I am not JK Rowling and I own nothing.


Note: I don't know how people usually react to being called rude, evil, sadistic and barbaric, but it absolutely made my day :3! Keep reviewing I love hearing from you all and heads up to Tara who once again provided the kick up the arse I needed to write this as soon as I got my assignments done. Hope you enjoy!


Debt, n. An ingenious substitute for the chain and whip of the slavedriver - Ambrose Bierce


Ron had never coped well with debt. He'd never been able to sit comfortably with the idea of owing anyone anything. There were a few times it had come between him and Harry, and if he was completely honest with himself it had nothing to do with being poor. He simply couldn't bear the overwhelming feeling of being obliged, of being held under another person's power and expectations.

A feeling looming over him now as he looked glumly down at the patient discharge forms. If only the healer had kept her mouth shut. Ron didn't need to know about the numerous variations of magical fire and their different treatment methods. He'd never raised the question, never bothered to ask precisely what type of fire he'd summoned. He could have lived happily in ignorance pretending it was the benevolent blue bell fire all first years learnt to wield. He could have been left to assume it was an entirely average cooking flame like his mother produced under the stove each morning.

He never wanted to know it was a spontaneous form of darker magic, a fire embedded with emotional rage, a fire that, had it been launched with a wand, would have consumed far more than an old desk and a pile of notes. After all, Ron had seen fiendfyre first hand. He didn't need to know exactly how stupid he'd been.

No. Nor did he want to know how his hand had healed so quickly, so cleanly and perfectly from a wound that was by all rights irreparable. He could have signed the bloody form and made his way home. Maybe stopped off at Diagon Alley for a quick pint with George.

But the healer was alight with excitement. Apparently it wasn't often the Spell Damage floor got permission to trial experimental procedures. In fact, they were to be the first medical association in the world to use the newly refined concentration of Dittany on a patient.

Ron's arm itched. The seamless, new skin burned.

Not with pain but with guilt and obligation- the entire limb now heavy with debt.

"Here you are Mr. Weasley." Healer Payne bustled in through the wards main entrance, her robes upset and Ron's wand held aloft. "Sorry it took so long, you can't imagine the hullabaloo down stairs- I've not seen so many reporters since the fall of he who must not be named. That said, of course Harry Potter would be the one to draw them here, it only makes sense I suppose."

"Harry?" Ron sudden shout earned him several dirty glares from the neighbouring bedsits.

"Oh how stupid of me, of course, that is to say, you're that Mr Weasley. Not that I forgot you, I must say my family and I are ever so grateful for what you did- well, no dear, Harry Potter was admitted by his girl friend and two law enforcement officers just now downstairs. Looked a sight I can tell you. I didn't get too close, what with all the press in the way but he had a deathly grey pallor about him."

If the stammering young healer noticed Ron's own blanching features, it didn't stem the tide of news now pouring unbidden from her lips.

"Wouldn't be too surprised if he was heading up here; Spell damage is the most likely. You're more than welcome to hang around and see him you know, given the circumstances and who's involved. I will need those forms though." She paused for breath, finally, and took up the patient discharge forms from the bedside table to the right.

"Dear you've missed a signature here."

By the time the healer's words had drifted through the haze of his thoughts, his arm, that traitorous, debt-heavy arm, had obliged the witch and parted with his signature.

Ron had never been good at much. He'd never told Harry or Hermione exactly how terrible his career adviser session with McGonagall had been. He'd never had a 'best' subject. His favourite subject was a tie between lunch and divination. When his head of house had merely looked at him, frowned slightly, and suggested a path outside the world of academia, all he could do was nod. It was pretty bloody obvious. The only thing he was bloody good at wasn't worth a damn. No one was going to hire you to play chess.

Oh, but he was good. He'd beaten almost everyone in Gryffindor tower, he'd bested half the Order of the Phoenix at one time or other, and he'd even trumped Mad Eye Moody; an event accompanied by a fit of pique and sulking that made adolescent mandrakes look positively charming.

"What time is it?"

The healer started and looked down at Ron, her face filled with a concerned confusion.

"About half past eight dear. Are you alright?"

What the bloody hell was Harry doing in hospital half an hour before his Auror training even started? With Ginny trailing after him no less. If there was one thing his sister had set herself upon, it was to be known as Ginny Weasley- not Harry Potter's girlfriend.

Something was off. The skin of his hand tingled.

"I'm fine. Would it be alright if I had some breakfast before I left?"

The healers face split apart with relief.

"Of course dear, of course. I'll go fetch a nurse to bring you something. I'll take these forms with me and you're free to go whenever you please. Good bye Mr Weasley."

"Goodbye. And thanks." If Ron's thanks were stilted the nurse put it down to shock; shock that his best friend had been injured was natural of course.

Except his best friend probably hadn't been injured. There's no way Harry would face a media maelstrom unless he was on the verge of death, and how could that be unless some remaining rogue Deatheaters had trumped the evasive security of number 12 Grimauld place? If that was the case, how could Ginny escape with two largely useless law enforcement offices in tow?

