Archive of Our Own

1.

It’s still dark out when Ron leaves the Gryffindor Tower. Everything feels like a dream, he thinks as he turns on the shower and soaks himself in warm water, not fully awake until he is startled by his own reflection in the mirror and the sudden realisation, oh, this is real. The magic scrutinises him, steely and hypercritical, and this feeling of nakedness certainly isn’t because he’s just done showering and hasn’t put on clothes yet.

He sighs. He’ll get used to it eventually, he reassures himself, running his hand through his left fringe, the red strands long and thin between his fingers. Usually this is when he’d get it trimmed, but now it’s the perfect length, he presses his lips together and lets the damp locks fall like curtains.

Hermione doesn’t look pleased with his new hairstyle and his roommates are stifling their laughter all day long. He ignores them. Better than having to explain why in the name of Merlin his left eye turns crystalline overnight.

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Ron blinks. Before his eyes, a void spreads out to infinity. (An empty world. A clean slate.)

There’s a certain perfection in blank canvases, in the monotony, the stillness, unperturbed and unmarred, which makes his hands itch and twitch with the urge to fill up this space. With what, he doesn’t know yet. He only knows he has a lot of ideas he wants to try out—to build, to create.

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Ron feels Moody’s magical eye lingering on him a bit too long during roll-call. He resists the urge to fidget, yet shifts anyway, resting his chin on his left palm. He knows that said eye can see through invisibility cloaks; however he has no clue if the same also applies to a human soul. Better be safe than sorry—he doesn’t look at Moody and turns to his textbook instead. He adds curves, patterned sleek skin and a head with slit-pupiled eyes, fangs and a forked tongue to the O in the chapter title, transforming it into the Jörmungandr.

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Hogwarts isn’t simply a fortress. She is a magical construction, possibly one of the most colossal and intricate to ever exist. Hogwarts, A History or the Marauder’s Map can’t even dream to cover each and every secret she holds.

Hogwarts isn’t simply a magical fortress, Ron corrects. She is akin to an actual living being, ancient and mysterious and powerful and expanding endlessly. He can hear every breath, every heartbeat, every shift, every whisper and giggle echoing through the hallways and classrooms, restless and energetic. Anything and everything—Hogwarts listens, observes, memorises.

Hogwarts must be thousands of years old and has experienced generations after generations of witches and wizards coming and leaving. The fortress has countless stories to tell, if only anyone would care to listen.

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The first gift Ron received from the twins had been a sketchbook, an apology for transfiguring his favourite teddy bear into a gigantic spider and scaring him for life. Something that would hopefully keep his attention away from Fred and George and their “important business”, something to help him organise his thoughts other than playing chess against himself whenever he wasn’t away on another tournament, winning medals and trophies and galleons.

Mum was delighted, such a thoughtful gift, while Dad ruffled his hair with a gentle smile. Ron wasn’t sure what to do except for staring at the sketchbook, feeling the smooth leather under his fingertips and murmuring a thanks so soft almost no one could catch, because the experience had given him a permanent scar and he couldn’t forgive his brothers yet, at least not right then.

The sketchbook stayed in his drawer, then followed him to Hogwarts, lying at the bottom of his trunk and full of drawings, underneath other sketchbooks at the same state of used-up; the latest just purchased from Flourish & Blotts is already being carried around everywhere in his bookbag, ten out of a hundred pages are already drawn on.

Something to help him organise his thoughts, he guesses it works somewhat.

Ron could tell Fred and George didn’t think much of it, nor did they expect him to actually use the gift—actually like the gift. He caught the twins staring at him oddly once, as he was scrawling on his sketchbook instead of playing tag with other children in the village. The aforementioned fiasco isn’t their first prank on him, definitely not the last, and certainly not the cruelest. However they never lay a finger on his sketchbooks or his drawings. From the half-joking suggestion of deadbeat brothers and struggling parents with too many children that they cannot give everyone the same amount of love and care, drawing has become something Ron treasures the most, or somewhat doesn’t hate as much about himself.

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Transfiguration has always been Ron’s best subject. Even when he thinks he only does the minimum to pass the course, he’s still one of the best students in Transfiguration in his year. No, now he’s the best in his year, once he decides to stop faffing around and actually concentrating on the subject, he suddenly realises.

(He suddenly realises he doesn’t understand himself as much as he believes. Maybe it’s because he spends most of his life paying more attention to other people than himself, Gin would say. Maybe she’s right, but he doesn’t think it’s really important. It’s never important to him, this won’t change.)

McGonagall looks satisfied and proud, even, as she considers his pigeon, feathers a mix of grey and shimmering blue; it circles around the class before landing atop of Harry’s bird nest. The Boy-Who-Lived scowls. Hermione seems like she’s torn between satisfaction—seeing that he finally listens to her and takes schoolwork more seriously—and irritation—seeing that as he does so he effortlessly pushes her from her number one spot. The way her face contorts through the mess of contradicting emotions is all the more ridiculous than the feathered statue of a starling in front of her; though she doesn’t comment, as this time she—as well as everyone present—knows he deserves it.

Except for Ron. This isn’t his intention. He’s merely searching for a way to make his glass eye appear more like a human one. It hasn’t changed one bit, still a ghastly sight, so he wouldn’t say he has achieved anything.

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“You know what, Weasley,” Blaise Zabini has given Ron a long, considering stare before speaking up eventually. They’ve been paired up with each other that Potions session and their combined effort might have been a little too muddy, its shade leaning towards indigo rather than navy blue; nevertheless Snape doesn’t say anything and in Snape’s language it means acceptable. “You’re actually not that bad, if you ever decide to step out of Potter’s and Granger’s shadow. Following them around like a lost puppy is crippling you.” Then Zabini gathers his belongings and takes off in a flash, leaving Ron still gaping after him in shock.

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Ron thinks he draws everything. Everything he sees, everything he imagines, everything he considers interesting enough and his artistry capable enough to capture them as genuinely as possible on paper and parchment. The Great Hall during opening and end-of-year ceremonies. The Hogwarts castle under the sunset glow, magnificent and glorious as if coming straight out of a fairytale, whether it’s from the Muggle Cinderella or Beauty and the Beast like what Harry and Hermione know by heart or the magical fables Ron grew up with. Every crypt and dungeon Bill had given them a tour when he was thirteen. The main hall of Gringotts as his parents took him along for the first time. The castles of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang according to the stories and descriptions he overheard. Every massive, complex construction he’s read about or conjured up in his mind.

He also has an ample number of drawings about people. There’s this drawing of Harry, at their first encounter on the Hogwarts Express, small and shy with a faint yet too noticeable scar, crooked glasses and burning eyes like emerald fires. There’s this drawing of Hermione, in her natural habitat, diligently working amidst mountains of books, hair even messier than usual, an ink stain on her cheek. Neville holding a pot of some plants with sparkly colour-changing bell-shaped flowers. Dean and Seamus having a few rounds at the Quidditch pitch some early spring morning. Fred and George poking the tentacles of the giant squid. Ginny at her first time on a broom.

His favourite might be of Harry and Hermione, during a game of chess. It was a stalemate and Harry looked so happy for finally having a draw against Hermione that she couldn’t bring herself to be chagrined. After a series of stressful events, he deserved some satisfaction and solace, albeit small and insignificant. A close second is Ginny, Fred and George floundering in the pond at the end of the village, Percy exasperated as usual, their red locks like fire, like halos under the late afternoon sunlight. No, he believes his favourite is Dad in his workshop, under the old Ford Anglia, covered in soot but his smile brighter than ever. Or there’s this one he’s also rather proud of, Crookshanks lying beside the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, wagging his bushy tail lazily and paying no mind to the smaller cats climbing on him or playing catch with his tail, a simultaneously cosy, comical and endearing spectacle.

It’s always difficult to pick favourites.

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He thinks he might have been overly anxious for no reason. Until now no one has noticed anything strange about him. Even Ron himself isn’t feeling anything different, not really. He’s still Ron Weasley, the same goofy and clumsy redhead. Pointedly ignoring the sign and focusing on his daily schedule instead he believes he can pretend that everything is alright and most of the time he is. (Most of the time.)

He won’t deny, he has expected something more; at the end of the day he guesses he’s satisfied with the current situation nonetheless. At least he knows he’s still in control. He’s still Ron Weasley, utterly hopeless in Potions, instigator of quite a number of small explosions in Charms, helping Neville find Trevor and flying around with Dean and Seamus at the Quidditch pitch on weekends. He’s just more aware, more alert. It isn’t anything harmful either. Right now, with Harry stuck in the chaos called the Triwizard Tournament and Hermione targeted by Rita Skeeter’s tabloids and hate mails, they need this Ron Weasley more.

Ron reminds himself so, as he snaps his fingers and the Potter stinks badges slam straight into Draco Malfoy’s face before the wanker can throw a hex at Harry’s back. That must be painful, Malfoy winces, but is still able to shoot the one who stops him a glower. Ron simply smirks victoriously and bites into his apple.

Having witnessed everything, Hermione glances at Ron then at Harry’s retreating form in anguish. Harry still doesn’t talk to Ron. It’s okay. It’s all for Harry anyway, Ron will act regardless of the circumstances.

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Forget he said he might have been needlessly worried too much. People can never worry enough.

Trelawney gives Ron this unearthly look as soon as he sets foot in Divination. In fact, her eyes seem to bulge out of their sockets and all the blood totally drains from her face as the woman points a shaky finger straight to his face.

“You!” She screeches. “What did you do?”

“Ma’am, I—”

She doesn’t let him justify himself. He isn’t sure he has time to think of a sensible one either, can’t, with the wild eyes she pins on him and her Devil’s Snare-like grip on his shoulders. “Who do you think you are, huh? Who let you? You think this is some joke, that it’s so funny, tearing the universe apart like that? You’ll pay for this, you understand? UNDERSTAND?”

He’s distantly aware of the screaming around them, what’s happening and professor you mustn’t attack a student and let him go. He isn’t sure. His eyes water and his head spins, his world is spinning as Trelawney doesn’t stop shaking him, doesn’t stop screeching like a banshee; her long fingernails and her jewelries dig into his skin and it hurts. Top of it all, he’s scared and full on panicking no less than Trelawney. Trelawney’s magic curls around him, squeezes the life out of him and he can’t breathe—

He feels an electric current deep from his stomach shoot up and spread over his body and counterattack. He doesn’t know how strong it is, but apparently strong enough to repel the insane professor off him and throw back both of them. Ron is cushioned by a heap of pillows, though Trelawney isn’t as fortunate, she drops out cold on the floor. Good riddance.

Ron feels the hands and arms of his classmates helping him up, rubbing on his back. He vaguely hears the shouts of somebody get Professor McGonagall, quick and the queries of are you alright, are you hurt anywhere.

He hides in the infirmary for the rest of the day and the first thing Minerva McGonagall finds on her desk the next morning is Ron Weasley’s letter of permission to withdraw from Divination.

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The First Task is nearing and Hermione is close to literally begging Ron and Harry making up with each other. He merely raises an eyebrow. Of course he misses his best friend, of course he wants things mended and back to the way it used to; only Harry is making it difficult for him. He understands that being put under that much pressure it’d be more surprising to not go mental, however his hands are tied if all it takes for Harry’s feathers to ruffle is Ron’s presence in the same room. He simply wouldn’t listen.

(And that’s exactly the point. Harry’s only fourteen, he’s still a teenager yet acts as though he knows all the answers, as though the fate of this world lies with him and him alone. He’s always so certain like that, so certain that Ron fears the day Harry wouldn’t believe anything else other than his own sacrifice is the sole key to defeat Voldemort and end things once and for all. He’d willingly go to his death like the boy-hero archetype in legends and fables, so youthful, so fearless, thinking of himself as invincible, as all-knowing and capable of changing the world how he sees fit.

It isn’t a possibility. It’s fact. Something that will most definitely happen.

Sure, Ron was furious at first, suspecting Harry’s found a way to put his name into the Goblet without telling him for real. As he’s calmed down the idea is just plain absurd. Harry never seems to love the spotlight that the Wizarding World thrusts on him all that much and this whole situation screams catastrophic. Ron is Harry’s best friend, who would he trust if not his best friend. Still shit kept piling up and Ron didn’t know which the right train of thought was anymore and admittedly he chose the easiest back then.

It’s not fair, really. Ron knows. However Harry isn’t being fair with him or Hermione either. They are friends with Harry Potter, not the Boy-Who-Lived. Apparently Harry hasn’t quite processed that yet, considering whenever a spanner gets thrown in the works he asks neither Ron nor Hermione nor anyone for help. He thinks he can just keep up that heroic front for the audience, he and the mob think Ron is jealous and this stubbornness makes his blood boil. Ron isn’t stupid and despite his half-blindness he still can see it. Whoever behind all of this bollocks clearly wants to harm Harry, he knows it himself, yet he just can’t bloody control his Gryffindor tendencies and starts pointing fingers and this act of me-against-the-whole-bloody-world doesn’t help anyone at all, for crying out loud!)

Crookshanks curls up in Ron’s lap. The half-Kneazle never likes him, especially last year he had been extremely vicious towards the cat as he thought this menace had eaten Scrabbers, although Ron learned afterwards that he had solid reasons and had honest-to-God saved the bunch of them from some sick Death Eater bastard. This change in attitude has raised quite a few eyebrows. Ron merely shrugs and scratches the cat behind his ears. His warmth might not be enough to fill up the gaping hole inside Ron, but he appreciates the effort nonetheless.

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The rumours aren’t wrong. Professor Septima Vector is strict, however she gladly accommodates him so as he can catch up with other students, offering him extra hours of one-on-one tutoring and lots of materials he can stew on.

His dormmates say he has gone mad when he declares he will take Arithmancy instead of Divination. To Ron it’s simply a sensible choice. He doesn’t hate mathematics and Arithmancy seems challenging enough to keep him occupied, though listening to Hermione singing praises for this course has indeed influenced his decision somewhat.

Until now Ron has no trouble with studying graphs and charts and the Pythagoras method and he can see why this class is one of Hermione’s favourites, because he, quite surprisingly, soon enough, becomes interested in the subject as well. There are rules and formulas he can follow and results can be achieved through calculations and figuring out the patterns. This, he can work with.

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Ron and Harry reconcile at the party celebrating Harry surviving the First Task. Hermione hugs them both, sniffles and forbids them from ever giving her another heart attack like that. Guilt gnaws at his guts, she must have been exhausted, playing mediator between them for months. All things considered, they’re glad that it all comes back together. Ron misses Harry and he knows that the other boy feels the same.

(He just doesn’t even fathom how important it is for Harry, not until he—yes, he—is chosen as someone Harry must rescue—what you’ll sorely miss, the voice in the golden egg sings. It’s fortunate that the Second Task takes place under the Black Lake, they are still dripping wet coming ashore, nobody will notice Ron’s stray tears.)

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The world is a network of energy alignments—or ley lines, as per every magical textbook ever.

Ron’s world is made of iridescent, incandescent threads and ribbons, weaving into the most fantastic of fabrics. They hum and whisper to Ron all sorts of stories. They burn, high on a power he has never dared to think of.

Ron’s world is a myriad of such supple and mystical fibres. They surround him, keep him in place, in form, keep him steady and sane, keep him exist against the harsh flow of life, keep him true and faithful to the sole vow he makes to this world. They worm into the void inside him, growing roots and digging deep like some sort of mistletoe. They don’t fill up the space, can’t; if anything, he feels them gouge it out, leaving it even more hollow.

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“How do I look?”

Ron glances up from his drawing. Ginny is absolutely gorgeous in her white gown. She twirls around, the skirt floats like clouds and her long red locks flares like fire. Mum will be overjoyed as soon as she sees her little girl in the dress she’s spent hours contemplating.

He shrugs once, “Looking great, Gin,” before returning to his work, shading the soft, wavy frills of his sister’s ball gown.

He doesn’t need to see Ginny to know that she has her hands on her hips or is shooting him an unbelievable stare.

“It’s almost six, Ron. You should be getting ready.”

Ron knows Ginny is able to catch on the slight moment of hesitation, still he smoothly carries on as if he hasn’t heard her at all, concentrating on his drawing. Harry shouldn’t have found him a date. He hasn’t planned on going to the Ball.

(Although it’ll be a shame not to. The Great Hall will be undoubtedly breathtaking, a sight worth capturing. The walls covered in sparkling frost, with garlands and mistletoes and ivy crossing the enchanted ceiling—a starry, dark sky, black velvet with gold dust sprinkled upon—and the House tables vanished, replaced by about a hundred smaller, lantern-lit ones.)

There’s a sigh and he feels Ginny’s hand on his shoulder. Her hand is cool, or it’s him who always runs hot, always burns with nervous energy, on countdown until self-destruction.

“Ron, c’mon. I met Padma this afternoon, she seemed excited. It wouldn’t be nice if you stood her up.”

He couldn’t care less about that, though he doesn’t say it out loud, Ginny will definitely hex him. Tries not to think too much about the robe he saw in Parvati's magazine the other day, an azure that would go well with his eyes. Tries not to think too much about the second-hand, pure-fashion-crime frilly robes balled up at the bottom of his trunk. Tries to ignore the fact that unlike him, if it weren’t for Neville’s invitation, Ginny wouldn’t be able to participate and Mum still purchased this extremely beautiful but rather expensive ball gown. Tries to swallow his anger and bitterness, because it doesn’t help, doesn’t amount to anything and his sister doesn’t deserve his ire. It’s true that things don’t usually work out well for him, that he has to fight tooth and nail for things others take for granted yet still gets overlooked, so what.

So he says, as the design itches at the back of his mind, he only needs half an hour to make the necessary adjustments, “You don’t have to worry.”

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One morning, as Ron blows a stray lock out of his face during breakfast, Harry asks why he lets his fringe grow so long, as it keeps falling into his eyes. Which makes him snort loudly, since when Harry can criticise him over Ron’s hair while his own is the most unruly bird nest to ever exist. Ron doesn’t mind, and turns out this hairstyle doesn’t look half-bad on him.

Furthermore, his problems aren’t something that can be easily fixed by normal magic. Ron has to accept that after months and months of perusing every single Transfiguration book the Hogwarts library has to offer. An overgrown fringe obscuring his left eye is a great deal less absurd than wearing some pirate eyepatch. Ron admits the idea did occur to him, and in his imagination it’s pretty wicked, but in the end, just no, not happening. They can think Ron Weasley is routinely envious of Harry Potter’s fame all they want, nobody likes having eyes on themselves all the bloody time.

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The meeting with Sirius Black is a pleasant distraction for all three of them, Harry from the Tournament, Hermione from the tabloids and Ron from his own matters. Distracting oneself from a nuisance with another nuisance isn’t the healthiest method, though beggars can’t be choosers.

(Sirius Black has long, thick and curly manes; he’s chalky and malnourished after thirteen torturous years in Azkaban and about a year living like a dog—figuratively and literally—while not desirable, still does wonders. His grey eyes are impossibly bright, just like the first time they met in the Shrieking Shacks, just like the time Ron turned the screams in his broken leg into threats and profanities at the man they believed to be a cold-blooded mass-murderer at the time. This brilliance, this maniacal gleam isn’t something Ron believes he can ever capture on paper the way he wants it to, regardless of how many drawings of Sirius he has gone through. Sirius, named after the brightest star in the sky, he guesses it fits.)

It takes Ron five drafts before he has something acceptable to send out. Percy isn’t his favourite brother; still, he for one doesn’t like having to mince his words for a letter to his own brother. Percy is too ambitious and also too sensitive, Ron has a feeling—no, he knows—that he will go far, they will need him when the time comes, upsetting him is ill-advised.

(Percy’s reply doesn’t arrive until early April, along with Mum’s Easter Eggs. He’s still no-nonsense as ever, Mr. Crouch is recuperating, he’s still receiving orders daily per owl post, no, he doesn’t see him directly but he knows his boss’ handwriting, thank you very much and focus on your finals, little brother.)

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Vector is surprised but pleased nonetheless with Ron’s matrix, a design utilising the Chaldean method, and tells him she will let him do the same exam as the other fourth-years. If he passes with good results, next year he can take classes along side his peers. Even adds, she’s glad he’s chosen Arithmancy, it’s always a pleasure to teach such a gifted student.

Ron can barely contain his snort. He and gifted don’t belong in the same sentence without the negatives. He smiles politely and thanks her for the compliments anyway.

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Hermione seems like she’s close to losing her sanity anytime with Rita Skeeter. Ron very much wants to end her suffering; though he can’t just tell her that he knows Skeeter’s tricks as Hogwarts never hides anything from him. Revealing too much too soon would only complicate the situation.

