The noises from the basement had been growing louder and more intriguing for the past two hours. The longer Ron sat near the top of the stairs, the more he longed to know exactly what it was that his brothers -- Fred and George as usual -- were up to. It was hardly a secret that the twins were prone to pranks and the occasional joke based venture.

It was strange; Ron often wanted to know what they were doing. For once, however he was truly sick of always being left out. That morning it had been like a strange feeling in his chest -- he wanted to be a part of the joke. For no doubt they had something planned. Any time he had asked in the past, the twins had always laughed, joking about how their little brother was far too young to take part in the serious fun.

Ron scoffed at the idea. Young. He had finished his first year at Hogwarts. He wasn't a little boy anymore, no matter what they said. A small voice in the back of his mind observed he was acting like a baby -- pouting on the steps -- but he squelched that voice.

Chewing on his lower lip, Ron stood. He winced, stretching out the cramps he had gained from sitting on the stairs for so long. As he did so, his eyes never left the closed door at the bottom of the passage. Finally he took a deep breath, steeling his courage.

The closer he got to the basement, the louder Fred and George's voices -- no matter how they tried to quiet them -- became. When he finally stood on the last step, his breath caught in his throat. Now or never. The thought resounded in his head.

Knowing the door was locked -- and that there was no other way in -- Ron raised his hand. He paused momentarily before pounding on the wooden surface. His only chance lay in the twins fearing it was their mother who stood behind the door and not him.

Reaching up as high as he was able, Ron hit his fist against the door. He held his breath as the noise from inside went quiet; he had no choice but to wait.

A moment later, the door cracked open. Fred's worried face, complete with a forced air of innocence, appeared in the space. Taking advantage of Fred's distraction, Ron's pushed on the door, sliding into the dark basement before his older brother had the chance to realize what was happening. The momentum caused Fred to fall against the door, pushing it closed once more.

Hands clutched into fists at his sides, Ron stared at his brothers. Both George and Fred stared back at Ron, as if unsure what they were seeing. George, standing on the far side of a large cauldron, opened his mouth then closed it quickly, remaining silent.

Stalemate.

It wasn't quiet but for a moment. Ron barely had time to turn wide eyes toward the bubbling cauldron before a red faced Fred finally found his voice. "Out, pipsqueak!" He pointed toward the door for emphasis.

Tearing his eyes away from the thick green smoke that almost blocked his view of George, Ron looked at Fred. "No. Why can't I be in on your prank?" Hands on his hips, Ron was the picture of youthful indignation.

"Ron, we've had this discussion a hundred times," George said. "You're too young."

Not quite growling at the placating tone in his brother's voice, Ron rolled his eyes. "I'm not a baby. Why do you have to treat me like one?"

Fred, with a smudge of... something Ron couldn't place on his nose, tossed his hands up in the air. "Because you're acting like one. Now go before you really do get Mum down here." He gestured toward the upstairs. "Don't you have chores to do?"

Ignoring Fred, Ron took a step toward the far side of the room. "No," he replied absently over his shoulder. "Mum's next door, anyway." Stepping up to the cauldron, he peered over the edge. "What is this stuff? What's it do?"

Walking around the edge of the blossoming smoke, George put a hand on Ron's shoulder. Leaning down till his mouth was near Ron's ear, he said, "Just a little something we dreamt up. Pour it on your food and it talks!"

Knowing far better than to trust the grin on George's face -- or the glint in his eyes -- Ron groaned. "Now you're just pulling my leg."

Still grinning, George tilted his head toward the door. "Out, Ron."

"It's boring out there. Percy's still hiding in his room, I heard another owl leave earlier. Ginny's with Mum and Harry hasn't answered any of my letters all summer." Ron managed to stop staring at the frothing concoction before him and look at the twins. "Why can't I stay with you?"

Hand over his heart, Fred sighed melodramatically. "I am well prepared to suffer for my art." George hid a scoff at that comment behind his hand, which Fred readily ignored. Fred took a deep breath and continued. "However, the wrath of Mum I will not face for you." At that, he poked Ron on the chest. Winking, he added, "Pipsqueak."

Glowering, Ron shrugged George's hand from his shoulder. "Would you quit calling me that?" Taking a step closer to the cauldron, he said, "I could help. You never know."

George reached out to pull Ron away. "Stay away from that. If you get hurt Mum will kill us both."

Ignoring his brother, Ron jerked away from the touch, throwing himself off balance. Wide eyed, half a cry torn from his lips, he tumbled forward -- toward the cauldron.

"Ron!"

Time slowed down. He heard Fred's cry. Saw George's hand reach out to grab at his waist. Felt a burning pain shoot up his arms as his hands hit the boiling cauldron. Watched the cauldron begin to wobble unsteadily.

There was a rush of heat as the low flames that rested below the cauldron bloomed outward, enveloping Ron. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't see.

The next thing Ron knew, there was something around his chest. Instead of falling forward, he was twisting around and flying backwards across the room. He crashed into something soft -- Fred, he realized a second later before tumbling onto the floor.

Again he heard Fred cry out, but this time it wasn't his own name Ron heard. It was George's. The sheer panic that ran through the word forced Ron's eyes open. Once he did, he wanted nothing more than to close them again but he couldn't. No matter how much he wanted to block out what lay before him...

The cauldron had fallen over, spilling its contents onto the floor. The flames had leapt up, turning the far wall a ghastly green. In the middle of it all lay George, facedown and motionless.

Fred's cry still echoing in his ears, Ron couldn't blink -- not even as the smoke blurred his sight. As he watched, Fred ran headlong into the flames in an effort to reach his twin. Moisture burned at Ron's eyes, the tears that slipped free cutting trails through the soot that coated his cheeks.

The fire still raged, filling the room with a thick, greenish-black smoke. Ron coughed, gasping for breath as he watched the tableau unfold before him. Fred finally reached George, wrapped his long arms around his chest and pulled him away from the center of the inferno.

The smoke thickened, so much so that Ron could barely see a meter in front of his face. It was a blessing and a curse -- he could hear Fred's continued frantic cries, but could no longer see either of his brothers.

It was becoming harder and harder to breathe even on the floor where Ron was. He struggled to stand only to collapse onto his knees. The jarring pain from the impact brought fresh tears to his eyes but he didn't care. He could scarcely feel the burning in his eyes over the burning everywhere else.

He tried to listen for the twins but couldn't hear anything over the dull roar in his ears. Somewhere deep in his mind he knew that they needed to get the basement door open. As if in response to his thoughts the door suddenly swung open. Light flooded in from the outside and momentarily blinding him.

He blinked, as much because of the smoke as the light, and was barely able to make out someone standing in the doorway. Percy, he realized somehow. He must have heard the noise from upstairs.

Managing to crawl on his knees, Ron wasn't sure how close he was to finally reaching the door when he doubled over. His arms clutched around his chest as a wracking cough tore up from his lungs. Gasping amid the coughs, he glanced toward the doorway -- just long enough to see the silhouette of Percy helping Fred carry George from the burning basement.

He had barely enough time to realize what he was seeing before he couldn't breathe for coughing. He collapsed onto the floor, his energy drained, curling up on his side. Tears of frustration and pain marked his cheeks, as his body continued to be wracked by heaving coughs.

The thick smoke was escaping into the stairway, wisps of fresh air were struggling to sneak into the dark room. But Ron didn't realize any of this, for he was focused on only two things: trying to breathe and the fact that he had seen his brothers get out. Maybe George would be okay. Surely he would be. Ron couldn't shake the image of George lying, unmoving, on the floor.

Guilt was already gnawing at him.

Ron clutched at his sides as his vision began to blur at the edges. He knew he had to move, but he couldn't. It was as if weights were holding him down. The last thought he had before the world turned to black was that George would be okay.

He had to be.

