Archive of Our Own

To: curia_regis
From: Your Secret Santa

Title: Everything in this World
Author: pocketfullof
Pairing: Ron/Pansy
Summary: Ron wakes up and the world is different.
Rating: NC-17
Length: 21,500 words
Warning: adultery
Author's notes: At the end!

Ron wakes up and the world is different. It has changed.

It happens like this. The room is blue-black and quiet when he opens his eyes. The pillow is scratchy beneath his cheek. His first thought is that his head pounds pounds pounds like a great drum is going off beside his ear. Things are foggy when he forces his heavy eyelids open.

Something smells unfamiliar, too cloying and sickly sweet.

"Ron!" someone yells, right beside him. He feels his eyelids flutter. He can't focus. "He's awake – Oh, God, Ron!"

There are bright lights and the face above his head is not unfamiliar. Ron wants to talk, but his mouth won't work. His eyelids are so heavy. Then black.

He feels a body beside him. The weight is warm and soft. Ron wants to shift closer, but every movement burns his muscles. The room is night-dark. Sleep overcomes him, even when he wills it away.

It must be the voices that wake him up next. The room is too dark to make out detail, but Ron can see curtains pulled shut. He can see the sun behind them, trying hard to creep in at the edges, but it's not enough light to see by. Voices drift in from the next room. Ron shuts his eyes, breathing deeply in an attempt to keep nausea at bay. If he listens hard over the pounding in his head, he can make out at least three different voices, their rhythm familiar. Harry's there, and he thinks that must be Ginny. The other voice doesn't belong to Hermione. A shadow fills the door.

She has shortly cropped hair that is limned in the light spilling in from behind her. Ron can tell it's dark and slick and straight. The woman doesn't look familiar, though when she says his name, her voice is recognisable enough. He's not asleep. He's not dreaming. Pansy Parkinson is standing in the doorway to his bedroom.

She moves further into the room with a kind expression on her face. Ron's never seen anything like it before. At least not on Parkinson's face, and certainly never directed at him. She's so pale, he notices.

Remaining mute and trying very hard to keep his head steady, Ron peers around the room with only his eyes. The light reaching in picks up details he hadn't noticed before. The duvet and bed sheets are yellow and the furniture is bleached wood. This is definitely not his bedroom, though his eyes briefly focus on a smiling picture of himself and Parkinson standing outside on a sun-drenched summer day.

He shifts his gaze back to Parkinson and he watches with a feeling too close to panic for comfort as she approaches the bed. She has a white mug clutched in her thin hand, and he can smell the coffee in it. The rich, dark smell is cloying, filling up his nostrils. His head is throbbing. He might throw up.

Parkinson tilts her head at him. Her eyes are wide and expectant. "You're awake," she whispers. "They promised it would happen, but I didn't -." She cuts herself off.

Through her all-but-translucent nightgown, Ron can see a nipple peaking out at him. He quickly shifts his gaze down to the bed, cheeks going hot, when he notices for the first time his own shirtless chest. Quickly, Ron yanks the duvet up to cover his bare body. The smile has fallen off Parkinson's pale face by now. Ron watches silently as she sets the mug on the bedside table beside him, sloshing liquid over the top in her haste. It looks like it probably burns her, but she doesn't say anything. A cool hand touches his forehead. Parkinson bends low, looking into his eyes. "Ron." Her voice trembles a little, and Ron can't figure out why. "I'll call the nurse."

Ron blinks again. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes deep and thinks: dream, dream, dream, and hopes that when he opens his eyes, this will all go away.

They had a storybook life. Hermione was moving easily up in the ranks of the Ministry. Ron had just made Auror. He was a partner in his brother's shop. They had friends; they had family. They were happy.

Ron remains mostly quiet as a nurse – Gwen, Parkinson had greeted her – examines him. She's not wearing the usual St. Mungo's uniform, but instead just jeans and a T-shirt. Ron doesn't totally believe she's even a nurse, but she asks him the same sorts of questions Pomfrey used to always run through: how does he feel? Does his head hurt? What about his chest? Is anything burning? She's very perfunctory about the whole thing, for which Ron is grateful. She tilts his head back and shines light from her wand into each eye. Finally, she steps back. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three."

"And what year is it?"

"Two thousand three."

"The day?" Gwen asks.

Ron casts around. "I don't…"

"Third of November," she supplies. "You've been out for almost four days."

Ron gapes at her as she scratches quickly onto parchment. "And who's this?" She points.

Ron takes a second to respond. "Pansy Parkinson," he finally says.

Pursing her lips, Gwen eventually shrugs and meets Parkinson's eyes. "That seems good enough. Clean bill of health, as far as I'm concerned." Ron stays firmly planted on the bed and watches as Gwen talks to Parkinson like he's not there. "It was a good call, bringing him home. I don't think the accident caused any memory loss. If there's nothing else you need - ."

"No, no, we're fine. Thank you so much, Gwen," Parkinson replies quickly. She sounds grateful in a way Ron would never have expected. Not in all the time he'd known her did she ever sound anything but haughty and rude. Parkinson doesn't see Gwen out, just watches as Gwen leaves before turning her attention back to Ron.

He's quiet as she begins her own examination. She smells like lilacs and coffee. Her face grows more and more concerned as her eyes take in his face.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks after a moment.

Ron wants to scoff at that. Of course he's not okay. He's being held captive. It's the only explanation. Or someone is playing a very cruel joke on him. He's definitely not okay. For now, though, he decides the only safe answer is, "I'm fine," which earns a smile from Parkinson's pale face.

It's obvious he imagined hearing Harry earlier. Hermione will be worried sick. She probably has a search party involving the entire Ministry on the lookout by now. He should attempt escape, he thinks. Only he can't find his wand.

"Can you move at all?" Parkinson asks, real concern in her voice.

Ron doesn't respond right away. Mostly unwilling to talk, he gives a brief nod.

Parkinson's smile is full of relief. "Thank God," she breathes out. "We thought you had paralysed yourself. How's your head really feel anyway? I know you told Gwen it was fine, but I also know how incredibly stubborn you are."

Ron blinks. He swallows and allows himself a mean glare. "It hurts," he finally grits out.

Parkinson almost looks exasperated, which makes Ron feel less uncomfortable than her concern. This, at least, feels a little familiar. "Well, no kidding, Weasley," she says, and there's something like a smile attempting to form on her lips. "There's no need to get prickly with me, though. I didn't attempt the spell. That was all you. And you had me worried sick. If anyone should be shirty here, it's me." While she talks, Parkinson reaches behind Ron. He quickly shifts out of her way, but she – of all things – fluffs his pillow. "You have no idea," she continues, "just how worried I was. Don't you ever - ever - pull anything like that again." She finally pauses from her fussing and meets his gaze. There are tears in her eyes. "Or I will kill you myself," she finishes, and her voice shakes.

Ron stares at her. A small hand lands on his bare shoulder. "Do you want anything? Are you hungry?"

Ron wants to protest. There's no way he's going to take whatever she's offering, but right at that moment his stomach gives a mighty rumble. Traitor.

Parkinson laughs at the sound. "You haven't had anything but liquid in four days. Of course you're hungry." Without his permission, she pulls the covers off him. The kiss of air against his skin is cold and balmy. He's clad only in his underwear and resists the urge to cover his crotch with a hand. "Can you walk?" Parkinson asks. She puts her hand out, but Ron refuses to take it. Slowly, he shifts to his feet. He's dizzy, though, and it takes a moment for the nausea to subside. Finally, he sets his bare feet down on cold wooden floor boards.

Parkinson's hand is still out for him. "I've got it," Ron tells her, glaring at it.

"Stubborn arse," Parkinson mutters, but she sounds amused. "If you've got it, I take it you can shower all your own like a big boy? You smell like you've taken a dive in thestral crap."

Standing at his full height, Ron towers over her. On any other day, he could easily knock her down and make his escape, but he's too shaky and uncoordinated for it. They must be giving him something to keep him weak. Parkinson's eyes are level with his chest. He feels too vulnerable in only underwear. Ron narrows his eyes at her. "If you don't like the way I smell, you're welcome to leave," he tells her.

"Like anyone else's going to take over playing nurse for you. You're not exactly an easy patient. Remember when you had that cold last year, and you ran both Harry and Ginny around in one day, and they refused to speak to you for a week! You're lucky I put up with you."

Ron stares at her. He very clearly remembers being sick the year before. He even remembers the way he'd ordered Harry and then Ginny around, and how they'd both refused to come over until he was all better, and had told him in no uncertain terms that they were never taking care of a sick Ron again. He also remembers Hermione calling in sick to work for the next two days to take care of him. He remembers her bringing him tea and playing chess with him while he recovered. He's certain Pansy Parkinson was not in the picture. Ron opens his mouth to tell her so, but he doesn't even know what he'd say, other than that she leave him the hell alone and let him get back to his life. He knows he must look like a fish out of water, but Parkinson just nods toward behind him.

"Go shower," she instructs. "If you think you can manage on your own." She peers into his eyes. "Do you need help?"

Ron quickly shakes his head.

"I'll go make you something to eat, then. Maybe heat up some stew. I think I have some left."

Parkinson tips on her toes. Her lilac smell drifts around him as her warm lips touch his cheek. Ron stays very still. "I'm happy you're awake," she whispers after a moment. And then she's gone.

For a long time he stares at the space she just stood. The smell of flowers is left in her wake. Ron breathes, deep, letting the feeling soothe him. It's then that he remembers the picture of himself and Parkinson on the night stand. When he goes to grab the frame and study the image, there's no mistaking it. That's definitely him with a smile as wide as an ocean splitting his face. Picture-Ron glances down at Parkinson; then laughs as he bends and places a sloppy kiss on her cheek. Parkinson laughs so hard that Ron can see her teeth. She pushes him away, but she's clearly not annoyed. She rolls her eyes at whoever is taking the picture, like they're sharing a joke. They're on a beach. It's sunny, and Ron looks freckled and happy.

Ron was manning the shop while George went out to grab a late dinner. It was the kind of rain-soaked night that was all too common in London, and Ron was happy to stay in the warmth of the inside. The joke shop was probably the only open shop on the street, as most people were smart enough to tell when the night was a lost cause, but George had adopted some motto that he stole from the American muggle post, and so they were open. Freezing rain or not. There were very few costumers bold enough to brave this kind of slanted, icy rain, which was fine by Ron. Training to be an Auror meant he took just as many written tests as he'd taken at Hogwarts, much to his dismay. He had plenty of studying to keep him busy.

Which was what he should have been doing, rather than watching the rain tumble down from the sky like it had been squeezed from a heavy wineskin. There was one figure visible through the rain. A woman, by the looks of it, and she was soaking wet, peering into the clothing shop across the way. Ron felt bad for her. It was clear the shop was closed, and ever since last year's whirling dervish incident (not at all George's fault, as he told anyone who would listen), there was no Apparating in or out of Diagon Alley between the hours of 9 PM and 6 AM.

Ron took three long strides to the door. The shop had a working Floo she could use to get herself home, at least. When he finally got the door open, a burst of wet and wind hit him with the force of a Stunning spell. Under the lone street light, the woman looked thin and tiny.

Ron called loudly over the might of the storm. "Hey. I think they're closed."

The woman startled at his voice. She pivoted slowly to look at him. Her dark hair was plastered against her pale face. Her eyes narrowed at him. The offer to come inside caught in his throat. Ron glared, old feelings of inadequacy rising up in him at the sight of her. Even now, two years out of Hogwarts, he hated the look of her pug nose.

"If you couldn't tell by the dark interior and the locked door," he yelled.

He could barely make out the expression on her face, but he didn't stay in the open door long enough to try. He shut the door and stood there, watching smugly as Parkinson wetly continued on her way. When he couldn't see her stooped figure anymore, Ron went back to the desk and opened his book.

Ron spends the first ten minutes after his shower studying his face in the mirror. His hair is a familiar red; his eyes a familiar blue. He peers closer. His face is a little pale, but his freckles march across his nose in a familiar pattern.

When Ron gets back to the bedroom, he does a turn around the room. His wand isn't anywhere that he can see. There are clothes laid out on a bed that looks freshly made. Ron slips them on, and he's not totally surprised that they fit perfectly. He stands in the bedroom by himself for a moment. Someone pushed the curtains open. The view out the window is ordinary and strange. It's not what he's used to. Sunlight streams into the room, highlighting the photograph still on the bedside table. Picture-Ron is still laughing.

The sound of a door opening from somewhere else in the flat jolts Ron out of his gaze. The first voice he hears is Parkinson's, followed by one that sounds an awful lot like –

Ron's first instinct is to rush over to her and throw his arms around her. He easily crushes her against his chest. Ginny smells like fresh air and sunshine. "It's good to see you too, you big oaf," she says around a bright laugh. "We were so worried about you!"

Ron keeps his tight grip on her. "How did you find me?" he asks. "Is Harry here? And Hermione, is she alright? She must be going bonkers. Are we going to need to fight our way out? Parkinson must have taken my wand. I can't find it."