So he simply tells her not to overexert herself, in a very in-character carefree manner, while scratching Crookshanks behind his ears. Crookshanks is very affectionate with him these days, climbing into his lap all the time, so much that it makes Hermione stare at her cat incredulously—and also a little enviously, as her own pet seems to like Ron more than her. She even asked if he had catnip on him once.

Ron had rolled his eyes. Harry had smiled fondly and said that Hermione had been overthinking again. Hermione had scowled at them and kept on overthinking anyway because that’s what she does and Ron won’t try to change that.

However, he certainly will burn every anonymous mail before Hermione can ever see them. They don’t need another Bubotuber Pus bomb.

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Ron will always gladly take black. Personally he doesn’t think having the first move is an advantage. He likes to observe his opponents first as he quietly sets up his board; he only strikes when the time is right and everything is in place and once he starts attacking, he’s unstoppable. Harry is too impulsive and instinctual while Hermione is too careful and rigid, he reminds them ever so often. Harry merely gives him a toothy grin and if looks could kill, he’d have died times and times again under Hermione’s death glares.

“Bishop to F3,” he orders, lips quirking up as he announces, “Checkmate.”

Ron and Harry have played many, many chess games in the past four years; still whenever Ron checkmates he has to stare dumbly at the board for a while before finally comprehending his loss.

“Merlin,” Harry slumps back on his armchair and groans, disgruntled—only there’s no actual bite to it.

“You’re getting better,” Ron comforts him, completely genuine. His wide grin ruins the sentiment somewhat nonetheless. “You still had two pawns and a rook left. Rooks are more versatile than bishops. And you had a rook pawn. Though, of course, it was nothing compared to my overwhelming material advantage.” And he did dumb down his game a lot—like, a lot—Harry doesn’t need to know about this.

“Shut your trap.” Harry grumbles. “Again.”

“Gladly.”

Harry has never won a single game against Ron. At first Ron thought as he kept losing repeatedly like that he would eventually lose interest in the game altogether; however Harry Potter wouldn’t be Harry Potter without his stubbornness. This isn’t a competition for them, but pure entertainment—some peace and quiet amidst the mayhem of sorts. Ron knows Harry likes spending time with him, no matter if it's playing chess or studying or lazing around doing nothing in particular. This knowledge settles warmly in his chest, much much warmer than the sole not-maroon sweater his mum knitted for him at his seventh Christmas.

“Alright, you go first.”

“You always let me take white,” Harry raises an eyebrow, then does it anyway. “Pawn to E4.”

“Win against me first and we’ll see.” Ron smirks. As much as he’s compelled to do a Knight to C6, he’ll play nice this time. And somehow still make it exciting regardless. “Pawn to D6.”

Every move Ron makes is calculated, with a certain goal and a certain risk level. He understands his chances, accepts them, because he knows full well he can’t go forward without stepping out of his comfort zone. He only hopes this isn’t something he’ll regret later.

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Crouch is within the school grounds, Harry swears up and down. Not even days later Voldemort and Wormtail pay his dreams a visit during Divination and of course he goes straight to Dumbledore. Ron senses that Harry still hasn't told them everything, though he lets it slide as he feels it doesn’t concern any of them.

To sum it up, Voldemort is steadily getting back his powers.

In a way, it totally makes sense, considering the Dark Lord is the one who wants Harry dead the most and he’s cunning enough to send a mole inside Hogwarts to do the inner manipulations for him. The question is who. With too many visitors this year it’s virtually impossible to pin-point anyone in particular. There’s too much ground to cover and too much information to analyse, Ron can hardly devise a decent game-plan.

Ron puts a darker shading on the shadow the Astronomy Tower casts on the grass. The moon is full and bright tonight.

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McGonagall hands them their results. Ron does get a decent score on his Arithmancy exam after all. The others are to be expected, well enough in certain subjects and the rest he doesn’t want to think about them further.

The Head of Gryffindor suddenly asks if he’s already got any ideas about his future career. Arthur Weasley is the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office and Bill Weasley is a Curse-Breaker for Gringotts, Ron might as well be interested, she says.

“Erm, no ma’am, dealing with magical accidents and curse-breaking aren’t exactly my cup of tea,” he admits, scratching his head. “I haven’t really put much thought into it.”

She nods. “I suppose you still have time.” She gives him another long, contemplative one-over. “You have great talents, Mr. Weasley. Don’t let them go to waste.”

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The Third Task takes place in a labyrinth. Ron agrees with Moody, this is Harry’s strong suit. He is the best at Defense Against Dark Arts among their peers and his “adventures” already help him stack up a lot of experience in handling monsters. Harry actually seems confident and at ease and Ron believes he’ll do alright.

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Except for when the situation takes a nasty turn.

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It never occurred to Ron that the first time he would need to act is right now, the moment where the victor of the Tournament is going to be determined and without warning both Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory vanish into thin air. It didn’t occur to anybody, for that matter. He speculates that at the end the whys and hows concerning Harry’s name popping out of the Goblet of Fire would reveal themselves, but right in front of everybody’s nose like this is downright offensive. Outrageous.

Shame and guilt and fury tear at him. Harry has disappeared. Ron has been careless, and thus he has failed. Having this much knowledge and power for what, if he can’t use them right? Can’t do anything right?

He ignores Hermione’s calls and runs down the stands and out of the pitch, across the grounds, past Hagrid’s hut and straight into the forest, half a mile deep in the woods and only after he’s absolutely certain that no one is following, that he is completely safe and alone does he dare to stop, taking a deep breath and rolling up his sleeves.

All hell would break loose if anyone ever witnessed what he’s about to do, this is neither normal nor healthy at all. He knows the theories and the methods; however he has never put them into practise. Into reality.

Wish him luck.

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Voldemort casts Avada Kedavra and Harry shouts Expelliarmus. Perching on the left shoulder of the Archangel Michael’s statue in the middle of the cemetery, cloaking himself in several layers of Disillusionment Charm, Ron scoffs, how could Harry be so thoughtless, because who the fuck uses Disarming Charm against the bloody Killing Curse; before he levels a finger gun at the point in space where their magic are going to meet and charges; and magic booms like thunderclaps.

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People say Hogwarts is the safest place in Wizarding Britain all the time. By now, sorry but Ron has to disagree. Especially with all the shit happened—and is still happening—in the past few years. It’s practically akin to watching a herd of sheep heading to slaughter.

Ron tries not to torment himself too much, that at any rate, he has successfully prevented the worst.

You could have done better, a traitorous voice at the back of his head whispers—mocks, condemns—Why do you have this power if you can’t even use it right? It’s no different from having no power at all, is it?

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There’s a gaping hole inside him. It’s where the magic threads cocoon themselves. They need a host to latch onto, so they can grow, can expand. In a way they fill him up, make him whole, enough to pass as a normal human being. This is symbiosis. He allows them to reside within him, allows himself to be the vessel, the gateway; they allow him to use them, manipulate them, let him consider them a part of him, their powers are his powers.

That said, if bullet wounds can be fixed by band-aids then there shouldn’t be any problem at all.

The subconscious mind always knows what is his and what isn’t. A small reminder, don’t be dependent, don’t get attached, don’t get comfortable. Or maybe it’s his own defense mechanism, advising him against taking what isn’t his, taking too much, restraining something too wild to ever be tamed. 

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The sketchbook drops to the floor with a loud thud. Cedric Diggory is in his Quidditch uniform, bronze hair mussed by the wind, the golden Snitch beaming in his fingers and his smile so radiant, so lively.

Without a word, Ron draws closer, holds out his arms and lets Harry collapse into him. He doesn’t make a sound but there’s a large wet patch on his shirt all the same. The first time ever since returning from the cemetery, Harry allows himself to break down and let go and sob and sob and sob until his tears run out.

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2.

They are not permitted to discuss anything “of importance” in the letters to Harry. It’s an order.

Ron understands, information security is the number-one concern of the Order right now, as Wizarding Britain isn’t solely divided into two factions and one faction doesn’t even acknowledge the bloody obvious existence of the third.

He looks forward to seeing Harry again. He just doesn’t look forward to his friend’s outburst, not at all. This isn’t his fault and he will certainly not bear the brunt of it.

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“Ron!” There’s loud banging on his door, followed by the tap of a wand and his door flies open. Ron turns over, buries his face into his pillow and covers his head with the blanket to protect himself from Fred’s appalling wake-up method. Which isn’t much effective, as the next thing he knows is he’s a heap of limbs and blanket on the floor.

That’s it. Ron rises up from his cocoon and glares daggers at his brother. “Bloody hell, Fred! Have you gone mad?!”

He’s half-expected the maniacal grin oh yeah I know I’m mad except there’s only prolonged, deafening silence. Fred honest-to-Merlin freezes, his cheery expression turns to shock then warps into a freakish combination of anger and horrification. Sleepiness makes Ron realise what’s wrong three seconds too late. His bedhead. 

Ron quickly smoothes out his fringe although it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s already seen.

It takes a while for Fred to regain his composure. He growls, his voice unusually thick, “Who?” Who did that to you?

“No one,” Ron insists, but one glance at his face and he knows Fred doesn’t believe him. “Everything’s fine. I swear.”

Fred grits out, “Ron—”

He has to put it out immediately. He stares at his brother dead in the eye. “Not a single word about this to anyone. I will never ever forgive you if you do.”

Fred looks like Ron’s just punched him. His facial muscles twist, tight and ugly. It’d be so much easier if it were George. While George might not like this any better than Fred, he would respect Ron’s choices and leave him be as long as it isn’t immediate danger. Fred—Fred is too unpredictable.

Eventually, Fred says tersely, “Gather your stuff. We’re going to the Headquarters.”

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Watching magic create the world is like watching a painting blossom into existence.

First the rough sketch in pencil, the strokes light and broad and minimalistic, enough to poke at his curiosity, his interest, make him stop and stare to see what will come out of it. Then the sharp, decisive liners, directing shapes and lines and curves; then the paint pours, flows and fills up the empty spaces, layers upon layers, lights and shadows chasing each other, building height and width and depth. 

And when he feels like it’s time to take a step back, take it all in, he can’t stop admiring how such a masterpiece comes about so naturally, how each and every component compliments and completes one another, how each puzzle piece slots into its place perfectly, how each strand weaves together so neatly and seamlessly; how his mere human heart and soul won’t ever be able to comprehend it all and will break into million pieces before he even attempts to, how his mind wants to burst into millions of colours he doesn’t have names for. How it will swallow him whole and he will let it, sinking deeper and deeper and deeper into this cosmic ocean like he’s supposed to.

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Hermione arrives about a week after his family, barging into his room as he is designing a magic circle, using the Chaldean method but instead of Latin he is experimenting with Ancient Runes. As he has decided to take a third elective next year, he’s been taking summer classes, and this is a good way to practise. As expected, Hermione is overjoyed, enough that she gives him a bone-crushing squeeze the moment she sees him and starts chattering away about the materials.

Halfway through their debate about where to put ōþalan, Crookshanks sneaks into the room and, with a big leap, lands straight into Ron’s lap.

“He misses you, can you believe it?” Hermione snickers, stroking his fur. The cat purrs, then nudges Ron’s arm, obviously asking for some petting from him as well, which makes him roll his eyes and laugh.

“I get it, you menace.”

The teenagers shift their legs a bit so all of them can settle more comfortably before getting back to their discussion, Crookshanks’ bushy tail tickling his neck.

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Harry had a few explosions, true to Ron and Hermione’s prediction. Which makes other people treat him like a ticking bomb, which in turn makes him increasingly frustrated—this has become a ridiculous cycle.

“Harry is the one who actually saw Him in the flesh back in June,” Hermione points out quietly as she and Ron clean up Sirius’ father’s office. “Plus his personality and what he’s experienced in the past few years, it’s not surprising if he believes he knows better than everyone else.” She huffs. “He’s being irrational and arrogant, but who can blame him, really.”

Ron waves his hand and the dust on the bookcase vanishes. “It’ll come back and bite him in the arse someday. Lead him straight into his demise, even. You know I’m right,” he coolly adds when Hermione frowns and scolds don’t jinx it. “Treating Harry like that is counterproductive. Everyone will get hurt in the end.”

She sighs. “Right now it’s political warfare. Harry’s the type to act first, think later; both his enemies and his allies being too calculating is driving him mad.”

“This isn’t his strong point, no.” Ron agrees. “It’s yours though. Planning and mind-games.”

Her lips quirk up. “I suppose.”

“What about me, then?” He runs his fingers along the spines of the books. “What d’you think I’d be best at?”

It’s meant to be a joke. Ron has never thought about it himself either, if he’s being honest. He doesn’t expect Hermione to ponder over it seriously, looking at him as if she’s really seeing him for the first time.

“You know,” she muses. “Whenever I think I know all your tricks, you surprise me again.”

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The Hogwarts letters come. Hermione is chosen to be a Prefect, and for some only-God-knows reason, so is Ron.

(Not Harry.)

Ron wants to give his Prefect badge to Harry. He doesn’t deserve this much responsibility. Harry deserves it much more than him, and everyone knows it. How the bloody hell he’s chosen instead beats him; he just can’t stand the shocked, bemused and disappointed look on Harry. This isn’t fair. It feels as if he is cheating, he is robbing from his best friend. It feels wrong. It feels like the whole world is against Harry, like he is in a soundproof box, screaming until his throat bleeds but no one is listening.

It feels as if Ron himself is also leaving him suffering in that pit.

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A week before the first of September, Mum knocks on his door and, with both Harry and Hermione there, tells Ron that Dumbledore wants to speak to him. Alone.

Harry doesn’t even try to hide it; hurt, resentment and indignation distort his features and the guilt in Ron increases hundredfold. First is the Prefect position, now is the attention of the Headmaster. As if karma wants to make Harry hate Ron more and more.

Albus Dumbledore waits for him in Orion Black’s office, seated behind the desk, hands folding together, his blue eyes twinkling as Ron steps in and closes the door behind him.

There is a chessboard ready on the desk.

Ron barely contains his scowl, only to raise his eyebrows instead.

“Please, have a seat,” Dumbledore smiles amiably. Ron does as he’s told. “You wouldn’t mind a game with me, would you?”

The Headmaster is staring too intently at his good eye, so he stares back. There’s something jabbing at his brain. Ron instantly summons Trevor the toad hopping around the Gryffindor common room.

“You should spend more time with Harry,” he says bluntly.

Dumbledore still has that annoying grandfatherly smile on. “Could you indulge this old man for a little while, Mr. Weasley?”

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Luna Lovegood looks the same as ever, straggly dirty blonde hair to her waist, pale eyebrows and dreamy silver eyes. Still peculiar, with her wand tucked behind her ear and her Butterbeer cork necklace. She is a Ravenclaw, and while Ron understands that there are different types of intelligence, it’s hard to take her seriously. After getting off the carriage, she pats the Thestrals in gratitude. 

(It happens so fast and as much as he wants to he can’t just take out his pencil and sketchbook for a quick sketch right then and there. It’s going to be a busy night.)

“Does it hurt?” she suddenly asks. Ron almost drops his bookbag in shock.

“What?”

“You’ve got quite a large open wound,” she clarifies. “And there are these—threads? Vines?—coming out of it. No, on second thought, I think they’re braiding together to patch your wound. And they glow. Blue. It’s pretty. I can’t really put my wand on it, though.”

Ron doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. All this time, everyone thinks Luna Lovegood is a loon. Turns out she knows way too much more than she should.

“I gotta go,” he says. “Go to your table, Luna. The ceremony is starting soon.”

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Dolores Umbridge is Senior Undersecretary under Fudge and their latest Defense Against Dark Arts teacher. The Ministry of Magic is trying to intervene in Hogwarts’ matters.

She is also nightmare incarnate. It will be of utmost satisfaction to tear her apart.

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“Are you sure you don’t wanna try out?”

He pulls the drafts closer, double-checking his calculations and arrangements before copying the complete solution into his worksheet. Thinks about his half-blindness and his fluctuating constitution due to regularly practising overly complicated magic. Shakes his head. “With this mountain of homework and preparations for O.W.L.s, I don’t think I’ve got much time to spare.”

“Harry’s still on the team,” Angelina Johnson points out, throwing the twins a quick glance at the corner of her eyes. George shrugs while Fred pretends he’s immersed in a chess game between two second-years. “It’s odd. Your brothers said you’ve got both skills and interest.”

“When did I say that,” George mutters. “But seriously, Ronnie.” He leans over to have a better look at what Ron is working on. “You’re doing homework and refusing to try out for a spot in the Quidditch team. Are you being possessed by Hermione?”

“I always do my Transfiguration homework.”

Fred snorts. “Yeah, right, you’re McGonagall’s favourite.” Ron shoots him a dirty look. Teacher’s pet is Hermione’s description, not his.

Then again, he does ace Transfiguration. And it’s definitely a good thing to be on your Head of House’s nice children list. 

“Shut it, you’re not helping at all.” Angelina scowls. The twins raise their hands in surrender. She turns back to Ron, clearly disappointed yet smiles anyway. “I’m not gonna pressure you if you don’t want to; but if you ever change your mind, you’re welcome to try.”

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Ron isn’t that brilliant at Arithmancy, he’s not Hermione. His methods are, frankly, rather unorthodox; sometimes it does the job and sometimes it goes completely astray. Vector encourages creativity, but it doesn’t mean smashing the metaphorical box into smithereens. Magic, as well as this world itself, has its rules, its limits, it’s one of the first lessons they have to learn.

He knows he should be wary. Ron Weasley a year ago still shuddered at the name Voldemort, at the Dark Arts, at forbidden magic. Ron Weasley five years ago saw the world in blacks and whites. Those Ron Weasleys would blanch at the current Ron Weasley in pure horror, half-blind and magic core partially replaced by scorching fibres, that’s not me. No normal human being can live like this.

He figures he has long crossed over that boundary. He figures he has broken most of his personal codes and beliefs to reach this point, to have this power. He has to break himself completely and rebuild a brand new one for this to work. Sooner or later he will have to pay; though honestly, until then, he doesn’t have much to lose. 

As dangerous as it is, magic too can be merciful, as long as it feels understood, respected and appreciated.

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Ron knows dueling isn’t his strong suit, in an one-on-one battle he’s easily the one who bites the dust. In fact, he is pleasantly surprised when he disarms a handful of people, he even beats Hermione twice, mostly thanks to observation and analysis of his opponents’ movements, looking for an opening and if not, making one.

The others, especially the Gryffindors, protest that he doesn’t play fair, as he doesn’t exactly face them directly but resorts to a combination of feints, tricks and misdirection. Harry personally stands up for him, that everything is fair game in a real fight and one should make use of everything in his arsenal.

Really. He’s supposed to be the one who defends Harry, not the other way around.

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Dumbledore is the sole chess player Ron has never beaten in his entire life. The Headmaster’s sacrificial pieces drop left and right, while the key ones are carefully set up until that one decisive moment and he takes over the whole board completely in a blink of an eye, as if the outcome has already been decided right from the first few moves. 

Ron knows. Their styles are disturbingly similar, from the way they prefer gambit openings if they are White and opt for more irregular responses as Black, tend to construct rather unconventional, elaborate tactics combinations, sometimes underpromote a pawn just for a laugh and still win anyway (or at least now it’s Dumbledore who gets the last laugh, who had somehow successfully orchestrated this absurd win once, when he promoted every of his promotion-possible pawns into knights or bishops—who the hell does that?!?). It's utterly frustrating, because Dumbledore does what he does and does it much better than him.

“Looks like it is my win again, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore declares cheerfully.

Ron takes a glance at his king, pinned by black bishop and black knight, then turns his gaze back to the Headmaster and downright glowers.

“I’d like a rematch, sir,” he says, tone clipped. 

Dumbledore’s smile is amused and so bright it hurts to look at him directly. “Certainly.”

For all that Ron’s loss is pretty much predetermined right now, he thinks he’s improving, somewhat. In their first game ever Dumbledore had obliterated him in less than twenty minutes, which hadn't happened since Ron was seven and was beginning to get the hang of how tactics and strategies in chess function. Now, about twenty or so matches later, the games usually last for seventy to ninety minutes; and there are occasions where he believes he has actually put Dumbledore in a tight spot.

Dumbledore begins with Pawn to D4, per usual. Ron responds with Pawn to D5, nothing out of the ordinary. Dumbledore follows with Pawn to C4. Here Ron drums his fingers on the desk, taking his time to contemplate his available courses of action.

The most typical choice is to accept the gambit, though to decline it, while not as common, is an equally solid alternative. The Slav Defense is another valid one—one of the primary defenses to the Queen’s Gambit, even—despite its variations being very tactical. The less popular Chicorin Defense and Baltic Defense are also feasible. However—

Okay, this is a Gambit. He just needs to counter it.