~<>~<>~

When he had first heard strange noises from downstairs, Percy had rolled his eyes, turned the page in his book and proceeded to ignore them. He had little doubt Fred and George were up to trouble, but for the moment was inclined to stay as far away from that trouble as possible.

As the noises increased, so did Percy's annoyance. It finally annoyed him to the point that -- when he was finally able to make out voices above the racket -- he closed his book. With a long-sufferinng sigh, he left his room and headed toward the basement.

He was at the top of the final set of stairs when a wall of heat hit him. The litany of complaints that were streaming through his head continued to grow as he drew closer to the basement. Whatever they were trying to do, it was certainly a bad idea. Where Fred and George were concerned, that was one thing of which Percy was always certain.

Mouth opened to yell, he raised his hand to pound on the door -- and stopped. Even without opening the door, the acrid smoke caused him to cough. In the moment's delay of indecision the noises from inside grew more distinct. When he heard Fred cry out, Percy put both hands up on the door and pushed inward.

At first it refused to budge, but Percy dug his shoulder into the wood, finally forcing it open. For a moment he stood stock-still, transfixed. He blinked quickly as a wall of smoke rose to flood past him into the clear air beyond.

Coughing, Percy held the sleeve of his robe over his mouth and strained to see with watering eyes past the darkness and the fire that was raging. Hearing Fred's near-frantic cries, he stepped into the boiling hot room, his complaints all but forgotten.

It was only seconds later that he found Fred, fumbling toward the door with George in his arms, though it felt as if he had been searching the darkness for hours. He opened his mouth to ask what had happened, but when he was finally able to see his younger brothers the words died in his throat.

"Let me help you," he finally rasped, taking one of George's arms from Fred. If Fred heard him, or even realized he was there, he gave no sign.

The walk up the steps was a slow one, the unconscious twin's weight loading them down. Finally reaching the top, Percy guided them into the main room and the couches that rested there. Careful not to jostle George, Percy and Fred placed him onto the largest couch as gently as possible.

It was then that Percy had the chance to think long enough to really look at his brothers. Each was covered in soot; even their normally brilliant red hair appeared as black as pitch. George's robes were burned, livid scorch marks covering all he could see of his arms. And on his head was a horrid gash from his left ear across the temple.

Then he realized... He wasn't breathing. Percy froze, his eyes wide. George wasn't breathing. Percy put a fumbling hand to his neck. No pulse. No breath. Sucking in a stuttered sob, the horrible truth struck home. Percy blinked quickly, shaking his head roughly from side to side. His mind didn't want to process what he was seeing.

Percy looked from George to Fred, Fred to George and back again. His own breath was fast, shallow gasps he couldn't control. There was no doubt in his mind that he needed to stay calm -- but that part of his brain wasn't in charge at that moment.

There was an emergency spell that even underage magicians were allowed to use. He waved his wand, running on instinct. "Healious Attractus." The charm to signal any nearby healer performed, Percy dropped his wand and fell to his knees beside George.

He should do something, anything. There was some sort of trick the Muggles had, to make people breathe again, but he couldn't remember it. Percy thought to run for their mother, but didn't want to leave Fred.

"How?" Tears burned his eyes. "What..."

There was a spell... A spell that made you breathe again. It was a dark art, they weren't supposed to use it, but... Damn, he cursed silently, what good was it being at the top of his class if it didn't help save George?

There wasn't time to answer before the door burst open and a healer Percy recognized, but didn't know by name, hurried into the room. Percy was pushed out of the way, not so gently, by the woman in her haste to reach George's side.

"What happened?" she asked over her shoulder.

The gasping question seemed to startle Fred, who tore his gaze from the unmoving form of his identical twin. He looked at Percy for a long moment, as if deciding what he was seeing, or what he should say. As he stared at his disheveled brother, Percy couldn't believe the depths of pain he saw in the once-sparkling green eyes.

Fred shook his head mutely, turning his attention back to George. The fine tremors that had been running along Fred's arms as they carried George up to the main floor grew worse until he was shaking helplessly -- his hands tangled in Percy's robes. A low, painful wail seemed to bubble up from Fred's chest to fill the silence.

Fred continued to shake his head side-to-side, not seeing anything except his brother. "No." The painful whisper practically tore from his shredded throat. "No, no, no, no..."

"Well?" the healer demanded, continuing to poke and prod George as she did so.

"I don't know," Percy admitted, staring slack jawed at the woman. As he stared, holding onto Fred, he felt numb all over -- his panic sliding into disbelief.

She muttered as she waved her wand over George's chest. The boy's chest gave a lurch, but settled back onto the couch. The healer cursed, digging through her bag before pulling out a potion bottle. Percy thought it was familiar, but didn't know why. He continued to stare as she administered a dose into George's mouth, massaging the throat muscles as she did so.

When nothing happened, the healer waved her wand over George once more, this time muttering a different spell. When there was no response, she sagged back onto her heels.

Suddenly a loud noise echoed from the main door, followed by a brash cry. "What on the earth? What's burning?"

It was followed by their sister's voice. "It stinks in here..."

Their mother's voice carried into the room. "Percy? What is all this smoke about? If those twins have..." There was a pause, just long enough for Mrs. Weasley to reach where they were. Percy had enough time to turn when he heard their mother gasp.

"George!"

Percy stood up quickly, seeing the panic on his mother's face as she practically flew across the room, dodging the healer.

"I'm sorry," the healer said, giving Mrs. Weasley a sad look. "There was too much damage..."

Mrs. Weasley dropped to her knees beside George, reaching so that she could place one arm around each twin. Tears were already soaking her round cheeks. A distant part of Percy's mind realized he couldn't remember the last time he had seen his mother cry.

"Percy?"

Hearing the small voice call his name, he turned just in time to see Ginny walking into the room. "No!" His sudden yell startled the girl and he moved quickly, blocking her view. She couldn't see what had happened, he wouldn't let her. Almost frantically, he gestured toward the stairs with a rough wave of his hand. "Go up to your room, Ginny."

The girl shook her head, tousling the long red curls. "No, Percy. What's going on? Mum? What's wrong?" She struggled to see around her brother. "Why's she crying, Percy? Why're you so dirty?"

"Just go up to your room, Ginny," Percy repeated wearily. "Please." The sounds of their mother's tears and Fred's steady, monotonous refusal were tearing at him. He put his hand on her shoulder, forcing her to turn from the room. Guiding her to the stairs, he pointed upward. "Go."

She opened her mouth to argue, but seemed to think better of it. With a huff and a last glare at Percy, she turned and fled up the stairs. A few seconds later, the sound of a slamming door echoed through the house.

Sighing, Percy turned to go back into the room where the others waited when suddenly his mind cleared for an instant. In their hurry to get George away from the flames, they had just let the flames themselves go.

Sparing a moment to find his wand on the floor, Percy ran toward the basement. Surely this qualified as reason enough to completely break the rules against underage magic. Deep down the irony of the thought struck Percy as funny.

Again he held the sleeve of his robe over his mouth and nose, blinking against the harsh smoke. Once he reached the door, he pulled out his wand and searched his mind for the right spell. "Extinguous." A sudden burst of wind ripped through the room, followed by a swirling mist of something similar to water, only heavier.

Pausing to be sure the flames were indeed dying, Percy remembered a small window hidden high on one of the walls. Pointing his wand in the right direction, he said, "Dissendium." The window flew open and a single ray of sunlight cut through the smoke that poured through it.

With the fire out and the smoke clearing, Percy coughed as he glanced around the room. It was in a shambles -- cauldron overturned, soot clinging to every surface, moisture dripping from the spell he had used to extinguish the fire. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

Dropping his wand into his pocket, he stepped further into the room to make sure that all of the flames were indeed out. A glance to the far left caused him to freeze in place. He blinked, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

"Maybe it's just an old robe," he muttered under his breath as he walked over toward the blackened pile of cloth. "No one else was down here..." Percy added, but if it was just to convince himself of the idea, he didn't know.

