"It came, it came!" Charlie shouted, bursting into the lockers and waving the letter excitedly over his head. Alex paused in lacing up his gloves, giving him an inscrutable look, and Billy and Tom exchanged confused glances. There was a muffled thump and a yelp from the other side of the locker room, and then Jack hopped into view, still pulling his quidditch robes over his head.

"Did you open it?" he demanded, managing to liberate one arm in time to keep himself from tripping and falling flat on his face. "When do you start?"

"I just got it, I haven't opened it yet," Charlie said, grinning despite the nervous thrum running through his stomach. He was sure he'd gotten in, Professor Kettleburn had sent him a recommendation after all, but still - what if? So, he'd decided to wait. "I'll open it after we run Ravenclaw into the ground."

Quickly, Charlie threw on his Seeker's robes, lacing up his boots and tightening the straps on his gloves. They met Marylin and Eliza in the corridor which led down to the grounds, from which they could already hear the excited roar of the crowd in the stadium. This was the semi-final match, after all - representatives from every house had shown up to watch the match and cheer on their respective teams.

His family had come as well. Usually they only came for the finals, but this year there was an important meeting at the Ministry on the day of the final match, so his parents had apologized and promised to come to the semi-finals instead. He'd met them in the hallway earlier, before he received the letter. Fred and George had been staring keenly about them, Ginny hid behind Mum's skirt, and Ron bounced excitedly beside Dad under her over-sized hat.

"Good luck," said his Dad.

"Be careful, dear," said his Mum.

Charlie had promised to see them after the match, then grabbed an extra roll from the breakfast table before running upstairs to retrieve his robes and round up the team.

"Alright, team," Charlie said now, in the dim light of the hallway connecting the two locker rooms. "This is it. This is our last game before finals, our last chance at winning the cup this year. If we don't beat Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff will take second place in the finals. Now, do we want to be second to Hufflepuff?"

"No!"

"Are we going to let Ravenclaw beat us?"

"No!"

Charlie grinned, gripping the worn handle of his broom in his right hand while his left brushed the letter in the pocket of his robes. "Then let's get out there, and let's win this game!"

There was a cheer, echoed by an even louder cheer from outside, and together they ran out onto the pitch and threw themselves into the air.

What Charlie loved most about flying was the way the ground dropped away beneath him, the wind pulling and buffeting him in every direction, the simple thrill of having only a broom bridging the ever-heightening chasm between him and the ground below. The risk, the thrill, the sense of danger - that was what Charlie loved, what he felt every time he kicked off and watched the ground and the crowds dwindling away beneath him. It was what made him a good player, and good seeker: he flew fearlessly, and played with everything he had.

Tom scored a goal, and Gryffindor roared. Charlie let out a whoop, torn away by the wind, grinned wildly as Tom flew a quick victory lap around the pitch, giving high fives to the rest of the team as he zipped around. Then Ravenclaw scored, scored again, and there was a brief rush when Charlie thought he saw the snitch (it had, in fact, only been a very thick pair of spectacles on some poor Slytherin's face). Feinting in front of the Ravenclaw seeker, dodging stray bludgers, cheering his teammates on - Charlie flew as he always flew: recklessly and well.

Billy dropped the quaffle, Ravenclaw scored again, and now it was down to the wire. One more score and it wouldn't matter if Charlie caught the snitch, Ravenclaw would win anyway. Quickly he flew back and forth, his gaze sweeping the fields and the stands and the air up above. Where are you, come on...

There, a flutter and a flash of gold. Charlie dove, urging his broom faster, faster than he had ever flown before, and for a moment he imagined that he flew on dragon's wings. Then the cold, solid ball slammed into his palm and he spiraled upwards again, letting out a holler of delight and raising his fist into the air for everyone to see.

Later, in the lockers while he waited for one of the showers to become available, Charlie pulled the letter from Romania from his pocket and carefully broke the wax seal.

To Mr. Charles E. Weasley,

Thank you for your interest in the Dragon Summer Program at the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary. Unfortunately we are unable to accept you into the program, due to the large number of applications received. We wish you the best in your future endeavors.

Sincerely,

Melissa Wurm

Head Dragon Wrangler

For a moment, Charlie didn't understand. Had he read it wrong, had he received the wrong letter? But no, it said it all right there: To Mr. Charles E. Weasley. We are unable to accept you.