“Pawn to E5,” he commands.

Dumbledore raises an eyebrow at Ron’s decision, which is a strange expression, partially seeing as he has never seen it on the Headmaster before. So Ron surprises him, then.

“Pawn to E5,” he captures Ron’s pawn, as expected.

That’s one sacrifice. Now he’s going to lay out his trap. “Pawn to D4.”

After the seventh move, Ron’s g-pawn is promoted to the third knight and simultaneously checks the king. His position is superior now.

Now painfully aware that he has fallen into a devastating tactic and is in for a swift and brutal defeat, Dumbledore merely hums thoughtfully, blue eyes flicking at his opponent in pure, unadulterated elation. Ron gives him a small but no less gleeful grin in return; with his queen in H4 Ron relocates his knight to C6 to threaten white bishop in B4, then the bishop comes out at G4 terrorising the white queen and the game ends in eleven moves with queenside castling.

Result: Total annihilation. And the shortest game they’ve had to date.

Ron isn’t Harry. Harry relies on his instincts, on his emotions too much, he takes great risks in exchange for the best outcomes; and maybe it works as it makes Dumbledore a little more charitable. Maybe Harry is still his favourite. Point is, Ron can’t play Dumbledore the same way Harry does. He simply can’t.

Nevertheless, he definitely appears unassuming enough to lure others into his minefield instead.

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Somebody on his left is clearing their throat. Ron peers up, still keeping his bored-out-of-his-mind look.

“What are you doing, Mr. Weasley?”

Ron holds back a sarcastic are-you-blind. He is also trying very hard not to wrinkle his nose in disgust at her fashion choice—going full purple today—or her sickening sweet tone—Merlin saves him, it’s going to ruin his hearing one day. He can play nice. To an extent. After Harry’s debacle on their first Defense class of the year, he knows better than poking a sleeping dragon squarely at its eyeballs.

But both Harry and Hermione have had their rounds, haven’t they? And the boredom is killing him.

So he chirps as he continues with his sketch, “I’m drawing, ma’am.”

“So that means you have completed today’s assignment?”

He starts outlining his construction in broad strokes. “I haven’t.”

He is aware that he has effectively gathered the attention of every single participant in the room, he is aware how suicidal his declaration sounds, specifically to Harry and Hermione who know precisely what happens in Umbridge’s detentions, looking absolutely horrified.

Umbridge is still smiling. “Arrogant boy. What makes you think that you are capable enough and need not listen to your teachers anymore?”

“All you’ve told us to do is to read our textbook, ma’am.” A bloody dull and dated one at that. “As my classmate has once expressed her concerns, I’m neither certain about the course aims, nor its efficiency. So I’ve thought, instead of fruitless endeavours, I might as well spend my precious time on something more productive.”

Ron thinks he’s got it. Her resolve on keeping a gracious façade is very impressive nonetheless, he must admit. He has been so sure she would have bitten his head off right then. “Are you questioning my education method?”

Everyone must have noticed the similarities between this conversation and the one that went awry back in the first day. From the corner of his eyes he sees Hermione shake her head, no, stop, don’t go there. He snorts inwardly. Who does she think he is, Harry?

“You’re not exactly teaching us anything worthwhile. It’s absurd, how you deny us proper preparations and force on us more and more difficult exams, expecting us to perform them perfectly from the get-go. And then you call us disobedient and incompetent.”

Umbridge looks like she’s about to deduct point from Gryffindor and give him a detention already; however Ron isn’t done yet.

“I’m merely stating facts, ma’am, not criticising your ‘education method’.” Not really, Umbridge is no educator; and they’ve given up on an actual, decent Defense teacher. (Well, Lupin had been more than adequate and they did learn lots under fake-Moody.) There is no need for him to wage a full-on war with Umbridge though, the curse on said position is more than enough to get rid of her by the year’s end. “Furthermore,” Ron pauses, glancing over Harry for a beat, “as long as I keep quiet, don’t disturb anyone and pass my O.W.L.s, it doesn’t matter what I do during class, wouldn’t you agree?”

Putting his finishing touches, then leaning back a little, contemplating the final product for a second or two, he tears the page out and hands it to her while literally beaming.

“My proposal for the Atrium. It’s fine the way it is now, but a few additional emergency measures wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

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Fred keeps his words, although more often than not Ron would still catch his brother giving him those long gazes, full of curiosity and worry. Between the twins, George is the more thoughtful and gentle one, so having Fred actively watch out for him is basically a privilege. Most of the time he acts as if he’s totally oblivious, laughing and goofing around in true Ron-Weasley fashion.

He’s fine. Everything is still under control. He’s not aware how or when it has become his personal incantation, the first thing he tells himself every morning and the last lines he chants every night, until he finally drifts off to fitful sleep.

One can also say that it’s self-hypnosis, after every time he writhes beside a toilet bowl and empties his stomach.

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A third of Ron’s latest sketchbook is dedicated to the Room of Requirement. He knows, sounds like the beginning of an unhealthy obsession, he simply can’t stop. It’s one of the most enthralling mysteries Hogwarts has to offer, nobody really understands how it operates, how it knows what its inhabitants want, wish or need and delivers. It looks and feels different every time. Ron isn’t sure if others can feel what he feels, that there are more energy transmutations, instabilities and irregularities here than any other place within the castle, and therefore it’s most vibrant and dynamic. He is perpetually surprised and fascinated and he is constantly drawing while the DA is waiting for all of its members to turn up or taking breaks between duels.

Until now he has only one conclusion, that if he figures out its mechanism, he’ll be one step closer to understanding the true nature of Hogwarts. 

Hogwarts giggles when he asks, telling him she doesn’t like the shade of green he’s using that much but full-on squealing at his engraving designs and actually using them on the door at their next DA meeting.

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Nightmares are a very Harry Potter thing. It’s part of the implicit agreement of Things-Are-Not-To-Ever-Be-Mentioned among the fifth-year Gryffindor boys, including the matters of Neville’s parents, the financial state of the Weasleys, the faint scars on Dean’s back and the way Seamus’ cruelty can get to the same jackass level of Draco Malfoy’s sometimes. They can just ignore these all together, it’s not like they come up that regularly in daily conversations. Harry’s is a bit different. They’re used to being woken up in the middle of the night countless times by the sleep-talking, occasionally the sobbing and the worst-of-the-worst heart-wrenching screams. Ron doesn’t remember the last time Harry got a genuinely peaceful sleep without the effects of Dreamless Sleep potions.

Harry’s nightmares are varied. Sometimes they are memories, vague recollections of the Avada Kedavra sickly green light and the motionless, soulless body of Lily Potter. Sometimes it’s the present, a glimpse of what the Dark Lord is scheming, who he is extorting from, who he is torturing or murdering. Sometimes it’s the future, and a bleak one. Sometimes it’s actual, precious information about the enemy. Sometimes it’s simply his own imagination, the manifestations of his own fears and traumas. After all, Harry is still a teenager, who broods too much and has a tendency to take it all on by himself. It makes sense though, because the moment he survived the Killing Curse fourteen years ago he already had the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

Harry’s most recent nightmare had been about Arthur Weasley being brutally attacked by the Dark Lord’s pet snake. It had been exceptionally violent and horrifying, so much that when Ron was finally able to wake him up, he had vomited, his complexion pasty and his sleepshirt thoroughly sweat-soaked.

Ron isn’t supposed to know about this. Harry tries his best to keep his nightmares, his apprehension and his suffering all to himself for a reason. He doesn’t want others to worry. He thinks of himself as a freak, a monster that will ultimately lose control and start hurting people around him. Knowing those thoughts exist in his mind is more than enough for Ron to scoff at the absurdity.

Ron isn’t supposed to know about the strange defective state of Harry’s soul. Of something dark latching onto him, a parasite sucking the magic, the life force from him, poisonous and pure evil. Ron hadn’t realised its presence for over three years, and he is Harry’s closest friend; people wouldn’t notice this abnormality. Ron doesn’t know how to deal with it either, doesn’t have a means to banish it without causing harm to the host—to Harry. Which leaves him utterly useless and powerless, when he knows he has the power yet doesn’t know to wield it as he wishes.

The most basic thing Ron can do for Harry now is pulling him out of the dark swamp that is his own mind, letting Harry cling on to him and cry his heart out until he is too exhausted to stay awake; Ron staying beside him, as long and as many times as he needs. 

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“It is possible that I would have to leave soon.”

Dumbledore’s sudden confession startles Ron, though not because of what he’s said, but the fact that he’s actually said it. There must be a first for everything. 

Hoping that he doesn’t look too taken aback, Ron orders, Queen to D1. “And you seriously let them back you into a corner?” This isn’t like him at all, but Ron leaves it out. The implication is obvious.

“Yielding is sometimes the best way of succeeding.” Dumbledore smiles. “I believe we have a stalemate this time around, Mr. Weasley.”

Ron stares at the chessboard. White’s bishop, knight and f-pawn are pinned; Dumbledore is unable to move. Normally he’d be very satisfied with this result, however there are more pressing matters right now—and a lot of them, really. He and his impulsive comrades certainly have their hands in this, so in the end it’s only fair. Doesn’t mean he feels any better about this situation.

“Rest assured,” he says. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

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Ron’s Patronus is a German Shepherd. The hound makes a few laps around the room before circling back to him, sitting down obediently. He’s quite amazed that it only took him three tries to summon a corporeal Patronus. The memory he concentrated on must have greater emotional weight than he’d originally thought. Harry merely grins at him, I knew it.

He’s not the only one. Hermione’s Patronus, an otter, is swimming around her. Luna’s hare leaps onto Parvati Patil’s head. He doesn’t have a good look Seamus’, it’s something huge and furry.

Ron watches the space glow and hears Hogwarts happily hum along. He closes his eyes. The faint tingling on his right hand must be his Patronus nudging at him. Rarely does he feel so at peace like this.

Naturally, that is before everything crashes and burns.

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Umbridge and the Ministry are confident that they’re winning. Dumbledore lets them believe they are as he makes his dramatic—very Dumbledore-like—escape. Hogwarts personnel and students can handle the rest.

They see Umbridge after her first day as Headmistress covered in ash and soot and hold their laughter. Hogwarts couldn’t care less, her glee bouncing all over the hallways, this is only the beginning.

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Ron loves drawing, loves designing and working with structures, so during his career advice session the answer comes as easily as breathing. Problem is, there aren't many apprenticeship opportunities after Hogwarts graduation, and the Weasley finance is nowhere near enough to cover his expenses if he wants to attend a Muggle university. 

“I must admit, I’m quite surprised.” McGonagall fixes her glasses. “I’ve assumed that you would think of being an Auror, like Mr. Potter.”

Ron blinks. 

Like Mr. Potter, of course.

He supposes at some point, he did have the same dream, battling against evils like heroes in fairytales. He supposes, under certain circumstances, McGonagall has assumed correctly, that he would follow Harry everywhere, simply to fight alongside him, to protect him.

This hasn’t changed. It’s what he reminds himself everyday, that it’s the reason why he does what he does, so he won’t go insane. Ron thinks of his lanky frame, of complete darkness whenever he uses his left eye, of a tremendous amount of magic slowly consuming him day by day, and shakes his head. 

“I’m not suited for chasing criminals and dark wizards daily, Professor.” He turns to the hands on his thighs. Luna has told him once that he has the hands of a pianist, while holding said hands tenderly. An architect is also an artist, in one way or another. “I want to create something beautiful. Something that will bring joy to others.”

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“You’re playing against yourself again.”

Ron doesn’t look up, doesn’t protest when Fred sits down across from him. White knight captures black rook and checks. Black king moves one square to the left. 

“What d’you need?” 

He can tell Fred is grinning. “That should be my question, all things considered. I’m actually shocked that you lot haven’t already cooked up anything for the pink toad.” He gives the chessboard a scan and clicks his tongue. “Or you’ve got something but haven’t told Harry or Hermione.”

Ron tilts his head slightly. “Now is not the right time.” If they tried to pull anything right now, they would get caught instantly. They could be expelled. So for the first time ever Ron listens to Hermione and stays put for a while. Plus their de facto leader is still sullen about Dumbledore’s departure. 

He feels Fred’s stare burning the top of his head. “You’re taking this all too well,” he notes. “You kept going somewhere three evenings a week until recently—that was Dumbledore asking for you, wasn’t it?”

Fred really does know more that he lets on. Or it’s Ron’s one moment of carelessness putting him under his watch. Once the twins have a certain target, know what they’re aiming for, nothing gets past them. Ron doesn’t mind it too much. Until now Fred still keeps his promise and frankly, he’s quite relieved, as he doesn’t need to hide as much.

Ron stretches his limbs. Knight to G3. “We play chess.”

Fred doesn’t look like he believes it. Ron expects as much. He’s not lying, Fred can think of it however he wants.

In the end, he just asks, genuinely curious, “How’s Dumbledore as a chess player, then?”

His face falls. “I did manage a win and a draw.”

“Out of how many games?”

“... One hundred and fifty-eight.”

Fred breaks out into uncontrollable laughter, convulsed with helpless mirth.

“Finally someone gets the better of you.” Ron grimaces, but doesn’t comment, because he’s right. “Well, I’m not surprised. It’s Dumbledore we’re talking about.”

“The Headmaster is an interesting opponent,” he admits. Bishop captures pawn at F6. “I had fun.”

“Good for you.”

Ron sighs and finally gazes up at his brother.

“What do you want, exactly?” he rephrases the first question of their conversation, tapping his finger absent-mindedly.

Fred hums. “Me and George are planning on leaving soon.”

Ron quirks an eyebrow.

Honestly speaking, the twins are still Ron’s closest siblings. Although they torment each other mercilessly, he knows he’s still their favourite brother. Probably due to the fact that they’ve spent too much time together since they were little. His stature and features might resemble Bill and Percy’s more, the three of them taking after their father; however in terms of personality, he’s always got a wild streak, like Charlie and the twins. Ron understands Fred and George and they get him in kind. So in a sense he’s glad it is Fred who learns of (a miniscule fraction of) his secrets.

He supposes he should do his part.

“I’m not telling Mum, so don’t blame me if she hunts you down and strangles you later.”

“We know what we’re getting into.” Fred watches as a white pawn and a black pawn are captured consecutively. “We’re doing you lot one last favour before we go.”

Ron rolls his eyes. If you have to leave, leave in style, apparently.

Black pawn reaches H1 and is promoted to black queen.

He leans back. “Thou mayest speaketh.”

Fred’s grin stretches so wide, Ron thinks his face could be split in half.

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.

The reason why Hagrid looks like he’s been to hell and back after Dumbledore’s “secret mission” isn’t the mission itself, but his darling half-brother.

Whom Hagrid is asking them to teach English to.

Ron can think of a thousand ways this can go wrong. Grawp isn’t half-giant, he's full-blooded. Norberta the Norwegian Ridgeback Dragon and Aragog the Acromantula flash into his mind and he can’t help but shudder. Another madness jumps into their already maddening life. They’ve made the promise regardless—Hagrid making them make the promise is more accurate, but yeah, they’ve promised.

(Grawp standing upright is a towering sixteen feet, though Hagrid says he’s still considered “tiny” for a giant, bloody hell. His muddy greenish-brown eyes peers at them, seemingly shy yet curious, and Ron concludes, as he’s lining the wrinkles of his ragged shirt, that Grawp does seem like an overgrown child, somewhat lonely, brooding and pitiful when he’s rolling the boulders around his feet. Ron shows him his portrait and he squints, then tilts his head, grumbling something incomprehensible. Ron assumes that means Grawp doesn’t want to crush him between his fingers.)

At least Hagrid can try not to get dismissed until they’re done with the O.W.L.s.

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.

Of fucking course Hagrid has to be dismissed during their O.W.L.s. It’s an underhanded move from Umbridge though. Ron figures she doesn’t want another commotion like Trelawney, but apparently she’s forgotten that the fifth-years are taking their Astronomy exam this very night and naturally they witness everything. Ambushing Hagrid in the dead of night is just plain despicable.

Hagrid’s giant blood helps him fend off the hexes and successfully escape. However McGonagall has four Stunners to her chest, she looks luminous and glows an eerie red momentarily, before landing hard on her back, out cold. 

Hagrid disappears into the night. There’s a minute where the world seems to freeze in place, everyone gets all the air knocked out of their lungs and is gaping at the ground. Then Tofty weakly announces, “Erm, fifteen minutes to go,” except Ron couldn’t care less. He hands in his exam and dashes out. Hogwarts is trembling in righteous fury and so does he. 

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.

Warrington is twice as big and three times stronger than Ron and it’s no brainer that as long as he doesn’t use magic he will never be able to break free from the choke hold. He doesn’t stop thrashing and flailing around anyway, even if he’s wasting his strength unnecessarily he should still put up an act while searching for an opening.

Hermione did it for them. She and Harry are taking Umbridge to Grawp. It’s time to move. And quick.

They’re outnumbered and also physically overpowered, their wands taken away from them. 

Well, Slytherins aren’t the only ones with a couple dirty tricks up their sleeves.

Ron smirks when he’s abruptly released and others around them either gasp or shriek in shock and horror as Warrington doubles over and bawls, gruesome boils and hives breaking out all over his body. He makes sure that it torturously itches and stings, his victim will feel like he’s burning alive, from inside out.

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The energy currents are everywhere in the Department of Mysteries, looking like glowing cobwebs and even without direct contact Ron still feels them reacting to his own hybrid magical core. It’s normal for different pure magical energy forces to clash, though the pressure and the repercussions from the simultaneous resonance and dissonance, as well as attraction and repulsion, are driving him insane.

He swallows hard to push down the nausea and blinks rapidly, refreshing his perception. No time to panic, they are having a horde of Death Eaters hunting them down. Their group is separated during the chaos to boot. No idea where Harry, Hermione and Neville have gone.

“We need to move,” Luna says. “Find the others.”

“Yeah.” Ron turns his back to Ginny and crouches down. She had barely ducked out of a curse, which resulted in a nasty fall that sprained her ankle. “Up.”

“You’re shaking,” Ginny says, but climbs onto his back nonetheless.

“I’m fine,” he grits out. He isn’t worried about his group that much, none of them is the enemies’ main target. 

Harry, though.

“You’ve been acting like a cornered animal from the moment we entered the Room of Doors,” Ginny remarks. “Harry and Luna can hear voices coming from the archway I can understand, but so can you. Didn’t think I’d notice? I’ve found it strange ever since you were attacked by Trelawney. Seriously, what’s wrong with you?”

“Are you seriously interrogating me now?” he grumbles.

He knows something has just exploded from afar—ten thirty, sixty-three feet—by another somersault of his insides and he winces. 

Ron narrows his eyes. In front of them are two Death Eaters, he hopes with all the smokes and dusts and fallen shelves they haven’t spotted the three of them yet. Luna looks solemn and he feels Ginny stiffen on his back, the girls must have seen them too.

“Stay calm,” he says quietly. “Luna, you lead the way. I’ll handle the distraction.”

“What’re you doing?” Ginny hisses. 

“We’re not fighting back. I’m just getting them away from us.”

He’s at a disadvantage, considering he isn’t familiar with the location and his magic is glitching, no thanks to the goddamned enchantments in the Department. Even so, within a small area in a short time, it’s feasible, at least to buy them enough time to flee. 

Ron turns on the faucet. Gradually, magic drips drips drips then flows out in a steady stream. From the ruins in front of them, he draws a tall shelf, filled with glass orbs.

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He can feel the magic murmuring, chanting, screeching; millions and millions of voices, reverberating across his mind, bouncing off his skull, boiling his blood and spreading all over his body, his muscles numb and his bones brittle. He knows he’s bleeding and he’s crumpling. Magic overflows, the vines overgrow, the tentacles overstretch. Among the ringing of energy crashing and ripping one another apart he faintly hears Neville’s calls, Ginny’s wails, Hermione and Luna’s yells of incantations and Harry’s painful screams for Sirius then curses at Bellatrix Lestrange, the Death Eaters’ howls and he cries, he has to warn his friends, stop, don’t come closer, don’t come closer because he can’t hold them back any longer—

Ron lets go. The world around him throbs and sways and crumbles and he throws up mouthfuls of blood and his mind and his body is taken over entirely.

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They keep expanding. The more he uses them, the harder he tries to control them, the more they expand. He ignores them, they prod and groan and lament and he has to do something or he will go mad.

He sees, hears and feels everything and nothing at all. He thinks he has fully dispersed in the ocean. He swims, swims and swims in a sea of colours and shapes and sounds. He himself is also a sea of colours and shapes and sounds. Everything is too much and not enough and he is an open wound, naked and harrowing. No bandage, no pain-reliever, no remedy. All he can do is bleed.