Lowering himself onto one knee, Percy reached out his hand only to find it shaking. Coughing against the remaining smoke he touched the robe gingerly. A lance of panic, similar to when he'd first seen George draped across Fred arm, pierced his heart.

"No..." It was more breath than word, pulled from his throat as he nudged the robe away from the slackened face beneath it. His fingertips ghosted across the soot-covered skin, tears biting at his already irritated eyes. "No, no, no. Ron..."

Ron took a ragged breath and Percy gasped with relief. "Ron?" Anxiety filled his voice, his earlier numbed state lost. A tear not borne of the smoke and heat slipped from his eye, marking his cheek.

The smaller boy groaned softly, but didn't move.

Percy rearranged the robe covering Ron so that he could get an arm under both his knees and back. He winced at the cruel burns that marked his hands and arms. Holding him close to his chest, Ron's head lolled against his shoulder. Percy crossed the basement as quickly as possible -- careful to not jostle Ron too much as he climbed the stairs, his chest tight with worry.

Walking into the bright living room, he blinked against the sudden light. He didn't need to see, however, to hear his mother's broken sobs. Within seconds his vision had cleared and he placed Ron on the second couch so the healer might look at him. Could save him.

Percy moved just in time to hear his mother's cry. "Ron!"

~<>~<>~

Ron groaned. He heard his mother calling his name, but tried to roll over and stuff his face down into his pillow. It was summer break, why did he always have to get up early? It simply wasn't fair.

Pain rushed through him and he gasped roughly as his eyes shot open. He tried to sit up, but hands on his shoulders kept him from doing so. "Wha..." He tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. His throat felt as if it was on fire, shredded and torn.

Fire.

Memories flooded back with a crushing force. Ron struggled against the hands that held him, needing to see George. He had to be okay. He needed to know he was okay. Looking up at Percy -- for that was who was holding him down -- realization struck. He saw pain in the familiar eyes. As if knowing what he felt, Percy stepped to the side and Ron was finally able to see what he was searching for.

George...

No.

Tears filled Ron's eyes, his jaw quivering when he looked from George to Fred and then Percy. He shook his head, unable to think much less speak, not wanting to believe what his eyes were telling him. There was an unfamiliar woman hovering nearby, watching him as if she expected him to collapse again. A healer then, part of his mind supplied.

Percy shook his head, but before he could say anything, Mrs. Weasley rushed back into the room. Seeing her youngest son awake, yet more tears filled her eyes. Within a moment, she had wrapped him in an embrace -- blocking his view of the others -- her sobs shaking both of them.

Ron pressed his face into his mother's shoulder, fighting against the silent tears that streaked down his cheeks, wetting his mother's robe. He shook his head, over and over, denying what was burned into his memory. Words repeated in his mind, relentless and cruel.

His brother was dead. It was all his fault.

Gasping, Ron pulled away from the smothering embrace. Pain tore through his arms, causing black spots to fill his vision, but he swallowed it down. White streaks cut through the soot that remained on his face, his hair sticking in all directions. He refused to look at his mother's consoling, grief-ridden face. He refused to meet Percy's tear-bright eyes.

The thought of again looking at George caused his stomach to turn, nausea rolling within him.

It was, instead, Fred's face that Ron sought out. It was Fred he needed to reach out to, but Fred wasn't looking at Ron. Fred's attention, he realized, went no further than the body that lay before them all. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ron thought Fred looked remarkably like a puppet whose strings had been snapped. Totally un-Fred-like, as it were.

As if feeling Ron's pleading gaze on the back of his neck, Fred turned slowly to look at his younger brother. The green eyes, normally bright with chaos and jokes, were hard and cold. Unforgiving. Ron gasped, the breath catching in his raw throat. Percy opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to bite the comment off after a dark look from Fred.

"Get out."

Ron blinked, fresh tears biting his eyes. He opened his mouth, closing it before opening it again. Still, no words came. His chest was tight and he felt cold, even though he somehow knew the room to be overly warm. Ron shuddered, unable to look away from Fred and the dark smudges hollowing the area beneath the dead stare. Ron tilted his head to the side, a single tear slipping down his right cheek.

Fred's jaw clenched, his cold eyes glancing at the others in the room before again freezing Ron in their sights. Fred looked away long enough to glance at where George lay and swallowed nervously. For the smallest of moments, the ice melted in his eyes, only to be replaced by a soul deep pain. Percy winced. Mrs. Weasley reached out to her son, but was rebuffed.

As though seeing the renewed pain in their mother's eyes, Percy reached out and laid his arm across her shoulders. Mrs. Weasley didn't look away from the grieving twin, nor did Ron.

"Fred?" Ron's hoarse voice squeaked slightly, but couldn't hide the plea within it.

Hearing his name, the twin blinked. All traces of pain disappeared, again replaced by the hard glint of anger. "Why are you still here?" It was only a whisper, but one that sent chills down Ron's spine and caused Mrs. Weasley to reach out to her son once more.

"Fred..." She laid a hand on his arm. "Don't..." He cut her off, brushing her hand away, with a matching shake of his head.

Ron stood, barely managing a cry when his legs folded beneath him. He landed hard, on his knees, and when Percy reached out a steadying hand, Ron batted it away. Even as he did so, his attention didn't leave Fred.

From where he was kneeling, several feet away from Fred and George, Ron reached out a shaky hand. "Fred?" The disbelief colored his voice, and he swallowed audibly. "Geo..."

"Don't," Fred interrupted him, voice yet to rise above a whisper but cutting all the same. The temperature in the room seemed to fall suddenly with Fred's glinting eyes. "Don't even say his name."

"Fred..." Mrs. Weasley said, reaching over to place a hand on Fred's arm. She swallowed her own tears. "Being angry with Ron won't bring George back." He didn't reply, merely continued to stare. "It's not Ron's fault."

Ron looked between them, confused. In a childlike voice he asked, "Mum?"

It was obvious, even to Ron, that Mrs. Weasley was torn between her children, each hurting in their own way. The shaking in Ron's shoulders continued to grow worse, until Percy finally wrapped his youngest brother in a warm embrace, careful of the barely healed burns that had been tended to while Ron was unconscious. There was a thanks in their mother's eyes, directed at Percy and he nodded. As he held onto Ron, he closed his eyes against the tears that rested there.

Fred shook his head and turned away from the others. His attention focused only on George, he said, "Get out, Ron. You don't belong here."

"Fred!" Mrs. Weasley's voice allowed for no argument. She knew he was hurting, they all were. That alone broke her heart, but looking at her youngest son, and the dejected expression she saw there, enough was enough. "Don't ever speak to your brother that way."

Fred shook his head, staring at Ron for a long moment before turning away.

"He's not my brother."

~<>~<>~

The rest of the day passed in a blur. There was a sudden influx of people into the Burrow -- both those Ron recognized and those he didn't. Ron marveled at his arms, the lack of burns or scars. The lack of pain, which had become oddly familiar, hurt worse than the pain itself had.

As soon as he was able to stand he had fled the main room. Fled the over-concerned healer. Fled his tearful mother and a worried Percy. Fled George -- who had since been moved from the couch -- and Fred, who had not even looked at his younger brother since his earlier out burst.

Ron's room became his refuge -- for the moment. He sank onto his bed, knees pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. The noise from below echoed up the many staircases. He could hear Ginny's endless questions. He recognized the sound of his father's voice, worn with grief though it were.

At one point, someone knocked on the door to his room. He realized who it was a moment later when a small voice asked, "Ron? Can I come in?"

The door handle jiggled, but a chair wedged under it kept the door from opening. When he didn't say anything, rather pressed himself as far into the corner as possible, he heard Ginny's sigh as she waited a minute and walked away.

