only made him more nervous of what was to come.

It took less then five minutes to arrive at the cemetary. After Ron entered, he walked through the old maze of headstones to the place where he had buried his brother. Fred's grave was off to the right of the center, and was quite unlike all the other graves. It was no secret that the Weasley clan had little in the way of monatary assets. On other words; they were poor. Most of the headstones were simple, limestone slabs, inscribed with a few simple words. Fred had been buried beneath a block of solid granite, inscribed with a posh message that went into how well he had done for himself.
Leave it to Fred to find humor in his own grave.

Ron put the rose on top of his brother's grave. Tears came. He gave them free reign. He wasn't ashamed of his tears. Silently, he stood there, his mind bringing up flashes from that fateful night. The booming explosion that had seemed to rip the world apart still rang in his ears. The horrid discovery of finding his brother there, on his back, with blood coming out of one of his ears. The cry of pain his mother had given, when they'd brought his body down.

Suddenly, she was there. He had not noticed her walking up to him, nor did he know how long she had been there. But she was. She was there, and it felt right.
'Do you remember how much he teased you with having become prefect?' she asked, her own tears welling up. A smile played on his lips.
'Yes. I swear he did a better impersonation of Percy then Percy himself.'
Hermione let out something between a sob and a laugh. He took her hand.
'Thank you,' he said, turning to look into her eyes, 'For being here. It's more than I could have asked for.'
'Let's just stand here for a while. I don't want to talk about us here.'
'You're right,' he said, 'but all the same, I want you to know this means a lot to me.'
'Don't let it get to your head.'

Once they had payed their respects, Ron and Hermione disapparated from Peasedown St. John to the Burrow. They walked into the kitchen, where he poured them two steaming mugs of tea.
'So how did you know I was visiting Fred? I hadn't told anyone.'
'Your mum,' she said simply, 'She noticed you'd taken a rose from the bush, and thought you might need a friendly face.'
Hermione took a nip from her tea. Her brown eyes were focussed on the mug in her hands.
'How long had you been standing there? You left a good two hours before I did.'
'I'm not sure', he replied, 'I met an old man on my way over. Had some tea with him. Turned out to be the previous Weasley cemetary gardener.'
'Really?'
'Yes. He lives in a small farm nearby, beautiful thing, with thatch roof and a white door. Do you remember?'
For a moment, Hermione froze.
'Of course I do,' she said, remembering their shared dream. When they had been together, Ron and Hermione had told each other about where they wanted to live. It turned out both of them had wanted to live in a house with a thatch roof, and Hermione had insisted that it had a white door. It was one of the few things they had been able to agree upon in those days. Ron had taken Fred's death bitterly, and was easily set off. Whenever Hermione had tried to talk about something, he found himself disagreeing with most of it, and cutting conversation short.

Both of them sat at the table, reminiscing about the days just after the war. Hermione blew a the steam coming from her mug, Ron sat with eyes closed, angry at himself for letting it go that far.
'I'm sorry,' he said after a while.
'For what?'
'For everything. For pushing you away. For breaking up. For leaving without a word.'
'Are you?' she asked, 'Are you sorry? You seem to have had a nice time on the road.' Hermione's voice was light and casual, but Ron knew he was threading on frayed nerves.
'Do you really think,' he said, reaching out and grabbing her hands in his, 'That it was all just a party? That I went from joy to joy, never once thinking back on my own mistakes?'
Hermione sat up. She moved her hands back far enough as to be out of reach for Ron.
'I've only told people the happy part of my travels. Should I tell them about my trek through Brazil? About how two muggles held a gun to my face demanding money? Or the endless night in Siberia, where I had to fight for my life, surrounded by a group of skinheads?'
Hermione paled somewhat.
'I left, broken and angry. It took me years to re-find that joy I once posessed. Every party I visited was brilliant until I awoke to find myself more alone than before. Every girl I kissed was beautiful, until I realized that all the company they could ever give me was insubstantial.'
Hermione said nothing. She simply stared at her hands.
'I ran, Hermione. I ran from my pain, from my mistakes, and from my anger. I know I could have handled it differently. I know I should have done so. I'm sorry if I hurt you, Hermione.'