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It’s accidental magic, activated under extreme stress and the will to protect as well as to eliminate all threats—that’s the explanation Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey have given to others for his explosion. It’s half-correct, and he can’t think of a better cover story himself. 

The adults scold him for his recklessness and he knows he’s grounded as soon as he’s discharged. Nevertheless, his magic knocked out most of the Death Eaters within range and the Aurors took them all into custody without having to cast any spell, so he is easily forgiven.

As it turns out Ron has the most severe injuries, unconscious for three days and unwillingly bedridden for another eight. Dumbledore’s order. Ron doesn’t protest. He owes the Headmaster this time.

Harry and Hermione visit him everyday and seemingly glue to his left eye—aftereffect of magical exhaustion, can’t be fixed, Pomfrey has offered very convincingly, which makes them wallow in guilt even more. 

These two idiots. The guilt and the shame should be on him. He has the powers, and he has sworn, yet he still couldn’t do it properly. Again.

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Ron holds out his arm, admiring the drawing from a distance. Under the moonlight, Crookshanks looks like a small ball of fire, whereas the black fur coat of Sirius’ dog form has a soft silver sheen. It’s surreal. As surreal as the moment Bellatrix Lestrange’s curse hit him, freezing him in the middle of his laughter; as surreal as the way he falls through the Veil, his body fading into nothingness like smoke, his cackles still echoing all over the Death Chamber.

It’s surreal, watching something—someone—simply cease to exist like that.

(What will happen to Ron when the magic finally consumes him?)

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For once, Albus Dumbledore isn’t smiling. He stares at Ron long and hard and he feels his mind being probed, again. By reflex he raises his walls high, staring back defiantly.

Something akin to terror flashes across the Headmaster’s face for a second, before his expression melts into sorrow and sympathy.

“You have played a rather risky move, Mr. Weasley.”

Ron chooses silence.

The ever-present twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes usually makes them appear almost silver; only they aren’t quite twinkling right now, so they are bluer, like forget-me-not flowers and midsummer sky. Cliché descriptions, he knows, he simply feels “sky blue” is still the best name for the shade of Dumbledore’s eyes. It might be his wisdom, his eccentricities, his aura of elegance and serenity. Dumbledore truly seems like a whimsical, nigh-omniscient celestial being.

“Are you that adamant about saving Harry Potter?”

“He’s already suffered enough.”

Ron doesn’t get why Dumbledore makes it sound like a question, like skepticism and uncertainty; yet he smiles nonetheless, content. The void in him is growing larger; the threads, the tendrils are tearing him apart, eating him away. He’s deteriorating. It’s excruciating, but it will be worth it in the end, because it’s Harry.

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3.

Four days into the summer holiday, Dumbledore abruptly turns up at the Burrow, his right hand isn’t dead-looking yet, not for about another week. Halfway through their second game, he asks Ron if he is able to locate soul fragments.

Souls are complex. They are pure energy, not too different from magic—particularly similar in how they make the impossible possible; and they both work in mysterious ways—but definitely distinctive. Essentially he can’t sense souls; on the other hand, he is extremely sensitive to magic disruptions, so if the soul is affecting the magic in any way, he can always trace it back, he is connected to the universal magic network after all.

The Headmaster doesn’t say specifically whose soul fragments he is searching for, but Ron can tell. He’s distracted, so Ron is able to get two draws and even force him to resign after only thirty-three moves with an older-than-the-hills Noah’s Ark trap. Half curious about his own capabilities as well, he concedes and does some scanning, using the feeling he gets from the Dark Lord himself at the cemetery a year ago as reference, and to his astonishment, is actually able to catch on something.

“Be careful out there, Professor,” he scrawls out the coordinates on a piece of parchment he rips out from an area-of-effect magic circle draft he’s tossed aside. “But I suppose you know it already.”

Dumbledore pockets it. “I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Weasley.”

Ron bobs his head once. “It’s my pleasure,” he replies evenly. The mistletoe coils and he shudders slightly to get rid of the ashen, bitter aftertaste of Voldemort’s magical signature. Which reminds him—“There’s also another thing you need to know. It’s about Harry.”

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The O.W.L. results arrive in the middle of July. When he had just finished his exams he thought he didn’t do too terribly and didn’t expect anything outstanding either; so he is literally gaping at his report. He’s already known he would fail History of Magic and he had only filled half of his Astronomy chart when he handed it in; however he’s flabbergasted that he has Es for Arithmancy, Ancient Runes and Potions, and he honest-to-God gets full score for Transfiguration. 

Mum is understandably proud and ecstatic, ruffling his hair, telling him that seven in total is already more than Fred and George combined. Ron sips on his tea. The twins might haven’t done well in school, though everyone knows both of them are geniuses.

Harry, as expected, receives an O for Defense Against Dark Arts, which makes Hermione slightly miffed, seeing that it’s the only E among her Os.

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Just when they’re about to leave the shop, Fred holds him back and presses something into his palm. Ron glances down. It’s a simple white cotton eyepatch. He raises his brow.

“Put it on and get a haircut, please,” Fred says, exasperated. He never gets exasperated nor says please, not even in a mocking manner. As Ron is still blinking owlishly at him, Fred pats him on his back, quite heavily. “Worrying is Hermione’s thing, brooding is Harry’s. You’re supposed to be the fun and goofy one.”

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Ron is the sixth son of a very normal pureblood family; everything about him in the past sixteen years has been exceedingly ordinary. Then the battle at the Department of Mysteries occurred. The Ministry officials are being dismissive, as this sure is an ugly stain; but people talk, rumour has it that there was a sixteen-year-old boy creating a magical explosion which conveniently wiped out everyone in the vicinity.

Not to mention that their schoolmates start to dub Harry, Hermione and Ron The Golden Trio, considering how often they get themselves involved in conspiracies and near-death experiences. Someone such as Horace Slughorn would naturally be interested.

In an alternate universe, Ron would be air to Slughorn. This universe isn’t the case.

Glancing at the parchment with purple ribbon in his hand, Ron doesn’t know what to think of it just yet.

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Ron’s first ever drawing of Draco Malfoy is his lonely silhouette during Potions, half obscured by the silver steam from his boiling cauldron, his usual arrogant sneer gone and replaced by a more subdued and solemn visage, looking disturbingly pale and haggard. Ron doesn’t want to be seen unusually concerned about his archenemy’s well-being; Malfoy simply feels like an actual ghost among the sea of students, forlorn and anxious but there’s still something stirring in his grey eyes, oddly determined and dauntless.

Ron thinks of Lucius Malfoy, just another Death Eater confined in Azkaban; of the kind of parent who forces their child to grow up too fast in a too short time and the kind of parent who refuses to let their child grow up and be independent; and he isn’t sure whichever is worse.

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Harry suddenly becomes exceptional in Potions and Hermione doesn’t like it. If her gaze can actually set things on fire then Harry’s old textbook is already a heap of ashes.

Ron gets her frustration. Harry follows the handwritten instructions and turns in perfect brews every time, while Hermione slaves over her textbook and extra materials to no avail. Ron is admittedly envious, his copy of Advanced Potions Making has nothing written on and there is a huge vomit stain on page fifty-two. 

The state of a book can say so much about its owner, Ron muses as he skims over Harry’s copy. He’s also the type to doodle on his books, much to Percy’s or Hermione’s displeasure. This, though, is hardly a textbook; there’s so much more in here, from handy hints and useful shortcuts for making potions to scribbles which seem like incantations for jinxes and hexes, invented by the previous owner himself, judging from the cross-outs and revisions. They must have been well-versed in the Dark Arts, in addition to being a very proficient potioneer.

He flips to the back cover of the book. This is the property of the Half-Blood Prince.

True, there is no Prince of Magic. That said, as there are people with surnames like “King” and “Queen”, it’s plausible that “Prince” here isn’t a title, but a name. 

The Princes had been blue bloods, once upon a time—nowhere near the Longbottoms, the Blacks, the Macmillans or the Malfoys, but an old aristocratic line nonetheless. They fell out of grace around the beginning of the nineteenth century, and by the 1950s, as the two Prince women got married and more or less disappeared, the name went extinct. Their children must have been witches or wizards as well, having attended Hogwarts at some point in the past.

There isn’t much to go on, really. 

Does it matter though, finding out which Prince this book once belonged to? Hermione has performed enough detection spells to prove that they aren’t dealing with another Riddle’s diary. It should be fine, Ron brushes off when he returns it to Harry, only after he promises to share this resource with him sometimes.

(It should be fine. Ha. Famous last words.)

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Dumbledore finally begins the private series of lessons concerning Voldemort with Harry, as he should have done a long time ago—too much precious time wasted, really. In any case Harry is learning about his greatest nemesis now.

Ron has to ask, “Are you going to tell him?”

“It would not benefit him at the moment.”

He’s not wrong. 

Ron drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Wouldn’t you suggest that I, as the discoverer of said fact, should have the honour of delivering the bad news?”

He says it as a joke. Nevertheless, the way Dumbledore remains silent speaks volumes.

One of Ron’s black pawns is stabbing the sole white knight. 

“I get that I still owe you a favour, but I haven’t really expected this,” he sneers. “Is it that difficult for you to talk to people? Or is it just Harry?”

Dumbledore’s smile is wistful. “I must admit, I care for his happiness much more than his knowing the truth.” The Headmaster moves his remaining bishop. “Complete honesty is always difficult when involving your loved ones, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ron tries not to glare, both at the board and at Dumbledore for the implication.

He thought that he was winning this game, being two pawns ahead. Sure, he can win the white bishop for two pawns, but after six additional turns, no progress can be made with the bishops on opposite colours. Alternatively, capturing said bishop is possible with three moves, only then is the position drawn because the black rook pawn is on the wrong file for the bishop to help promote it.

Urgh.

Might as well end this quickly.

“It’s a stalemate, sir,” he acquiesces after his king squashes down the bishop in F4. There are too many draws lately.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles. “Indeed it is.”

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The Slug Club is a collective of people with talents, people with connections and people having both. Ron is none, so he doesn’t know what he’s doing here, nor does he like being here. He has better things to do in his free time. He only attends because Hermione and Ginny drag him along.

Despite his being a perfectly average student both performance-wise and interaction-wise, Slughorn, for some reason, is thoroughly convinced that he hasn’t got all his cards laid out. Ron is understandably irked, though not as much about Slughorn’s intrusiveness as his intuition being correct.

Ron concedes that he has made a terrible blunder by overreacting when Slughorn grilled him about his left eye.

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It’s hard to distinguish which part is real and which part is fiction in Luna’s stories. She is able to see more than most, as his magical vines are visible to her eyes. On the other hand, many things coming out of her mouth sound like pure gibberish. Ron finds he doesn’t really mind. It’s rare to meet someone whose imagination is as active and outlandish as his—except hers are mostly magical beasts, whereas he is predominantly occupied with impossible constructions. 

Perhaps being with a certified maniac makes him feel less like a madman.

Ron lets her do most of the talking, listening to her descriptions of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, Umgubular Slashkilters and Heliopaths and giving his best efforts. Realistic projections are only temporary, so there are always hand-drawings as souvenirs. They are interesting challenges for his artistic skills, and her beaming face is certainly worth it.

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Ron doubles over in a violent coughing fit. The threads he’s been weaving untangle, the soft blue glimmer dims, flickers before dying out altogether.

He must have made a serious miscalculation somewhere. There’s no way of predicting precisely the repercussions coming from mistakes in programming.

Ron vanishes the blood on his hands and his mattress with a tired wave, gives another flick of the wrist for the materials lying around to arrange themselves into the drawers of his bedside table. Something springs on his bed and he feels Crookshanks creeping up beside him, nuzzling his hair. Ron gives him a few pats on the head and the cat purrs, snuggling up to him. 

Eyes closed, he decides to turn in for the night without dinner—he doesn’t think his stomach can handle any food at this state.

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.

“You look awful.”

“I’m aware,” Ron says airily, unblinking. Hermione makes a face at him.

Harry then was in an outright panic, desperately trying to save his life and definitely had no idea that Ron’s magic had immediately retaliated the second it detected the poison in his system. Anyhow, poison, bezoar and his magic isn’t a pleasant combination; he can still sense the residue of the foreign substances wreaking havoc all over his body. Thank Merlin Madame Pomfrey understands and just gives him a potion aiding the disposal process.

Hermione’s meticulous Transfiguration, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes notes are scattering all over Ron’s infirmary bed, his trusty sketchbook on his thighs as he works on his Transfiguration assignment, an illustration depicting the mechanics of Animagus transformation—as a matter of fact, McGonagall gives him bonus points on his essays for these drawings. 

“How’s Harry doing?” Ron asks with the purpose of distracting both of them from his bedridden state. “The match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff is on Saturday, innit?”

“Yeah. Harry’s not too keen on it though. He’s practically gluing himself to the Marauder’s Map, watching Malfoy’s movements the whole time.” Ron pinches his nose. Hermione’s lips quirk up slightly, before sighing as well, equally exasperated and exhausted. “I don’t know what to say anymore.”

He doesn’t listen to me anymore, she doesn’t verbalise it, still Ron hears it loud and clear.

Hermione does look worn out, now with Ron in the infirmary and she has to take care of the Boy-Who-Lived and his nonsense all by herself. His being poisoned certainly doesn’t help, only fuels Harry’s determination in proving his Draco-Malfoy-is-a-Death-Eater theory.

Therefore, “I’m sorry,” Ron says, adding whiskers to the tabby cat he uses as an example (in fact, it’s McGonagall herself). “For leaving you handle everything alone.”

Hermione shakes her head. “You’re ill,” she points out. “We’ve been relying on you too much for far too long.” Ron catches her peeking at the burn scars along his arms and he involuntarily pulls his sleeves down, to which she almost winces and turns her gaze to his cat-McGonagall. “What should we do about him?”

“You’re the smart one, you tell me,” he grunts.

“I’m not you, Ron,” she says firmly. Ron frowns, baffled. “Remember when you asked me what you would do best in a battle? You keep us on the right track, even during most desperate times. We can always count on you watching our backs.” She smiles softly and slips her fingers between his. “I don’t think we’ve ever thanked you for that.”

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.

The idea of Horcruxes affects Ron more than he’d like. Soul magic isn’t something one should dabble with carelessly; then again, there is his own state of amalgamation and Ron can’t stop the bile rising in his throat. 

What Ron has done isn’t a Horcrux and is nothing like a Horcrux, the blood on his hands is his and his alone. Regardless, Dumbledore isn’t wrong, this is a risky move. Altering the soul, altering the world, altering fate all can lead to an end worse than hell. It’s dreadful, that all this suffering, all these trade-offs could be for nothing.

Ron wants to believe he knows what he’s doing. And to an extent, he does. He also knows that his greatest enemy is himself, his doubts and his insecurities. He also accepts that he’s unstable, no longer fully human, patched up with mismatched junks and the only reason he is still alive and breathing and doing magic is his slave contract which attaches him to the universal magic network. As long as the magic exists—as long as this universe exists—he exists.

(Truthfully, all this power would fit Harry better than Ron, seeing he is the Chosen One, the Saviour of the Wizarding World; but under no circumstance, in no universe does Ron wish this burden befall him. Great power comes with a great price, after all.)

After practically exploding last June it’s much more strenuous to keep everything under control, but Ron manages. He endures it all. The war persists, so he must too.

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“Heads up.” Fred has this funny look on his face when he throws a sack of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder pouches at Ron.

He holds a hand up and stops it in midair. “I’ll try.”

Fred presses his lips together in a small frown. “Just don’t die.”

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.

In their final game Ron is able to strip down Dumbledore to his king and a sole pawn, and as his black knight checkmates the white king at long last, he leans back in his seat and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, letting out an audible sigh, in relief more than anything. It’s a Stamma’s mate, a king and a pawn versus a king and a knight, and it’s forced, so it’s likely the reason why Ron doesn’t feel as satisfied with the win as he should. Not because Dumbledore looks like a flickering candlelight, close to dying out completely at any moment.

“I do not have much time left,” Dumbledore says. Straightforward, honest. To Ron such an announcement is unnecessary, for he can very much sense it; only hearing it straight from the old man himself reminds him how close the bleak future is from actually happening. How real it is.

Ron thinks about Harry’s obsessions with Draco Malfoy, about Katie Bell and the cursed necklace, about spiked Mulled Head on his birthday. The sight of the Headmaster’s blackened, shrunken hand aches and despite the ever-present twinkle, the lethargy is so bloody obvious Ron can’t turn a blind eye anymore. He wonders if Harry can see what he sees during his own private sessions.

Ron doesn’t dwell on it too much; instead, he pulls out a small parchment roll to hand over to Dumbledore.

“This took me a while, and I don’t think I can’t go any further than one sixteenth.” He bitterly mulls over his inadequacy for a second. It’s better than speculating about how much negative karmic potential this monster has induced. “Said one sixteenth is currently in Gringotts. This is one eighth—though I can’t be certain. The trace is too faint, it might not even be there anymore.”

“Some lead is better than no lead at all, no?” The Headmaster unfurls the parchment and beams at its contents. 

Ron sniggers. “Something you’ve expected?”

“So to speak.”

Ron leans back and inclines his head lightly, feeling his fringe fall to the side. Dumbledore is the sole person who dares to meet Ron’s crystal eye directly without flinching. Evidently the old man has seen worse.

“What d’you have in mind for the seventh Horcrux?” 

Dumbledore rerolls the parchment and lets it float into one of his drawers. “I was hoping you could lend me a hand.”

Ron furrows his brows. The Headmaster lowers his head. It’s the first time Ron has ever seen Dumbledore deliberately avoid his eyes. He hates it.

“I’m not an omnipotent being, sir,” he snaps. “Haven’t I told you I can’t?”

“You cannot, or you shall not?”

Ron stops breathing. The vines turn visible, a blazing blue like burning sulfur, shooting up at Dumbledore before being held back only mere inches away from their target; therefore they are very frustrated and are gnarling, not far from actual aggravated beasts.

Fawkes perches on Dumbledore’s shoulder, feathers ruffled, eying Ron’s magic warily. The Headmaster gets the picture, hands barely trembling as he strokes the phoenix reassuringly.

“I am such a hypocrite, aren’t I,” Dumbledore smiles ruefully. “I do my utmost to protect Harry’s innocence; but then it slipped my mind altogether, that you are no older than Harry, that you are incredibly young as well. Young, talented, and have endured so much more than anyone your age could or should have.” He leans back. “I must confess, I was, and I still am, heavily biased. My deepest apologies, Mr. Weasley.”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Ron snarls. The tendrils adhere to his request and curl back into his core. He lets out a long, suffering sigh before conjuring up a small flame for Fawkes. The bird sizes both Ron and his peace offering up and down and after a bout of cautious pecking, he swallows it whole. “I couldn’t care less whoever you play the benign grandfather for, just spare me.”

It’s an odd sight. Ron doesn’t know what to make of it, as the soul-piercing, sparkling blues filled with mischief and kindness is Dumbledore’s trademark; nevertheless, somehow right now he appears less of an elderly sage and more of a child in awe, discovering magic and experiencing the ever-expanding universe for the first time.

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All hell breaks loose. Ron knows Dumbledore’s tickling clock to his inevitable end is also the clock counting down to the precise moment Hogwarts so-called safe haven finally collapses, the Wizarding World erupts into a full-on war; still it doesn’t stop him from feeling violated. Hogwarts’ weeps echo around him, her broken shards pulling at the threads and he thinks he’s crying and bleeding out with her just the same.

Ron pats at a marble wall comfortingly. Everything goes to pieces in front of him wherever he looks and he closes his eyes to drown out the wailing and shaking, taking a few deep breaths, then stands up straight. Allows them to fall onto his shoulders even if his knees want to give out, his left eye burns and there is blood on his palm when he wipes his left cheek. People are staring. The magic inside him hums and pours out in waves, knocking out everything in his path.

Outside, Albus Dumbledore falls from the top of the Astronomy Tower to the grounds. The flame dies.

The end is coming.

.

.

.

4.

If Mum has noticed the darkening bruises under Ron’s eyes and the fact that it’s already two in the morning and he hasn’t moved from his spot in the living room since nine, playing chess against himself again, she doesn’t comment on it. She only makes hot cocoa for them both and has some biscuits on a small tray. He’s not in the mood for biscuits, but takes a sip of his cocoa, a little too sweet for his taste. 

“You three aren’t returning to Hogwarts next year,” Mum starts slowly. It’s not even a question at this point.