Charlie stood, leaving the steamed-up shower room in favor of the cool April air outside. His hand gripped the letter tightly, still not quite able to believe - he shook his head, stepping lightly over the muddy grass. This had always been a possibility, why was he so surprised? Of course they couldn't accept everyone. But Charlie has been so certain that they would accept him.

His dad was waiting for him by the bleachers, wearing his casual robes over one of Mum's Christmas sweaters. He beamed at Charlie, who tried to smile back and failed spectacularly. Dad frowned, his face falling into concerned lines.

"What's the matter? I saw you catch that snitch, that was some pro flying just now."

"Yeah," Charlie said, trying to muster a better smile and remember how it had felt to fly after the snitch. Like a dragon, his traitorous mind whispered, and the next thing he knew he was holding out the rejection letter, turning his face away and blinking furiously. Stupid, what was wrong with him?

Dad took the letter, wrapping an arm securely around Charlie's shoulders and guiding him to a quiet corner of the stands. They sat, Dad reading silently while Charlie tried to pull himself back together. After a minute Dad sighed, refolding the letter and passing it back. Charlie gripped it in his hands, peaking out of the corner of his eyes to see Dad's reaction. Would he be mad that Charlie hadn't told him and Mum? Would he be sorry that Charlie hadn't gotten in?

"I wish you had told us," Dad said gently, and Charlie looked away. "You applied for this, all on your own?" When Charlie nodded, he sighed again. "I'm proud of you, son. But you know, life doesn't always work out the way you want. And it's nothing to do with you - these people at the Sanctuary, far away in Romania? They don't know you." He placed a hand on Charlie's knee, squeezing lightly. "Don't let them tell you what you're worth. I've raised you better than that."

"But I wanted to," Charlie said, and he knew that was a weak argument, wasn't a real reason, but he couldn't help it. "I really wanted to work for them, Dad."

"Then don't give up," Dad said. "Come home this summer, get a job in town or at the Ministry. And next year, apply again. Apply again, and keep applying until they say yes."

Charlie took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. It wasn't the end of the world, he told himself. It just felt like it, that was all.

Dad sighed, pulling Charlie against him in a bracing hug. "Cheer up, son," he said kindly. "The dragons will still be there when you graduate. And I know that Mum and I, at least, will be happy to have you home this summer."

Charlie sniffed, nodded, and stuffed the letter out of sight in his pocket. Dad stood, and pulled him to his feet. "Mum and your sibling are waiting inside, let's go find them. I promised the twins I would take them to see the greenhouses, and Mum was going to take Ronny and Ginny to see Bill and Percy before we left."

Everyone was, indeed, waiting for them near the entrance of the Great Hall. Fred and George bounced up to Dad, each grabbing one arm to pull him away. "You promised!" George said excitedly, while Fred chimed in "Yeah, I want to see the Gordian Knotweed!"

"Do you want to come with us, Charlie?" Mum asked, Ginny still tucked against her side. Charlie's eyes had shifted to Ron, though, who was staring at the shifting clouds currently on display on the ceiling. She was still wearing that ridiculous hat, and while Charlie couldn't currently do anything about his own crisis, maybe he could do something about Ron's.

"Why don't I take Ron to see the trophy room?" he suggested, and Ron glanced at him in brief confusion before her face morphed into one of expectation and she looked hopefully at Mum.

"Mum, can I?"

"Of course, dear, if Charlie doesn't mind keeping an eye on you."

Charlie shook his head, and Ron trotted over to his side while Mum urged Ginny out of her shadow and through the Great Hall. "Honestly, dear, there's no reason to be shy ..." he heard her say as they walked away, and then Ron was tugging his arm and asking "Which way?"

Charlie took her to the trophy room, all the while trying valiantly to get the words out of his head. To Mr. Charles E. Weasley ... no. He was spending time with his little sister, this wasn't about him. We wish you all the best in your future endeavors ... Charlie scowled fiercely, shoving the words away. Dad was right: he couldn't do anything about it, they didn't know him anyway.

Ron stood on tiptoe, peering into a smudged case. "Did you win any?"