"Ron," Ginny says. She struggles free of him. "What are you talking about?" Ron lets go of her. Ginny's eyes are brown and bright. They narrow cautiously at him. "Pansy said Gwen told her you were fine."

Ron echoes, "Pansy said… What are you…?"

Just then, Parkinson walks in. "See?" she says. "He's as tall and floppy as ever." Her grin is bright and happy.

Ron backs away from them both. "What are you playing at?" His heart beats lightning fast, like he's downed fourteen espressos in as many minutes. He narrows his eyes at Ginny, who is watching him with eyes like saucers. "You're not my sister," he insists. "Who are you? Where is she?"

"Ron!" Parkinson says. "What are you going on about?"

Ron just shakes his head. He considers knocking them both down, but he can see Ginny pull her wand. He's an Auror and he's trained for this kind of situation.

Polyjuiced Ginny shifts her gaze away from him to talk to Parkinson. "He said something about Hermione," Ginny says. He doesn't miss the way Parkinson blanches. Ginny's wand is held firmly at the ready, but she's distracted. Ron figures this is his shot. While she says to Parkinson, "I thought Gwen said he was fine?" he goes in for the wand. He's leery about knocking his little sister to the ground, but he firmly reminds himself that she is not Ginny. She's an impostor. She has to be. Ron goes for it. With one hand he reaches for the wand, and with the other he shoves her out of the way.

He feels a little guilty at her scream, eerily familiar, as she falls to the ground.

Parkinson shouts, "Ron, what are you doing?" but he brandishes his wand at her, and she shuts up quickly enough. Her eyes are large and round. There are bright patches of colour on her cheeks. Her eyes shift around as if she's looking for something.

"Don't," Ron warns, "even think about going for your wand. If you call for help, I will kill you. I have no problem doing it." He aims the wand at her heart. "Now. Where am I? And where is Hermione?"

From the corner of his eye, Ron sees movement. But he's not fast enough. The "Stupefy!" that hits him knocks him off his feet. Ron lands with a thud. He looks into his attacker's eyes.

"What the hell has gotten into you, mate?" Harry asks.

They keep him tied up. Not-Harry goes for some twine and while Ron's stunned, he wraps it around Ron's wrists and ankles. He doesn't look happy about doing it. He must be a good actor, Ron thinks, because his mannerisms are spot on.

Parkinson and Not-Ginny look worried. Parkinson has real tears in her eyes, and tells Harry three times not to tie him too tight. Ron glares at her. Ginny takes her wand back from him and keeps the end trained on Ron as Harry finishes with the string. It's Ginny who undoes the stunning spell. The second he can speak again, Ron tells them all to go to hell.

Harry ignores him. He looks up at Parkinson. "Should we go get Gwen again?"

"What will she be able to do?" Parkinson asks. "It's like he's lost his mind."

"I'm right here!" Ron interrupts. "And I'll tell you what you should do. You should let me go. You should stop pretending to be people you're not, and let me go home."

Harry looks at him incredulously. "Mate, you are home."

"The hell I am," Ron spits.

Harry takes a deep breath. "Okay," he says. "Then where is home?"

"1624 Dogwood Lane," Ron answers. "As you must know, since you all took me from there."

Harry's brows draw together. "Dogwood Lane?" he asks. "That's on the other side of London."

Parkinson comes to stand before him. She cocks her head so their eyes meet. Hers are red-rimmed. "And who's waiting for you there?" she asks.

"What?" says Ron. "Well, Hermione, obviously, unless you bastards have hurt her." He feels a whole new panic overtake him. "If you have, I swear to god, I will kill you."

All three of them blanch away from him. Ron keeps up his glare, trying a little desperately to tamp down the growing tide of panic bubbling up inside his chest. They're all quiet.

It's Parkinson who finally speaks. Her voice quavers. "Hermione's dead, Ron." She pauses. She's lying. She must be. Parkinson continues, "Only, we didn't kill her."

"I don't believe you," Ron says. He doesn't clarify which statement he's addressing.

They seem to think it's the last. It's Ginny who approaches him. She keeps her wand trained on him, but bends down to peer into his face. Her eyes are kind. Ron closes his eyes in response. Ginny's voice is soft when she says, "Ron, Hermione…" There's a moment of silence. "You have to remember this. She died seven years ago."

Ron's eyes spring open. Ginny's familiar freckled face and brown eyes are right there. "What are you talking about?"

Ginny swallows. "Hermione died in Malfoy Manor. You have to remember. You were right there when it happened."

From behind Ginny, Harry says, "I think we should call Gwen back. It's like he, I dunno, forgot the past seven years."

"No!" Ron snarls. "I haven't forgotten anything. Hermione's my wife. I remember the past seven years. You're… you're just trying to confuse me. I reckon you know where she is, only you're not telling me to make me sad or, or angry." He breathes heavily. "And stop pretending to be Harry and Ginny!"

"What? What on earth would make you think I'm not your sister?"

Ron glares hard at the fake Ginny. "You're polyjuiced," he says simply.

"The hell I am!"

"What other explanation is there?"

"The other explanation is that I'm Ginny Weasley and you've gone completely bonkers!" she tells him.

"Gin," Harry cautions.

"Well, obviously trying to be nice to him isn't working," she snaps, eyes bright and furious. She waves her wand in Ron's face. "Listen here, Ronald Bilius. I am not some polyjuiced impostor. I am your sister. You were born 1 March, 1980. Until you were eleven and went off to Hogwarts you slept with your Marvin the Muggle stuffed animal, and the only reason you didn't take it with you was because Mum told you she lost it when she really just hid it in the attic. You slept in the same Cannons night shirt for two months one summer thinking it would bring them luck, until I set it on fire. The first Owl we had was named Flancy, and you cried for three weeks when she died. You kept Witch Weekly under your bed, along with three stolen copies of Play Witch, that you took from Bill. And the night before you tried out for Keeper, you and I snuck out to the pitch and practiced for four hours!" She's breathing heavy now, chest rising up and down. She looks exactly like his mum.

Ron swallows. "Ginny?"

"Yes!"

"But, but… how? Why are you doing this to me? Why are you with Parkinson?"

Parkinson throws him a startled look. "Ron," she begins.

Ginny interrupts, voice harsh. "Pansy's your wife, Ron."

Ron splutters. "What?" he shouts. "No!"

Involuntarily, his eyes shift to Parkinson. She doesn't say anything.

"Hermione," Ron starts.

"Died a long time ago," Ginny interrupts again, not unkindly.

Ron shakes his head slowly from side to side. "That's not possible," he insists.

"I, Hermione," she said, and though there were tears in her eyes, her voice remained steady. It was the only thing keeping Ron bound to earth right at that moment. Hermione's steady voice and feel of her small, dry hands clasped between his. "Take you, Ron," she continued.

Their vows were traditional. Most everything about the wedding was. In all the chaos of the years of war they had gone through, finally having something conventional and normal made both Ron and Hermione feel safe.

"To have and to hold," Hermione said.

Ron looked over at his mum; she was dabbing at her eyes with a white, lacy handkerchief. Harry stood beside him, beaming with pride. On the other side of Hermione, Ginny watched Harry. Ron could smell sunshine. The grass was green, the sky was blue, and the sun was yellow and high. Hermione outshone it all.

When she finally slipped the ring onto Ron's finger, it was a perfect fit.

Ron knows very clearly that he had not been imagining that day. He knows it like he knows his own name. He thinks about the photograph on the bedside table. He thinks about the clothes that fit him like they are his own. If all of that is to add up; if what Ginny, Parkinson and Harry are saying is true, then –

"I'm not your Ron." The thought leaves his lips as soon as it enters his head.

"What?" says Harry.

"Is there more than one?" says Ginny.

Parkinson stays silent.

Harry laughs. "Come off it, mate. That's ridiculous."

"More ridiculous than me being married to Parkinson?" Ron asks.

Harry opens his mouth. He shuts it.

"Her last name's not Parkinson," Ginny says.

Ron ignores her. The idea of a Pansy Weasley running around in the world is too absurd for him to take in. "Something happened," Ron insists. "I went to sleep in my bed. Hermione was next to me. I woke up in this strange place, and it was like I was… hit with some curse or something."

"You did that to yourself," Harry says.

"I…what?"

Harry aims his wand at Ron. Ron cringes, but the ties binding his wrists and ankles slither apart. They weren't tight, but all the same, Ron rubs his wrists. He says, "Thank you," and Harry nods.

"Do you want something to drink?" It's the first time Parkinson's spoken in five minutes. He resists the urge to say something cruel to her, trying to remind himself that this is not his world. Somehow, this is not his world. He holds onto that thought. "Water would be great, yeah."

"You did it to yourself," Harry says again, after Ron chugs from the glass Parkinson conjures.

"Did what to myself? Cursed myself?"

"Well, sort of," Harry says. He pulls out a chair and sits down at a table he conjures. Ron does the same. Ginny sits to his left and Parkinson to his right. The whole thing feels too intimate and out of place, but no one else looks as strange as he feels, so he tries not to squirm.

Harry leans on his forearms and looks Ron in the eye. "As far as we can tell, you had found some spell, but it backfired."

"And you failed to mention that you were going to try it alone," Parkinson interjects, her face scrunched up like she's annoyed.

"A spell to do what?"

Harry shrugs. "Win."

Ron stares at him. "Win what?"

"The war," Harry says.

"Harry," Ron says, slowly, "I have no idea what you're talking about. What war am I trying to win?"

"The war against Voldemort."

"W- what?" Ron cringes. Even after seven years, it's still hard for him hear that word. "No," Ron begins. "No. No. No. He died a long time ago. A very long time ago. I was there. I watched it happen."

Everyone goes silent. Finally, Harry says, "You did?" He looks equal parts jealous and terrified. Ron nods. This Harry, he looks almost exactly like Ron's Harry. Only not. He's rougher looking. Ron looks closer. There are more lines around his eyes; his mouth is pulled thin; his skin is ashy.

"A long time ago, mate. You killed him."

Harry nods. "We've been saying all along that I need to be the one to do it. He's so much stronger than I am."

Ron nods, remembering back on that day. It was so long ago, and even though parts of it felt like a dream, it's still fresh in his memory. "You know about the Horcruxes, right?"

They all nod. "We've got four of them," Harry says. "The diary; the ring; the locket; and the diadem. That's all that we've been able to destroy."

Ron blanches. "That's it? In all this time?"

"It's been a difficult couple of years," Ginny says, glaring at him. "We've been fighting a war against one of the most powerful wizards of all time. Just sneaking into Hogwarts alone to get the diadem lost us some good people."

"I know," Ron says quickly. "I'm sorry. That's just… so long to fight a war. You know what the other Horcruxes are?"

Harry nods. "We think so. Nagini."

"Yeah," says Ron. "Neville killed him in the battle at Hogwarts."

Harry smiles then. "Neville? That would have been something to see."

"Yeah," Ron agrees. "It was."

"He destroyed the diadem," Ginny says. "But…"

Ron recognizes that look. "He didn't make it," he says.

Parkinson says, "No. He stayed back to distract the guards while we got away."

Ron swallows. Even knowing that somewhere the Neville he knows is living in Scotland happily married, it's hard to hear. "Typical," he says. "How long ago was it?"

"A year ago," Harry answers.

After a moment, Ron says, "What about the others?"

"We're pretty sure Hufflepuff's cup is one, but we can't find it."

"It's in Lestrange's vault at Gringott's," Ron answers. "Hermione…" He goes quiet. "She destroyed it." He looks down at the table. "How did she die?" he asks quietly. "Who did it?"

They're all quiet for a long time. Finally, Ginny says, "Malfoy Manor. You were captured. It was Bellatrix."

"We were captured," Ron remembers. "Bellatrix tortured Hermione, but we escaped." He looks to Harry. "We got away."

Harry nods. "We did. But she didn't. We were too late to save her."

"No," Ron insists. "No. We did save her. I remember it."

"Maybe you did in your world, Ron," Parkinson says. "In this one…"

He blinks rapidly. He tries to breathe in, to steady himself. It's not real. It's not his world. It's not real. But it feels real. Hermione's not here. Somehow, Ron failed her.

It's Parkinson who stands first. "I'm going to go make dinner," she says quickly. "Harry and Ginny, do you want to come help?"

Ron throws her a surprised, grateful look.

"If you need anything…" Parkinson says, bending down to him. Her hand is warm through his T-shirt.

When he's alone at the table, Ron puts his head down.

Harry and Ginny stay to eat dinner, but no one puts away more than half a bowl of the stew Parkinson reheated. Ron's hunger left him when he found out about Hermione. The other three keep sharing long looks, but they rarely speak. Once, Ginny asks, "What's your world like?" but Ron can't do more than shake his head and swallow down the chunk of meat caught in his throat.

It's Parkinson who finally says, "Do you think he's safe there?"