Ron idly traced the faultless skin of his left hand and forearm. Each hair was growing exactly as it had; the lines and freckles seemed to have been there always. Ron knew the itching was in his mind. He'd been perfectly fine before the healer had opened her mouth. Now the arm felt abuzz with energy, the restless manifestation of an un-payable burden.

How could you scratch a non-existent itch? Well, how the bloody hell could you ignore it.

Ron heaved himself from the low bed and shrugged on his cloak over the hospital robes. Something wasn't sitting right and for once he didn't think breakfast would help. He'd have to go downstairs and see Harry.


Ginny felt terrible. Truly and utterly terrible- that poor, poor welcome witch.

She wasn't coping at all. Hemmed in by a living wall of camera flashes and disembodied shouts, she was coming to pieces. No matter how hard she clung to the platform, or screamed down at the two law enforcement officers, control of the situation eluded her.

Granted, Ginny could have sorted the mess out with a few choice hexes and an overwhelming silencing charm, but ultimately that would prove counterproductive. Awful as she felt for the poor woman, things were going perfectly.

They'd been in the atrium for about five minutes. She'd sent her patronus off to Kingsley right before they'd entered, the enforcement wizards oblivious to the giant silver horse flying past them in a way only ministry wizards can be. Kingsly should be on his way which meant Ginny had to try to buy them as much time as possible.

Even if it was in front of about a hundred photographers and she'd never shake the title of 'Harry Potter's girlfriend.'

Hermione was going to pay for this. Ginny hadn't decided if she'd exact her revenge in Quidditch lessons or shopping trips. Leaning and wailing over Harry's hovering body, Ginny pondered which her friend would hate more.


Ron didn't know why he'd stopped on the third floor landing. Standing at the top of the stairwell he'd simply stared at the double doors of the wards entrance with a terrible nagging feeling creeping up his spine, his left arm hanging aflame by his side.

Maybe he should nip in and see Hermione. Let her know Harry was downstairs and injured. In fact, Ron frowned as he remembered her lightening visit yesterday. There was no denying how strange she'd acted at the mere sight of Emmanuel. Granted the bloke worked for the ministry but that wasn't a crime in itself. His father and brother worked there and they weren't evil geniuses or what have you. The woman was paranoid.

Still. He could go in and let her know about Harry. After all- he owed her a debt. His arm itched at the though. He owed her, and he said he'd forgiven her, and he'd accepted that they weren't together.

Ron didn't have the words.

Hiya Mione. Hermione. Sorry. Harry's downstairs and he's apparently grey and dying and apparently Ginny's sobbing by his side releasing her inner Lavender. None of it makes sense and my arm is itching when it shouldn't itch because it can't itch because it's your cure and you're perfect in every bloody way but you can't love me.

He didn't have the words- just a burning, tingling sensation that he might never be rid of; a feeling he knew he'd no right to have that he simply couldn't get rid off.

No. He would go downstairs and find Harry. Hermione didn't need him or his words. That had been made abundantly clear.

Ignoring its growing itch, Ron set his hand firmly on the stairwells bannister and spun around, smashing solidly into another figure and losing his footing on the stairs. Collapsing back onto the landing, Ron's back thudded heavily on the top stair, winding him and rendering him motionless. Staring up at the perfectly white ceiling, Ron focused on straining his head to see who'd laid him low. He could see no one on the stairs below and for the longest moment the only sound in the echoing stairwell was that of laboured breathing and the doors swinging shut behind him.

Picking himself up gingerly, Ron looked up to see a perfectly empty stair well. Rising to his knees, Ron turned to inspect the double doors behind him before the sound of running footsteps came up behind him. Twisting to face the stairwell, he came face to chest with another running figure and was sent flying backwards once more.


"Rennervate."

Hermione's head spun with the softly whispered words as the world came crashing back around her.

The corridor littered with wood and blood stretched out on the floor in front of her as her sense battled the onrush of sights smells and sounds.

Her hand was empty.

Someone had taken her wand off her.

Launching herself up from the floor and backwards against the corridor wall, Hermione struggled to take in the situation before she was promptly silenced and petrified.

"Hermione. Stop. It's me."

A disembodied voice floated through the corridor and like a curtain being pulled away, Kingsley stood forward, her wand held within his hand. With a wave, Hermione's movement was returned and her wand restored to her hand.

"Hurry, we have to make it down the corridor before someone comes." Kingsley never raised his voice and for all his tone he could have been discussing the weather. He had taken in the calamity of the corridor and seemed coiled with a calm determination.

"No." Hermione's voice was croaky as she turned away from the man. "This way."

Hermione lead the older wizard through the potions lab, mindless of the experiments they passed, desperate to reach the floo. Her grasp on her wand was firm but the grip she now held on her bag turned her knuckles white.