Closing his eyes, Ron pressed his face against his knees. Flashes of memory from what happened in the basement filled his mind.

Fire. Smoke. Falling. George...

"No!" The cry echoed off the walls. He jerked his head up, hitting it against the wall for his trouble. Eyes wide, panting, he ignored the pain that flared through his head and looked around the room. Tears slipped unbidden down his face and he couldn't catch his breath -- he could only manage gasping stutters around the lump that was lodged in his throat.

The sight of George lying on the couch was all he could see. The thought that it was his fault that his brother -- his brother -- was dead, because of him... It was all he could hear inside his head.

Ron had no idea how long he had been hidden away upstairs before the constant smiling of the many Cannons' posters that lined the walls began to aggravate him. What began as a barely noticed annoyance finally erupted into full-scale anger. Whether it was at the players in the posters or himself, he wasn't ready to think about yet.

Standing up quickly, so quickly he half doubled over when his head began to spin, Ron reached out his hand to the closest of the posters. With hardly a second thought he ripped it from the wall. The sudden burst of energy filled him, and he looked to the other posters that now stood eerily still around him.

In a flurry of motion, Ron tore through the room pulling the many posters from the walls and ceiling. When that wasn't enough, he ripped them into shreds, littering the floor with the thin ribbons that remained. When the walls were bare, Ron stood in the middle of the chaos, gasping for breath, his chest heaving with exertion.

His eyes glazed over in fury as he looked at the ratty wallpaper that had once been hidden beneath the smiling wizards. A strangled cry tore from his throat as he attacked the faded paper, gouging long tears into it with his fingernails. Ron didn't pause when the splintered wood dug into the skin under his nails or the nails themselves splintered and ripped away. He didn't see the red streaks that marred the paper.

All he could see, rather, were the cold, accusing eyes of his older brother. All he could hear was the sound of Fred's voice as he told him to leave. That he wasn't his brother.

And all he could think was that Fred was right.

Struggling to breathe, Ron looked around the room. For the first time since that morning he truly saw the wrecked remains of his bedroom. The thought occurred to him that he didn't deserve it. Not his room. Not his family. Nothing. What does anyone deserve when they kill their own brother?

Black spots danced at the edges of his vision, and he swayed slowly. The room tilted beneath his feet and within a heartbeat the floor was rushing up to meet him. He barely even had time to think that he didn't belong there.

He was no one's brother.

~<>~<>~

When Ron woke the sky outside his window was dark. He had no idea how much time had passed, or what time it actually was. Oddly enough, he didn't really care.

He looked around his room through eyes made stiff and puffy by tears. The small space was a shambles -- remnants of once bright posters and long dull paper cluttered the floor. The comforter was pulled from the bed, pillows thrown randomly around the room.

Ron rotated his head trying to work the kinks out of his neck. Spending part of the night on the floor -- although by no choice of his own -- had made his back sore. After stretching his arms up over his head, his gaze fell on his hands, or rather, the dried blood that covered his fingers. He knew he should care. That didn't mean he did.

Dropping his hands to his sides, Ron gazed listlessly around his room. His thoughts from before -- that he had no right to be there -- were never far from his mind. Even as the idea was the primary thought in his mind, another was forming.

He had to leave.

Shaking his head, he tried to think about what he should do. Should he really leave his home? Run away from what he had done? He thought about the look on his mother's face earlier. The look in Fred's hollow eyes before he hadn't been able to look at him any more. It was then that Ron had his answer.

Before he was even moving across the room, the boy was deciding what he would need to do. He couldn't think of where he would go. There wasn't anyone he could run to, they would all hate him once they had heard what he'd done. It wouldn't be long before everyone hated him for killing his own brother.

Might they even take him to Azkaban? At the same moment he shuddered with fear, apathy swelled in his heart.

Ron shook his head, trying to focus. His head was throbbing, his vision blurred around the edges. Clenching his hands into fists, he willed the pain to go away. There wasn't any time for it if he was going to leave before anyone thought to look for him.

The ratty bag he carried his books in at school was under his bed, and he grabbed it after a moment's thought. A wistful feeling came over him, causing his stomach to twist. He was going to miss Hogwarts, but there was no way he would be able to go back. Not now -- not ever.

He held the bag in clenched hands, before pulling open the top drawer in his chest. Not really thinking about it, he grabbed another robe, a shirt and pair of pants. He didn't know where might need to blend in, and he hoped the clothing was similar enough to what the muggles were wearing.

Coughing, he grabbed his wand and dropped it into his pocket. Illegal use of magic was the least of his problems, however it couldn't hurt to be careful.

The idea crossed his mind that he should probably find something to eat, but his stomach rebelled at the idea. Ron clutched a hand across his midsection, willing whatever might still be in his stomach to stay there. He supposed that eventually his appetite would return, but he would deal with that whenever it happened. It wasn't as if there was all that much extra food to spare around the Burrow. He should leave what was there for the rest of them -- the ones who deserved it.

Once his stomach was settled, he straightened. Casting a long glance around the only room he had ever known, Ron sighed. Almost belatedly it occurred to him that if he was going to make it very far in the world on his own -- either the wizard one or the muggle world -- he would need money of some sort. He groaned. He didn't have any money of any sort.

As he stood there, trying to decide what he should do, a thought occurred to him. Sadly, he opened the small box that held his few keepsakes. Inside was his battered chess set and a few other knick-knacks he had been given. Nestled among them was a small pouch made of velvet.

He touched it almost reverently, chewing on his lower lip. Closing his eyes for a second, he took a deep breath, ignoring the pain in his chest the action caused. Picking the pouch up from the box, he slowly opened the drawstring and let the contents slip out onto the old desk.

In the faint light, two chess pieces -- a queen and a knight -- glinted softly. No one knew that he had them, even though many knew about the trials that he and his friends faced to get them. Each had an inlaid jewel that glowed a soft blue from within, but only if you knew exactly where to look for it.

Once, they had been giant -- transfigured by Professor McGonagall to help guard the Sorcerer's stone. Once, Ron had faced the queen in a game of strategy that helped Harry to save the stone. Since, they had been reverted to their original form. The crystal was the only proof of what they really were.

Ron closed his eyes. One more thing he didn't deserve to keep, sacrifice or not. Returning the pieces to their pouch, he placed it into his other pocket. Hopefully someone would want to buy them, for they were all he possessed of any value. No matter how badly he wanted to keep them -- how badly he wanted to believe he had earned them -- it wasn't a choice anymore.

That settled, Ron cast a final glance around his room. Scabbers was sleeping on his pillow, but he decided against taking the rat with him. After all, he hadn't done anything wrong; surely the family would keep him. His mother would probably be angry about the mess. He closed his eyes sadly. What was one more transgression against him?

As quietly as possible, he moved the chair away from the door. He pulled it open and glanced out into the dark hallway. There was no one to be seen, he had no doubt they were in their rooms -- if not actually sleeping. Thinking of this, Ron crept along the hallways and stairs as silently as he could. He made sure to skip over the squeaky stairs, and avoid the one that made a loud clapping noise.

Soon enough he was standing at the main door. He looked over his shoulder, still able to smell the smoke from the basement. The main room, which had so recently held almost everyone he loved, was empty and dark. The door at the top of the basement stairs was pushed tightly closed. Ron wondered when anyone else would ever go down there.

A shiver raced up his spine as he realized what was happening. He was leaving and didn't plan ever to return. He opened the door and stepped out into the night. A half moon lit part of the sky, making it so that he could see across the yard. One foot after the other, he began the slow process of leaving all he'd known.

Again tears bit at the backs of his eyes but he blinked them away, shrugging his bag over his shoulder. After all, why cry when it's for the best?

Why cry when you're only getting what you deserve?