Ron notes Mum still chooses to sit on his right. His glass eye is still too much for most to bear. He doesn’t blame them. Neither does he blame Mum’s accusation. He knows it’ll come up eventually.

Therefore Ron has no reason to lie, even if it’s to lessen his mother’s worries, because what’s the point?

“Dumbledore’s got stuff for us to do. Important stuff.”

“What stuff?”

He presses his lips together. Black pawn in E5 is taken by white pawn. “I’m sorry, Mum, but he doesn’t—didn’t want anyone else to know.”

“I think I’ve got the right to, Ron,” she shrills—so much for patiently coaxing it out of her son. Knowing this talk is coming doesn’t mean he likes it any better; he cringes at the abrupt raise of her voice. “All of you are barely of age and Dumbledore’s got the entire Order under him. Why in the name of Merlin do you lot think it’s got to be you? This isn’t a game—”

“And I’m not goofing around,” he cuts in coolly, lifting his head and staring right back at her with both eyes. Her indignation vanishes at once and she straight up blanches. It’s an underhanded move, but it isn’t as if she ever gives him much of a choice.

(Mum hardly ever let him choose, for that matter.)

Ron exhales. Slumps on the armchair. Massages his temples.

“He entrusted this to us,” he says.

“I understand,” Mum says. “I could understand if Dumbledore wanted Harry to do it himself—whatever it was. But you and Hermione,” she sighs loudly, “is it absolutely necessary for you two to come along as well?”

“Harry needs us as much as we need him. Besides,” he hesitates, “he counted on me to look after Harry.” He swallows thickly. “Dumbledore was aware of his own... end himself.”

Mum stays silent for a while, simply watching Ron and his chessboard, as if she is finally seeing him for who he is for the first time in over seventeen years. Out of Molly’s seven children Ron is the most distant one; this won’t ever change, Ron wouldn’t suddenly become Mom’s favourite just because she believes he’s committing suicide. Mum never trusts him enough and he’s already given up on getting her attention ages ago. If she thinks showing guilt and sympathy now can change his mind, well, all he can say is she has never been so wrong about him.

In the end Mum says, “You’ve always been the most independent one, Ron,” which makes him bark out a sardonic laugh.

“I thought it’s Percy,” he sneers. 

Mum’s twisted expression is to be expected. Percy is still a sore subject. Nobody ever talks about him anymore. It’s childish, really.

Ron supposes it’s a frightening and heart-wrenching realisation as a parent, thinking you know your children but as it turns out you don’t know anything. That everything you thought you knew about them all this time is all but a misconception. A sweet lie.

He reverts his attention back to his game.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to betray you like he did. And unlike Harry,” his lips curl into a saccharine smile as the white king throws his crown at the black knight’s feet in surrender, “I know what I’m doing.”

.

.

.

The shortest route from the Dursley household to the first safehouse is precisely one hundred and seventy miles as the crow flies and it intersects with a couple of Muggle cities. There’re—what did Hermione call them again?—right, skyscrapers—excessively tall buildings that are undoubtedly nuisance.

Voldemort obtaining enough power over the Ministry has thrown a spanner into the works and left them no choice but to discard the original plan. They can neither use the Floo network, set up a Portkey nor Apparate, they certainly can’t wait until Harry is officially of age; thus leaving the only option—flying. Brooms, Thestrals and Sirius’ motorbike.

Ron hates it.

(He has considered picking Harry up himself; however the endeavour is too problematic. Harry is purely human, he won’t be able to resist the pull of the ocean. It will devour him whole and the bloke will be none the wiser.)

(It’s also a bitter pill to swallow, that the power Ron wishes upon himself in order to support Harry can harm him all the same. Ron understands his chances and he accepts his fate; but the guilt and the helplessness plague him regardless. He doesn’t think it’ll ever stop.)

“Well?” George speaks up after a long bout of observation.

Ron takes a glance at his map then studies the city below once more. He estimates that it would take them approximately fifteen minutes on average to fly through this area. Too much can happen within fifteen minutes; and this isn’t the only highly-concentrated area around—news flash, there’s two more. It’s the shortest, sure, but glaringly it’s not the most ideal.

“There are two ways—either the eastern suburb or the southern woods.” Ron uses blue for the first, purple for the second. “For the first one you can save about five minutes, quite simple actually, just go along the motorway. On the other hand, the woods, albeit rather thick, has trails you can follow. Pick your poison.”

The lengthy explanation is just for reference, though, as Ron already knows Fred will totally choose to go full speed in an open space. Ron won’t stop him, as long as he returns with all his limbs intact.

Fred processes the given data in half a minute. “If I were to cut through the actual city centre, how long would it take?”

Ron rolls his eyes. Of course. “Ten minutes, give or take. But the risks are too high, Fred.”

“Hey, you did tell us to ‘pick our poison’, didn’t you?” Fred’s grin is impossibly wide. “You’re in no position to tell us to ‘play it safe’, Ickle Ronnikins, considering your track record.” He then turns to his twin, who has the same shit-eating grin. “We’ve raised him well, haven’t we?”

Ron wants to hex them both immensely. “Stop fooling around, this is a life-and-death situation!”

“We’re not,” George says. Ron’s brothers still looks like a bunch of buffoons; even so, both are bright-eyed and determined nonetheless. “We’re baits, so isn’t it our job to be a more tempting prey than Harry?”

.

.

.

The Burrow is quiet these days, for all the people stuffed inside. The land is engulfed in stillness and it’s stifling. The protective wards and enchantments keep everything out, including the gnomes, aggressive and hostile but actually harmless, and the songbirds, which appear harmless and are harmless.

Anything can be used as a weapon against them.

Ron doesn’t like the notion, that it’s the pressure from the upcoming escort mission—and this whole war in general—is weighing the atmosphere down; though he’s stressed out himself. They’ve spent the first three weeks of July planning and covering their grounds; only the many loopholes, the high stakes keep gnawing at him.

When things become too much Ron leaves the house. He weaves through the trees and bushes and jogs on until there’s static crawling on his skin and he knows he’s nearing the boundaries. Ron stretches his arm out and touches the force field, which appears just like a giant iridescent soap bubble, seemingly breakable if he’d curl up his fingers a bit more into a tight enough grasp, yet making his blood sing and his flesh tingle upon contact all the same. His magic tendrils unfurl from their nest and lazily span out, climbing onto the field and filling in every gap, every crack, like molten metals pouring into moulds. Magic scorches him lightly, some burns can be sore for days and while the old wounds are still raw and tender the new ones are already piling up atop. All because Ron is more or less too paranoid and doesn’t know any other way to cope with his anxiety except for reinforcing the wards every night.

“Ron.”

He nearly jumps; but doesn’t turn around or take his hand off the force field. He didn’t think Hermione was still awake, or she’d follow him out here, seeing tomorrow is a big day.

Ron digs his fingers in deeper. Blue static crackles, coiling along his arms, shoulders and back.

“It’s late,” Ron says. “You should rest.”

“So should you.”

He knows Hermione is scrutinising him and what he’s doing. He knows she wants to get closer, even if she’s patiently keeping her distance, studying the glowing veins running across his arm. He knows he’s worrying her—a lot—by disappearing to who-knows-where whenever nobody is watching. Only she finally decides to confront him tonight.

“You know, if things were different, I’d have assumed it was Dumbledore who built this,” she says quietly, and Ron sees Dumbledore’s lifeless body at the bottom of the tower, Harry kneeling beside him, openly weeping.

He blinks once to clear out the image.

“I see.”

“One of the most complicated and powerful magic I’ve ever seen.” Hermione’s voice somehow sounds too bittersweet. He doesn’t comment.

Ron lets go of his grip, severing the connection. It goes dark instantly, with only the moonlight shining on Hermione as she steps closer.

“Does it hurt much?”

Ron looks down. His fingertips are red and swelling and so are the scars along his arm. He supposes it does hurt, somewhat; however, when one wears the burn for far too long, the pain receptors go numb and at some point they no longer feel anything anymore.

Hermione glances at him briefly, maybe a second or two longer at his eyepatch, before gingerly holding his injured hand up for inspection. She knows of the burns, the scars, she’s just never seen them directly.

“I’m fine, really,” Ron reassures.

She presses her lips together, not quite a frown, and swallows whatever it was about to be spat out, something both of them don’t want to hear. Ron is quite surprised she hasn’t reprimanded him yet for actively hurting himself.

“You never listen,” Hermione finally admonishes, glaring at him, though it’s more out of concern than disapproval or annoyance. “You and Harry both. Always have to take on everything yourselves, don’t you.”

“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black,” he shoots back. “How often have we got to drag you out of your own head? You’re no better, ‘mione.”

Hermione pinches his side. “Smart-arse.”

“That’s more like you.”

But then there’s a hand on his cheek and she draws them closer until their foreheads touch. Hermione’s hand is cool, yet her breath is warm on his lips.

“How could you be so calm about all of this, after everything?”

The answer couldn’t be easier. “You and Harry, both of you are bloody brilliant. There’s little else I can do.” Ron half-shrugs. “I can’t fail at what’s left for me either, can I?”

Hermione’s laugh sounds choked. And she kisses him. Her lips are salty.

“Don’t let Harry see them,” she says when she releases him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. “He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he knew you’re breaking yourself down to protect him.”

.

.

.

Tonks and Ron have the shortest, clearest route; they’re supposed to be the first group to arrive at their assigned safehouse and in turn the Burrow. But of course things never go as planned. 

They’re ambushed the moment they take off, and before they know it, it’s a fight to the death. Literally.

Ron clicks his tongue as he and Tonks are being pursued by six Death Eaters on brooms, who are also firing hex after hex with no finesse at all. 

It’s just bollocks.

They barely manage to dodge a battery of green lights coming from all sides: Ron has to swerve abruptly and he rolls a couple times midair. For a second he thinks he’s lost all sense of directions, clouds floating and traffic lights and car headlamps flashing; and there’s another string of deadly curses and Ron tightens his grip on the broomstick, because losing his grip means breaking his bloody neck—

Tonks swears when her red Stunner collides with a fiery orange Blasting Curse and they go off with a tremendous bang in the air. “Are you alright?” she yells at Ron over the wind and the furore around them.

“I’ve been better, but I’ll live.” He coughs and blinks rapidly, trying to regain his balance. Turning over his shoulder, he sees that some of their pursuers have their hoods blown back and recognises the wild look of Bellatrix Lestrange, Rabastan and Rodolphus at a slightly lower height looking no less zealous. If there are that many key players on their tail, hopefully the others will have an easier journey.

(More like, hopefully Harry won’t do anything stupid. Even if it wasn’t too difficult to retouch Harry’s wand during the flurry of getting dressed, bespectacled and luggage-laden.)

Nonetheless, Ron definitely doesn’t want to die right now.

Ron tastes something metallic in his mouth, not realising he’s biting his lower lip so hard this whole time it’s bleeding, when he pulls out his wand—gosh when was the last time he actually used a bloody wand to do magic?—and aims precisely to the nearest Death Eater, “Stupefy Duo!“

The spell renders him unconscious and he falls off his broom, plunging to his death—Ron’s first kill, albeit indirectly—but he has no time to linger over it as he fires off a Severing Charm, cleanly slicing off one of Rodolphus’ arms who is halfway to shooting another hex at him. This is war, Ron pushes down the rancour, ducks out of his who-cares-how-many-already green light and conjures a large shield protecting both himself and Tonks from a storm of distasteful hexes. 

“Thanks!” Tonks calls after Ron narrowly counters a Regiis Ignis from Bellatrix intended for her.

“Four o’clock!” Ron shouts back a warning. Tonks makes a sharp turn while fending off another onslaught of the madwoman’s deathly curses. Bellatrix must want Tonks dead as much as him—technically it’s Harry—and this determination would be very admirable in normal circumstances, i.e. not coming from an obsessive psychopath.

Rabastan and Rodolphus are belligerent, and thus, incredibly aggravating as well. Ron has to strain his wrist to be able to keep up with the Lestranges’ curse-casting speed. His joints are getting sore already.

Ron lurches upwards to dodge a Killing Curse from Rodolphus when a giant green flame in the form of a snake—right on brand, huh—shoots out from Rabastan’s wand and goes straight for him, its jaw wide about to swallow him whole.

In panic and by reflex Ron summons the mistletoe.

The response is instantaneous. The tendrils lunge forward and whip across the snake in a thunderous crack. It evaporates. Some of the vines conveniently coil around his broomstick to hold him in place. Ron exhales loudly in pure relief.

“Gratias tibi ago,” he murmurs.

A vine rubs his cheek, comforting, almost affectionate. Instinctively, Ron leans into the touch, as the tendrils multiply themselves, crawling along his raised arm and grasping the loose threads of the curtain, creeping into its fabrics, its stitches, its laces, its knots and braids and weaving a brand new drape altogether. 

Glee bubbles up inside Ron and he can’t help a smug smile as he observes his enemies from high up. Watches their expressions change from shock to full-blown terror when they finally realise the world around them is shattering, tearing itself apart, its broken pieces falling in torrents upon them.

.

.

.

The Sorting Hat had intended to put Ron into Slytherin and it’s a secret that he’ll take to the grave because his family would never let him live it down if they knew. He was the second to last to be Sorted that night, the ceremony could go out with a bang, the Hat had whispered. It wasn’t as if the reasoning didn’t make sense—Ron is independent and free-spirited, he has the ambitions to be great and he is willing to do anything to achieve his goals.

(“You know, you’re actually not that bad, if you ever decide to step out of Potter’s and Granger’s shadow—”)

However, before the Hat could fully cover his vision, Ron’s eyes met Harry’s, trembling in excitement no less than Ron himself up there. Harry Potter who spent the first eleven years of his life having absolutely no idea about who he really is, about what he’s capable of and what is waiting for him ahead. Harry Potter who appeared so pale and skinny, wide-eyed and naïve yet strong-willed and compassionate and simply too good for this rotten world and Ron couldn’t help but want to protect that perfect innocence.

Harry Potter is brilliant and heroic and gifted and special, whereas Ron Weasley is dull and weak and awkward and mediocre. Harry is the sun and Ron is a sunflower, trailing after him day after day but never able to catch up. He knows his chasing after Harry is no different from a moth to a flame; still he bites his lip and clenches his fists and should Harry ask, should Harry allow it Ron is willing to follow him to the ends of the earth.

(I understand, the Hat hummed, its non-existent hand rubbing its also non-existent chin. I must warn you, child, that the path you want is a long and torturous one. Would you still like to proceed?)

.

.

.

Ron remembers making it to the designated safehouse. Remembers his great-aunt nagging on and on and on and on about them missing their Portkey. Remembers returning to the Burrow at last. Staggering dazedly to Harry and Hermione. Suddenly retching up and seeing red, sticky, warm fluid on his hands. Crumpling into his friends, for he has come down from the high of the battle and the burning, the bone-crushing sensation finally settles in.

The next time Ron wakes up, he’s in his own bed in his own room. He shifts and everything hurts, as though he’s been trampled on over and over and over again by the entire Hogwarts Hippogriff herd. So there he lies, unmoving, eyes close and mind blank, for hours.

Ron hears his door open somewhere in the fifth hour and reopens his eyes blearily. It’s Dad. He appears unscathed. Ron relaxes. That’s good.

“How’re you doin’?” Dad sits down on a stool next to his bed.

Ron’s throat is so parched that no sound comes out at all. He tries to sit up. The soreness hasn’t subsided yet and he outright groans. Dad holds out his hands as if he’s going to help Ron lie down again, but Ron shakes his head lightly and, after a little more struggling, props himself up and leans on a large pillow at last. 

Dad hands him a glass of water, eying him worriedly as he does his best to stop his hands from trembling. 

“How long was I out for?” Ron asks after he drains his glass, cringing internally at the hoarseness of his voice.

“A week.” Dad sets the glass on his bedside table. “You gave us quite a scare, son.”

Ron hangs his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tonks told us what happened. You overdid yourself again—to the point of collapsing.”

Ron recalls bits and pieces—lots of Death Eaters, lots of hexes and curses, the mistletoe saving him and shredding reality apart. 

It was an area-of-effect spell. A very elaborate one. There had been tons of restructuring, reprogramming and whatnots. Might be his most intricate and large-scale—most ambitious overall—performance ever. It’s a true miracle that he’s done it without a hitch.

It’s also understandable that he has blacked out right after. Despite the transcendence of his magic, his body and mind is sill utterly mortal and human. Magic protects him and his existence; though that doesn’t mean he’s immune to being fried up like an over-easy egg should he let it flow into him too much. That’s why he has to keep it in check all the time.

Dad continues, “There were horrible burns everywhere. No healing potion or spell worked. We thought you’d—” he stops himself then. He looks grim, his lips twisted and his jaws tight. “Thank Merlin that your body seems to heal on its own.”

Ron nods once, tilting his head slightly. “It takes time. The additional potions and spells might have hindered said process, though.” No wonder he’s passed out for that long. 

Ron is the host; if his physical body is destroyed the magic has nothing to hold on to, hence the obligation to keep him whole, (relatively) healthy and functional. He doesn’t catch colds or flus, doesn’t get infections or contract any illnesses anymore; if he is injured by an external cause, the healing progress is considerably fast and efficient; magic overexertion usually takes longer. Problem is, his magic is self-reliant and possessive as hell and will react to any kind of foreign magic or magical substances—even if, no, especially if they are meant to cure him. Any type of treatment involving potions and healing spells is detrimental to Ron, he has found out the hard way. 

“Oh.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” 

Ron always likes Dad better, as he’s the more laid-back parent. Still, he loves and cares for his children so much that the only times Ron has ever seen him losing his composure are when any of them gets hurt. 

Mum would fuss right away, berate him for being reckless then smother him in every way possible. Meanwhile, Dad is speaking to Ron so softly, so warmly, so as not to spook him; even if Ron knows he’s agonised inside. 

So it’s only natural that Ron has to reaffirm, “I’m alright, Dad. It happens—” all the time, he bites back just in time, grimaces, because that sounds awful. “It won’t happen again,” he tries.

Dad sighs. He doesn’t look like he believes Ron. Nevertheless, he gathers his youngest son in his arms, gingerly as if Ron’s so fragile he’d break any second; but firmly enough, perhaps to reassure himself that Ron is still alive, still breathing.

.

.

.

Ron wakes up just in time for Harry’s seventeenth birthday, and the first thing he sees when stumbling downstairs is Harry snogging his sister—though to be fair, Ginny kisses him first. This isn’t something out of the ordinary, considering they start dating in April.

His stomach growls. Maybe it’s hunger, he hasn’t eaten for days. It can also be the protective instinct of an older brother, trying to look out for his younger sibling; granted said sibling is only a year younger than him, is much, much stronger than him and very much understands what’s going on.

In his peripherals he sees Hermione appearing beside him.

“It’s Harry,” she reminds him. “He wouldn’t hurt her, at least not on purpose.”

“I know,” he replies. “Because I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Hermione huffs. “Take care of yourself first.”

“I’m fine.” Ron says dryly. Adds, “Really,” at her raised eyebrows.

“You always say that.” She rolls her eyes; but then gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze nonetheless. “I’m glad you’re back.”

He inclines his head, patting her hand. “Me too.”

.

.

.

Dumbledore has left Ron his Deluminator, a magical device looking like a silver cigarette lighter, with the power to remove light sources from its immediate surrounding (every light in an enclosed place; if it’s an open area, he suspects it applies within a roughly sixty-five-feet radius) as well as bestow them. He has only seen the Headmaster use it twice.

Scrimgeour leans forward and passes it to Ron, who takes it and fiddles with it, feeling its smooth, cool metal surface between his fingers.

“That is a valuable object,” Scrimgeour says, studying him. “It may even be unique.” It is. “Certainly it is of Dumbledore’s own design.” Also correct. “Why would he have left you an item so rare?” 

Ron thinks back to their last game, the third game he’s won against Dumbledore after two years of weekly matches. Thinks back to dying candlelights and blue eyes twinkling with delight, playfulness and compassion. He thinks back to the way Dumbledore let him see the whole board, the whole game. Thinks back to the way they did communicate through spoken words but even better through chess; the way they picked up on each other’s strategies, game-plays, ideas and implications so swiftly, so naturally.

Scrimgeour presses on, “Dumbledore must have taught thousands of students, yet the only ones he remembered in his will are you three. Why is that? To what use did he think you would put to the Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?”

Said magical device gleams under the light.

(Ron thinks he knows what Dumbledore had seen in him, something makes him the most reliable and most unpredictable card at the same time. He knows he was a thorn in the Headmaster’s eyes, the variable in his extensive equation. He just couldn’t believe it, that Dumbledore decided to take the risk, decided that this variable was the element he had been searching for to change possible success to irrefutable victory.)