Ron startles. He forgot that there was another him, maybe trapped in a world he's not used to. A world without war. A world with Hermione. Ron hates him suddenly. The feeling is inexplicable and hot in his stomach. He meets Parkinson's eyes. "He's fine," Ron says, meanly. "It's… better there."

The silence stretches out after that. It's clear that Harry and Ginny don't want to be there, but Ginny offers to stay over. She directs this to Parkinson, who shakes her head. "No," Parkinson tells her. "You go home. Get a good night sleep. We'll figure this out tomorrow."

Ron watches, feeling all wrong and like an outsider, as Ginny hugs Parkinson close to her. He hears Ginny whisper, "We'll get him back. I promise," and feels bile rise in his throat.

While Parkinson makes up the sofa, Ron flees to the bathroom. He sits on the toilet, head in his hands, and reminds himself to take deep breaths. Parkinson knocks on the door. After a second, Ron opens it to find her face, pug nose and pale, pale skin, right there. It already looks familiar to him, and Ron swallows back the feeling of hate. "I put sheets on the sofa. If you need anything else let me know," she says. "I put a clean toothbrush is in the cup right there, the red one. Oh, and I found this." She holds out his wand. He would recognize it anywhere. Fourteen inches long, made of willow. He holds it and something shimmers up his arm.

"Where was it?"

Parkinson shrugs. "By your si – his side of the bed. It had rolled under. I figure it's yours, at least for now."

"Right," Ron says. "Thank you. I… thank you."

She nods and turns to go. "Parkinson," Ron says, when she's a few feet away. Parkinson turns back to look at him. In the light spilling from the bathroom, Ron can see the deep circles under her eyes. Her mouth is turned down. She's thin here, thinner than she ever was in his world. "Why did you believe me?"

"About what, Ron?"

"None of you questioned it," he says. "I said I wasn't your Ron and you all just… accepted it."

Parkinson thinks for a moment. She chews on her bottom lip as she does so, and it's a surprisingly vulnerable move to see. "You're exactly like him," she says after a minute. "But totally different. I can't… the truth is, this isn't a great place to live. Ron is sometimes the only thing that makes it worthwhile. When you live through this kind of thing long enough, I guess, things don't really surprise you anymore."

Ron nods. " Maybe when you wake up he'll be back for you."

"I hope so," she says. But she looks skeptical.

"Thanks for this, again, Parkinson," he says, gesturing with the wand.

She frowns at him. "It's not Parkinson anymore."

Ron watches the empty spot where she stood after she goes. He hears the bedroom door click shut. He lays down that night feeling like his insides have been scooped out. It's a long time before he falls into an uneasy, dreamless sleep.

Ron wakes up the next morning, and Pansy Parkinson is making coffee. He groans and buries his head under the one scratchy pillow he'd been given. It wasn't a dream. He had spent most of the night awake, staring at a white, unfamiliar ceiling in the dark, too tired to move but unable to rest his head to sleep. Hermione is still not here.

"Hey," Parkinson says in a flat voice when she sees him awake. She looks about what he feels. Scared. Tired. It feels strange to have even that in common with her, both of them wishing he was someone else. "How'd you sleep?"

"Like shite," Ron answers honestly.

"You want some coffee?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Thanks."

The coffee, at least, is strong and sweet when she brings it to him. Exactly how he takes it. "Thanks," Ron rumbles after his first long sip.

Parkinson nods, but she's obviously distracted, staring at his left hand intently. Ron glances down. His wedding ring is still there. "Ah," he says awkwardly.

Parkinson jolts at the sound. "It's different," she whispers, like she's talking to herself. "I can't believe I didn't notice that last night."

Involuntarily, Ron closes his hand into a loose fist and stretches it out again. He glances at her left hand to see a small, gold band encircling her ring finger. It's so thin, polished smooth. It's familiar.

"Huh," he says.

"What?" Parkinson says.

"It's nothing; I just… always imagined you would demand a bigger ring than that."

She huffs at that. "I'm sorry it's not up to your standards," she says, and it's the first time in years Ron has heard her use that voice. It's so familiar, so like in school, that he wants to laugh at it. "What with the war going on, our funds have been directed elsewhere, to, you know, food and shelter."

"No," Ron quickly backpedals. "That wasn't." He pauses. She's glaring at him with bright eyes and bright cheeks. Her lips are pressed thin. "It's beautiful. It's my mother's."

Parkinson deflates quickly before him. "It was," she says. She meets his eyes and her own are flat ad sad. Ron nods.

"Alright," he says. "Alright." He picks his coffee up. The mug is growing cold. The coffee is too sweet. It sits heavy in his stomach. "Alright." He blinks rapidly. This world is too much for him.

Parkinson says, "I'm sorry. I… forget. You haven't lived this. It must be a lot to take in."

Ron laughs wetly. "Understatement," he says.

"We'll do whatever we can to get you back," she promises. Briefly, her hand touches his. Her skin is warm and dry.

She stands abruptly. "I'm going to run out and see if I can get in contact with Lupin," she says. "The full moon was last night. He might need some food. You go ahead and… get ready if you need. There's some food sitting out for you."

"Lupin?" Ron asks. "He's alive?"

Parkinson flicks her wrist and a cloak soars over to her. As she buttons it up, she nods, but she looks distracted.

Ron asks, "Can I come?"

Parkinson finishes with the final top button. The cloak is a faded green and worn through at some points. It looks like something Ron would have had growing up. "I don't think that's a good idea," she says.

"Why not?"

"This world. It's probably very different from yours."

Ron snorts. "Obviously," he says, eyeing Parkinson's ring again.

"I can do pretty well out there; I'm full blood –."

"Me, too," Ron says.

"And I was in Slytherin."

"Does that matter?"

Parkinson eyes him. "Of course it does. Listen, give it some time, okay. Lupin might have some ideas about what to do, but it's just after the full moon, so he'll still be really weak. I think it's best if you just stay inside for now, okay?"

"I don't understand what the big deal is," Ron says stubbornly.

"I know you don't, Ron, but trust me when I say this world is really different. There are Death Eaters everywhere; they do checks. I know how to avoid them, and I know what to do if I get caught. It will be faster and safer if I do this myself."

She notices Ron's face, which Ron is sure has a mutinous look on it. "Listen, there are some books over there on that shelf, and I'll see what I can get from Lupin while I'm out. At least you can… do research or something, try and find out what happened. Harry and Ginny might even be back before I make it home. Also, please don't leave. For any reason. The flat is protected under Fidelius, and I don't know if you can see it or not. Alright?"

Ron frowns, but he doesn't protest anymore.

"Alright?" Parkinson asks again.

"Yes, yes, alright."

Finally, Parkinson leaves, and Ron is alone.

This is how his days go:

He wakes up out of a cautious, restless sleep. His first thought before he opens his eyes is always, please.

But he never wakes up in his own bed. There's always a moment of panic then, but he tamps it down quickly. Hermione is never smiling over the Daily Prophet at him as he emerges from their bedroom. Parkinson is almost always up before Ron, drinking coffee and looking more and more haggard and worn down.

Ron's noticed that nearly everything she and her Ron own is threadbare. He still can't totally wrap his head around a Pansy Parkinson who's poor. He never knew much about her family when they were at Hogwarts. She was rich, he reckoned, because her robes were always brand new and she never looked out of place. He figured her family was attached to Voldemort somehow, because she was always with Malfoy. Ron wants to ask her: what happened to Malfoy? How in the hell did Ron and Parkinson end up together anyway?

But the words get stuck in his throat. Whenever he looks at her he feels wrong and achy. She looks so tired, and though she can't avoid him in the small, one-bedroom flat, she avoids his eyes and his space whenever possible. Ron thinks he gets it, but he's lonely in ways he's never imagined being before. Growing up had been a constant barrage of noise and colour. Having Hermione for a best friend, and then a lover, and finally a wife, meant he was talked to constantly. He was used to interaction.

Parkinson will barely look at him. Harry and Ginny come around often enough, but it's clear he makes them uncomfortable, and Ron gets the feeling they come around more for Parkinson than him. That is Harry, his best friend, and Ginny, his baby sister, only they're strangers, living in a world that is besieged by war and fear.

He thinks: Come find me, Hermione, and lives with only the thought that she is smart enough and loves him enough to make sure that he is not left here. He doesn't want this to be his world.

Ron is useless here. Parkinson won't let him go outside; the books that she gives him are futile, theoretical tomes on time and dimension travel. He thinks briefly that Hermione would love them, and then tamps down the raw sound that almost leaves his throat. He does pushups and paces around the flat, and finds himself staring at the wall for hours, eyes drooping, but sleep remains a long way away.

After four days of this, Ron makes his way into the kitchen, stomach rumbling, and does the thing that has always soothed him. He cooks.

Parkinson comes home from wherever it is that she goes, and she stops in the doorway. The look on her face is almost comical, confused and cautious. She whispers, "Ron?" and when Ron grunts, she seems to deflate. She stares at him and takes a deep breath. Ron watches her eyes close off and her lips thin. "What are you doing in here?"

Ron shrugs. "I was hungry. I thought I'd… cook. Should I not?"

Parkinson takes in the apron he's wearing. "No, it's fine, it's just…" She swallows.

Ron feels his eyebrows draw together. The pies he put in the oven smell spicy. Parkinson's stomach growls. The look on her face forces a startled laugh out of Ron. He's amazed to see that she smiles back. Her whole face changes then. She looks… kind.

"I guess I'm hungry," she says.

"Yeah. Okay, well, I guess, dinner's ready."

They sit at the small table in silence. Parkinson eats cautiously, blowing on a forkful before lifting it delicately up to her mouth. Ron is less puritan. He feels as if he hasn't eaten in days, which is mostly true. He groans around the first mouthful. "I am so good," he says, meeting her eyes.

Parkinson gives him another rare smile. "You are," she says in agreement, almost fondly. "Thank you for this."

Ron meets her eyes. "You're welcome." He pauses. "Can I ask you something?"

Parkinson says, "What is it?"

Ron hesitates. "Why did you look like you'd seen a ghost when you walked in earlier?"

Parkinson looks at him. "You cook," she says.

"Your powers of observation are incredible," Ron says.

Parkinson shoots him an annoyed look. "No, you arse, you – or, well, my Ron – he cooks. At a muggle restaurant in London."

Ron stares at her. "What? Why? That's… insane."

Parkinson shrugs. She takes another delicate bite. Ron tries to tamp down his impatience as she chews. Finally, she explains, "Not really. You are good. You've always liked it. And we needed the money. After, well, after everything that happened in what would have been your seventh year, you were training to be an Auror. You and Harry, actually. The Ministry was desperate, and they didn't care that you hadn't finished school. You were working at George's shop for money."

Ron nods. This is all familiar.

Parkinson continues. "But the ministry was officially taken over three years ago. It had been happening slowly, and there was a plan to stop it, but then, they just… destroyed the building. Everyone who worked there died."

Ron feels a thin sound escape him. "My dad…" he chokes.

Nodding sadly, Parkinson puts her fork down. She's quiet for a moment. "And your mum. She was visiting. Bill and Percy, too."

Bile rises in his throat. He pushes his plate away. He scrapes his chair back and walks over the sink, and vomits up most of his pie. Tears blur his eyes. He stays bent over the sink, hands braced against the counter. After a moment of dry heaving, he bends to cup water from the tap into his mouth. "Jesus," his whispers, still facing the counter.

He jumps when Parkinson speaks. She's right there next to him. "I didn't… I was hoping I wouldn't have to tell you," she says, her voice soft and slow.

Ron sees her hand come out, as if to comfort him, but he moves away from it. She doesn't look overly surprised. He scrubs his eyes fiercely and scrapes his hand down his face. His beard is scratchy and stubbly, just starting to grow in after four days of not shaving.

"How did he do it?" Ron asks. "How did he survive this? Losing Hermione and mum and dad and Percy, and – who else? I need to know." Ron looks at her desperately. She hesitates. "Parkinson, please," he begs.

She looks as if she's having an internal debate. Finally, she nods. "Okay. Who else? You know about Sirius Black?" she asks. Ron nods. "I never knew him, but that was before we… that was still at Hogwarts. And Dumbledore…" Ron nods again. She looks like she's thinking. "So, after school." She meets his eyes. "Fred."

Ron breathes. "Fred, yeah, that happened in my world, too. What about Charlie and George?"

"George didn't… they destroyed the shop. He didn't… But Charlie… Charlie's in Romania. I haven't told him about you yet. I was hoping…" She trails off. " Fleur's okay, too. She took Bill's daughter Victoire to France. It's… safer there.

"We lost Neville last year, but you knew that," Parkinson says. "He was so brave. He destroyed a Horcrux and then he, well, he stayed behind once we got caught. There was a big fight two years ago, and we lost Dean Thomas, Parvati Patil, and Lavender Brown. Luna Lovegood died last year, too, and - "

"Stop. Just stop," Ron demands. "I don't… How can you speak so calmly about their deaths? Don't you have any feelings?"