~<>~<>~

When dawn finally began to approach, Ron was half-concerned to see dark grey clouds building on the horizon. However, instead of worrying about it, he pressed onward. Even when the first large drops of rain began splattering the ground around him, he ignored it.

Some odd hours after leaving the Burrow, he still had no idea where exactly he was going to go. There was no question that first he needed to trade in the chess pieces, if he could find someone willing to buy them. Then... He wasn't sure what he might do then.

One thought had broken through the shadows that had filled his mind. He needed to at least say goodbye to Harry.

Ron didn't expect him to understand what he had done. Honestly, Ron feared that Harry wouldn't want to be his friend anymore. The last part saddened him almost as much as what had happened already. Never before in his life had Ron had a real best friend. Now he was going to lose the one he'd found just as he had lost everything else.

It was for the best, Ron tried to remind himself -- to tell Harry goodbye and then leave for parts unknown. Maybe he would go to America or into Europe. Somewhere no one knew what he had done. Somewhere no one hated him.

Ron shook his head against the steady rain, shivering as the wind picked up and bit into his skin. He paused for a moment, trying to figure out where he was. Several minutes later he still had no idea and decided just to keep walking. It occurred to him that there were easier ways to get to Harry's aunt and uncle's house than walking. But first he would have to be able to pay for them.

Continuing to wander along the roads, Ron watched as the houses and businesses slowly began to stir. Once, when he was young, his mother had told him that each dawn could bring with it a new hope. Ron shuddered, clutching his arms across his chest both at the weather and the knowledge that his mother was wrong.

The dawn hadn't brought anything with it at all.

~<>~<>~

Finding a shop to sell the chess pieces at had been easier than Ron expected. It wasn't the first town he had walked through that day, and it wasn't quite dark when he stumbled onto the small building.

The sign that rattled in the wind, occasionally slamming against the store's wall, labeled it a collector's shop. A quick glace through the window -- at the contents that lay inside --showed it to be owned by a wizard, not a muggle. A small part of Ron -- one that was still thinking logically -- knew that he had to risk selling the pieces to a wizard. No muggle would think the chess pieces anything of value.

The door jingled as he opened it and stepped inside. Ron gasped at the warmth that waited there. It had been so long since he had felt anything but cold and wet. After standing motionless for several minutes, enjoying the heat, he winced at the large pool of water around his feet.

He had just began to wonder how he might mop it up when a short grey haired man appeared behind a counter in front of him. Ron looked up, expecting the shopkeeper to be upset about the mess, but was surprised to see something else in his brown eyes.

"Don't just stand there, son." The man waved a chubby hand. "Come closer to the fire, you look chilled to the bone."

Ron found himself unable to argue with the obvious statement, though he did shake his head. The man smiled before walking around the end of the counter and over to Ron. "Right over here. We'll get you warmed up." When he placed a hand on Ron's arm, the old man gasped. "You're frozen through!"

After being led to the fire, Ron gratefully sank down in front of it. For several moments he stared into the flames -- their orange glow over laid in his mind with a haunting green from his memory. He started, as if remembering where he was, and when. He looked up at the shopkeeper with wide eyes.

"I'm sorry..." Ron gestured toward the door.

The man shook his head. "Think nothing of it. Little harm can come from a bit of muddy water." Reaching for a teapot, he poured an amber liquid into a small cup. "Here, drink this. It will help warm you."

Warily, Ron accepted the tea. He cast a long glance at the man before slurping the warm tea greedily. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten anything, and the aroma was too inviting to pass up.

A short time later the cup was empty, and Ron looked at the older man sheepishly. "Thank you," he said, returning the cup.

The man nodded, taking the cup. "You're welcome. Now, why are you out in such weather, young man?"

Avoiding the question, Ron reached into his pocket. The velvet pouch was sodden from his journey. The man's gaze followed the motion, watching as Ron opened the bag and pulled the chess pieces from within it. Ron turned the pieces just right, so that the stones glowing within them were visible.

"How did you..." With wide eyes, the shopkeeper looked between the chess pieces and Ron's face. He shook his head. "Where did you find these?"

Ron shrugged. "I've had them for a little while now." He hoped that the other man wouldn't press the issue; he doubted he would believe him. Perhaps he'd believe them stolen. "I was hoping you might be interested in them."

He reached out a hand, almost touching the knight before looking at Ron. "May I?" When Ron nodded, he picked up the knight and turned it over in his hands. "I've heard of these. Never expected to see one."

"Would you want to..." Ron cringed, hating what he had to say next. The chess pieces were special in their own way -- even if one of them had knocked him unconscious. "Want to buy them?" he finally finished.

The man shook his head, causing Ron's heart to plummet, but finally said, "Why would you want to sell something like this, son? Why not keep them?"

Ron wouldn't meet his eyes. Instead, he focused on the pieces. "I don't need them anymore," he lied. He stared at them longingly for a few seconds before finally looking up. "Well?"

"Okay," the man said. He considered the boy for a long moment, appearing to be lost in thought. "How does three galleons, twelve sickles sound? For the set."

"Yes, sir," Ron replied almost listlessly. Wizard money would serve his purpose until he decided where he was going -- or could figure out how to trade for muggle money. How much it was, he suddenly didn't care. Having money wasn't all it was cracked up to be anymore. Not when it was taking you away from everything you knew.

"Thank you."

The man dropped a hand onto Ron's shoulder. "Wait here by the fire, I'll go and get them." Again Ron nodded, not watching as the man disappeared around behind the counter. On his lap, the now-empty pouch lay forgotten.

When the shopkeeper returned, he dropped the coins onto the bag. "Here you go." Ron nodded. The man looked closely at the boy sitting in front of him, noting the bright eyes and flushed cheeks. "Are you feeling well, son?" When Ron didn't reply, he shook the boy's shoulder softly. "Son?"

Suddenly Ron sprung to life. "I'm not your son," he replied, his glassy eyes suddenly hard. Some of the anger deflated as he mumbled, "I'm no one's son." Before the shopkeeper could say anything, Ron shoved the money into the pouch and replaced it in his pocket. "Thank you for the tea. I really should go."

The man glanced out a small window and shook his head. "It's after dark and still pouring down rain." He paused, watching the boy as he swayed on his feet. "And I think you're ill, too."

"I'm fine," Ron replied, shaking his head. He skirted around the man, still shaking his head. "Thank you." With a half-hearted wave, he ducked out the front door and into the gloomy night.

~<>~<>~

The shopkeeper watched the boy leave and continued watching through the window as he hurried down the street. The man sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. Digging around in his robe pocket, he found a quill. A few moments later he found a piece of parchment and scribbled a quick note.

Whistling, he walked over to an owl cage near the back of the shop. After explaining to the owl about the letter, he opened the window and watched as it fluttered out into the driving rain.

Closing the window, he turned back into the shop. A moment later he picked up the two chess pieces and placed them on the counter. How was it that he had stumbled upon Arthur Weasley's boy?

~<>~<>~

The rain continued to pour down throughout the night. Ron pressed onward; the only plan in his mind was that he had to see Harry. He owed Harry, at least, a goodbye. The heavy weight of the galleons in his pocket, when compared with the chess pieces, constantly reminded him of what all he had lost.

Everything had spun madly out of control and he had no idea how to stop it.

A low rumble of thunder sounded far off in the distance. Ron had hoped the rain might let up, but wasn't surprised when if anything it only grew worse.

He sneezed, almost doubling over with the effort. His head swam and Ron braced his hands on his knees when found that he couldn't stop coughing. It was a struggle to breathe, and suddenly he found himself tilting off balance to land on his hands and knees in the mud.

His shivers worsened instantly -- he had landed in a puddle of muddy water on the side of the road. Raising a hand to rub it over his face, it occurred to him that the gouges on his palms should be hurting. There were thin traces of blood -- cuts left by the rocks hidden in the watter -- washing away in the rain. He realized then that his hands had gone numb at some point, they didn't hurt. They didn't feel like much at all.