(Ron hates Dumbledore a little. The senile old man is more often than not too arrogant, thinking he could arrange his pieces for the desired domino effect. The world has more pieces than a game of chess or dominoes.)

(Most importantly, he hates Dumbledore for believing in him too much. Which makes him perplexed, exasperated, uneasy and overall a mess of other similar-yet-different emotions he doesn’t have names for; generally manifested in the many whys—why him, why him of all people, why now, why does Dumbledore trust him, why does Dumbledore expect so much from a disaster like him, why does Dumbledore believe a disaster like him can actually do something, can actually make a difference—and just as many hows—how does all this come to be, how is he going to do all of this, how can Dumbledore be so sure, how is Dumbledore going to react if he messes up, how can he face Dumbledore when he messes up—)

The world around him hums, ethereal, gentle, melancholic and terribly beautiful, like a Phoenix Lament.

Ron mumbles, “Maybe he liked me better than I’d thought he would.”

.

.

.

Ron barely steps out of the wedding reception when he lets his façade crumble. He shouldn’t have accepted the drink from Bourdillon—well, he thought it was fruit punch—the alcohol doesn’t help with his migraines or nausea at all and the constant noises and flashing lights are only making it worse with his heightened senses. 

Wiping his mouth with his cuff, Ron vanishes his vomit and drops down underneath the tree, raking his fingers through his damp locks—Auntie Muriel is right, it’s getting too long; Ron can’t pull off the rugged look like Bill does. It’s a clear summer night, he can make out the Corona Borealis, the Sagittarius and the Scorpius—Bill is a Sagittarius and Fleur is a Scorpio, it’s so fitting Ron has to chuckle a little. 

He might have dozed off, as he doesn’t feel someone coming at all until they speak up, “Sleepy?”

Ron springs up, and upon realising who the intruder is, slouches again. “Just tired in general.” He gazes up at his eldest brother. “Aren’t you supposed to be greeting the guests or dancing with Fleur right now?”

Bill shrugs. “I needed a breather. And one of my groomsmen is missing.” He squats down in front of Ron and gives him a scan, lips pressed together. “Are you feeling alright?”

Ron rolls his eyes. People have been asking him that and its variations non-stop for the past forty-eight hours. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Bill huffs. “You’re a pretty smooth liar nowadays; but this isn’t your best performance.”

“I’m well enough to attend your wedding, aren’t I?” he points out. “Can’t let one of the twins stand next to you at the ceremony, it’d be disastrous.”

“And I’m glad,” Bill replies. “The light show is stunning, it’s one of our favourites.”

“It’s nothing.” Ron waves a hand. He needs to gradually slip back into the magic. Shaping silver light into a pair of dancing peacocks is a piece of cake. 

Beauty is pain. It’s nice to know that he can create something beautiful with what causes him pain, regardless.

Bill smiles, somewhat sad. It shouldn’t be an expression on a groom in his big day. “I’d be happier knowing my littlest brother is doing okay, though.”

“I am.”

The rescue mission didn’t really turn out as they’d hoped. They lost Moody—there wasn’t even a body they could bury. George lost his left ear. And Ron himself—

He shakes his head. He’s fine now. There is no lasting aftereffect—no more than the usual, no more than what he’s already known and used to anyway. 

“I’m not going to drop dead any moment.” Ron insists. It sure is blessed to be loved, to be cared about—Merlin knows how much of an attention whore Ron has been when he was younger, more immature—but having their eyes on him all the time, overly cautious and apprehensive, is driving him up to a wall. Even more so now that they are aware of his future plans. Ron supposes this is how Harry felt during his trial period back in fifth year.

Granted, it’s his own fault for being clumsy and always messing up—for always being essentially useless when it counts—too. 

“That’s not it,” Bill says evenly. “I trust you know what you’re doing.”

“But?”

Bill’s gaze is kind. He has the same eyes as Mum’s—so do Charlie, Percy and Ginny. “You know we’re here for you, anytime you need, right?” 

Ron chews on his lower lip. “I know,” he fidgets. “And I appreciate it. I really do.”

“Good.” Bill holds out his hand. 

Silvery blue threads twirl around Ron’s fingers. It’s like playing cat’s cradle with Ginny when they were little. He makes an elhaz and sends it into the ground, into the land of the Burrow; before taking Bill’s offered hand and following him back to the reception.

.

.

.

Ron is bothered that he realises the ambush a second too late as he plunges across the table to push Hermione sideways onto her bench; while Harry, still invisible, screams out a Stupefy. The Stunner hits the blond and he goes out like a light. The second one doesn’t know where the spell came from and shoots another at Ron instead. By reflex he waves the shining black ropes aside and accidentally redirects it to the waitress, who has been screaming and running for the door; the poor woman is bound from head to foot. Harry fires another Stunner at the Death Eater and misses his mark; the spell bounces off the window and Ron narrowly flicks it away. Harry is exceptional at spotting and catching moving objects but he has terrible aim.

The Death Eater retaliates by blowing up the table in front of Harry with a thunderous Expulso, throwing him backwards into the wall, his Cloak and his wand slipping off him.

“Petrificus Totalus!” Hermione yells at the same moment Ron levitates a table at the Death Eater; the speed of a spell is faster so it freezes him up first, Ron’s projectile hammers into the side of his head right after with a loud thwack and he falls like a ton of bricks onto the mess of broken china, table splinters and spilt coffee.

Hermione crawls out from her hiding spot, shaking pieces of glass and china astray, still trembling slightly. Harry retrieves his wand while Ron clears out the debris a little for them to move around more easily. He recognises their assailants from the old wanted posters, Antonin Dolohov and Thorfinn Rowle.

Harry takes command, assigning Ron to put out the lights and Hermione to lock the door. 

Ron debates finishing off the Death Eaters—they had a good go at them; and Ron has a life—or several? He doesn’t recall how much damage he has done during the mission—on his kill count already. However they settle for Memory Charm instead; Hermione does the Obliviating whilst Harry and Ron restore the shop to its original state. 

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Number Twelve Grimmauld Place is the same as how Ron remembers it, cold, eerie and claustrophobic. The doors open into a long hallway, lit by gas lamps and a chandelier overhead, complete with ornate portraits and house elf heads on the walls. Most of the portraits are covered with black curtains and there is an umbrella stand lying on its side.

Harry takes a step forward and from the darkness Moody’s voice growls, “Severus Snape?”, making them jerk back in fright. 

He hardly manages, “We’re not Snape!” before something bone-chilling washes over them and their tongue curls backwards on itself, rendering them literally speechless. The Tongue-Tying Curse that Moody must have set up for Snape, Hermione informs when they regain the ability to talk, only to be greeted by a figure rising up out of the dusty carpet, tall and ashen and dreadful, smoke-like waist-length hair and beard, sunken face and empty eye sockets. Familiar yet alien, the figure raises its decaying arm at them and only when Harry yells, “We didn’t kill you!” does it combust into a cloud of dust. 

Ron stares blankly at the place where Dumbledore’s ghost has arisen and does his best not to dwell on it too much, because he knows for sure once he begins to spiral down into the rabbit hole there is no coming back.

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.

The scar isn’t throbbing as much anymore but it’s still tormenting Harry. Ron knows enough of it, watching Harry curl up on the floor of the chilly bathroom, sleep-deprived and sweats glistening on his forehead.

Hermione’s voice echoes throughout the small space, “Harry, you aren’t supposed to let this happen anymore! Dumbledore wanted you to use Occlumency! HE thought the connection was dangerous—Voldemort can use it, Harry! What good is it to watch him kill and torture, how can it help?”

“Because it means I know what he’s doing,” Harry retorts.

Hermione scoffs. “So you’re not even going to try to shut him out?”

“Hermione, I can’t. You know I’m lousy at Occlumency. I never got the hang of it.”

“You never really tried!” she accuses. “I don’t get it, Harry—do you like having this special connection or relationship or what—whatever—”

Harry’s face darkens and Hermione wavers, realising she has gone too far.

“Like it?” Harry’s voice is quiet, emerald eyes burn an ice-cold rage. “Would you like it?”

“I—no—I’m sorry, Harry. I just didn’t mean—”

“I hate it, I hate the fact that he can get inside me, that I have to watch him when he’s most dangerous. But I’m going to use it.”

“Dumbledore—”

“Forget Dumbledore. This is my choice, nobody else’s. I want to know why he’s after Gregorovitch.”

“Who?”

“He’s a foreign wandmaker,” Harry says. “He made Krum’s wand and Krum reckons he’s brilliant.”

“But according to you,” Ron recalls, “Voldemort’s got Ollivander locked up somewhere. If he’s already got a wandmaker, what does he need another one for?”

“Maybe he agrees with Krum, maybe he thinks Gregorovitch is better... or else he thinks Gregorovitch will be able to explain what my wand did when he was chasing me, because Ollivander didn’t know.”

Harry glances over the cracked, dusty mirror as Hermione sends a suspicious glance at Ron.

“Harry, you keep talking about what your wand did,” says Hermione, “but you made it happen! Why are you so determined not to take responsibility for your own power?”

“Because I know it wasn’t me! And so does Voldemort, Hermione! We both know what really happened!”

“Harry, there is no reason—”

“Hermione,” Ron interrupts, pinching his nose. He vehemently doesn’t look at both Harry and Hermione, because their expression will no doubt lead him to second-guessing his decisions. He won’t let them keep barreling into dead ends anymore. “It was me.”

The confession has greater gravity than Ron has expected, as instantly their eyes bore into him. He can’t resist a shaky sigh and he shrinks into himself, feeling strangely small although he is taller than both of Harry and Hermione. It’s an understatement, this is the first time he has openly confessed his ventures to anyone. He supposes it’s high time they get a better picture. They deserve it.

“Explain,” is Harry’s direct order.

Ron leans back to the wall.

“It was purely precautionary. I updated your wand a little, when we were preparing to depart.” He throws his head back, eyes close. “I just knew you would do something idiotic that would give yourself away, then every Death Eater would zero in on you, and Voldemort himself would show up to the party as well.” He gives Harry a toothy grin. “I was spot on. You were being too nice again and used that bloody stupid Disarming Charm.”

Harry glowers at Ron. “What’s wrong with Disarming Charm?” Ron and Hermione simultaneously shoot him an incredulous look and Harry throws his hands up in surrender—not without rolling his eyes, exasperated, “Alright, I get it, the Death Eaters have used it to set me apart from others, but Expelliarmus saved me from Voldemort two years ago!”

Ron shakes his head. He meets Harry dead in the eyes—using both his good eye and the glass one. “No, it wasn’t Expelliarmus that saved you. It was me.”

This is quite a brutal strike. Harry is too stunned to even speak and Hermione isn’t much better, eyes wide as saucers.

“What?” she squawks.

“I did say ‘updated’, didn’t I? When do you think I set up the actual stuff?” Ron exhales. “I was also at the cemetery that night. When Voldemort gained his new body.” He pauses, contemplating how he can put it in plain English. “As if it’s some sort of sick manipulation of destiny, your wand and his contain feathers from the same phoenix. There’s already a connection. I just tampered with it a little. Nothing too complicated.” Though undoubtedly serious and dangerous—he was—and is—actively meddling with fate, to an extent.

“You tampered with their wands’ core. Their magic.” Hermione realises, stupefied.

“Admittedly, it wouldn’t have worked if it wasn’t for Voldemort’s Killing Curse and Harry’s Disarming Charm being casted at the same time and meeting each other halfway.” Ron shrugs. “Granted, I wasn’t sure what I could do or how far I could go; that was everything I dared to and was certain there wouldn’t be severe consequences.” The last part is a blatant lie.

Ron remembers Seamus screaming at him and Harry, disbelieving and mocking, why do you believe him, that’s all talk, there is no concrete evidence; and Ron merely replying, I just know it happened and that’s more than enough. He remembers the graveyard of Little Hangleton, silently watching Harry shout Expelliarmus to counter Avada Kedavra. Remembers scoffing at Harry’s naiveté for believing that simply disarming Voldemort, stripping him off his power is enough. No. What makes the Dark Lord formidable isn’t only his talents, his raw power or his skillset as a wizard.

No, it’s much more than that.

Still in the state of sheer stupor, Harry is gawking at Ron. Hermione sits down on the edge of the tub, resting her forehead on her palm.

“What you’re telling us—” she marvels, “—is absolutely mental, Ron. Merlin, how could you—” 

“I know how it sounds.” Ron bows his head, arms folding across his chest. “I know it’s hard for you to believe me, even harder to trust me after knowing what I’ve done.” There is something stuck in his throat that doesn’t go away after he swallows thickly. He turns his gaze upwards, blinking rapidly, and barks out a bitter laugh. “Seriously though, can you blame me? Harry could’ve died. I couldn’t just do nothing.”

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The immediate aftermath of Hermione’s hasty Side-Along Apparition is blurry. While Ron is writhing in pain Hermione is tearing open his shirt and Harry looks horrified as soon as he sees Ron’s upper left arm, where a large chunk of flesh was missing, scooped cleanly away as though by a knife.

“Harry, quickly,” Hermione says, “in my bag, there’s a small bottle labeled ‘Essence of Dittany’—”

“Bag—right—”

Ron wills every ounce of strength he has left to push himself up, which proves to be a terrible idea as a sharp pain shoots up and over his body, his vision swimming and his pulse thundering in his ears. Half-delirious, he supposes he is in the second stage of hypovolemic shock already, as he barely manages to gasp out, “Wait—Stop—Don’t do anything—”

Hermione doesn’t know of Ron’s predicament and she is in an awful predicament herself. She looks close to tears, “Ron—”

She falters. The threads and ribbons have crawled out, their blue glow familiar and soothing; they shiver and grow, entwining themselves and stretching over what has just been open flesh. 

“Wow,” is Harry’s quiet, short and impressed reaction, mouth slightly agape in awe.

“Yeah, I know,” Ron breathes out shakily.

The light dies down after about ten minutes, which means the regeneration has completed. Nevertheless, his freshly grown skin and flesh feels raw, strange and heated and the rest of his body aches. Ron just wants to close his eyes and drift off; however there’s still work to do so he gets up and discusses with his companions about what happened, why they can’t go back to Grimmauld Place—damn Fidelius Charm—and what they’re going to do now.

Protective enchantments require Ron and Hermione to circle around the area as they work their magic, Hermione murmuring incantations, Ron running through structures and calculations. Meanwhile, Harry gets out the tent from Hermione’s charmed handbag. 

Hermione finishes her part first with the trademark skyward flourish of Cave Inimicum. “That’s as much as I can do,” she announces. “At the very least we should know they are coming; I can’t guarantee it’ll keep out Vol—”

“Don’t say his name!” Ron interjects harshly from above, as he has to apply the programme precisely at certain points for maximum efficiency. At the corner of his eye he sees Harry and Hermione looking at each other, unsure how to respond to his aversion. “I’m sorry,” he says, quieter, when landing softly on the ground next to them, “but it feels like a jinx. Can’t we say You-Know-Who, please?”

“Dumbledore said fear of a name—” Harry starts.

“Yeah, and look how well that turned out for him.” Ron snaps his fingers. At the command, the spell activates, bursting into a cascade of blue lights like a meteor shower, forming an invisible dome over their campsite in the process. It isn’t as involved as the one he did for the Burrow, though it’s not like they are staying at the same place for long. “Names are powerful things. I haven’t got a good feeling about this.”

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Slytherin’s locket is as large as a chicken’s egg, the ornate S embed with small green stones, lacklustre under the scattered light. 

“Any ideas?” Harry speaks after several failed attempts at opening it, eyes darting over Ron momentarily.

Ron furrows his brows. He told Dumbledore this is out of his capabilities. Truth is, he has never tried. Never wants to. As if being able to manipulate the flow of the universal magical energy and the dynamics between planes of existence—of reality—isn’t unpleasant enough. Soul magic is another category on its own.

(Thing is, Ron allows his own soul to break open, allows this magic to slot into the cracks and live parasitically off him, allows the world to consume a part of him so no one else has to, so Harry and Hermione and everyone else can live on in peace; there is no need to know how low, how vile, how cowardly people can be. Though he suspects it’s bound to happen anyway, since Harry’s archenemy is a sociopath whose life goal is to escape death, escape the inevitable.)

Ron holds out his hand for Harry to drop the locket into his palm. He draws his eyes shut. Something unseen is slithering along his arm, tugging on his threads, tapping in the back of his mind and whispering into his ears. Having it in his palm, knowing they’ve risked their neck for it, Ron still has this overwhelming urge to fling it away, out of his sight, the farther the better, because this atrocity should not exist, a locket should not be breathing or pulsing, like some uncanny tiny metal heart.

(You’re the one to talk, the voice in his head taunts. Something like you should not exist either.)

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Ron can’t resist a childish glower at the locket which is lying on top of a heap of fallen leaves, still without a single scratch after his barrage. The stones glint smugly.

Drawing out more magic, he lets the static dance between his fingers while setting up a temporary insulator and soundproof barrier; then, from a considerable height, he clenches his hand and releases the miniature lightning bolt straight to the Horcrux. Bright flashes and ear-piercing rumbles ensue, a small patch on the ground is carbonised and what lies over it remains intact.

He holds a hand over his mouth to cover the cough and vanishes the blood stain on his palm just as Harry is returning from his morning round. He takes in Ron’s scowl and the subject of his irritation and frowns as well.

“Still no progress?”

Ron clicks his tongue. “Unfortunately.”

He’s tested out various destruction methods, but so far nothing seems to work. Which means he has to consider its fundamentals. He is leaning towards either the positive equivalent of the negative karmic energy spent creating this Horcrux, or a nigh all-absorber or an intense corrosive. It’s impossible for Voldemort to repent, also messing around with the karma flow is suicidal, he has brought enough on himself by strengthening the link between Harry’s and Voldemort’s magical signature; so the first is out of the question. The second and third are something they don’t have right now. Ron can always try extracting it from its vessel, similar to how Avada Kedavra forcibly banishes the soul out of the body; however then the negative potential will accumulate in him, which is equally fatal. 

… He guesses he’s doing it anyway.

Ron picks the locket up. “Hermione made breakfast, you should go eat something,” he tells Harry. The locket isn’t that big but it feels unusually heavy in his hand, like dead weight, dragging him to hell with it.

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Ron constantly get a glimpse of this shadow, akin to some perverse stalker; though when he turns around there’s nothing. He wants to believe that it isn’t real, that he’s only imagining it, that he’s gradually succumbing to madness along with this chase, with this aimless hunt. Maybe after all these years this borrowed power is going on strike and asking for its dues. Or, even more trivial, he’s hungry and tired and stressed out, his left arm still feels weird, and he feels lonely despite his two companions.

(Maybe it’s the Horcrux—only an eighth of the Dark Lord but no less insane—playing tricks on his mind, poisoning him; and at some point it’ll change him completely and he’ll start going against Harry and Hermione, because that’s what Voldemort will do, of course—)

He doesn’t know since when accepting that he’s nasty and petty and outright sick is marginally easier than admitting that it’s only in his head, he’s thinking too much and he can’t always stop everything bad from happening.

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His dreams are white. White like the blank pages in his sketchbooks. Silvery white like the colour of Dumbledore’s hair and beard and the trimmings on his favourite robe; like the moonlight on the school grounds, on the crowd of students hanging their heads in grief. White and clean like the infirmary and freshly changed bandages, the smell of disinfectant crisp and acrid as he breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. White, pale, uneasy, as the expression his friends and family wear at times, when they look at him and don’t know who he is anymore. White as a sheet, sickly and haggard, his own reflection in the mirror after emptying his stomach and flushing the bloodstained vomit down the drain. White and frail, like how Sirius slowly faded away beyond the Veil, how Dumbledore’s corpse lay at the bottom of the Astronomy Tower, how George was still a little queasy at the loaded dinner table as he was recuperating from his lost ear.

His dreams are also filled with white noise: the footsteps of his siblings, the incantations from every direction, the crashes and smashes, the cries and yells (Harry? Hermione? Ginny? Or is it everyone?), the eerie whispers (—I see your heart and it is mine, all your desires are possible and so are your fears, weak, incompetent, overshadowed, second-best, do you really think you can change destiny, change the preordained future, you say what I did is despicable, then look at you, look at your eye, look at your soul, see the abomination that is you—). No matter how loud and disorientating his dreams are, though, he never wakes up screaming. 

When he wakes up, it’s not violent, it’s cold and still, and somehow that’s even more devastating and suffocating. He’s awake and restrained by the tendrils so he can’t unwittingly lash out and hurt himself. His heart is hammering in his chest and there’s pain building up in his skull, prickling every inch of his skin and gnawing at every fibre of his being; and that’s how he knows.

