Ron had been thinking about Wilbur's proposal for a few days. It seemed like a great opportunity. The house was everything he could hope for in a house and more. He could picture himself comfortably sitting in a hammock between two apple trees, or just enjoying the warm rays of the sun on an early morning. He had taken Wilbur's contract to a colleague of his father, a ministry official that worked at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and who spent all day poring of just these sorts of contracts. The few suggestions he had to offer were minute details. In essence, the contract was fine as it was.

He had spoken to Wilbur twice since his visit with Hermione. Wilbur had not yet contacted a realtor's office for his house, and had ensured Ron that he was currently the only one aware that the house was going to be for sale. He had also told him not to hurry his decision; he wasn't planning on dying any time soon.

Hermione had sent him an owl. She had asked Ron if he wanted to have a cup of tea at her place. Naturally, Ron had accepted, moving the appointment he had made at Gringotts a couple of hours to the afternoon to clear his schedule. Hermione lived in a small apartment above a book store on the outskirts of Brighton. She had moved there a few years back, so Ron had never seen the place. After checking the address, he rang the doorbell. An electric buzzer went off.

He heard Hermione getting down the stairs and open the narrow door to her apartment.
'Welcome,' she said, 'to my humble abode.'
Ron entered the tiny hallway. Hermione closed the door behind him and urged him on. Ron climbed the staircase and entered her living room. He instantly butted his head against a shelf laden with books.
'Oh, Yeah, mind the bookshelf', Hermione said sheepishly. She passed it easily, her small frame not nearly long enough to hit the six-feet-high wooden obstacle.

Rubbing the bruise on his head, Ron surveilled the utter chaos of Hermione's tiny studio apartment. Books everywhere. On the kitchen counter, on her bed, on the floor. Books on the refrigerator, the shabby sofa, and the shelves she had added to every available surface of her walls. The dining room table, which took up about half her apartment, was covered in numerous layers of them, and had obviously not been used for quite some time. Ron's eyes darted here and there, until they settled on Hermione, leaning against the kitchen counter, a mug of tea clasped in her hands.
'I like what you did to the place,' Ron said coolly, 'Very organised.'
Hermione looked up from her tea for a second, a grin on her face.
'Well, I rarely have to invite anyone in. Ginny seems oblivious to any sort of mess. Your entire family does, now that I come to think of it. Harry has learned the hard way not to bring the subject up.'

Ron chuckled. There was an easy, natural way of talking between them now that had eluded them in the year following the war. Hermione and Ron had been rowing consistently about everything those days, and their rowing had not been the same as it had been at Hogwarts. There had been a bitterness and ugliness in it then, a dark shadow that never quite seemed to lift.

A few minutes later, Hermione an Ron were sitting on her sofa, just idly talking about the weather and some gossip when Hermione suddenly asked: 'Ron, I received a postcard from Philadelphia a while ago. It said you were leaving for New York.'
'Yes?'
'Were you there?'
'Aye,' Ron said, not really feeling in the mood to discuss it, 'I was there.'
'Harry no longer reads the muggle newspapers. He has been swallowed by our world, much to his own desire. He rarely interacts with people outside the confines of our community, which I can understand. He was never really a muggle to begin with, and the memories he has of that time leave something to be desired of.'
'Your parents never understood the muggle world, nor could they. They are, by all standards, the definition of a wizarding family. I would doubt they would have understood the significance of what happened that day.'
'What are getting at, Hermione?'
'If I know you just a little bit, Ron,' Hermione said gently, 'And I think I know you quite well, I think you would have tried your best to help anyone that day.'
'Yes' Ron said, barely audible.
'Tell me, Ron.' Hermione said. 'Tell me what you saw. Tell me what happened. You don't have to carry that burden alone.'

Ron closed his eyes. Again, he saw himself standing in an overcrowded subway heading from Brooklyn to Manhattan. His eyes tracing the displaced air plane heading straight for the second tower, the ominous confirmation of the suspicion gnawing at everybody's gut; it was intentional. Ron remembered getting out of the subway and running the eighteen blocks to the World Trace Center. He remembered taking out his wand and confunding two police officers to let him into the area itself.
'I'm not sure if that is such a good idea,' Ron said, 'It was in many ways the most horrific thing I ever witnessed.'
'Tell me, Ron,' Hermione insisted, 'You really should share this with someone.'
He recalled the deep thud coming from his right, and glancing over to see the remains of someone whom had taken command of his own life; a jumper. He recalled standing there, taken completely by the devastation that remained. Meanwhile, men and women were scurrying about, most of them fleeing the scene, but also a few brave heroes that went in. In, to give aide to those in need. Up, dozens of stairs to fight a blaze that would not be quenched by anything. It was their determination, the steadfastness in their eyes, that got Ron back into motion. He joined a group of fire fighters, ignoring their protests and rushing up the stairs with the same courage and purpose.