"Not yet," Charlie said, and was instantly mortified at how hoarse his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and started again. "Hey. I know your birthday's over, but I still owe you a Christmas present. Want to take off that hat, so I can cut your hair?"

Ron's eyes lit up like the Great Hall on New Years, and she all but dragged Charlie into the next room over.

As was apparently becoming the norm, the haircut came with a confession. "Charlie," Ron began, as Charlie sat her down on a stool in an empty study room and started untangling her matted hair. "Can I tell you something?"

"Sure," Charlie said, then added "but Blimey, Ron, I know you don't like it, but you really should wash your hair a bit more."

Ron ignored him. "I'm Ginny's brother now," she said, and her voice was stubborn and proud at the same time. "And - you're cutting my hair, so I want to be your brother too."

"Okay," Charlie said, and was surprised at how easy it was to say. It was just like the first time, when Ron had confessed to not actually being a girl. He knew what she was talking about, he knew what she needed to hear him say, but he needed a little more time to actually understand it. It was easy enough to say yes, though, while he thought about it, because this was obviously important and to tell her no - Charlie paused, eyes widening as realization came thundering into his brain like the Hogwarts Express.

Oh.

Maybe this was what it felt like for Ron. Every time she spoke up, every time she asked for what she wanted - that was a risk. To put your dreams in the hands of another took bravery, more than Charlie had realized. He had wanted so bad to go to Romania; he hadn't even realized how much, until his application was declined. And to have to do that every day, to ask for what you wanted most again and again and to every single time be told no - that was true courage, Charlie thought.

Ron's red locks fell between his fingers and onto the cold stone ground, curly slightly as they were relieved of their tension. Ron fidgeted with the hat in her hands, her feet bouncing against the stool as she hummed tunelessly, happily. To be a Gryffindor, to always be turned away and rejected and yet somehow still be happy and brave -

That was his little sister, disappearing on the stool before him. That was his little brother, Ron.

It wasn't a hasty decision, by any means. If asked, Ron couldn't have said when he himself had known: all he knew was that one night, sitting at the kitchen table and listening to Fred and George regale them all with extravagant plans for their first year at Hogwarts, he came to the realization that he just couldn't do it anymore. He needed to run away.

Maybe it was the haircut. Or maybe it was his birthday, when everyone pretended but still didn't get it. Maybe it was Great-Aunt Muriel, or the maroon-colored potions, or the dress and his stupid stupid name. Maybe it was Ginny, calling him her brother, or Charlie, cutting his hair in the first place. Ron didn't know what the tipping point was (or if there had been one); all he knew now was that he had to get away.

His first attempt took place the Wednesday after Charlie's quidditch game. After Mum and Dad had put everyone to bed, Ron crept around his room, grabbing everything he thought he would need and stuffing it into his rucksack: socks, a sweater, Bill's old chess book, his new Bernie Smith action figure, a spare toothbrush, and a change of clothes. Then he climbed back into bed, stubbornly keeping his eyes open as he waited for the clock downstairs to strike midnight.

The next morning he awoke to sunlight filtering through his window, and Mum's voice calling up the stairs for him to come down to breakfast.

His second attempt wasn't until a week later. This time he packed before getting ready for bed - toothbrush, three action figures, sweater, hat, and smuggled bun from dinner. He stashed everything under his bed, then went downstairs to join Ginny and the twins for story-time on the couch.

"Ron, do you want to pick this time?" Dad asked, adjusting his glasses on his nose as he set Beedle the Bard open on his lap.

"The Fountain," Ron said, tucking himself into the corner of the couch and pulling the blanket up to his chin. That's where he would go, he decided. He wasn't running away; he was setting out on a quest to find the Fountain of Fair Fortune.

That night it rained, and Ron decided that he would try again tomorrow.

But tomorrow came, and the next day, and every night Ron decided maybe tomorrow. Most nights, it rained. Sometimes he tried to wait for midnight (because everyone knew that midnight was the best time to run away), but he always ended up falling asleep. Sometimes Mum promised to make his favorite breakfast the next morning, sometimes his brothers informed him that they were all going flying tomorrow. Sometimes he just forgot.

It was always in the back of his mind, though, and the idea never settled. March passed - April came, and the twins received their letters for Hogwarts.