For long moments he sat where he fell. Ron knew he should at least get out of the standing water, but as it was continuing to fall from the skies a part of his brain argued that it made little difference where he sat. And if he were to be honest, he was too tired to move.

A sigh escaped his lips, triggering another cough. When he regained his breath, he ran a hand through his rain-plastered hair. It would be easy to just lay down, a part of him thought. Just sleep for a little while. His eyes were beginning to fall closed, staying that way longer and longer each time he blinked.

After several minutes of sitting by the street -- lost in a feverish daze -- he remembered what it was he had to do. He had to see Harry. It was this thought that bade him to press onward -- to climb to his feet and move sluggishly down the street.

How far away was Privet Drive anyway?

~<>~<>~

Harry was startled awake by the sound of something fluttering against his window. Squinting, he glanced at the window only to see nothing but darkness. A second later, his glasses pressed on his face, he saw what had woken him. An owl. The first owl he'd received all summer.

The owl that hovered outside the window was soaked through, the driving rain which had begun before he went to bed had yet to lift. An odd feeling in the pit of his stomach squelched any happiness at the thought of finally getting a letter.

Even before the thought had time to form -- who on earth would be sending an owl in such weather? -- Harry was unlatching his window. A second thought -- what would happen if his aunt or uncle heard -- was pushed to the back of his mind.

The bars that covered the window proved a problem, and the large owl seemed to glare at Harry for the inconvenience. Reaching out through the bars, Harry grasped the owl just enough so as to pull the parchment from his grasp. When it made a disgruntled noise, Harry muttered an apology as he reached over to Hedwig's cage and pulled out a small piece of food.

"I'm sorry, boy, it's all I have," he whispered so quietly it was almost inaudible over the falling rain. The owl hooted softly before flying away, back off into the night.

Harry shivered, his arms and face wet with the rain. He quickly unrolled the parchment, only to realize that his glasses were covered in water. Wiping at the moisture with his sleeve, he managed to see well enough to make out the splattered words. He didn't recognize the handwriting, which ruled out a greeting from either Ron or Hermione.

~~Harry. Please forgive me for sending this letter so

late. We hope it finds you well. I know how close

you are with Ron, and that is why I needed to contact

you. Something horrible has happened.~~

Harry's eyes closed of their own volition. Something horrible... The words repeated silently in his mind. It was a long moment before he opened his eyes and again tried to focus on the words. His hands shook, making it even harder to read the letter.

~~There was an accident earlier today, at the Burrow.

Fred and George were up to something, I'm not sure

what. Ron was with them and something went wrong.

George was killed.~~

The boy slumped onto his bed, staring off into space. George? His mind rebelled at the thought. Not George. How could Ron's brother be dead? What about Fred? Question upon question circled in his mind, causing his vision to swim.

He was certain he did not want to read the rest of the letter. But he had no choice.

~~For whatever reason, Ron apparently thinks that it

is his fault, what happened to George. He's gone Harry.

Ran away and so far nothing our parents -- or anyone else

-- has done has been of any help. Mum and Dad were so

upset about George, and then we realized Ron was gone...~~

Harry's heart was pounding. Ron was gone? The tears that had burned the backs of his eyes minutes before returned. He blinked quickly, merely succeeding in causing the moisture to overflow onto his cheeks. Instead of brushing it away, Harry ignored the tears and took a deep breath.

~~I think Ron may try to find you. I know that he

hasn't been able to get a hold of you this summer.~~

He's tried? Harry thought.

~~If he does show up there, Harry, you have to convince

him to come home. Or contact us. No matter what he

thinks he has or hasn't done, he belongs here. This is

home, Harry, we need him here as much as he needs to

be here.~~

It was simply signed Percy Weasley. There was a small part of Harry's mind that wondered at the mere thought of Percy taking the time to write him. From what he knew of the middle Weasley, he was surprised he would have taken such initiative.

That thought was, however, brushed aside in the wake of everything the letter had revealed. George was gone and Ron... Ron had left. Harry cast a long look at his bedroom window, silently willing his friend to appear. There was no reply, save a low rumble of thunder off in the distance.

The letter finally fell from nerveless fingers onto the rumpled sheets of his small bed. The paper was forgotten, it's message anything but. Moving to stand in front of the window, Harry rested a hand on the pane of glass.

"Where are you, Ron?" he asked his own reflection. His reflection didn't answer.

~<>~<>~

It was late in the night - sometime between midnight and dawn, Ron wasn't sure -- when Ron's legs again collapsed from beneath him. As he sat in the middle of the road, weak with coughing, he half wondered how it was his parents hadn't found him. As it were, he was grateful the shopkeeper he had spoken to hadn't recognized him.

The thoughts had barely had time to form before he flinched. Shame colored his cheeks and he began to shake harder. Why would they be looking for him? And if they were... Flashes of fire filled his vision. It wouldn't be good for any involved if they found them. They probably hated him. Fred certainly did.

Not that he was concerned anyone would know which Weasley he was, if they even cared. But it was possible they would know he was one of the Weasley family. Hair as red as theirs wasn't the most common to be found.

Catching his breath for a moment, Ron turned his face into the rain that pelted the ground around him. He knew so far he had been lucky. However, Ron wasn't willing to bet how long his luck might hold out.

Ron sneezed and for the first time since fleeing his home, he tried to think of what he should do next. Finding Harry -- that was high on the list. But how to go about it? At the rate he was going, it would take ages to reach Privet Drive.

It was then he remembered Charlie telling him about the Knight Bus. Of course, when their mum had heard what tales Charlie had been telling her youngest son, chaos had broken loose. As a result, Ron had always been curious about the mysterious bus that his mother was so against his riding.

Ron thought back to what his older brother had told him. How was it you went about signaling the bus again? It had been so long before, and the memory was hazy. Suddenly inspiration struck and Ron carefully pulled his beaten old wand from his pocket.

Standing, trying to hold himself as still as possible, he reached his arm over his head -- wand extended toward the sky. Seconds ticked by, becoming a minute. Ron was about to lower his hand and accept that if he was going to see Harry, he would have to walk the entire way, when there was a loud bang and brilliant light.

Ron jumped at the noise and flinched seeing the smoke that billowed -- it was far too similar to before...

He winced, ignoring the memories that sought to steal the breath from his lungs. Ron dropped his hand to block his eyes against the sudden light. His eyes watered for a moment, before he could finally focus on the triple-decker, purple bus and take in the lettering on its front.

Ron's mouth gaped open when a man jumped out of the bus and into the rain. The stranger -- complete in matching purple uniform -- held out a hand to Ron.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus. 'Orrible weather you've found yourself in this eve. Woss you doin' out in t'at?" He gestured toward the inside. "Climb aboard, now."

The tone was friendly, and Ron could feel the warmth inside the bus from where he stood. He shook his head -- as though to be sure he wasn't imagining the bus after being out in the rain for so long. When it was still there a few seconds later, he nodded and took the offered hand.

"Thank you."

The man nodded. "Stan Shunpike is the name. Conductor to the Knight Bus." As Ron stepped onboard, Stan following close behind, the door slammed shut. "'Choo 'ave a name?"

Ron nodded and opened his mouth to reply before thinking better of it. He tried to smile, but couldn't quite force the expression. "Cedric Hingles, sir."

The man's head tilted to the side. "Can't seem to recall ah 'Ingles..." The conductor shook his head and smiled crookedly. "Eh, never mind. Can't be expected to know the whole lot of wizards in England."

The bus seemed to rattle, accompanied by another loud noise, as it lifted away from the street. Ron looked around the interior with wide eyes -- it was almost as peculiar as the outside. Shivering, he ran his hands over his lower arms. Even inside the warmth of the bus, he couldn't seem to get warm.