That’s how he knows to push aside the chills and the numbness and grab his sketchbook. His hand shakes, his lines shaky and wobbly and everything clashes but Ron doesn’t stop to think or breathe, doesn’t stop to calm down, daren’t stop. His insides churn, his throat sore, he’s drenched in sweat and tears and he doesn’t stop drawing until his mind goes blank and he breaks.

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Ron thinks he’s scribbling when Harry asks where Dumbledore would have hidden the Sword of Gryffindor. The runes, the glyphs, letters and numbers and figures, the calculations are beginning to jumble together into an incoherent mess. The page is damp so when he moves his hand there is a smudge where it used to be an equation of… something he doesn’t remember anymore.

It takes Ron a while to come out of his stupor, he lifts his head and sees Harry and Hermione peering at him in something akin to concern and expectation mixed together.

“You two carry on, don’t mind me,” he finally replies, already turning back to his sketchbook. He stares at the smudge, trying to recall what it was about. It only looks like a dark, blurry cloud to him. Looming over his head. He feels like he is staring at an abyss and the abyss is staring back at him.

“What’s the problem?” Harry asks.

A lot. So much that he doesn’t know where to start—oh that’s not what Harry is talking about, is it?

Ron blinks owlishly. 

“There’s no problem,” he says, not really looking at Harry.

There’s plunking on the canvas over their heads. It’s raining.

“Well, you’ve obviously got a problem,” Harry persists. It’s just like him. Once he notices something amiss, he won’t back down until he gets to the root of it. “Spit it out, will you?”

Ron glances at his hand. It twitches.

“Alright, I’ll say it. No need to get your wand in a knot,” he pinches his nose. “Don’t expect me to skip up and down the tent because there’s some other damn thing we’ve got to find. Just add it to the list of stuff you don’t know.”

“I don’t know?” Harry parrots. “I don’t know?”

The rain is falling harder and heavier. Pitter-patter. It’s distracting. Deafening.

“Then,” Ron rasps, “tell me then, what do you know? Do you know what we’re doing? What you are doing? Are we wasting precious time fumbling around in the dark here?”

“Ron,” Hermione warns; though Ron pretends the rain has drowned out her voice.

There are a lot of problems. Like the Horcrux is tormenting them all, though Harry even more so in particular, as the fragment of Voldemort’s soul inside Harry is definitely reacting with its other part close by or in immediate contact. Like the scar—proof of said connection—is torturing Harry every night. Like how everything couldn’t be more different from what they’ve planned, from what Harry himself expected and these turns of events are making him lose his way, lose his mind and he wouldn’t acknowledge it. Like Harry is frustrated with their lack of progress but even more so with disappointing Ron and Hermione and everyone else; however he stubbornly keeps it to himself. Like Harry is trying so hard to maintain the Chosen-One image, to live up to others’ expectations and do his best for the sake of this world; all the while oblivious to how Ron and Hermione and everyone else are worrying about him. Sometimes being selfless is selfish.

It also has to do with the fact that Ron knows what he's doing, what he must do yet he holds back for some reason. Perhaps it’s fear. Perhaps it’s doubt. Ron too is losing his mind. The Horcrux is putting him through hell as well for it knows his shortcomings, knows his inner demons and knows exactly how to use them against him. The Horcrux knows what he’s done, knows how broken and patched-up he really is; knows that this magic, this power isn’t really his and it’s literally slowly killing him inside for years and while Ron understands how limited his time is, how it’s close to running out completely, he doesn’t do anything about it; knows that Ron is potentially perfectly capable of protecting Harry from anything but has never done it right, knows how many chances he’s squandered and what kind of detestable, good-for-nothing being he actually is—

“I thought you knew what you’d signed up for,” Harry says.

Ron barks out a laugh, a little too hysterical. “I thought I did too,” he says. He realises he probably means it in more ways than one.

“So what part of it isn’t living up to your expectations?” Harry snaps back. There isn’t only anger. Ron detects something else, too, something like trepidation, like he knows Ron is right, like his greatest nightmare is becoming reality. Ron isn’t thrilled either—in fact, it sucks the life—or what’s left of it—out of him. “Did you think we’d be staying in five-star hotels? Finding a Horcrux every other day? Did you think you’d be back to Mummy by Christmas?”

“I could ask you similar things,” Ron levels a chilling gaze at Harry. Words are pouring out of his mouth even if he doesn’t feel like he’s saying them. “You don’t know what you’re doing and you won’t admit it.”

“Well, sorry to let you down,” Harry says, surprisingly calm. “I’ve been straight with you from the start. I told you everything Dumbledore told me. And in the case you haven’t noticed, we’ve found one Horcrux—”

“Yeah, he showed you what to look for, but conveniently left out how to deal with it once you’ve found it, huh?” Though, that’s just like Dumbledore for not divulging his machinations. “We’re about as near getting rid of it as we are to finding the rest of them—nowhere effing near in other words.”

“Then why don’t you do anything to help out instead of sitting on your arse and drawing shit?” Harry spits.

“You think I’m sitting on my arse?” Ron smacks his sketchbook across Harry’s face. Hermione shrieks, taken aback as if he’s hit her instead. “I’m wracking my brains trying to figure out how to deal with psycho junior and you’re saying I’m not helping?”

“Take the locket off, Ron,” Hermione pleads, her voice shrill. “Please. You wouldn’t be talking like this if you hadn’t been wearing it all day.”

“Yeah, he would,” Harry seethes. “D’you think I haven’t noticed the two of you whispering behind my back? D’you think I didn’t guess you were thinking this stuff?”

“Harry, we weren’t—”

“You know I’m right,” Ron challenges. He does his best to contain his indignation and fails spectacularly. “You know this is going nowhere and Harry is as stubborn as a mule—you said it yourself that you were disappointed and you’d thought he had more to go on—”

“I didn’t say it like that—Harry, I didn’t!” 

Over six, almost seven years is more than enough for Ron and Hermione to recognise the signs. Stress, anxiety, fear, dilemmas, responsibilities, powerlessness—the formula of a motion sensor bomb; one wrong move and it blows up and leaves them naked and scarred, bleeding and tears falling. Thus Ron and Hermione watch their every move, every word, every gesture around Harry, even when he isn’t in the same room with them. They keep their distance but keep their door ajar nonetheless, for when Harry is ready to talk.

This isn’t the talk they want.

The rain is battering on their tent, staining it with large, blossoming watermarks; and fat, ugly tears are staining Hermione’s face. It’s fascinating how quick a good mood dampens or how quick an argument escalates. Everything is dark, wet and cold. The convenient tools that can destroy Horcruxes are god-knows-where; Ron has been spending every waking hour in the past few weeks finding out how to wrench the cursed one eighth of the Dark Lord’s soul out of its container to no avail; they are three teenagers in a tent smelling of cats, whose only achievement until now is not to be dead. Yet.

“So why are you still here?” Harry asks. To think he has the audacity to ask Ron something so useless. 

Ron has no interest in dancing around the subject; so he sneers, “Why do you keep asking us these questions we’re supposed to ask you?” He takes several steps toward Harry, who doesn’t back away. “If you can guess what we’re thinking about this, then start looking out. Open your bloody eyes. Destroying these Horcruxes is the key to defeating Him, but there are other things too. And this isn’t a battle between you and Him alone, this is war. We’re in it too. People are dying and being hunted down like literal animals everyday. Or do you not care at all?”

“Who says I don’t care?”

“I don’t know—maybe you should start acting like you actually do.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “Is it about what happened to Ginny? Ron, she was with the others, they were with Hagrid—”

“Yeah, I get it—‘the Weasley don’t need another kid injured’—there are too many of us Weasleys, it doesn’t matter if one dies, does it?” And hell, it’s not even one fraction of the problem.

“Ron!” Hermione intervenes, forcing her way between them. “I don’t think it means anything new has happened, anything we don’t know about; think, Ron, Bill’s already scarred, plenty of people must have seen that George has lost an ear by now, and you’re supposed to be on your deathbed with spattergroit, I’m sure that’s all he meant—”

“Oh, you’re sure, are you? Right then, well, I won’t bother myself about them. It’s all right for you, isn’t it, with your parents safely out of the way—”

“My parents are dead!” Harry bellows.

“And mine could be going the same way!” Ron yells back.

“Then GO!” Harry roars. “Go back to them, pretend you’re got over your spattergroit and Mummy’ll be able to feed you up and—”

It happens in an instant: before Ron is fully aware of it, or either Harry or Hermione can react, Harry is bound from head to toe with tendrils, which are burning so bright the blue looks almost white and it seems like daylight inside their tent.

Only when Hermione cries, “Let him go!” does it register to Ron what he has done and he slackens. The vines retreat, leaving angry red marks all over Harry. Ron presses his lips together and Harry is glaring at him throughout the entire healing process—much to his magic’s displeasure—as though he is seeing Ron clearly for the first time.

As the magic nestles back inside Ron, Harry all but orders, “Leave the Horcrux.”

Ron can feel it. Something has broken between them. He pulls the locket from over his head and hurls it to a nearby chair. 

He turns to Hermione whilst summoning his belongings. “I take that you’re staying?”

“I—” she looks close to tears again. “Yes—yes, I’m staying. Ron, we said we’d go with Harry, we said we’d help—”

“I see.” His rucksack zips up. “What’re you going to do, though?”

“What—” Hermione stutters, “What d’you mean?”

“Are you seriously letting him keep on acting like a brat, like he knows everything?” Ron clicks his tongue bitterly as he slings the sack over his shoulder. “Right, you’re two of a kind, Miss Brightest-Witch-of-Her-Age.”

“Ron—”

He doesn’t let her finish her sentence, disappearing with a snap of his fingers.

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.

Ron isn’t intimidated at all. Truly. The Snatchers, after all, are merely a bunch of brainless thugs, trying to earn gold by rounding up on easy prey. He supposes he does look like an easy prey, a child wandering around the dark empty streets alone (well, it’s not entirely off—if all this shit didn’t happen he’d still be at Hogwarts for his final year).

(It’s pretty humiliating, to be honest. It’s barely three hours since he left and he’s caught by bloody human traffickers. He must have been distracted by his anger.)

Wand taken and tied up, Ron silently observes the Snatchers arguing among each other whether he really is Alfred Cattermole, whose father is working at the Magical Maintenance Department, or not. Ron’s abductors don’t seem too smart; they have an advantage in number, nonetheless. 

But Ron isn’t their everyday wizard.

Still. Why did he let himself be captured so easily? Why did he let himself be such an easy target?

He’s better than that.

Why is he hesitating over these rats? They don’t mean anything to him. Why must he think about how he’d look to them?

Right. Why must he care anyway?

wHy mUsT He cAre?

Ron feels his restraints crumble to dust.

Nobody can judge him if they never live to tell the tale.

Ron lets out a maniacal cackle and sets everything on fire.

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.

Ron dreams of blue sky and howling wind and when he glances down there’s a layer of fog so he can’t see the ground underneath, can’t tell if the ground is really underneath, or if it exist at all; if he falls he’ll crash to the ground or not, if it hurts upon contact, if he will break into pieces or fade away into nothingness.

Ron dreams of boundless ocean. He gazes up and there’s no surface, peers down and there’s no bottom, looks around and there’s no land in sight, nothing. He’s completely alone. He’s underwater, warm and cool colours caressing him and he doesn’t know if it’s a good or a bad thing, sinking yet feeling as though he isn’t sinking at all.

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Bill jumps and Fleur shrieks and there’s a sharp sound of broken dishes when Ron manifests himself on top of their kitchen counter. They don’t interrogate him, thankfully, and warm up dinner for him, then usher him to bed.

Ron hopes his eldest brother won’t be upset when he sees the empty guest room the next morning. Surely he understands that Ron can’t stand idling around.

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(The world, the magic, it was amorphous, pure madness of colours and sounds he couldn’t distinguish. The magic had slid into every deep, dark corner of his mind and soul and those millions of voices had asked the same question, had the same single goal and the intent had reverberated all over his body, all over his being, making him pull and pull and pull as pure magic burned away his mortality and wrapped around him like a cocoon and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe but he wasn’t allowed to stop, couldn’t stop, because this thing wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t answer anyone it deemed unworthy—

you get it, don’t you, once it happens there’s no turning back, now say it

yes, i accept, anything and everything

—and the world he used to know shattered and exploded and he burst apart along with it—)

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“No one blames you, you know,” Fred tells Ron one night, his voice calm, his presence grounding even if the oceans in his eyes are ever-moving, waves rising and crashing. Ron stays silent, the fingers in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie fiddling with the Deluminator.

He has been hopping between Bill’s and the twins’; not that either of them isn’t welcoming or comforting—though it’s true that he doesn’t want to intrude, especially when Bill and Fleur are still in their honeymoon phase—but he can barely stay in one place for too long. Ron is restless and he knows why. He’s just not ready to confront his problems.

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Sometimes Ron asks magic, why, out of seven billion people in the world, why him.

Magic giggles, as if amused by its host’s obliviousness, answers, because he dares to dream.

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Ron clicks the Deluminator and every light in the room turn into a single light outside the window, appearing as mystical as a will-o’-the-wisp. Then it beams the same way Dumbledore’s eyes sparkle and Ron has to crack up while wiping the tears at the corner of his eyes.

He doesn’t like Dumbledore any better, he still thinks the late Headmaster is an annoying old man, dead too soon and leaving too much work behind and he’s unquestionably laughing at Ron’s misery from his grave, why don’t you start doing something already, Mr. Weasley—

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The golden doors of the locket swing wide open with a small click. Behind both of the glass windows within flashes open a living eye, dark as night, and with another blink, it turns scarlet and slit-pupiled like a snake.

Ron sees Harry gripping the locket tightly and faintly hears him shouting, stab, stab it, but there’s another voice in his head—

you may judge me, I can judge you all the same

you know what you are

you know what you’ve done

you’re not worthy of this power, that’s why it’s killing you 

you’re condemned

serves you right

filthy hybrid

how much human do you have left

are you still even human

Ron chants through the blood roaring in his head, clogging up in his mouth and leaking from his glass eye down on his face; he watches the soul fragment squirming and screaming between his tendrils as pure, true magic incinerates it, like pure, true magic devoured—and is still devouring—his soul once upon a time.

Then the world goes quiet. His mind does not.

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Harry sits down next to Ron on a large root. Around them is a chaos of strewn papers and parchments, documents, maps, diagrams, notes and illustrations. Ron doesn’t look up from the blueprint of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, scrawling down his analysis on a separate piece of paper. The scratching of lead pencil is one of Ron’s favourite sounds, it soothes his nerves and helps him focus. Adding Harry’s mumbles of the Levitation Charm to move pebbles as he gets used to the new wand, Ron would like to think that things are back to normal.

Almost.

Ron finishes his note on the security details on Vault 823—the Malfoys’—when he speaks, “I’m sorry.”

“You apologised once already. And you give me your wand to boot.” Harry emphasises his points by waving said wand. His was broken during the skirmish in Godric’s Hollow, and Ron only has his with him for pure technicalities and doesn’t use it except for Hogwarts classes ever since fifth year, it’s only sensible to hand it over to the one who actually needs a wand to perform magic. “Besides,” he chuckles, somewhat bitter, “you weren’t really wrong.”

“Doesn’t mean I should say it out loud.” Ron cringes at the memory. “And I hurt you, too.”

“I know you didn’t mean it,” Harry says firmly. “Your magic acted out because you were emotional.”

“Still.”

Ron moves on to the Notts—Vault 817. Most of Voldemort’s inner circle followers are from powerful pureblood families, the security of their vaults is usually extremely high. Vaults from 751 to 850 require a goblin to place his entire palm to open them, and several even have bloody dragons protecting them, among other security measures they can select from—with extra annual fees, naturally. 

Never had Ron ever thought of the day he would be planning on how to rob Gringotts. So much for, Thief, you have been warned, beware, of finding more than treasure there.

“It’s alright,” Harry reassures, this time with an actual smile and he’s peering at Ron. Ron, though, can't yet bring himself to look Harry in the eye, so he hangs his head lower, letting the long strands cover his left eye better. He may choose not to look; still he’s listening, taking in every single word, warm and sweet like honey as Harry says earnestly, “We missed you.”

Ron sucks in a breath and exhales through his mouth shakily. He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve this warmth, this kindness. Nevertheless, he won’t cry, as it’s stupid to cry now, over something like this, and it’ll make Harry worry about him again while he should be the one worrying about Harry.

Therefore Ron turns to Harry, finally, and smiles back, the close-lipped smile that also morphs his eyes into half-moons; Harry wouldn’t be able to see the exact state of his eyes this way. “You shouldn’t have,” he chirps back, then soaks himself in Harry’s quiet laughter. He doesn’t say anything about the fact that he actually means it, actually wishes they didn’t.

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The ambush at the Lovegood House had surely caught them off-guard. Ron wants to smack himself for brushing off the obvious signs regardless, that there had been something off about Xenophilius Lovegood the moment he greeted them and they should have turned back and ran away that instant. Ron decides he won’t fault Lovegood, he had his reasons. Moreover, learning about Luna’s abduction makes him think of her friend, his own sister, of Ginny who cares too much and is too reckless way too often; Ron can only hope she won’t do anything (else) outrageous, considering there’s barely a handful of people who can keep her safe where she is.

Hermione deems this trip rubbish and a waste of time, claiming that Lovegood might have made it all up to keep them talking until the Death Eaters arrived. Ron disagrees. Fabricating such elaborate stories under pressure is virtually impossible, he bets Lovegood believes those stories himself, that the Hallows are real, and Ron knows for a fact that they are very real.

What Lovegood said about Harry’s Invisibility Cloak makes sense, even if it’s something Ron has known for ages. And he has seen Dumbledore’s wand, he’s been in close vicinity with it often enough to see its true nature; and the reason why he could detect the Gaunt ring almost immediately is that the Resurrection Stone is attached to it. 

Supposing Ron had never seen them before, he would still say they are real. As long as they have a name, they are real. As real as magic. Magic tells him to stop doubting and keep dreaming, so he does.

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“Of all the circumstances I had imagined about capturing Harry Potter’s companions, this is the least impressive one, Weasley.”

Ron has secretly materialised a piece of charcoal and the floor and wall can be used as his canvas. He doesn’t need to raise his head to know who his visitor is. His voice is quite unforgettable. 

They are confined in separate cells—to prevent them from planning their escape together, apparently. A better decision from the Death Eaters, he’ll give them that. He doesn’t think the enemy will kill him right away—no, worse, they will use him and Hermione as leverage, and his insides twist; however he can’t lose his composure now.

That being the case, all Ron says is, “I’d never thought you’d care to visit me in person.”

Under the dim light from the sole torch in the dungeon, the Dark Lord appears more snake than human. His red eyes are watching Ron and his drawing with an intent Ron can’t yet decipher.

(If he’s being honest, Ron isn’t sure why he is still sitting here, doodling, being nice and quiet and boring. He isn’t sure why he’s letting them do whatever they want to him, including the torture, with and without magic involved. He isn’t sure why he let himself—let their group—be captured in the first place. The Death Eaters believe if he doesn’t have a wand he's practically helpless, but true magic users don’t need a wand to do magic. He is more than capable of obliterating this place, handling the Death Eaters and rescuing Harry and Hermione and whoever else is held captive. He doesn’t do any of those things nonetheless.)

(He supposes he’s waiting for something.)

(Waiting for Him.)

(The game he’s playing is a dangerous one.)

“You are a special prisoner,” Voldemort says, suspiciously soft for a madman who has created six—no, seven—Horcruxes and is every British magical citizen’s worst terror in human—which Ron highly doubts he still is anymore; at least Ron is more than one two-hundred-and-fifty-eighth of a human soul, or so he’d like to believe—form. Ron hears him take a couple steps closer. “Your artistry is impressive, for one. And I have heard that you are an exceptional chess player.”

Ron shrugs. “I’m alright.”

“I beg to differ. You have defeated Dumbledore thrice.”

Ron resists the urge to stare in bewilderment. How the fuck does Voldemort know about his only three victorious games against the deceased Headmaster? Instead, “I’m flattered,” he replies coolly. He stops drawing. “Get to the point. You wouldn’t come to this dingy cell just to chit-chat.”

“You are not wrong, it is dreadful down here.” Ron catches the Dark Lord’s gaze hovering at his covered eye. “Have a game with me, Weasley. I would like to see the first player ever to have beaten Dumbledore at his own game.”