Parkinson stops her list. "You don't get to do that," she says. "You don't get to judge me."

"Not judge you?" Ron asks. He sneers at her. "You were a Slytherin. I remember you walking away when Dumbledore died."

Parkinson takes a deep breath. The patches of colour are back on her cheeks. Her eyes flash angrily. "You know nothing about me," she spits. "You knew nothing about me then, and you know nothing about me now. You haven't been here these last few years. You have no idea what it's like to live this kind of life, day in and day out; you have no idea what it's like to wake up every morning and wonder who else died. To wonder who else you love is going to go missing or what body will turn up. You seem to live this charmed life where you can… can… buy expensive rings and where everyone you love is alive and well, but this isn't that world. This world is hard. But we make it through because we have to, because we have no choice. You don't get to tell me I have no feelings, Ron. You haven't been here."

She pauses for a moment. Ron stares at her, feeling like a hurricane has just ripped through. He feels deflated and spiteful and he hates this world. He wants to go home.

"How does he do this?" he asks, not really expecting a response.

"He has me," Parkinson tells him. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go to bed." Without waiting for his reply she pivots and starts to walk away. She pauses briefly at the door. "Thank you for dinner," she says, without turning back to look at him. And then she's gone. Ron picks up his wand. He waves it and careens everything on the dinner table – food and plates and all – into the sink with a bang.

After a moment's hesitation, he tip toes to Parkinson's bedroom door. It's shut. He puts his hand up to knock – to apologise, maybe, though he's not sure – but through it he hears her crying. Ron puts his hand down. He walks away.

Ron lies awake for most of the night, staring at the white ceiling above him that is fast growing familiar. When the sun's rays begin to peek in through the threadbare curtains above the lumpy sofa, he sits. He can just make out the sounds of Parkinson waking. He doesn't want to face her. He can't feel guilty for the things he said to her, because he meant most of them. In his world, Parkinson wanted to turn Harry in to Voldemort. She would have given him up without a fight at all, just to save her own skin. Ron has to remind himself, though, that this isn't the Parkinson he knows. And he's surprised to find that he's sorry he hurt her.

He's not going to get back to sleep. Instead, Ron pushes himself up from the sofa and heads into the small kitchen. There's a coffee pot that looks like it runs on regular Muggle electricity plugged into a socket. Ron hunts through the cabinets until he finds coffee. He scoops the grounds into a filter and uses his wand to fill the pot with water. Once it's boiling, he turns to the fridge.

By the time Parkinson makes her way into the kitchen, a pair of Muggle trousers and a thick cream jumper on, Ron has eggs, sausage, tomatoes and toast all laid out on plates for them both. Parkinson eyes him.

Ron shrugs. "We didn't get to finish dinner," he says, feeling a little foolish. She doesn't look all that happy to see him. Her eyes are a pale, almost frosty gray-blue, and they look icily chilly when she's upset. Ron resists the urge to squirm. "It was the least I could do?" he tells her. He even pulls out a chair. "Please eat. It'll go to waste otherwise."

Finally – coldly - Parkinson relents. She perches on the chair. Ron breathes out in relief. He'll take what he can get.

He digs in immediately, trying to pretend that he didn't accuse her of being heartless the night before. Parkinson eyes the food for a moment. "Don't let it get cold," Ron says heartily, shoveling another forkful of egg into his mouth.

Parkinson grimaces at him. "Don't talk with your mouth full," she says, picking up her fork.

Ron smirks at that. "Are my table manners offending you?"

Parkinson says, "They usually do," but she sounds more amused than annoyed, and Ron turns his attention back to his plate with relish.

The silence stretches between them, but it's less awkward than it has been, and Ron is grateful for that. He made a decision last night, and he'd like Parkinson's help. He needs her to be on his side.

Parkinson takes a break from her bird-like eating to see him studying her. "What?" she says. "Do I have something on my face?" Her skin is pale and flawless. Ron never noticed before how smooth it was.

He catches himself. "No," he assures her. "I just…" He hesitates.

Parkinson lets out an annoyed sigh. "Just say it, whatever it is. I can't take this awkward… thing you're doing. "

"Okay," Ron starts. "Fair enough." He puts his fork down. Parkinson does the same. She still has deep dark circles around her eyes. "It doesn't look like I'm getting home any time soon," Ron says. "And I can't just do… nothing, anymore. Whatever research you have me doing on dimension travel is useless. I mean, I'll still do it, because I want to go home – I need to go home – but I can't spend all day, every day staring at books. That's not me."

"No kidding," Parkinson mumbles.

Ron nobly ignores her. "So, I'd like to help."

"Help what?" Parkinson says.

"Help you. Help Harry."

"No," Parkinson says, immediately. "It's too dangerous."

"I'm an Auror, Parkinson – ."

She shoots him a look.

"Pansy," he says, and the name feels strange against his tongue. "Pansy," he says again, testing it out. "I'm an Auror. This stuff, this fighting dark wizards stuff, it's what I do every day."

"You're an Auror?" she asks, voice a little high and breathy. "That's… that was always your dream."

"Yeah," Ron agrees. "And I'm good at it. But more important than that, I've already lived through this war, and we won it. I can help. I know how you can win."

Getting ready to go outside for the first time has Ron humming quietly under his breath. He taps his wand absent-mindedly against his leg while he waits for Parkinson to use a mobile to contact Harry. A mobile! Ron thinks his father would crow for joy at the sight, and the thought immediately sobers him. He pushes it away. He won't think about that. He can't.

Parkinson says that he should start small, whatever that means. Ron is ready to jump right in. He says as much, but Parkinson says there's too much at stake. The fewer people who know about him, the better. Right now, that means just Harry and Ginny. Anyone else, Ron has to act like the Ron from this world. He can't imagine it'll be too difficult. Parkinson just throws him a look when he announces this.

While Parkinson talks, Ron shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet. His skin feels alive. He runs his hand across his cheek. Maybe he should shave first.

"Would you stop?" Parkinson barks when she snaps the mobile shut.

"Stop what?"

Parkinson gestures. "You look like someone put jumping juice in your coffee. Just relax."

Ron stills. "Oh, yeah. Sorry. Just… I haven't been outside. In a long time."

"It's okay, but just. You're making me nervous."

Ron takes a deep breath, hoping it will steady him. "Alright," he says. "Alright."

His first look outside doesn't feel much different from anywhere else. He breathes in the cool, crisp air of late autumn and peers at the bare, desolate trees. It's grey and overcast and feels like rain. It's London. It's familiar, even if he's never been on this street before.

Before they move further than the front door step, Parkinson hands him a slip of paper. Ron glances down at it to see an address. The handwriting on it was his own, slanted and messy. He peers at Parkinson briefly, but she just nods to the building. Ron looks up. He sees it expand. He'd forgotten the flat was charmed. It was just like watching Grimmauld Place bulge out before his eyes, all those years ago. It makes him feel strangely nostalgic and keyed up.

Parkinson talks quietly as they start walking down the street. "Ron was our secret keeper," she explains. "I had actually forgot that he wrote that down in case something happened. Only Harry, Ginny and I know this. And now you."

"Right," Ron says. He hands the sheet back.

"We'll go to your work first," Parkinson says. "We'll just walk by, though. I told them you had a family emergency and would be off work for a few weeks."

"So, I'm really a cook?" Ron says. Parkinson's head comes up to his shoulders. She's taller than Hermione. Ron pushes the thought away. He won't think about Hermione. Not now. "Am I any good?"

At that, Parkinson grins. "Very good," she confirms. "I'm actually surprised you didn't do better in Potions at school."

"I think that had more to do with the professor," Ron surmises darkly, to which Parkinson just hums a response.

"This feels pretty much the same," Ron says after a moment of silence.

Parkinson nods. "We live in an entirely Muggle area. This stuff hasn't been affected much."

That makes sense. As they walk along, Parkinson points out landmarks: street signs, the post, the supermarket the other Ron likes best. ("He says they have the best sausages in all of London," Parkinson explains. "Can we get some for dinner?" Ron asks, peering in the glass picture window as they walk by.)

It's a fifteen minute walk to the restaurant. There's a small wooden sign that swings above the door. It says, "Via Vite." They stop across the street. "Italian," Parkinson points out.

"I got that. What's it like?"

"Small," Parkinson says. "But it's yummy and homey. They give you decent control over the menu. The owner is this tiny, adorable woman, a widow, Mrs. Rinaldi, whose kids never took an interest. Three years ago you just walked in and asked for a job. You promised you knew how to make red sauce. She said she liked the look of you – something about your freckles – and gave you the job."

Ron stares over at the tiny restaurant. He can just see into the window. It's dark.

"It doesn't open 'til three," Parkinson explains, noticing his eyes. "Dinner only. Though… we could go in now if you wanted?"

Ron swallows. "No, no. Thanks. That's okay."

Parkinson nods. She looks wistful when she turns back to study the shop. Eventually, eyes still trained on it, she says, "You don't have to go back – er, in, um, ever, if you don't want. We'll figure something out."

"No," Ron says quickly. The place looks inviting, just… "I don't think I'm good enough to cook here."

"Sure you are," says Parkinson, so firmly and so certainly that it takes Ron by surprise. "You don't give yourself enough credit."

Ron ignores the warm feeling that slides through him. He asks, "Are we going to need money?"

Parkinson hesitates. "Eventually," she concedes after a moment. "My job can't pay all the bills, but Ron and I have some put aside."

"I'll go back," Ron promises then. "What do you do, anyway?"

"Oh," Parkinson says. "I work in an antiques shop near Diagon Alley."

"Can we go?" Ron asks, suddenly craving a familiar spot.

"I don't think that's a good idea. You're not allowed there."

"What?"

Parkinson starts leading the way down the street. She throws him a look. "You're Harry Potter's best friend," she says, like it's explanation enough. Ron guesses it is. "And a Weasley."

"So are you," he points out.

"They don't know that."

"They don't?"

Parkinson shakes her head. "We got married in a Muggle ceremony. For all intents and purposes, we live in the Muggle world. We keep the magic to a minimum when we're not at home. Ginny knows, and the Order, but no one else. It's too risky."

"Jesus," Ron says. He thinks for a moment. "If I'm Harry's friend, why don't they just capture me and force me to tell them where he is?"

"They've tried," Parkinson admits, but she doesn't elaborate on how, and Ron doesn't ask. He's not sure he wants to know. "Harry and Ginny are under a special protection spell. No one will recognize them unless they want to be seen. Professor McGonagall helped them. As far as almost everyone from our world is concerned, Harry and Ginny have disappeared." Parkinson stops. "Here we are," she says. Ron looks. He sees a couple of uninteresting buildings, but nothing more. "Read this," she says, handing him another piece of paper. Ron does, and he looks up to see another building bulge out in the space. Harry and Ginny's place.

Inside, it's much larger and much nicer than Ron and Parkinson's. Parkinson greet s both Harry and Ginny warmly. She seems to be comfortable in their presence. Ron had spent most of the morning with her. She seemed mostly fine, but it's like her body relaxes the second Ginny hugs her. He is still an outsider.

"Ron wants to help," Parkinson tells them, eventually.

Harry says, "That's great. We can use all the help we can get."

And Ginny says, "What can you do?"

Ron throws a glare at Ginny, who gives him a mean grin only a sister can give. "Brat," he tells her, and she smiles toothily at him.

"Welcome to my home," she says.

"Are you going to offer me a drink? Isn't that the proper thing to do?"

Parkinson protests. "It's not even noon!"

Harry says, "I could use a drink."

Ginny tells him to go get it himself.

Eventually, Parkinson's protests are overruled. They all sit at Harry and Ginny's dining room table, each with an open bottle of beer. It's been nearly a week since Ron's even had a drink. He takes a sip and feels it through his whole body.

"You're a bad influence," Parkinson tells him, but she takes a long drink from her bottle, eyes closed, and Ron can tell she doesn't really mind.

"So," Harry says, "How do you want to help?"

Ron figures he might as well get right to it. "In my world, we – " He gestures around the table. "We've already won this. I think. I mean, I can tell you how we won. It might… help." He feels foolish all of a sudden. He feels like he should have offered this six days ago, when he found out the war was still going on. Suddenly, it doesn't feel enough, to know they've lived with terror for so long.

Harry doesn't seem to mind, though. "That's brilliant," he says, green eyes flashing behind his glasses. The look is so familiar and so friendly that Ron grins. "Why didn't we think of that?"

"We were a bit preoccupied," Parkinson interjects.

"How did you win?" Ginny asks, eagerly. "Should we write this down?"

Ron shakes his head. "I don't think…" They all look so eager that it makes Ron frown suddenly. "It was… maybe we should write this down," he says, to stall for a minute.

Ginny flicks her wand and sends a pad of paper and an ink pen soaring her way. When she's ready, Ron speaks:

"There are seven Horcruxes," he says, and they all nod. "You said the diary, the ring, the locket and the diadem are destroyed." He watches Ginny write them down, her handwriting just as slanted and sloppy as his. "The other three: Nagini – "

"We knew that," Harry says.