It wasn't long before he had to make use of his wand. Covertly, he reduced the temperature around them. The protective cocoon didn't last long against the propane-fueled inferno that raged overhead. He did manage to clear the air a little, allowing them to breathe. He knew they had noticed his spellwork. Some of the men had seen him, and stood gazing at him silently. Their chief knocked some sense into them.
'Snap out of it, you fools!' he cried over the sounds of bending steel and cracking concrete, 'We need all the help we can get!'
Ron was saved twice by a fireman that day. Once, when he attempted to open a door, but was knocked off of his feet by one of the firemen within a second of opening it. A jet of flame exploded out, blasting them with heat. A second time, the staircase simply dropped out from below his feet. It had taken two firemen to reel him in from where he was hanging by his fingers, a seventy foot drop awaiting him below.

The first tower collapsed when they had reached the area that had been hit most powerfully. Dust and smoke obliterated all of the daylight. The electricity was off, and the few electric torches the firemen had were woefully insufficient to be useful.
'Lumos!' Ron said, the powerful rays of his wand able to shine a light on their situation.
'All right, men,' the chief said, 'That was the other tower. With the staircase out below us, and an inferno above us, I don't think we can do much more than pray.'
Ron wouldn't have it. He ordered the men to round up as many survivors as they could. After a few minutes, the building gave an ominous groan so low and menacing Ron decided he wouldn't wait any longer.
'Hold hands. Form a circle!'
The firemen, not quite sure of what was going on instinctively looked at their chief. He clasped hands with two injured victims, and soon, the group of eight fire fighters and eleven scared or unconscious employees working at that floor were in a rough circle, with Ron in the centre. He reached out for a young woman's hand, and when he touched it, he realized their time was running out. Another deep groan reverberated through the building, deeper and angrier than before. Ron thought he could see movement in the building itself, and without explaining what he was about to do, without even a single thought about how he was going to move these people, he disapparated.

The pain was intense. The dark tubing constricting him at every turn. Fighting to remain conscious, Ron left the World Trade Center and apparated to the top of a hospital. Several victims were splinched. One of them was missing a foot. Medical personel, the magical kind, came rushing out to meet them, alerted by a ward that a large body of patients had arrived. Ron's eyes met with the chief, who looked at him thankfully. The deafening crash of the second tower broke their revelry.
'Tell me your name, stranger', he said, 'So I may tell my wife who saved us.'
'Ronald, but you won't remember me.'
'No spell or magic will make me forget you, son. I will name my firstborn after you.'
'Obliviate', Ron replied.

Ron and Hermione talked for about an hour. He recounted his story to her in unusual detail, not wishing to omit any details. She listened with apt attention. Her eyes never wavering, she asked him: 'Did you truly do such a heroic thing, and wipe their memories? Without them knowing who or what saved them?'
'They saved themselves,' Ron replied, 'as they saved me twice. I merely omitted myself from their toils. Besides, my spellwork was patchy at best. When I left the hospital a day later, I saw the chief in the hallway. He was with his wife. She was eight months pregnant, and he was telling her he liked the name Ronald.'

The clock struck four. Ron suddenly remembered his appointment at Gringotts.
'Shite!' he said, getting up. He bumped his head again, which solicited another round of curses. Hermione looked at him in bewilderment.
'What?'
'I have an appointment at Gringotts.'
'Gringotts? Didn't they ban us for life?'
'Yes!,' Ron said, still looking furiously at the bookshelf overhanging the sofa, 'But they couldn't openly accuse us of robbery, as that would be bad publicity. In the end, they decided to let things slide.'
'Why do you need to visit Gringotts anyways?'
'I need to check the balance on my checking account.'