Ron was hazy as first a hand and then a looming figure emerged above him. His vision swam even as he took hold of the outstretched arm, lifting himself up off the ground, and finding his footing once more.

"Sorry mate." Ron huffed, as his vision focused on the tanned face and grey eyes of Emmanuel. "Shouldn't have spun around without watching where I was going."

The wizards face was a thin line and his eyes were cold orbs of glass. The cheery demeanour that had sat by Ron's bedside yesterday had disappeared and Ron was taken aback, for once speechless.

Then a large cheery grin emerged along with hearty belly laugh and Ron faltered. He must have been imagining things. The fall had taken the wind out of him.

"You're right mate, you're right, I was in a rush was all. Boss' got my balls in a vice. Have you been downstairs Ron? I don't mean to alarm you but I've just seen Harry- Harry Potter and I know you two are mates and to tell you the truth he doesn't look to good."

The tingling of Ron's arm was nearly painful in it's intensity as he smiled at the ministry wizard. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and for the oddest reason he was hyper aware of the double doors just a metre behind him.

Ron merely nodded.

"I was just thinking of telling Hermione."

Which was the exact opposite of what he'd been about to do.

Emmanuel's smile grew larger here, but was far from warm.

"I'll let her know for you, how about that? You'd better get downstairs while you still can. Give Mr Potter my best, won't you Ron?"

The hand now on Ron's back felt like iron- the gaze of Emmanuel behind him, like ice. Ron made his way down the stairs, the feeling on the back of his neck following him the entire way.


The green flames of the hearth lit the room with an eerie glow, the thick blinds at the windows blocking out the dreary morning light and bathing the room in shadows. Just as Hermione shoved Kingsley towards the floo, a crash echoed from the corridor behind them. Acting on instinct, the Auror stepped into the flames, attempting to pull Hermione behind him. With an arm wrapped protectively around her bag now filled with the stolen files, Hermione backed towards the grate, but she couldn't turn around.

Frozen fire filled her veins as her eyes stayed locked upon the windows of the laboratory doors. Kingsley's tugging behind her grew as the flames shot green sparks and the sound of running footsteps came closer and closer. She had to move. Had to turn around. He was at the window. The glint of ice-blond hair and grey eyes glared behind the glass. Hermione could feel the fire dancing up her leg as the doors crashed open. Behind her Kingsley's shout deafened her eardrum, and the ice in her blood ignited. Her wand exploded forth from her side, the shadowed table tops splintering in every direction, glass beakers and metal knives hurling into the darkened void until Hermione's vision was filled with a tumbling green fire, and all she could feel was Kingsley's grasp on the scruff of her neck.

Collapsing into the worn carpet of Grimauld Place, Hermione dropped her bag and wand. If a heaving sob escaped her, Kingsley made no comment.


The fourth floor shook as Ginny brought in cups of tea for the miraculously awakened Harry and the newly recovered Ron beside him. Healer Payne, who Ginny knew from having healed her brother, so recently, seemed irritated.

It seems the curse on dear Harry's uncle bike, was nothing more than a Bat Bogey Hex, mutated by age. If the healer's agitation had been at someone who hadn't saved the Wizarding world, Ginny was rather certain a swift lecture about wasting hospital time would have be issued. But as it was, Harry had simply nodded bashfully and agreed that 'these things do happen.'

The healer looked up from her stack of release forms as the windows of the hospital shook, and charts clattered to the floor from patient beds.

"What a day. I wonder what on earth that was." The healer's pinched face flew back to the forms as she signed the last one with a final flourish. "Well that's you free to go Mr. Potter. Miss Weasley, perhaps next time you might consider attempting a 'finite incantatum', no?"

Ginny smiled thinly at the Healer.

"Oh of course, how could it have slipped my mind? I was so worried you see, I couldn't bear the thought of something happening to my dear Harry."

Harry barely contained his shudder as Ginny shot him her best Lavender Brown impression.

The sound of coughing erupted from a now faintly green and thoroughly sickened Ron. Ginny only shot him a sugary smile, daring him to comment. He might not be the smartest tool in the shed, but Ginny was proud that her brother had kept his foot firmly out of his mouth throughout Harry's examination. Either her brother had learnt some tact- unlikely- or he'd cottoned on that something much bigger was up.

As Ginny helped Harry out of the hospital bed and back into his robes behind the screen, Ron suggested Healer Payne go see what the disturbance had been about. She seemed only to eager to catch up on what was probably good gossip.

Inching her way around the changing screen, Ginny checked the ward before sending off a Patronus to Grimauld Place. If everything went well, which it never did, Kingsley and Hermione should be back. With bated breath, Ginny sat on the bed next to Harry, resting her head upon his shoulder. Ron popped his head behind the screen and opened his mouth, just as a tired, battered silver lynx erupted before them.

"Get to Grimauld Place as soon as you can. We'll need to move quickly."


Note: An ending is so terribly boring without a cliff hanger. *Sigh* Hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think. I always have trouble writing Ron since he's my least favourite character.