Ron took his mug in both hands and drank deeply. Hermione sat in front of him, across the table, in silence. Ron smiled at her, wanting to close this depressing subject. Her eyes travelled from her hands to his own, and up to his face. She seemed to become marginally less angry.
'I just remembered,' Ron said, 'I bought something for you!'
'For me?'
'Yup, let me get it. It's in my backpack.'
Ron walked up to his room and placed his backpack on his bed. From within it, he extracted a small giftwrapped parcel. When he came back down, Hermione wasn't sitting by the table anymore. For a split second, he feared she might have left, but she walked back into the room from the kitchen.
'Sit down,' Ron gestured, unable to keep is own expectation hidden. Shaking her head with an incredulous grin on her face, Hermione sat down.
'Here,' he said, putting the packet on the table in front of her. As she opened it, he told her where he had bought it.
'A little store in New York. When I walked by, it reminded me of you. Of how it would be impossible to keep you from walking in. When I entered, I saw this and knew this would be a perfect gift.'
Hermione ripped open the giftwrapping, to discover Ron had bought her a book.
'A children's book?' she said, before examining it further, 'How well you know me!'
Ron ignored the playful jibe she'd made.
'What's the title?' he asked, knowing full well how she'd react. Hermione turned the book face-forward, only to have her smile fade from her face.
'Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone?'
Ron merely smiled at her.
'B-But, you mean to tell me muggles can buy a book about our adventures. We need to inform the ministry. We'll need to track down and obliviate any of the muggles that bought the book. What if there are reviews on the internet? Oh Ron, why haven't you told the ministry about this sooner? We need to head over there this instant!'
Hermione had gotten up in panic, running over to her coat and putting it on. She threw Ron's jacket into his face, urging him on. When he didn't, she rounded on him.
'Ron! This is a serious breach of the international statute of secrecy! We need to inform the ministry now!'
'Check the back,' Ron said.
'No, Ron! We need to tell the American ministry about this!'
'Let's just check the back of the book before we do anything rash.'
'Rash? Ronald Weasley, stop behaving like a little child and take your responsibility!'
'Check the back, 'Mione.'
Hermione furiously turned the book over and read the back. On it, unmistakeably, was a sign of the ministry of magic. Muggles would think it was a nice part of the cover, a detail that enhanced the feel of the book. Hermione calmed down somewhat.
'What does this mean?'
'I read parts of it. In a broad sense, they stuck to the real events, but they changed quite a few locations and dates. Hogwarts being somewhere in Scotland; everything happening a few years later; the Hogwarts express leaving from King's Cross. It's all there, but tweaked just so that the muggles won't be able to tell it's all real.'
'A-Are we-'
'Yes, we are in there.' he said, 'Our names are all in there, every single last one of us. Of course, they had to change some details. Your parents are dentists for example. Little things to keep people from discovering the truth.
'It's an elaborate ruse,' he continued, 'Tell the muggles everything, and they'll pass it off as fantasy.'
'But why?'
'The ministry was afraid that muggles would find out about us through overhearing wizards talk. You know how poorly some of us are at keeping everything secret. My dad told me once that a wizard in Dublin was so poor at keeping covert, that a whole squad of obliviators is busy on a daily basis to keep him from spilling the beans. This way, wizards have an escape by saying they were talking about a book.'
'Ah.'
'I heard the book sells quite well in the abroad. There's talk of a second book coming out. Chamber of Secrets anyone?'
Hermione smiled. It was a tender, shy smile. Ron could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
'Thank you,' she said, sounding sincere, 'This is a beautiful gift.'

An hour later, Hermione left for her home. His mom, back from shopping, had told them she could eat at the Burrow, but she insisted on leaving. Together, they had walked to the back yard, where they said goodbye. Moments before she apparated, Ron asked her to read the inscription of the book when she was home.

Hermione arrived at her small flat-appartment in Essex. Hanging her coat up and taking her shoes off, she sat down on her sofa. Crookshanks lay curled up as a ball next to her, and began purring as soon as she touched him. Stroking his ear, he extended himself in pleasure. Then, he started sniffing her hand, and giving it a small lick with his coarse tongue.
Hermione opened the book. There, on page one, was the inscription.

'Even in the book,
you are, and ever will be,
my greatest love.'