"So, goin' somewhere, are 'choo?" Stan asked, looking over Ron's shoulder.

Returning his gaze to Stan, he nodded uncertainly. "Privet Drive? Do you know where that is?"

Stan almost looked offended, Ron noted. "Of course, sir. Ern and I know how to find most any place." At Ron's confused look, Stan gestured toward the front of the bus. "Our driver, Ernie Prang."

Ernie nodded to Ron, before turning his attention back to the stormy sky.

Ron shifted on his feet, forcing himself to look at the other man. "How much for the lift?"

"Eleven sickles." He paused, looking at the bedraggled boy. "Tho firteen gets ya 'ot chocolate. If 'choo don't mind my saying so, young sir, 'choo look as if 'choo could use it."

Stomach grumbling and still cold, Ron recalled how much the shopkeeper had given him. Resigning himself to no hot chocolate, he pulled the money pouch from his pocket. With a glance inside, he pulled out eleven of his twelve sickles. "Here you go, sir."

Stan gave Ron an appraising look. "Sure 'choo don't want 'ot chocolate?"

Dropping his gaze, Ron shook his head. "No thank you, sir."

The conductor gave him another long look before nodding. Gesturing to Ron's robe, he added, "'Choo might consider changing out of that wet robe, 'tho, Cedric."

Ron glanced down at his clothing. Wet or not, the conductor was right. He was going to Privet Drive and he would have to blend in. Wizard robes were probably not in fashion in the muggle world. He fingered the bag on his shoulder and looked around the bus' interior. "Anywhere I might change?"

Stan nodded toward the back of the bus. "Right back there, 'choo can use the facilities."

Ron sneezed, managing to grin shakily. "Thanks."

~<>~<>~

After changing, Ron must have dozed off -- though he had no memory of falling asleep. All that remained from that time were disjointed images. Fred and George. Percy's tearful eyes. His mum...

The next thing he knew Stan was shaking him by the shoulder, a shoulder that was already shaking.

"We're 'ere, Cedric." Ron blinked against the vague images and the pain that went with them, willing himself to stop trembling. He stretched his arms up over his head. A quick glance around revealed nothing but dreary black skies. As if reading his mind, Stan grinned. "Right down there." He pointed out the window and down.

Ron stood, wobbling unsteadily for a moment before resting a hand against the glass to steady himself. Looking out through the window, row after row of small houses could just be seen below -- all lining amazingly straight streets. Ron couldn't help but think they all looked far too alike and rather dull.

Shaking his head in hopes to clear it, Ron was hit by another wave of dizziness. When he would have otherwise fallen, he felt the other man's hand on his arm. "'Choo okay, Cedric?" Ron nodded, although he felt anything but okay. "'Choo sure? 'Choo look awful red."

"I'm fine," Ron managed to force past a scratchy throat.

See Harry. Say goodbye. Then get sick. Then hide. The ideas fell one after the next in his mind. And he nodded to himself in silent agreement. Find Harry.

Again there was a loud noise, and Ron felt the floor fall out from under him slightly. He clenched his hands into fists, his stomach twisting with the turbulent ride. Soon enough they were on the ground and Ron couldn't help but be relieved. A sheen of sweat beaded his forehead and he wiped at it absently while waiting for Stan to open the door.

"'Ere 'choo go. Privet Drive."

Ron nodded, not quite managing a smile. "Thanks, Stan."

When he stepped out of the bus, he was barely turned around before he heard a concussive booming noise and the bus was gone. For a minute Ron simply stared at the long street in front of him. How was he going to figure out which house was Harry's?

He tucked his bag -- full of half-dry clothes and his robe -- over his shoulder and took a deep breath. Privet Drive wasn't that long, he decided. Ignoring the rain -- it was becoming quite an easy thing to do -- he began walking along beside the houses, trying to pick one.

The silence was strange. Although he was slowly becoming used to the silence and solitude, even if it did go against everything he'd known. He wasn't quite halfway down the street when the memories hit suddenly. The memory of why he was alone. George lying in a pool of fire. Smoke billowing all around. Fred's cold eyes blaming him.

Ron swallowed, forcing air past the tightening in his chest. Hands pressed against his knees, he finally managed to breathe -- pushing back the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. Trying less successfully to push the memories away, Ron stood. He could fall apart later, he told himself.

After half an hour he stood on the sidewalk in front of one particular house. He wasn't sure why he thought this was the right one; something in him just made him think it might be it. He took a steadying breath and carefully began to sneak around the back of the house. After everything Harry had said about his awful family, the last thing he wanted to do was wake them.

Soon enough he was standing in the back yard, staring at the uppermost window. There was a faint light from inside it, causing Ron to pause. But again, something in him just felt right about this house.

At a loss as to how to get Harry's attention, Ron kicked at a small rock near his foot. The sound of it clinking against something unseen in the darkness gave him an idea, and he quickly scanned the small yard for another stone. Finding one, he picked it up and palmed it.

Another glance up at the window to judge the distance, Ron tossed the rock toward the glass. He held his breath at the small noise the impact made and waited. He wasn't waiting for long.

~<>~<>~

After Percy's note, Harry found himself pacing as quietly as possible in his tiny room. But the noise had disturbed Hedwig and Harry had been forced to at least sit down. And although his mind was running nonstop, he eventually fell into a fitful sleep.

Within it, he was assaulted by images of Ron. Of a life without the best friend he had ever known. One particular dream -- featuring Professor McGonagall's charmed chess set -- caused Harry to sit up straight in his bed, panting for breath. Gasping he fell back against the bed, awake and as uncertain as ever.

The small tapping against his window caused him to jump. However when he glanced out through the window, Harry didn't notice anything and thought perhaps he had imagined it. He sunk back onto the bed and ran a hand through his hair. The last thing he needed was to be imagining things on top of everything else.

When he heard the noise again, this time he was sure he hadn't just imagined it. Ignoring the rain, he pulled the glass open and leaned forward as far as possible with the bars that covered the window.

There was the dullest flash of lightning, and Harry gasped. Standing in the middle of the yard below him was Ron, soaked through and shivering so badly Harry could see it from the attic. Ron gave a half-hearted wave and Harry felt all the air drain out of his lungs. For a moment he was lightheaded, unsure what he should do.

Then suddenly he was galvanized into action. Grabbing his wand -- which he had smuggled out of his trunk before the Dursley's had locked it away -- he pointed it toward the heavy lock on his door. The rule about underage magic seemed rather unimportant right then. The lock was keeping him from helping his friend and to Harry that friend mattered more.

The lock sprung open silently, and Harry pulled the door open as quietly as possible. With a glance around the darkened hallway, he pulled the door closed behind him. Quickly he descended the stairs, careful to avoid the squeaky one so as to not wake any of the others in the house.

The lock on the front door was easier to get past, and soon Harry was rushing around the side of the house. He barely spared the time to notice the rain had stopped. When he came face to face with Ron -- who was shaking terribly -- Harry's eyes widened.

"Ron?"

The other boy smiled sheepishly. "Hi, Harry. Sorry to bug you." Harry shook his head, his mouth opening but no sound coming out. He was even more surprised when Ron actually laughed, a dead, chilling sound. "You look like a fish, Harry."

Harry gaped at Ron. "I look like a fish? You look half drown."

Why Ron was out in such weather in the first place rushed back, and Harry's face paled. Ron, apparently realizing what was going on in Harry's mind, shook his head angrily. "They said something didn't they?"

Taken aback, Harry shook his head. "Who?"

Ron threw his hands up. "You know well who. My family." Suddenly the anger deflated, leaving Ron to almost fall into himself. Harry couldn't help but think he didn't even look ten, much less twelve. "They told you what I did." The small voice was so quiet Harry almost missed it. Missing the pain within it, however, was impossible.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered, swallowing nervously.