"The cup," Ron continues. "And I think I know where it is."

"You said it was in Lestrange's vault," Parkinson says. "How on earth can we get into Gringotts?"

Ron shrugs. "Make friends with the goblins."

Harry shakes his head. "They're completely loyal to Voldemort."

"We think he's offering them gold," Ginny says.

"No," Ron says. "That can't be enough. We have to give them something they really want."

"What's that?" Parkinson asks.

It's Harry who answers. "To be treated as equals," he says. He meets Ron's eyes, "Like Hermione and Dumbledore always said."

"Right," agrees Ron. "But I think we'll need more than just the Goblins' cooperation. We might also need a curse breaker. You said you were still in contact with Fleur?"

"Why do we need Fleur?" Ginny says. "We have Pansy."

Ron glances over at Parkinson, surprise evident on his face. She shrugs. "You said you worked in an antiques shop," he says.

Parkinson nods. "I do. It's close enough to Diagon Alley that we get a lot of wizards and witches who need help with magical items, but they don't want to go into Diagon Alley. It's too overrun with Death Eaters. The shop fronts as a Muggle antiques shop, and we do sell some, but it's mostly to break curses."

"Okay," Ron says. "I guess that's about perfect. Hey, we don't happen to have Gryffindor's sword lying around, do we?"

Harry shakes his head. "No. It got left behind when we... the last time we broke into Hogwarts."

Ron frowns. "That might make this more difficult."

"Why?" Parkinson asks. "If we're getting the goblins to help us, we can ask them to make another weapon."

"Will that work?"

Parkinson nods. "The weapon needs to be infused with something magical, but more powerful than wizard magic. Like Basilisk blood, or Gryffindor's sword, which was goblin-made."

"Oh, well…" Ron nods. "Good," he says.

"Alright," Ginny says, watching the exchange and barely reigning in her impatience. "What's the other Horcrux?"

Ron hesitates. Ginny makes a noise like a cat. Ron meets Harry's eyes. Harry says, "You can tell them?"

Ron says, "You know?"

Harry shrugs. "I've suspected."

"No," Ginny says, before Ron can open his mouth.

But Ron continues. "It's Harry. You have to let Voldemort kill you."

"No," Ginny says, louder. "That's not fair. I won't let you," she says to Harry, and it's a conversation that Ron's sure they've had before.

"Gin," Harry says.

"No," she says again. "The war can go on indefinitely as far as I'm concerned."

"Gin," Harry repeats.

"No way."

"Ginny," Parkinson interrupts. "Let Ron finish."

Ron looks at her. Parkinson meets his eyes. "You weren't surprised to see Harry," she says, "when you woke up. Why?"

Ron smiles. He glances at Ginny's mutinous face. She looks ready to curse him. He looks at Harry. "You have to let him kill you," he says again. "But you won't die. He'll only kill the part of him that belongs to him. His soul."

They're quiet for a moment. "Are you sure?" Ginny asks eventually.

"I am ninety nine percent certain," Ron says. "Er, ninety five percent."

Ginny scowls.

"Ninety five percent," Harry says. "I can live with that."

"You had better hope so," Ginny mumbles. "Otherwise I'll kill you myself. And you," she snaps at Ron.

"I guess this means we need to get started," Parkinson says.

Ginny asks, "Do we have anything stronger than this to drink?"

Harry is contacting someone about getting in contact with the goblins and Parkinson is on her mobile, talking to Lupin, Ron thinks. He and Ginny are sitting at the table, brainstorming farfetched scenarios that would allow them to break into Gringotts.

It's strange, sitting here like this. So much about it feels familiar. He's used to spending time with Harry and Ginny; it's how he spends most of his free time in his world. Their home is different, but it feels like them anyway. The banter feels the same. Hermione is missing. He feels cold without her, and guilty because he's almost strangely enjoying himself. She's a constant in his mind. He wonders how she is. Does she miss him? Does she like the other Ron?

Does he miss Parkinson? The thought feels strange, but he can see that Parkinson misses her Ron in the way she almost never meets his eyes and the downward turn of her mouth. He supposes if he got used to her, he might miss her too. He laughs out loud at the absurdity of the thought.

"What is it?" Ginny asks, looking up from her list. It's mid-afternoon by now. The sun is sinking into the horizon. Outside, shadows are going long as the world turns purple. The light inside is warm and cozy.

"It's nothing," Ron says. "This is just… so weird to me."

"How so?"

"Pansy Parkinson," Ron says. "More comfortable with my best friend and my baby sister than I am. It's… not something I ever thought I'd see."

Ginny says, "It's very different from your world?"

Ron nods. He stares into his glass. Ginny places a small, freckly hand over his. "I'm sorry," she says. "This must be so strange. I never really thought about what it must be like, to lose so much in one swoop."

"It doesn't feel real," Ron admits. "I feel as if I'm in some dream. It's home, only it's really not."

"Yeah," Ginny says. "Kind of like how you're Ron, only really not."

"Do you miss him?" Ron asks.

"Of course," Ginny says. "We don't… have much of our family left. He's my big brother – or you are, or, well, you know what I mean."

Ron exhales loudly. "Yeah."

"Can I ask you something?" Ginny asks.

"Sure."

"What's she like? Hermione, I mean."

Ron thinks. "She's still insane," he says after a minute. "She's so smart she blows my mind, all the time. I feel like I should be used to her brain by now, but I'm not. She's working on changing the world, you know?"

Ginny smiles. "I bet."

"And she's beautiful," Ron says. "She's like you'd expect her to be, I guess. She talks a lot, about everything, and her hair is still a mess, and she just comes alive around books." He pauses. "God, I miss her." He blinks rapidly.

Ginny's smile dims. "I'm so sorry," she says again. "If it helps, I miss her too."

Ron looks at her. "It does," he tells her honestly, surprised by that. Somehow it helps. He's felt alone in his grief, the only one mourning Hermione's loss. Which is stupid; though they've already grieved her, Harry and Ginny loved Hermione too.

"Maybe this is a stupid idea, but you and Harry – the um, other you – try to get to her grave a couple times a year. I'm sure he'd take you, if you asked."

"Maybe," Ron says. He wipes his eyes. "Not yet." He's not ready for that. To acknowledge that Hermione isn't here. At all. He needs to think of her alive, somewhere.

"If you ever want," Ginny tells him.

It's not too soon before Ron falls into a routine. He feels responsible to keep up this world's Ron's life, and so he decides to throw himself into it as best he can. He tells Parkinson that he wants to go work at the restaurant. She says no, but she doesn't protest too much. Ron reckons they could use the money. She offers to take him, but he remembers the way. Parkinson digs out a few cook books for him. He reads over them. In the margins, this Ron had made notes. The instructions seem easy enough. Ron spells them pocket-sized and takes them with him.

His first day at Via Vite, he overcooks the pasta and undercooks the sauce. He is yelled at by two angry customers who barge into the kitchen. Ron feels as if everyone can tell that he's an imposter, but no one suspects it's not him. Why would they?

He apologises to Mrs Rinaldi and offers to pay for their meals, but she won't hear of it. Still, she feels his forehead three times and asks if he's feeling well.

"I'm tired," Ron tells her honestly.

She sends him home with strict instructions to drink a glass of red wine and get a good night's sleep. Ron can at least do one of those things.

On his way home he picks up a bottle of red wine and take away Indian, and at the supermarket checkout he spots of bunch of flowers that he buys on a whim.

Parkinson nearly falls over when she sees the open bottle and the flowers. Ron hands her a glass of wine and asks how her day was. She barely blinks when she begins to tell him.

The cooking gets easier. A few surreptitiously placed spells help out. Soon enough, he's at least able to get simple dishes out of the kitchen with ease. It's surprisingly exhausting, working hours and hours on his feet in the hot, steamy room, but Ron finds that he really does like it.

This whole life is exhausting. He's up early, usually with the intent of reading the pile of large, complicated books on alternate dimensions, but more often than not he finds himself looking over The Prophet and The Times. The Muggle world is similar to his Muggle world. It's comforting. He and Parkinson fall into a routine easily as well. They almost always wake up at the same time. Ron makes breakfast now, while Parkinson gets ready. By the time she emerges, she somehow always manages to look put together despite the threadbare clothe. Her hair is always smooth and straight and dark. She still looks tired, though.

They eat breakfast together. Sometimes it's the only meal they share. Parkinson always tells him her plans for the day. She works a lot. The shop doesn't pay much, but she can make her own hours. Ron doesn't start work until the afternoon. He usually heads over to Harry and Ginny's place. Ginny writes for a small independent newspaper, but it doesn't take up much of her time, and Harry doesn't work at all. They mostly live off the money his parents left him, taken from their vault in Gringotts years ago and transferred into Muggle money.

Harry takes it upon himself to befriend the goblins. He tells Ron he feels foolish for not having thought of it before, but Ron shakes his head. He figures even this Harry has enough on his plate. Ron tells him to stop blaming himself for everything, and Harry studies him.

Ron blinks. "What?" he says.

"Nothing," Harry says. "You're just not that different, is all."

Ron feels vaguely proud for some reason, as if Harry has accepted him. He's missed his best friend.

More often than not, Parkinson stops at the restaurant to eat dinner. She sits at the same corner table every time, and always tells Ron to surprise her with dinner. She's always up when Ron gets home from the restaurant, even when it's after midnight. Ron doesn't question it, but is grateful for the company as he winds down from his day. He likes having someone to tell stories to, about his sous chef Margery, who is always going on disastrous dates, and about Mrs Rinaldi, and about the steak he seared to perfection and the new soup he developed. He tells her jokes and is grateful when she laughs over her wine glass, eyes sparkly and aimed at him.

It's only after Parkinson goes to bed and Ron lies down does he let his melancholy come in full force. His life is too busy, otherwise. But at night, he lets thoughts of Hermione pull him down.

Time passes and Ron does laundry and drinks coffee and stops at the pub to have a pint every once in a while. On Mondays – the only day both he and Parkinson have off – they go food shopping and spend their morning at a coffee shop to linger over the paper. Parkinson splurges on chocolate croissants, and they melt in Ron's mouth. They go on walks and once they go to a movie with Harry and Ginny. Harry holds Ginny's hand. Ron studies Parkinson's eyes after. She catches him and gives a distracted smile before laughing at Ginny's imitation of the movie's leading lady.

The third of December comes up on Ron quickly. The day is fairly uneventful. He makes breakfast as usual. Parkinson picks at hers, but she assures Ron it tastes fine. She's just not hungry. Ron spends the morning with Harry. He goes to work and has one customer come back into the kitchen to thank him for her meal.

He feels as light as air on his way home, eager to tell Parkinson when he walks in the door. She's not waiting for him as usual, though. The lamp in the living room is on, casting the room in a warm glow, but Parkinson is nowhere to be found.

Ron makes his way toward the back of the flat. The bedroom door is cracked open. Ron can see a sliver of light spilling out from the room into the narrow, dark hallway. He pauses just outside. He can see Parkinson sitting on the bed, her face in profile. She's studying something.

Without thinking, Ron knocks and pushes the door open. It creaks, and Parkinson jumps. Her face is blotchy. She's been crying. Ron is startled out of the apology he was about to make.

"What's wrong?" he asks. "Is everyone okay? Harry? Ginny?" He feels himself go cold all over.

Parkinson shakes her head. She sniffles loudly. "I'm fine," she says, obviously lying. "It's nothing."

Ron looks at what she was studying. It's that picture. Of Parkinson and her Ron. It occurs to Ron, suddenly and fiercely, that she must miss Ron as much as he misses Hermione.

"Pansy," he says, coming further into the room.

She shakes her head again, furiously wiping at her eyes. She opens her mouth to say something, but a sob leaves instead and her breath hitches. It's a desperate, needy sound. Ron has never been good with crying women, but he's had a lot of experience with them. He sits next to her without really thinking about it. His arms go around her. She's thin to the point of being slight, and it's the first time he's deliberately touched her.

Parkinson looks like she wants to turn away from him, but Ron won't let her. He keeps his arm around her. She relents, almost childlike, and buries her head against him. "I miss him," she confesses against Ron. He nods, soothing a hand along her smooth head. He doesn't say anything. "It's been a month," she wails. Her tears are soaking through to his chest. "What if he never comes home?"

Ron keeps her pressed against him, but inside he startles. He hadn't even noticed the date. It's been exactly one month since he woke up in this strange, upside down world. How had he not noticed? One month since he last saw Hermione. One month of sharing a living space with Pansy Parkinson, of living in a world where almost everyone he loves his gone. He glances down. Pansy's hand is still clutching the picture. Her ring – his mother's ring – is still on her finger. He closes his eyes and pictures Hermione's face, her laughing brown eyes. He thinks about the diamond ring on her finger, the one he placed there years ago.

Ron lets Pansy cry against him for a long time. He doesn't cry – he feels as if he doesn't have any tears left – but he lets himself think about it. This might be his life. He repeats the thought: this might be his life.