"Look at my little boys, all grown up!" Mum cooed, serving them pancakes with warm butter and jam. She swooped down to kiss them and George squawked, ducking and trying to fend her off. Fred stole one of his pancakes.

"I want to go to Hogwarts!" Ginny wailed. "Mum!"

"Hush, Ginny, you'll get yours when you turn eleven," Mum scolded, and Ron stole Fred's letter to read the fine calligraphy on thick parchment.

Dear Mr. Weasley, the letter read, and Ron couldn't make it any further down the page, his eyes glued to those first three words.

Dear Miss Weasley, he thought, imagining his own letter two years from now. He set Fred's letter carefully back on the table, and felt sick.

April swept in cold and drear, the last of the snow sinking into the ground and turning all the fields to mud. Every morning was gray, and every afternoon they ran up to the orchard, splashing through the puddles as they chased through the budding trees. Every evening they trudged back, out of breath and grinning and covered in mud, and Ron thought maybe tomorrow. He knew he couldn't stay, but maybe he could wait just one more night.

"Ronny, love, are you feeling alright?" Mum asked.

The first flowers arrived the last week of April, and Mum started turning over the garden. Tomatoes and peppers and eggplant and squash had already been planted in the garage under the warm lights charmed to make them grow. Ron helped plant the spinach, his fingers cold in the damp earth, and he got dirt on his nose when he reached up to push his bangs out of his face.

One night, after Ron and his siblings had all been tucked into bed, Ron realized that he was thirsty. He pushed aside his covers, hopped out of bed, and tip-toed down one flight of stairs to get a glass of water from the bathroom.

"... know it's expensive, but I can pick up a few extra jobs. Fred and George are old enough now, they can watch Ronny and Ginny."

That was Mum. Ron paused on the landing, bare feet flat on the cool floorboards as his hand rested lightly on the doorframe. Dad's voice rose, muffled, and almost before he knew what he was doing Ron had crept down a few stairs, listening intently.

"- new to the area, but Alfred said he was good with kids. And I've asked around ..."

"Ronny won't want to go, after last time," Mum sighed, and Ron stilled. They were talking about him. But why wouldn't he want to go? What time? He shifted down a step, leaning forward to hear better.

"I can get off work early next Tuesday," Dad said quietly. "Stebbins can cover for me, he owes me for last month. We'll all go together."

There was a moment of silence, and then Mum sighed. "I just want her to get better, Arthur," she murmured. "I just don't know what else to do."

Ron turned, and ran lightly back up to his room. He shut the door behind him and stood for a moment, staring blankly at his hand on the latch, and felt like he might cry. He knew he had to go, he knew he couldn't stay, but suddenly he also that he desperately wanted to stay. I don't want to run away.

But he couldn't go see another healer. He couldn't sit in any more yellow rooms, or drink more yucky maroon potions. He couldn't keep waiting for Charlie to cut his hair, he never wanted to see another skirt in his closet, and he hated his name more than he ever had before.

I'm not the one who's wrong! he wanted to shout. I'm not sick!

Ron climbed up onto his bed, back against the wall, and pulled down an old battered copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. He flipped through the pages, not really reading, mostly just looking at the pictures. The clock downstairs struck ten, then eleven, and then finally Ron counted the chimes all the way to twelve. He set his book aside, and jumped to the floor to change into his favorite jeans and yellow dragon shirt and the big green sweater Mum had knit him last Christmas. Then he grabbed his packed bag and his blanket and his pillow, and tiptoed down the stairs.

The house was dark and quiet. No one else was awake. He made it into the kitchen, then had to set his things on the floor of the entry while he sat to pull on his jacket and boots.

Ron stood, lifting his knapsack from the floor and hugging his pillow and blankets to his chest as he struggled to balance it all on one arm. Finally he managed, one corner of the blanket trailing the ground behind him, and with his free hand reached out to quietly unlatch the door and, slipping onto the doorstep, shut it carefully behind him. Then, bundling everything once again firmly in both his arms, Ron set off down the gravel driveway and into the cool spring night.

Behind him, the silence of the Weasley's kitchen was broken, faintly, by the whir of small gears. The second-shortest hand on the old clock face, the one which had before been nestled securely amongst the other five hands pointing at home, shifted and traveled around the large face until it settled, with a quiet click, on lost.