Ron looked up at Harry, his eyes haunted. "So am I." Tears stood out in Ron's eyes, and he rubbed them away roughly. "So am I," he repeated mostly to himself, looking away. Ron cleared his throat, again meeting Harry's concerned gaze. "I wanted to say goodbye." His voice was rough with tears.

Harry shook his head, refusing the words. "No..."

As if not hearing Harry's protest, Ron pressed onward. "I have to go away, but I didn't want to leave without..." He coughed, his shivering increasing. "Without at least telling you goodbye."

"You can't go."

The quiet denial shook Ron, causing him to look closely at his friend. "What?"

Harry continued shaking his head. He looked at Ron, begging him to understand what he was trying to say. "You're my best friend. You can't just go away."

The redheaded boy almost laughed, somehow looking pained at the same time. "I'm the last guy you need for a best friend." He shoved his hands into the pockets on his pants. "Stick with Hermione and the others in our class." He smiled then, the light almost -- but not quite -- reaching his eyes. "You're Harry Potter."

"I know who I am," Harry all but growled. Ron was always one of the few who knew who he really was -- beyond the name and the legacy and he couldn't help feeling frustrated. "That doesn't mean I don't need you. After everything I've lost... I won't lose you too."

The silent admission almost shocked Ron. It was the last thing he expected. As a result, he looked at the ground. "You don't need me." When he turned back to Harry, his green eyes were pleading. "I killed George, Harry." The tears returned to his eyes and he sniffled. A lone sob broke free from his chest. "I killed my brother. What if I..."

Harry took a step toward him, laying a hand on his arm. "Ron..."

Ron shook off the touch, stepping backwards. "No, Harry."

"You should go back home." Harry tried another tactic, realizing it was the wrong one the moment the words left his mouth. "I mean..."

"I know what you mean." Ron looked up at the sky, as if willing the rain to begin again and drive the tears away. He shook his head, before stifling a sneeze. "I can't."

It was impossible not to see the trembling that shook Ron's entire body. Harry knew that Ron needed to get out of the cold -- he was as pale as a sheet, but his cheeks were a brilliant red. He would have to be blind to not see how sick his best friend had become.

"Ron..."

He was interrupted when Ron began coughing violently. The boy doubled over, one hand on his knee for balance, the other over his mouth. A second round of the harsh coughing threw him off balance -- and chest first onto the ground.

Before Harry could blink, Ron had gone from standing to laying on the ground, curled into a ball. He shook himself, trying to decide what he should do. After a moment's indecision, he kneeled next to Ron, trying to turn him over. When Ron didn't fight against him, Harry was instantly alarmed.

A second later he realized why -- Ron had fallen unconscious.

~<>~<>~

Getting Ron up to his bedroom had proven quite the challenge for Harry, but he couldn't just leave him out in the rain. Manhandling his best friend's unconscious body was one thing. Doing it without making a mess or waking his relatives was another challenge entirely.

But somehow he managed, and it wasn't yet dawn when he pushed his door shut behind them. He placed Ron on his bed, dropping the soaked bag onto the floor beside it.

A few moments later -- after wiping off his glasses so he could see to write -- Harry picked up a piece of parchment andd scribbled out a quick note. Rolling it up, he tied it closed and unlocked Hedwig's cage. The owl hooted softly and Harry brushed her feathers with one hand.

"I need you to take this to the Weasley's, Hedwig." Hurriedly, he tied the paper to the owl's leg. "Take this to Percy," he repeated. The owl made a noise, as if disgusted Harry believed she hadn't understood the first time. "Now, be quiet, okay?"

Harry slipped back out into the hallway. A minute later, he stood next to one of the few windows in the house he could reach that would actually unbolt. He went about setting Hedwig free as quickly as possible and returned up the stairs to his room.

When he got there, he used his wand to throw the bolt on the door. Ron was still asleep -- albeit restlessly. As Harry stood there, watching over his friend, he was able to hear Ron mumble quietly as he tossed. The words were hard to understand, but occasionally one would be clear. George. Fred. Fire...

Harry closed his eyes against the images Ron's words brought to mind. He still didn't know what had happened. He wasn't sure he truly wanted to know.

He didn't know how long he stood there, close enough to Ron if he should need him. It couldn't have been too long, for dawn soon came and went. The regular noises of his so-called family rising and getting about froze Harry's blood. What would they do if they found Ron hidden in his room?

Pressing his eyes closed he pushed the thought away. Ron was buried under what blankets Harry could manage from his own meager belongings. Maybe even if they did look in on Harry -- which normally would be doubtful -- they wouldn't see Ron.

The rain returned during the day, sheeting down from the slate grey sky. It was highlighted with dazzling streaks of lightning and rumbling thunder, each of which caused Harry to jump, worried that they might wake Ron who had been sleeping if somewhat uneasily.

Harry found himself wishing he knew how long it would take for Hedwig to reach Ron's home. Having never been there he had no idea when Percy might receive his owl or when a reply might come. Looking at Ron, concern filling him, Harry hoped it would be soon. Even though Ron's sleeping made the ruse easier, it worried Harry that he hadn't woken.

~<>~<>~

Percy read the letter that had been brought to him by a grey owl three times. Each time he looked at it again, hoping to find more information than the time before. A part of him was relieved to have the knowledge it provided at all. The rest wanted more.

Clenching the parchment in his fist, he walked downstairs to where his mum and father were huddled in the kitchen. He noted their clasped hands and solemn faces. Losing George and then Ron was taking its toll.

The fact that they had somehow uncovered nothing about where Ron was -- merely the clock pointing toward danger -- only added to the weight they bore. Percy shook his head. How could one boy disappear so easily? A flash of lighting lit the window and he silently cursed the weather. It was the only explanation he could think of.

The tall boy stood in the doorway watching his parents for a moment before walking away silently. He clenched his jaw and followed the hallway to a small study where the two eldest Weasley sons had retreated earlier in the evening. Both had arrived as soon as they could, after word of George, and then Ron, reached them.

Bill and Charlie's hushed whispers halted when Percy walked into the room and pushed the door shut behind him.

"I know where Ron is."

Matching sets of wide green eyes looked at Percy in shock, Charlie half standing in that moment, asked, "How? Where?"

Percy held up his hand and slid into the chair next to Bill. "He's at Harry's."

"You're certain?" Bill asked in a low voice, his earring glinting in the low light.

Nodding, Percy handed him Harry's letter. "He got there before dawn this morning. Harry's owl just arrived with this."

The two elder Weasley brothers read the letter as though it were a lifeline to their youngest brother. Which in a way it was. "We have to go get him," Charlie said. Fixing his brothers with a steely look, one that was normally reserved for dragons in the wild, he nodded toward the shed. "Get the car, Bill."

The joy that might otherwise come with driving their father's flying automobile was dulled by why they were actually going for a flight in it. So instead of smiling, as he might otherwise have been wont to do, Bill merely nodded silently and left.

After he did so, Charlie looked at Percy. "I expect you'll be wanting to go?"

Before he could reply, there was a question from the doorway -- which Bill had left open in his haste to leave.

"Go where?"

Percy looked over his shoulder to see Fred standing there. "To fetch Ron," Percy replied, meeting his younger brother's hardened gaze. There was a glint of something in the darkened eyes at that. Relief? Percy blinked and it was gone as quickly as it had come; again leaving was nothing but anger. Fred's insistent bitterness was most perplexing, and painful at the same time.

Fred stiffened, but didn't reply. Instead he glanced back at Charlie and turned and walked out of the study and up the stairs. When Percy turned back around to face Charlie, there was a sadness in Charlie's eyes he had never seen before. Somehow it made his big brother look old.

He wished he had never seen it.

~<>~<>~