This is his life.

"I can stay," he finds himself saying. "I know I'm not him, but…"

Parkinson looks at him. Her eyes are puffy. She is grateful, he can tell. She nods. "Just until I fall asleep," she murmurs, already moving to lie down on her side.

Ron fits in behind her. He curls himself around her. She smells like lilac. He's grown used to the scent this past month. The thought should worry him, he thinks, but it doesn't.

He falls asleep wrapped around her.

Ron wakes up, and the world is different. He can feel it in the air. Pansy is there, blinking at him. She returns his smile sheepishly. Ron studies her face. They lay there for at least three minutes in quiet. Ron feels his face go hot. It's the first time he's noticed that Pansy is in the same flimsy nightgown she wore when he first opened his eyes to see her. His whole body goes warm. Pansy notices his stare, and she coughs nervously. Ron moves first. "I'll go make breakfast," he says, voice sounding too loud in his ears.

"Okay," Pansy says. He stays sitting there as she gets up. When she shuts the bathroom door, her eyes are on him.

Ron feels guilty and keyed up all day. All through breakfast, he'd had to will himself not blush. He's distracted and snippy with Harry. He thinks briefly about talking to Harry about this, but decides quickly against it. If he says it aloud – that he woke up attracted to Pansy Parkinson – it will be too real.

When he gets home, Pansy is there, like always. She passes him a glass of wine.

"How was your day?" she asks. It's obvious she's trying very hard to pretend that everything is normal, or at least as close to normal as it can be between them.

Ron wants to play along, but he's been thinking about this all day. He nods and takes a sip from his wine. He changes out of his chef's clothes at the restaurant, because Pansy always complains that he smells like grease. He sits on the sofa.

"Fine," he says. "Can I ask you something?"

She doesn't look happy when she says, "Sure?"

"How did we – er, you and Ron – how did you end up together?"

Pansy looks at him with wide, stunned eyes.

"What?" Ron says.

She shakes her head. "Nothing. I didn't think. Nothing."

Ron doesn't say anything. Finally, Pansy talks. "It was six years ago," she says. She has a small smile on her face, like she's remembering. "It wasn't anything big," she says. "I didn't nurse you back to health or anything. I just… I finished Hogwarts. I went to apprentice with your brother, Bill, as a curse-breaker. He talked about you all the time, about how brave and heroic you were. To be honest," Pansy says, meeting Ron's eyes. "I thought he was full of it."

Ron rolls his eyes.

"One day you were just there, though. Bill and I got along, and he invited me out for a drink after work, and you came along. I thought you were going to curse me when you first saw me." She laughs, bright and cheerful. "I would have gladly cursed you back. But, ah, Bill, he was persistent. I think, I dunno. I was lonely. I didn't really have very many friends at Hogwarts. My family lost their money during my fifth year, and those who were my friends were only because they were supposed to be. Not because they wanted to be." She trails off for a minute. Her cheeks are flushed.

Ron finds himself placing a hand over hers. She startles, but continues. "Bill saw something in me, for whatever reason, he thought you and I might be friends. It took a long time," she admits. "By the time my apprenticeship was over, you and I were spending a lot of time together. Then McGonagall approached me about joining the Order. It was you and Bill who suggested it. She said you lot could use another curse-breaker." She meets Ron's eyes again. "I said yes only because I wanted you to be proud of me. I had a pretty massive crush by then, much to my dismay, but you can be very charming when you try. After that, I guess, things just sort of… progressed." She nods, and pushes her lips together. "It's been mostly good. Hard. Everything here is hard. But good."

Ron believes her.

That night, he sleeps better than he has in over a month, her body lying next to his on a bed she had always shared with someone not him.

Ron sends Pansy off to work one morning a week and a half later with a smile and a goodbye. Her eyes are clearer than he's used to seeing. She gets better sleep now, too. By some unspoken agreement they fall asleep next to each other every night. They haven't touched since that first night, but having another person in the space beside him makes it easier for Ron to sleep. He's not going to do anything to ruin that.

Pansy's bundled up for her walk. She could Apparate, she told him, but that uses a giant burst of magic which would at least call her to the attention of the Death Eaters. Attention she doesn't need or want, even though she's a pure blood.

After she leaves, Ron heads over to Harry's. Before he can even knock on the door to Harry and Ginny's flat, it's ripped open. Harry's glasses are askew. His hair looks like it always did back at Hogwarts. Ron starts to laugh, but the sound turns to a grunt when Harry unceremoniously yanks Ron into the flat.

"What the hell has got into you, Mate?" Ron asks.

Harry grins then, a little manically. "They've agreed to help!"

Ron shakes his head. "Who've agreed to help?"

Harry widens his eyes in exasperation. "The goblins," he clarifies.

Ron starts. "What? That's brilliant!"

"Yes, it is," Harry says. "And wait 'til you see this." Sitting on the dining room table is a knife large enough to be a small sword; it glistens in the light as if alive with some sort of potent magic. Ron wants to touch it, but something holds him back.

"Griphook gave this to me," Harry explains. Ron remembers Griphook. He was the goblin who had helped save them, back in the other world. He was also the goblin who betrayed them.

"He just gave it to you?" Ron asks skeptically.

Harry shakes his head. "I had to pay him a hefty pile of gold, but – " He meets Ron's eyes.

"Worth it," Ron finishes. "When do we do this?"

"Tomorrow night. Griphook will get us in – there's a secret entrance through the underground near King's road. He said he'd get us as far as the vault. After that, it's up to us. There are curses he can't break."

"So Pansy comes with."

"And Ginny, yeah."

"I don't know if I want Ginny coming," Ron says honestly. He thinks about how few family members he has left. "We don't' know what we might run into."

Harry grimaces. "I'm not going to be the one to tell her, Mate. I don't know how Ginny is in your world, but in this one, she'll have us both cursed so fast we wouldn't be able to say 'you're not going.' Besides, I'd rather not sleep on the sofa for the next five years."

"She's my little sister, Harry."

"And she can take care of herself," Ginny says from behind him.

Ron starts. "I didn't think you were here," he tells her, feeling a little sheepish.

Ginny just meets his eyes. "You're not doing this without me," she says.

Ron studies her face, the stubborn set to her jaw and the eyes that look so much like his mum's. "Okay."

Getting into the Underground is easy enough. Navigating the tunnels with trains rushing past is a little more daunting, but they make it to the secret entrance mostly in time. Griphook is waiting impatiently for them, a gold pocket watch the size of his fist clutched in both hands.

"You're late," he says, when they rush up to him.

"These tunnels are bloody horrendous," Ron informs him rudely.

Griphook glares with beady eyes, and Ron clamps his mouth shut. He resists the urge to say "Sir."

"You're out of place," Griphook says, eyes trained on Ron's face. "Are you certain he is not an imposter?" He directs his question to Harry, though he continues to stare at Ron. Ron squirms.

Harry nods in the darkness. "We're certain," he says.

Griphook finally shifts his gaze back to his watch. "Very well," he says. "It is of no concern to me. You have the knife."

"I've got it," Pansy says. She and Harry had a pretty decent row over who would carry it. Harry claimed it was too dangerous a job for Pansy. In the end, Harry relented when Pansy pointed out that as the curse breaker, she would probably have the best luck with it.

"Good," Griphook says. "Let us go, then."

He presses his hand against the tunnel. One second, Ron is staring at a solid masonry wall. The next, he's looking down a long corridor, dark as midnight. "Follow me," Griphook orders.

Ron points. "Down there?"

Griphook doesn't turn; he just stars walking. "Do not use your wands," he instructs as he moves further away into the darkness. "And do not talk."

Harry starts after him, followed by Ginny. Ron meets Pansy's eyes. "I can't bloody see," he complains.

Pansy rolls her eyes. She takes his hand. "Come on."

They walk for what feels like miles, Ron is certain. The corridor is straight and narrow. Twice, he bumps his head and has to duck. Pansy keeps a tight grip on his hand, and Ron would never admit it, but he's grateful. Every time he is certain they can walk no farther, they continue on. Finally, at least ninety minutes later, they come to a stop.

Ron can hear heavy breathing. He looks quickly to his left and nearly yelps. A dragon is slumbering not twenty feet away from them, snoring loudly and blowing hot air against Ron's skin. He grips Pansy's hand tighter, comforted to see that she's got her wand at the ready.

Griphook says, "The cart will take you to the vault." He speaks so loudly that Ron jumps, eyes still trained on the sleeping dragon, which snorts hotly and shifts in his sleep. Ron resists the urge to shush Griphook. "Getting into the vault is your own concern. How you get out is also up to you. Apparating is impossible. If you run into any harm, I would ask that you do not tell them it was me who helped you." He looks pointedly at Ron. "Do not remove anything other than the cup from the premises." Ron gulps.

Harry is staring at the dragon, as well, eyes wide. He finally shifts his attention to Griphook. "Of course," Harry assures him. "Thank you. Really, we can't thank you enough."

A large basket-like cart rolls its way towards them. Griphook's face softens, just a smidge. "I wish you luck, Harry Potter," he says. Then he turns and begins to trudge his way back towards the corridor without saying goodbye.

Ron eyes the cart after Griphook's gone. "We just get in this and assume it takes us the right place?"

Harry shrugs, climbing into the cart. "Griphook got us this far," he says.

Harry puts out a hand for both Ginny and Pansy. They both climb in. Ron finally follows. The second his feet hit the bottom of the cart, it whooshes off. Ron forgot how much he hated this. The ride is fast and the track turns and twists as they careen through the underground labyrinth of Gringotts, lit up by torches throwing shadows every which way. Ron spots at least two more dragons, one of whom is decidedly not sleeping, before he trains his eyes forward and concentrates only on not vomiting all over his shoes.

When the cart finally comes to an abrupt halt, Ron looks around to see Pansy looking a little green, eyes squeezed shut. "You doing okay?" he asks.

She nods, but keeps her eyes sealed. "Just…give me a minute."

"Breathe," Ron tells her. He takes her hand again to help her out of the cart, and doesn't let go.

When they've all made it out of the cart, Ron turns to look at the vault's doors. It looks like every other vault in Gringotts. "Are we sure this is it?" Ron asks.

"Yeah," Harry says. "I think so." Harry looks at Pansy. The flickering torchlight glows across her skin. Her eyes are serious and determined. "You ready?" Harry asks.

Pansy nods. They've already covered how they're going to do this. Ron, Harry and Ginny will stand guard while Pansy does her thing. They don't know what kind of curses might be protecting the vault. Pansy told them, looking especially hard at Ron, that no matter what she does, no matter what sounds of pain she makes, just to let her finish. Ron had agreed, though he really hadn't meant it.

He, Ginny and Harry spread out to keep watch. He keeps sneaking glances behind him, but so far Pansy has nothing but contemplate the door. She doesn't even have her wand up. The minutes tick by. Pansy's so quiet, Ron is almost certain she's not there anymore. But every time he panics and turns his head, there she is, one hand up now, as if feeling the air in front of the vault. Finally, finally, she says, "I've got it!" She says a complicated series of charms Ron's never heard before, and then the door slowly starts to creak open. She hasn't broken a sweat, but somehow she did it. The door creeps open a little more, revealing a black cavern. "Alright," Pansy declares. "We're in."

She walks in first, without even looking back. Ron starts to yell at her to wait – that was too easy and this feels all wrong – but the door begins to close almost immediately. Ron doesn't have time to think; he jumps in behind her. He can hear Harry yell something, but the door swooshes shut. Then it's black.

Beside him, he hears Pansy say, "What the hell?"

"Lumos!" Ron lights his wand. He swings around until Pansy's in his line of sight. "Why would you just go in?" he whispers furiously. He's afraid to raise his voice. The whole place is dark and full of shadows. It's cold and damp. Ron feels like there are eyes everywhere, watching him.

Pansy blinks at him. She shakes her head. "I don't…." She looks around, eyes sweeping across the darkness. "I don't know. It was like I couldn't help it."

Ron doesn't feel good about this. He makes a decision. "You get us back out," he says. "I'll find the cup." He holds out his hand. "Can I have the knife?"

Pansy takes the knife from her pocket and surrenders it without any protest.

"You feeling okay?" Ron asks. Pansy nods but doesn't say anything.

The knife is heavy in his hand. Holding it is like the first time he held a wand, how he could feel the magic coursing through it.

Ron uses his wand light to peer around the place as Pansy moves to the door. He spots a torch on the wall and quickly lights it. The vault is less eerie lit up. He sees exactly what he'd expect to see in a vault. He laughs at himself, feeling foolish for his earlier fright. There are heaps of gold everywhere. Ron thinks about stuffing some in his pockets. They could use the money. He thinks about what Griphook said and moves past the gold. Ron lets his eyes rove around the vault. He spots the cup. It's just sitting in the corner of vault, this small golden thing with two delicate handles and a badger engraved on the front. The badger looks like it's moving in the flickering light from the torch.