Ron hurried down the stairs and opened the door. Hermione grabbed his hand, turning him around with minimal effort.
'You are the bravest and kindest man I have ever met,' she said, slightly amused by his haste, 'You do know that, right?'
'I do. I just hope you will forgive me running away so brusquely all those years ago.'
'I can't promise anything. Let's just take things one step at a time.'
Ron reached out and kissed her. It was a simple kiss on her lips, but not romantic. It was a kiss between dear friends. A kiss between a husband and wife, leaving for work. A distracted kiss between lovers who will shortly meet again. Whatever it was, it was enough to conjure a smile on Hermione's face.

Ron apparated to Gringott's at exactly the right time. Hermione had a habit of keeping her clocks ahead of time, a thing Ron continually forgot during all the years that they knew each other. I guess it serves its purpose.

Ron walked through the busy hall of Gringott's only to join a queue of at least ten people long. After about two minutes, he was at the head of the line.
'Mister Weasley,' the goblin said with a nasty drawl. It was clearly not amused to find him here, 'Not here to make a withdrawal are we? Our security has been increased quite a lot since your last visit.'
'I am not here to discus our previous- encounter, and I doubt your boss would want us to in such public surroundings.' He made a step sideways and showed several of the warlocks and witches in the queue were clearly eavesdropping.
'I have an appointment with one of your colleagues, a goblin called Shellshove.'
'Table seven. Next.'

Ron walked to table seven. He had specifically demanded a meeting in a public table, not wishing to be left alone in a room in this place. The goblin sitting at the table resembled all the other goblins working at Gringotts. Leathery, old, and greedy. Ron introduced himself. Shellshove didn't mention the incident with the dragon, obviously instructed to ignore the whole matter.
'What is it we owe this wonderful visit to, mister Weasley?'
'I am currently investigating my options for buying a bit of real estate.'
'I see,' and what might we have to do with that?
'It belongs to a muggle. I will need you to convert from galleons to Brittish currency.'
'I see, but wouldn't that imply you to actually have galleons to convert?'
'Excuse me?' Ron said.
'No offence, mister Weasley, but I have checked your account a minute ago, not a knut is left. Not that there was much to begin with.'
Ron looked the goblin in the eye. He could sense the animosity it was hiding. After a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty.
'My checking account has been empty for about as long as it has existed, sir. I would like to pay for the property using the reward money that the Ministry of Magic so kindly bestowed upon the three wizards that destroyed Lord Voldemort. Reward money that has remained unclaimed by us until now.'
Shellshove flinched at the name Voldemort. He recovered quite quickly, but appeared to be a little flustered.
'I assume the money remains in the care of this fine establishment?'
'Quite obviously so, mister Weasley,' the goblin replied. If the prospect of forking over money didn't rattle his bones, the subtle reminder of their escapade a few years back did. Shellshove motioned a clerk to approach.
'Mister Weasley would like to collect the reward money due him.'

Ronald had expected the Goblins to try and keep as much of the money as possible, and he was not mistaken.
'Subtracting a fee of ten percent over the first tier of seventeenhundred-ninenty-nine galleons, thirteen knickels and seven knuts, a fee of eighteen percent over the next tier of...'
'Enough!' he said, rapidly losing his temper with the goblins. They had been deducting fees and taxes from the reward for half an hour now. They had gone as far as demanding 'a compensation for the cost of setting aside the money between the day it arrived in Gringotts and now', claiming they had to install an updated security system to 'keep unwanted felons off of the money'. Reminding them that the lower vaults were acclaimed as the safest vaults in all the world by Gringotts themselves fell on dead ears.
'Lets just turn this around. I need this sum of money in pounds. Convert it to galleons, and be done with it. I don't need any of the other money. We'll consider it compensation for the damages to the property and image of Gringotts. But I don't want to hear an ill word coming from the lot of you, about either myself, Hermione Granger, or Harry Potter.'
An old goblin emerged from behind the others. He had presumably been standing there for a while, and as he made his way to Ron, the other goblins parted way. Apparently, this was a big shot in among their ranks.
'The goblins at Gringotts might have endured the reign of a madman for quite a while,' he said at last, 'We have done so before, and we could do it again. But from what I've heard, the reign of You-know-who would have been indefinite. Even we would not have endured a storm that long. For that, we will always be grateful.'
'Your - unwanted presence - was however a grave intrusion on our hospitality and would require a substantial compensation indeed to assuage. I think your proposal would meet most of our demands.'
'Most of your demands?' Ron asked, knowing to be careful around goblins.
'If I may, I would like to suggest the following...'