They can't risk putting their hands on it. Ron remembers what happened last time, how the cup multiplied a hundred times and grew so hot it burned Hermione's hands into red, blistery messes. The best bet is to destroy the cup with the knife without touching it. Ron moves to do so with both his wand and the knife at the ready. The cup is only four, maybe five steps away. It shimmers.

Ron takes one step, then another, and then another. Right when he's almost there, arm held to strike, a huge snake rears up in front of him. It hisses, one long drawn out sound that sends shivers down Ron's spine. He's frozen, arm still up high in the air.

Ron recognizes the snake easily enough. The damn thing bit his dad. Nagini sways over him, tall and sinewy, skin and teeth glimmering menacingly in the torch light. Behind him, Ron hears Pansy gasp. He hopes to God she's not confronting anything, because right now his attention is preoccupied. "Do you have the door open?" Ron yells, eyes focused solely on the hissing, swaying snake in front of him. Ron feels like he's being sized up beneath Nagini's strange reptile eyes.

"No!" Pansy says. "Oh God, Ron."

"Just get the door open," Ron says. He still has the knife out, though it's held awkwardly in his left hand. He brandishes it in front of Nagini, who doesn't seem all that concerned. Nagini lunges for him. Ron spins out the way. Nagini's scaly reptile skin hits his hand as Ron lunges and the knife goes skidding out of the way. Ron doesn't even look where it's gone. He just needs to keep Nagini's attention off Pansy long enough for her to get them out. Just then, outside of the vault's sealed door, Ron hears a loud bang and then a series of shouts. The floor shakes. The mounds of gold tremble and shimmer all around them. There's a scream; it sounds like Ginny.

They've completely been found out then. Ron can't decide which is worse, facing death by snake or by Death Eaters. Nagini snaps her large jaws at Ron, who acts on instinct and drops to the ground. "Stupefy!" Ron shouts, not really even aiming. Nagini is coming for him again. Ron rolls out of the way just before a fang sinks into him.

"Stupefy, you damn thing!" Ron shouts again, this time hitting Nagini square in the face. The force of the spell leaves him shaking. Nagini freezes mid lunge. She's suspended there, like a snake charmer's pet. Ron stares at her for a moment. Her reptile eyes are wide and unblinking. She looks almost surprised. Ron breathes.
Just then Pansy shouts, "It's opening! It's opening!"

Ron looks. The vault door is slowly creaking open. He can see bolts of spell light beyond it. He doesn't think about what he's doing, only goes up to Nagini. "Accio!" The knife flies into his hand. Ron quickly slashes it through Nagini's neck, who blinks one last time, a slow death-blink, and crashes to the ground.

"Ron!" Pansy shouts. "It's closing!"

Ron starts to rush toward the door. "Do you have the cup?" Pansy asks above the shouting outside the vault.

"No! It doesn't matter. Just go!"

"No way," Pansy says. "Accio cup!"

The cup comes rocketing through the air toward them. The door is almost shut now. "No!' Ron intercepts the cup, not letting it touch Pansy's hands. It's so hot, he feels the skin start to peel off his hand, but he holds onto it as he and Pansy dive through the door.

"Ron!" he hears Harry shout. Ron looks. A spell whizzes past him. A voice suspiciously like Bellatrix Lestrange says, "I knew you were a blood traitor, you little bitch," to Pansy, and Ron doesn't think twice. He aims a stunning spell in her direction.

"Ron, come on!" Pansy says. Ron looks to where she's pointing. Harry and Ginny are both sitting atop a dragon, who's breathing a ring of fire, keeping the Death Eaters at bay. Ron is still holding onto the burning cup. Tears sting his eyes. He and Pansy rush over, dodging spells. He's not sure how they'll ever be able to climb onto the dragon. He'll probably have to let the cup go. Just then, a great talon latches onto him. Ron sees Pansy lifted by the other. He feels the ground beneath him give way. The world rushes by. Another spell goes flying past his head, and then they're gone, flying through the cavernous underground with the help of a dragon.

The dragon takes them only to the start of the long, dark corridor. He drops Pansy and Ron off first and then lands briefly so that Harry and Ginny can climb down from his back. They all pause watch him flap away. Ron has transferred the cup to his bag, but his hands are still burnt to a crisp. They don't have time to do anything about it now, though. Harry uses his wand to light the corridor and they take off at a run. Ron is so tired, but it's like he can feel something icy and wet just behind him, propelling him forward. It's not until they're out of the corridor and back in the tunnels of London's Underground that they all breathe easy. Ron collapses clumsily against the wall, breathing heavily. He vision is blurry. Sweat is cooling against his skin, leaving him shivery and soaked. He's very certain he's going to throw up from the pain.

"Let me see your hands," Pansy says immediately.

"They're fine," Ron lies. Pansy huffs and rolls her eyes. She rests the tip of her wand on each palm of his hand. Immediately they're cooled down to a bearable ache. Ron breathes out.

"Thank you," he says.

Pansy looks him in the eye. "You're welcome."

Harry says, "You got it?"

Ron nods. He relinquishes his bag. "Don't touch it, if you can help it. It'll burn you. Here," he says, giving up the knife as well.

While Harry sets to destroying the cup, Pansy sits down next to Ron. "You killed Nagini," she says, so simply, like she's talking about buying milk.

Ron laughs. The sound bubbles up inside him. He's so tired he could sleep for a week, but he feels better than he has in weeks, maybe months. Maybe years. He feels… accomplished.

"I killed Nagini," he repeats. "Oh, shite. I thought we were going to die."

Pansy puts her forehead against his shoulder. Ron shifts, every part of him aching, until his arm is around her. "You were amazing," he whispers into her hair.

"You were," she says. "You… I think you won this for us, Ron."

Ron looks to Harry, who is just now plunging the knife into the core of the cup. There's a spark of light, and it sounds like someone is dying, loudly and painfully.

"It's not over yet."

Pansy moves then. She gets right in his face, blue-grey eyes serious and happy. "No," she concedes, "but it will be and it's because of you. Thank you."

Ron nods. He swallows. He knows it's going to happen before it does, and he doesn't make any move to stop it. Pansy's lips are dry and chapped when she places them over his. Even now, when his body is protesting any movement at all, when it's protesting even being awake, the feeling of pleasure at her soft kiss spreads through him. She doesn't linger. The kiss is more of a thank you than anything else, but when she moves away, he can see her eyes in the dark. They are big and bright. Her lips are swollen. A smile spreads across Ron's face. Pansy's eyes twinkle back at him. He thinks, yes.

Hours later, when dawn is creeping across the land, he and Pansy collapse into bed, too tired to do anything but fall asleep with their arms around one another.

Ron wakes up at noon. He has to go into the restaurant. Pansy is still fast asleep next to him, and Ron thinks about calling in sick and spending the day in bed. He looks at Pansy. Her dark hair is spread out around her. Her eyelashes are making perfect little fans against her pale cheeks. Spending all day here is a tempting thought, but Ron propels himself out of bed anyway. He leaves Pansy a note and promises to be home as early as he can. The sky is grey and heavy above him, covered with clouds, but Ron barely notices.

He spends most of the day in a haze. Mrs Rinaldi catches him whistling and makes a comment about Pansy and the bedroom that has the tips of Ron's ears turning bright red. She just laughs her old lady laugh knowingly, and tells Ron it's good to see him happy again. Ron starts when he realizes what she says is true. He is happy.

Ron stops on the way home. He splurges and buys a big bouquet of pansies from the market, feeling overly sentimental but pretty alright with it.

He thinks about Hermione, how much she always loved flowers. The first time he bought them for her had been just after the final battle. He took her out on their first proper date; picked her up at the door and pulled out a big bouquet of cheap carnations because that was all he could afford. He had charmed them to magically change colour, only it hadn't worked all that well and the flowers ended up the colour of mud. Hermione had just laughed at the sight of them and thrown her arms around him. She had smelled like the bottle of perfume he bought for her.

Ron smiles at the thought. No matter what, he knows Hermione loves him. She would want him to be happy.

Ron walks into the flat. He's got the pansies clutched behind his back, going for some dramatic unveiling. Pansy is sitting at the kitchen table, eyes focused on a book. She barely stirs when Ron flourishes the bouquet. Ron glances down at the book Pansy's staring at. It looks like a journal.

"I brought you flowers," Ron says, waving the bouquet in front of her face.

"Oh," she says, tone flat. "Thank you."

Ron frowns. He was really hoping for a little more enthusiasm. "What's that?" he asks, nodding his chin at the journal.

Pansy looks up. Her eyes are lined with red, like she's been crying.

Ron immediately puts the flowers down. "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head. "It's a journal. It's your journal."

"I don't keep a journal," Ron says stupidly.

"No, it's Ron's."

"Oh," Ron says. He still can't figure out what made her cry. Unless it's that she misses Ron, which is a probability, but he doesn't like the jealous curl it sends through his stomach.

"You need to read it," Pansy says.

Ron shakes his head. "No. That's… I don't."

"You need to," Pansy insists. She pushes it towards him. Ron recognizes the handwriting, of course. The top of the page is dated the 30th October. He can feel Pansy's eyes on him as he begins to read. I found out a spell that might help, the page begins. Halfway through, Ron pushes the journal away. He doesn't want to read anymore.

Pansy is watching him.

Ron is quiet. He stares at the flowers he just bought for Pansy Parkinson. Finally, he asks, "What does this mean?"

Pansy doesn't meet his eyes. "It means you're going home."

It's the 20th of December. Five days before Christmas. Ron was going to spend the holiday with Pansy at Harry and Ginny's. He was going to make waffles. They were going to go ice skating.

The day is so cold that he feels his nose might fall off, the kind of cold that makes his eyes sting and takes his breath away. His hands are healing nicely, thanks to Pansy's healing abilities. When he commented on them last night, she said only that you learn these things, when you live through a war.

The cemetery is quiet. It's just before twilight, and the air is golden and hushed. Beside him, Harry is walking quietly. Every time Ron thinks of something to say, he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He doesn't feel like he has a right to be this sad.

He can feel Harry's attention on him. Ron stops walking. The trees are bare and the grass is hibernating; it looks brown and dead. "What is it?" Ron says.

Harry meets his eyes. "You haven't really told me what you two found out."

Ron shrugs. "What's there to say? Pansy found a spell that will get me home and should get your Ron back."

Harry nods. "Yeah. That's…" He swallows. "That's good, right?"

Ron nods, too. "It is," he agrees listlessly.

"And Ron, our Ron, did this?"

"Yeah," Ron says. "He did a spell on All Hallow's Eve to alter space. It's one of two times during the year that the spell can be done. From what I read, he was trying to shift space so that the Horcruxes would be brought to him."

"I can't believe he didn't tell anyone," Harry mumbles. "Stubborn arse."

Ron starts walking again. He doesn't know where he's going, so he has to wait for Harry to catch up before he can get very far.

"Pansy said he mentioned it to her once, but she told him it was too dangerous," Ron says.

Harry says, "She was clearly right." Next to him, Ron can see Harry needlessly push his glasses up. "And, uh, we can reverse the spell?"

"Tomorrow," Ron answers. He blinks furiously. "The only other time the spell can be done is the Winter Solstice."

"Isn't it dangerous? Are we sure we want to try this?"

Ron looks over. Harry's eyes are bright. Ron thinks, you're my best friend.

He looks away. "Pansy reckons it won't be any more dangerous than the last time, that the worlds probably want to right themselves, they just need help."

"And she's willing to try?"

Ron nods.

"Are you?"

Ron's quiet. He hadn't been. On the one hand, the thought of being home made something like hope swell in his chest, but it felt too good to be true. He had looked around the flat last night, while he and Pansy sat at the table, the flowers wilting beside them, and it felt like home too. He had told Pansy as much. He had suggested not doing the spell at all, or maybe waiting until next Halloween.

"You don't belong here," Pansy had told him, and her eyes were bright when she said it. "You heard Griphook last night. He knew it, just by looking at you." Pansy had taken his hand. Hers had shaken just a little. "Think about this, Ron. Two days from now you'll be back with Hermione. You'll have your parents back. You can't give that up." She had taken a deep breath and looked him in the eye. "This isn't your world. Don't you want to go home?"

Ron doesn't tell this to Harry. Instead he says, "I am. I miss Hermione," he says honestly. "I miss my Harry and my parents and my sister and my brothers." He blinks again. "I miss my home, but – "

Harry stops walking. They're in front of a tomb stone. Ron purposefully doesn't read it. "But what?" Harry asks.

"But this feels like home, too," Ron says.

Harry nods. He clasps a hand on Ron's shoulder. Ron finally looks at the grave marker. Hermione's name is there, in large looping letters carved out of hard granite. Stone that's meant to last forever. Ron bends down. He traces the letters with his left hand. His ring twinkles at him. His cheeks are wet, only he's not sure what he's mourning anymore.

Ron takes his time walking home. On a whim he stops in at Via Vite and finds Mrs Rinaldi standing over a simmering pot of red sauce. She smiles when she sees him. Ron can't help but smile back. He's grateful for her exuberance, which means she's reaching out to hug him just because. For Ron it's goodbye. Eventually, Ron wanders out into the empty diming room, randomly touching things as he goes: the wall, the smooth wooden bar, a photograph of Mrs Rinaldi and her husband, taken years ago. In the corner, on the table Pansy sat at whenever she came to visit, he carves his name. Ron Weasley was here.

He hopes that someone remembers him.

When he finally gets home, Pansy's again at the kitchen table. Ron's journal is sitting open in front of her, but she's not looking at it. Ron stops when he sees her. He studies the ring on her hand. "I brought dinner," Ron says, holding up a take away container of Rinaldi's spaghetti and meatballs and a bottle of wine.

"Oh," Pansy says around a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Good."

"Yeah."

"Did you want to eat with Harry and Ginny?" she asks.

Ron shakes his head. "I'll see them tomorrow. I'd rather…" He trails off, watching her face. He thinks he can see tears spring into her eyes, but she blinks them away.

"Alright," she says. "Let me get plates." She stands. Ron's right there, in her space, towering over her. Pansy looks up to meet his eyes.

"Pansy," he says, voice strained.

Pansy backs away. "Plates," she says, turning from him. Ron slumps. What he has on his mind – no good can come from it.

They're mostly quiet as they eat. Every time Ron thinks of something to say he cuts himself off. Everything sounds foolish in his head.

Pansy eventually surprises him by saying, "Thank you."

Ron startles. "For what?"

Pansy shrugs. She laughs a little and the sound is wet. She hasn't even eaten half her plate, but she pushes it away. "For dinner," she says eventually. "For all the dinners and all the breakfasts, and for helping with the Horcruxes and for sleeping next to me, and for not cursing me when you woke up in this strange world, and for… everything. You made this easier than it should have been. So, thank you."

Ron puts his fork down. He brings his hands up and rests his face there, so that it's hidden. "I don't want to leave," he says eventually, the sound muffled.

He feels a hand on his head. "I know," Pansy says. "But you will want to. And you have to. I don't want you to leave either, but I know… I need my Ron back, and you need your world back."

Ron nods. He finally lifts his head up and looks Pansy in the eye. "Thank you, too," he says eventually. "For… everything. For putting up with me, mostly."

Pansy smiles. Ron glances down to study her lips. They are pale and chapped, chewed like she does when she's nervous. She presses them together. He can see heat rise in her cheeks.

"Ron," she says, a warning. Ron just watches the way her lips say his name, the shape of them.

"Say it again," he says.

"What?"

"My name…"

"Ron," she breathes. "This isn't a good idea."

They're still sitting at the table. The room has grown hot and bright all around Ron.

"I know," Ron agrees.

"You'll be gone tomorrow."

"And he'll be back."

Pansy nods. Ron hates the feeling of jealousy that coils through him. She is not his Pansy, he knows. She belongs to another Ron. That Ron knows what her pale skin tastes like. That Ron knows the silky inside of her mouth and her thighs, the sounds she makes when she comes and the way her body feels beneath his. That Ron has all of that.

Ron wants it for himself.

"I'm sorry for this," he says, before he stands and skirts the table. Pansy remains seated the whole time, eyes focused on Ron. When he gets to her chair, he goes to his knees. They're at almost even heights now. Pansy's legs are clasped tightly together. Her hands are folded in her lap. Ron's tempted to pull her knees apart, and the thought leaves him flushed all over. Instead he merely bends forward. Pansy is still quiet. Every fibre in Ron's body tells him he's going to regret this, but he can't seem to stop. He whispers, "I'm sorry for this," again before he brings his lips to hers. Against his mouth, Pansy takes a deep breath. She sounds like she's shattering beneath his lips. Ron knows how she feels.

Pansy's hands are still clasped against her lap; they act like armour, keeping Ron out. But he wants her open to him. Viciously, almost savagely, he wants her weak and vulnerable against him. Not very gently, he unclasps her hands. He tugs on her arm, pulling her forward. Pansy makes a sound, like another warning, but Ron ignores it. She slides off the chair onto her knees to the floor, and Ron bends his head to match their mouths again.

It's like giving her permission. Pansy's mouth is soft and mobile against him. Almost immediately, she opens up to him. Her tongue sweeps into his mouth; she tastes like red wine and something cinnamon. She's instantly possessive. Heat coils through Ron. He groans and presses closer to her.

He moves back. Pansy's eyes are heavy lidded, like she's drugged, and Ron recognizes the feeling. Her lips are swollen and wet; her cheeks are flushed. Ron feels a savage hit of pleasure and pride – he did that – sweep through him. Their next kiss is swift and he scrapes his teeth against her. This is all he gets. Only this, and then he'll be gone. The thought makes him want to climb inside her.

Ron is still so much taller like this, even on his knees, and this isn't what he wants. He wants her pressed against him, matched against him. He pulls back from the kiss to slide his tongue down her neck. She whimpers, and Ron smiles against her neck, feeling smug.

"Come to the bedroom," he says, finally pulling back and looking in her blue-grey eyes, pupils so wide he can see almost none of the colour.

Pansy hesitates. Ron remains quiet, thinking only, please. He wants to push – he's pushed her this far – but he knows that he can't. There will be enough guilt when the sun rises as it is.

Finally, she nods. Ron lets her lead the way. He gets that this needs to be just as much her decision as it is his. He is not the only one who has someone else in his life. But she leads Ron to the bedroom anyway. The bedroom that she shares with someone else.

Ron spreads her out on that bed. Slowly, almost reverently, he begins to kiss her. The only light in the room is from the moon outside, turning the whole room blue. He presses his lips to her mouth, to the thin skin of her eyelids. He presses his tongue against the delicate skin of her neck and the vulnerable skin of her wrist. Whereever he goes, he tries to memorise the feel of her, the silky inside of her thighs and the way her warm skin tastes. He remembers the first time he touched Hermione there, how reverential he felt, how scared. He is no less scared now.

It's been so long since he's felt like he was discovering someone else. The sounds she makes are unfamiliar, but heady and seductive. Her hips leave the bed to press against him, and Ron revels in her impatience. He gets it, but he murmurs soothing sounds and licks a path to the tops of her feet before starting over again. He wants to remember this.

When Ron is hanging over her, head bent down to study her face, Pansy looks up at him. She smiles and whispers, "My turn," and Ron finds himself flipped over on his back. Pansy takes her time. Ron sighs as he feels her wet mouth press against his body. It's been a long time for this, too, for someone to kiss him and explore him like it's the first time. She moves her way down his arm, starting at the juncture where his shoulder meets his neck, and presses kisses all along the scars left so many years ago.

"From the Department of Mysteries?" she murmurs against his skin. Ron is too caught up in pleasure to do more than nod, and he's pretty certain she can't see him do so, but she hums and moves on. He wonders if she's memorising him. If he's different from her Ron.

She continues down his arm, finally coming to his hand. He is still healing from their trip to Gringotts. His hands no longer hurt, but the skin is pink and new and delicate. Ron waits while she kisses his palm. Her tongue peeks out and soothes against him. Will he scar? Will he always remember her, every time he glances at his hands? As she takes his finger into her mouth and sucks, he hopes so. It's like his hand has become the only part that matters. The sound she wrings out of him is soft and vulnerable.

Finally, Pansy moves up again. She leans over him. Ron clutches her head and brings her down to kiss him. He can feel her, soft and wet, pressed against his thigh. His hips shift. She stays above him, with her dark, straight hair falling against her cheek. Ron meets her eyes. He blinks. He doesn't want this to be over. He sees it there, in her eyes, the same panic and fear he feels.

"It's just you and me," he tells her, pulling her down again to press a quick kiss against her lips, then her chin, wherever his mouth falls. "Just us. We're on a desert island."

Pansy frowns. "No," she protests. "Don't do that. I don't want to pretend."

Ron nods. "Alright," he says. "No pretending."

Pansy nods. She lets out a shaky breath, and reaches down to line their bodies up. Her hand is soft and small against his erection. Ron grunts when she touches him. He lifts his hips, trying to help. He keeps his eyes on her face, watching closely as her eyes fall shut and her mouth falls open. She is slick; she fits around him like she was made for him, and Ron thinks briefly: of course she does; she is used to this. He pushes the thought away and surges up into her. Her face is slack when she starts to move her hips. Ron keeps a hand against the small of her back and presses into her as fully as he can.

He keeps his eyes open as long as possible, hoping to imprint her on his mind.

Ron wakes up on the 21st December feeling like he's forgotten something important. He remains in bed for a moment. All around him, the sun-filled room is familiar. He studies the ceiling. Beside him, Pansy is still asleep on her stomach. The covers are up over her back so that only her pale shoulders are visible. They had stayed awake as long as they could last night. Ron had kept a hand on her at all times, feeling that if he let her go for even a second, she would disappear from his side.

He doesn't remember falling asleep. He doesn't remember letting her go.

Harry and Ginny will be over later this morning. They are going to perform the spell at noon. Ron sits. Slowly and quietly he gets out of bed. He makes coffee, but he can't bring himself to make breakfast one last time. Instead he walks around the flat. There is the sofa he slept on, uncomfortably and fitfully for a month. The light streaming in from the window touches it; it looks infinitely more comfortable than Ron remembers. There is the kitchen table he and Pansy ate at almost every day; there is the cooker he used, and the pots he cooked with.

He finally enters the bathroom and stares at his reflection in the mirror. His freckles are still there. His hair and his nose and the colour of his eyes, all the same, but he feels so so different. He thinks about what it might be like to stay here. If it was solely his choice, could he make a life here, with Pansy? Could he work as a chef and not an Auror? Could he live in this world? Ron stares at himself. He could.

But he won't.

He has to go, he knows. There is another Ron who might long for this world, and the thought doesn't seem as bizarre as it once did, that a version of himself would miss Pansy so much that he aches with it. Even though he knows he will miss this, it's nice to think that there is a version of himself who will have it. It makes this easier.

Ron blinks at his reflection. He wants to go home, too. He thinks about Hermione's smile. He thinks about what it would be like to live without it, knowing he gave it up.

He wanders back into the bedroom. He'll need to wake Pansy up. But before he does, he picks up the picture by the bed. Picture Ron laughs. Ron finds his wand; he touches the tip of it to the photograph, whispering a spell so the photo duplicates, just once. The copy doesn't have the magical properties of the picture. Ron doesn't move or press a kiss to Pansy, but they both smile. They look happy. Ron tucks the photograph into his pocket.

He wakes Pansy up for the last time.

Harry and Ginny come over at ten o'clock. It feels just as awkward as that first day Ron woke up here in this strange place, but then he would have given anything for this moment. Now, he wishes time would stand still, just for a while longer. Thankfully, the spell requires preparation, which keeps him busy. He doesn't think he could handle just standing around, waiting for the clock to strike noon.

They can do the spell anywhere, but Pansy thinks it will be strongest in the bedroom where she found Ron's wand. She reckons it's where he did the spell. At quarter 'til noon, they all crowd into the small space. Ron looks around. He blinks. Ginny has tears on her cheeks . She hugs him first. "I love you no matter which version of my big brother you are," she tells him, standing on her tip toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

Ron laughs wetly. "And you're my bratty kid sister no matter which version you are," he tells her. "And I love you, too, no matter what."

Harry doesn't cry. He holds out his hand, but Ron ignores it. He pulls Harry into a hug, and Harry goes willingly. "Thank you," Harry says. "For everything. You probably saved the world."

Ron holds up his hands. "I might have the scars to prove it," he says.

Harry's eyes crinkle behind his glasses.

Ron doesn't look at Pansy right away. He feels like his chest is packed with cotton. He almost laughs at this, that one of the hardest things he's ever had to do was say goodbye to Pansy Parkinson – he corrects himself – Pansy Weasley.

She's not crying when she meets his eye. Ron pulls her into a hug. He presses a kiss the crown of her head. She smells like lilacs. Ron breathes in deep. "I hope he comes back to you," Ron tells her quietly.

He feels her nod; he arms stay wrapped around him. "Thank you," she says. She backs away from him to look him in the eye again. Sunlight wraps around her. "I won't forget you," she promises.

Ron thinks that's enough. He nods. It's almost noon and he can feel something in the air around him change. Pansy backs away completely. Ron stands alone, separated from the three of them. He thinks about telling Pansy something, that he won't forget her, either. That he wants to keep some part of her for himself, but the world shifts. The wand is yanked from his hand by some unseen force. He looks one last time at the three of them; Pansy still doesn't cry, but she meets his eyes and smiles. Ron smiles back.

He feels himself falling. He recognizes this feeling. He'd forgotten it, but it comes back to him, like a dream he's just remembered. This feeling has happened before. He closes his hand around the picture he copied, making sure it doesn't disappear. He doesn't want to forget this. He closes his eyes just as the world goes dark.

Ron wakes up and the world is different. He has changed.