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The Dark Lord isn’t an amateur; though he is, surprisingly, unbelievably easy to read on the chessboard. That’s Ron’s purely objective assessment. He’s an offensive player—he’s employed the Two Knight Defense, Fegatello Attack; White sacrifices a knight to attack Black’s king—and more tactical than strategic; his attack patterns, for the most part, are straightforward. He knows how to utilise each piece, but the lacking understanding in the dynamics between them as a whole, to have a concrete strategy is staggering. He actually looks perplexed when Ron not only doesn’t fall into his traps but also uses them against him. Ron doesn’t have to try that hard to carry them out.

(Two years of regular practise with Dumbledore has indeed improved his skills significantly, and he appreciates this, albeit begrudgingly.)

Ron takes Voldemort’s queen with his rook, wholly aware that the man is scrutinising his body language. He doesn’t mind. Voldemort hasn’t harmed Ron by any means, not to mention he’s ordered his minions to give Ron a bath, a set of new clothes and a full meal before they sit down face-to-face for the promised game. Considering this is a tyrant with a tendency to throw tantrums like a toddler, Ron must admit, his approach and attempt to persuade Ron is more careful and patient than expected.

“If you think you can talk me into going against Harry, then you think wrong,” Ron says when the game is nearing its end. He can checkmate Voldemort in four moves, and he is quite sure that his opponent is totally oblivious. 

To be honest, Ron is rather disappointed. He’s so used to the prolonged two-hours-and-above games with Dumbledore, this feels like a blink of an eye.

“You are Potter’s right-hand man. If there is anyone who knows his plans best, it is either you or the Mudblood.” The hand on Ron’s thigh twitches at Mudblood. “You are the less unpleasant option. And in any case, I have you here, in this room, playing chess with me. I can certainly try.”

“And I’m telling you not to waste your time and effort on a fool’s errand.” Ron watches the Dark Lord’s sole remaining pawn move one square ahead. “I haven’t got the slightest idea either.” As a matter of fact, they spend half of the time fumbling around in the dark.

“Oh?” Ron guess the Dark Lord’s expression right now can be referred as raising his eyebrows. It appears he has grasped the implication differently—which is totally off. Which is a good thing. A very good thing. “Potter does not divulge his plan to you? Odd, isn’t it?”

Ron remains silent and makes his move on the board.

“So there is a rift between you, I see. It is quite surprising. Or perhaps not.” Voldemort muses, “You see something your friends do not and they did not take it well. My inevitable victory, for instance.”

Ron only stares at him blankly. “That’s a bold assumption.”

The madman gives Ron a lipless smirk. “It is true, then.” He shakes his head, as though he’s a father being very patient to his difficult son. Ron gags internally. “You are a brilliant wizard. Why keep holding on to these hopeless ventures?”

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(He doesn’t know exactly when he starts seeing himself as a tool, an object, a manifestation of pure magical energy than a human. Upon realisation the notion doesn’t faze him as much, he welcomes it. Darkness, silence and solitude make people easily lost in their thoughts.

He thinks the man knows. Or has an idea, at the very least, about who—what—he really is, you are a brilliant wizard somehow sounds too genuine. After the battle at the Department of Mysteries and the battle of the Astronomy Tower at the end of last June, he isn’t surprised. Perhaps that’s why the Dark Lord hasn’t bombarded him with curses and torture yet; to the man he’s still an unknown variable, a coded sequence and, once he’s decrypted, will be an exceedingly potent weapon—akin to, whatchamacallit, nuclear bombs, is it?—and it’s only a matter of time before everything is razed to the grounds.

White spots bloom at the edges of his vision during sleepless nights, a stark contrast to the shadows, the cold bars, the charcoal doodles across the wall and all over the floor and the ceiling. Magic hums under his skin like an echo from an endlessly deep dark tunnel. A pessimist may say it’s hell calling out to him.)

.

.

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(“You’re lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truth!”)

Screaming.

(“What else did you take? What else have you got? Tel me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!”)

Screaming, too much screaming.

(“What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!”)

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“Your loyalty is admirable,” the Dark Lord observes as he glances at his king, who bows and throws his crown at the feet of Ron’s black bishop. Ron is astonished that the man is persevering with winning him over for that long; even now, there’s no rage, only thoughtful consideration mixed with overt interest. As though he couldn’t fathom how someone like Ron exists. “Why Harry Potter?”

Ron mulls it over. “Because I believe in Harry and what he represents.”

“And that is?”

He pauses. He doesn’t know for sure if there’s any sufficient word to describe it, the halo above Harry’s head, akin to that of an an angel. Fitting for a Savior of the World. So Ron merely shrugs, “Something, or someone that can make this world a better place, I suppose.”

The Dark Lord’s bony fingers drum on the desk. His shadow looms over the board, looms over Ron.

“So that is why you agreed to the Contract? Exchange the whole life you have ahead for an ideal that is not even yours?”

Ron blinks once, taking it in, and exhales.

“So you know. Of course.” His hunch is right. This feeling of release, though, is new. He thinks he understands now, what this chess game is for and why Voldemort is so interested in him. Understands what he’s been waiting for from the start. Ron thinks he’s smiling, bloody smiling in the face of one of the most evil wizards ever. Ron Weasley over three years ago wouldn’t dare to imagine this clusterfuck. “You know, because you’ve been searching for this power this entire time, and you never succeeded—and will never do.” This lets loose a hysterical laugh out of him. “Tragic, isn’t it, o’ great Dark Lord!”

Needless to say, Voldemort is now—at long last—done, bloodshot eyes piercing through Ron, furious and scornful; and he looks like he very much wants to curse Ron dead right then and there, but daren’t, for he knows what Ron is. 

“How could someone like you have your hands on this power?” Voldemort hisses, indignant—here it is, the temper tantrum, here it is. Harry has told them, the Dark Lord created his first Horcrux at the age of sixteen. Ron figures that more or less means he stays sixteen forever. “How could magic let a child like you possess it? How could the world let you be the gateway?”

“Why should it be you instead, then?” Ron counters. “You wouldn’t be able to bear it, at any rate,” he hums, stroking a vine, which glows brighter the moment he touches it. “It’s a Herculean effort, you know. To keep it in, to rein in all of it. Which you, no doubt, despise.”

The first time ever since he received this power, Ron feels pure satisfaction spreading all over him and he can’t contain it all, blue sparks dancing around him. His grin stretches so wide his cheeks hurt; he doesn’t know where his own maniacal laughter ends and the howling of magic—the world, worlds, universe—begins, millions of voices harmonising, you know, you know it full well—

“But to answer your questions—it’s because I dream, and you don’t,” Ron says, serene, turning his face skywards as magic storms over, tearing every wall every seam every restraint every barrier apart and the world around him caves in.

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Standing in front of his friends, arm raised, with the magic mistletoe growing its vines, its branches exponentially, stretching out everywhere, its trunk and its roots becoming his bones and marrows, Ron tries to smile yet the tears keep streaming. He starts drawing, non-stop, and the energy currents shift, shiver and transform. Their groans resonate with his magic, their song resounding thorough his skull, spilling out of him to his surroundings in waves.

Ron feels everyone staring at him, at the crystal orb in his left eye socket, at the magic materialised as multiple burning wings behind his back akin to those of a seraph, at the tendrils coiling around his arm, glowing bright blue and buzzing with some boundless energy, some unfathomable magic that feels like karmic force, like the cosmos incarnate. Luna presses her lips tight together, Harry and Hermione look around frantically then look at him as though they don’t recognise him in the slightest anymore. The mortal part inside Ron wails, devastated and desperate; his conscience raises its swords and slashes at him repeatedly. He’s protecting them, for Merlin’s sake, this isn’t the time to brood over how hideous he is. He knows. They haven’t seen the worst of him yet.

Ron wants to reassure them, that regardless of how twisted, how unsightly he becomes, deep inside he’s still the same Ron Weasley they know. He wants to cry, don’t be scared, don’t worry, I’m still here, it’s me here and I’ll keep everyone safe, don’t worry—

“Hey, Luna,” he says, his voice strangely peaceful. Ron needs to be the strongest one now, he’s standing tall and they’re crouching down behind him. He’s shielding them, defending them, he mustn’t give way now, isn’t this the reason why he has welcomed this magic, taken it in him. “Remember when you asked me about these vines?”

Does it hurt, she had asked.

Luna isn’t shaking like Harry or staying motionless like Hermione, she’s peering at him, somber and sympathetic. As if she understands—somewhat—what’s happening in this one-sided battle, what’s happening to Ron. Understands why he’s doing this, why he has done something so distasteful in the first place.

Ron lowers his arm at a right angle. The tendrils lunge forward, thrusting into their enemies, quick, clean and ruthless.

“Yeah, it hurts,” he murmurs. Ron thinks he sees his jailer a few dozen feet away, a vine stabbing through his chest and currently wrecking his insides, leaving him brawling and writhing in his own mess of blood and flesh. The stench of burnt human flesh is putrid and sickening. “It hurts so much I feel like dying.”

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Ron dreams of red, the swelling and still bleeding wounds on Hermione’s arms. Ron dreams of red drenching his vision, drenching his mind. Ron dreams of red pooling on the floor, splattering across the walls, over the cabinets and Malfoy’s luxurious décor. Ron dreams of red, small red flames scattered around the battlefield, the residue of spells, jinxes, hexes and curses, thrown at him in desperation, in futile attempts of stopping the monster they had unknowingly awoken.

(Ron dreams of red, auburn, ginger, the Weasley trademark. Ron dreams of red, rosy, the flush of his siblings’ cheeks under the summer sun. Ron dreams of red, maroon, the sweater he hates so much because it clashes with his hair horribly.)

Ron dreams of red, with a tinge of orange, a wild flower blooming right in front of his eyes, as he’s lying, feeling sands and rocks and weeds under his back and between his fingers. Ron dreams of red, blood red, sanguine, cinnabar and copper, the mouthfuls of blood he hurls out while struggling to get up on his feet, his head throbbing, his muscles aching, an acidic, rancid, revolting taste in his mouth; something boils and bubbles in his stomach, rises up to his throat and he retches again.

Ron dreams of red, burnt orange, yellow, pink, periwinkle and dark blue chasing each other at the horizon during sunset, the sun a majestic dark crimson an ocean away, already halfway down under the line where the sky and the sea meet. He wonders how far, how long he would have to swim to reach it, when he would be big enough, strong enough, resilient enough to get there. He guesses it’s where paradise is, and he wonders how the world looks at the other side of the horizon.

He wonders how paradise looks.

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Most of the time at the Shell Cottage Ron curls up on the sofa and draws, designs plans and scribbles notes until his hands are sore and he’s drowning in papers and parchments again. Everything is going downhill without brakes and Ron organises this mess how he always does it—pouring everything out in his drawings. When he isn’t sorting out their Gringotts break-in he is drawing, and he doesn’t know how many he’s finished and half of them he doesn’t know what he’s drawn. They’re supposed to look garbled anyway.

(They’re dumping grounds, junkyards. With all sorts of things, used, worn-out, broken, useless, but never really discarded, because contrary to others’ belief Ron is stubborn too, and he isn’t someone who lets things go, who gives in without a fight. He doesn’t think he can let go, can give in even if he wants to, he still has magic holding him in place, he still has a reason to carry on, no matter how grim the future looks or how heavy the deeds accumulated on his shoulders are.)

They’re buying time and preparing for the next phase. There’s still work done and work waiting to be done. Nevertheless, this peace is alluring. Ron would like to forget the chaos outside, and also inside, for once, and just be. 

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The morning Luna leaves, she comes down rather early and sits on the porch beside Ron, who has pulled another all-nighter as he couldn’t sleep again. They watch the sunrise together. At the corner of his eyes Ron sees the first light of the day bathing Luna in a gentle glow, making her hair shine and her eyes gleam and he thinks at that moment she looks just like the goddess she’s named after.

Luna lets Ron draw her and when he’s done he tears the page out and gives it to her. She takes her time admiring it, then gazes at him, at his scarred hands and reaches out, sliding her fingers into his and giving a light squeeze. Silver meets blue and glass and something inside him stirs, then mellows out, warm and soft.

“You did nothing wrong,” she assures. Ron nods once; Luna’s smile is kind and fond. “We understand.”

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They hoist themselves up on the dragon, which doesn’t realise that there are three passengers on its back or even the fact that it isn’t chained anymore. Ron sweeps his surroundings and sees that the passageway is too small, too narrow for it to get through.

Ron puts his hand on the nearest tunnel wall, navigating through its structure, its inner cracks and gaps. “Heads down,” is the curt warning he gives his companions before he connects certain pressure points all at once. 

The loud noises of boulders and stalactites showering down—Ron has to chop up the giant chunk of rock then deflect the ruins away from them; he didn’t think this through—alert the dragon that yes, it’s free now and it crawls upward toward the fresher air. Harry and Hermione start carving out more of the path with gourging spells as Ron changes his tactics to actively modifying its form instead, resulting in a series of uncanny bubbling as the tunnel ahead of them widens and the path behind them narrows.

When they reaches the brightly lit marble hallway, goblins and wizards shrieking and running for cover, the dragon has enough room to spread its wings at last. It stumbles into the streets of Diagon Alley and takes off to the sky, the three teenagers clutching on its steely scales for dear life.

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The owner of the Hog’s Head has long, stringy, white-grey hair and piercing blue eyes behind the dirty spectacles. Aberforth Dumbledore is brusque and cynical and normally Ron would prefer him to his secretive and sage elder brother; however the brotherly resemblances in appearance are striking and Ron thinks his heart stops for a beat, weighed down by unfinished business and silent promises.

“You didn’t seem surprised,” Hermione points out when they follow Neville on the secret passage to Hogwarts. “When Aberforth talked about Ariana and Grindelwald—you didn’t react at all.”

Ron hesitates a bit. “I already knew all of it,” he quietly admits.

At his confession, Harry turns his head around so quickly it might have flung out of his neck.

“You knew?!?” he exclaims. “How? Did Dumbledore tell you?”

Ron winces slightly at the volume. “It’s not as you think it is. It’s one of the many things Dumbledore would like to take to his grave, if possible.” He shrugs helplessly. “I just—happened to know.” Which is a terrible explanation, but Ron can’t really come up with a better one, as it is true, regardless of how absurd it sounds. Ron simply sees, hears and feels much more than he’d like. He just hardly ever reveals what he knows.

So it’s an understatement that his friends are baffled and annoyed.

“I never knew you were close to Dumbledore,” Harry accuses.

“Well, he did leave me the Deluminator, which is one of a kind, didn’t he?” Ron retorts cheekily.

“I remember he asked to talk to you privately, once. Just before our fifth year started,” Harry argues. Ron sighs. Apparently Harry still holds it against him. “What you talked about, you never told us.”

“It was nothing. We played chess.”

“Is that why you constantly disappeared on random nights every week during our fifth and six year as well?” Hermione chimes in. 

Ron rolls his eyes. “Yes. Why does it matter?”

“Just trying to fill in the blanks,” Hermione says, thoughtful. “He knew, didn’t he? About your magic?” she deduces.

Ron worries his lower lip.

It’s only fair, he supposes—Ron knew of Dumbledore’s dirty secrets, the Headmaster knew his in kind. Even if they never discussed those matters. Their verbal conversations were about magic theories (Transfiguration, in particular), Harry, the Order, the then impending war and tracking Voldemort’s Horcruxes. Never personal. Dumbledore never disclosed his plots and schemes to Ron, not outright, as though he trusted Ron would be able to read between the lines and meet him halfway. Just as Ron cooperated because he knew he would never have to explain his condition, what he’s capable of, and he knew the Headmaster neither judged him nor delved too much into it, understanding without saying that it was a sensitive topic.

(Dumbledore sure had a way to obtain information, to unravel layers of meanings in a statement as if he was peeling the layers of an onion. Be that as it may, Ron still wonders at times, how Dumbledore, just by looking at him, looking closely, looking at Ron Weasley, figured out that he’d done something illicit, something supposedly impossible. Which makes him in turn wonder if Dumbledore himself at one point had received the same offer as he did, wonder why the old man had refused it, Dumbledore was one ambitious man after all.)

Ron thinks of the large circular office behind the gargoyle statue with a password Dumbledore never gave him, because he knew Ron could guess what type of sweets he was currently into and have fun with it; of Fawkes always inclining his head and cooing in greeting, of little trinkets and intricate magical devices which were constantly either whirring, clinking, emitting puffs of smokes, or all of the above. Ron thinks of smashed chess pieces scattered across the board, thinks about how Dumbledore loved his gambits and throwing off his opponents all the same, how he could execute those complicated combinations effortlessly, how every time Ron thought he was one step ahead Dumbledore might have seen ten moves into the future. How Dumbledore taught Ron to see the whole board better, to set up his pieces more efficiently, to pull off the same impressive sequences. How Dumbledore didn’t have to use his words to explain his manoeuvres to Ron, because what he needed to say was already laid out on the board.

Ron thinks about their last game, he was Black and Dumbledore was White, the black knight had pushed the white king to the bottom left square of the board, making him surrender his crown at long last. Ron’s third victory in two years, three out of hundreds of games they played together. And it wasn’t the endgame he wanted. He’d like a rematch. 

Ron thinks about how he’d lost to Dumbledore more than anyone else his entire life, yet still looked—looks—forward to the next game, and the next, the next, the next.

Since any other opponents have been underwhelming compared to him. 

Ron misses those games. He misses playing chess with Dumbledore.

Ron misses Dumbledore.

Bloody hell.

“Ron?”

His friends are looking at him. Hermione’s brows knit together. Harry presses his lips together in a frown. Neville glances between the three of them worriedly.

Ron wipes his eyes. Clears his throat. Takes a deep breath in. “Yeah, he did know,” he agrees.

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It takes him a while, but Ron finds it eventually, a small snake engraved at the side of a copper sink tap.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Hermione sounds understandably doubtful.

“Who knows.” Ron remembers the sound Harry made when he unlocked the Slytherin locket and when he opened this very chamber five years ago. However, to mimic it closely enough to fool Slytherin’s enchantment, he isn’t too confident.

Turns out he doesn’t have to beat himself up over it. At the fifth attempt, the taps glow a bright white light and starts to spin. Then the sink lowers, revealing a large pipe, wide enough for an adult to slide into. 

Ron cranes his neck over and stares down into the darkness below, not twelve-year-old Ron Weasley anymore and knowing where it leads to, merely holds out his hand for Hermione, “Let’s go.”

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Hogwarts is breaking, is bleeding, pieces of bricks and marble tiles strewn all over the corridors and the classrooms, ruined armours and broken statues and empty portraits, flashing spells bouncing off the walls. Yet the castle doesn’t cry, she turns her anguish and resentment into strength and courage so as to support and defend her students. Ron smiles, Hogwarts has already done so much, has suffered so much, the students can protect her too and she can rely on them, always.

It’s pandemonium all over again—screams, shouts, yells, crashes, explosions—Ron curls his lips, bitter, he can never get used to this. Hogwarts murmurs, it’s alright, it’s going to be alright, everything will work out in the end, comforting herself more than comforting him because Hogwarts students are strong and brave, too; and there’s something like pride blooming and spreading across the walls, the stairs, the hallways.

The castle pats him one last time, she’s ready to fight back.

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Compared to the mayhem outside, the Room of Requirement is eerily silent, towers and towers of objects hidden by generations after generations of students looming over them. Their footsteps echoing through the aisles only intensify his anticipation.

Ron is examining an assortment of dusty potion bottles in a battered shelf when he hears Harry talking to someone on the other side of the wall. The other voices are familiar, and there are three of them. He leaps on top of the pile and peers down, bingo.

Ron picks out his projectiles—three sizable trunks would do splendidly—and motions them toward their designated targets. The trunks fly straight into them, knocking them over.

“You alright?” he calls out to Harry when he descends and begins to jog over.

“Yeah,” Harry responds and grabs a diadem from a blistered old cupboard. “Thanks.”

Their luck ends there. 

Crabbe, still on the ground, whips his wand out, points at the fifty foot mountain next to Ron and thunders, “Descendo!”

The wall starts to wobble, then an abundance of unidentifiable junks rains on him.

“Ron!” Harry bellows and somewhere out of sight, Hermione screams.

Ron manages to hold his hand up and stop the tsunami in its tracks. He weaves through the mess and releases the freeze once he gets out, just in time to witness Crabbe aim a Crucio at Harry. As he narrowly avoids it Ron charges forward, gathering more ammunition along the way and hurling them at Malfoy and his croons. Malfoy, the best duelist of the three, quickly summons a shield to protect himself and his colleagues.

“Go!” Ron yells at Harry.

However Harry doesn’t go—instead, he levels his wand at Malfoy and shouts, “Expelliarmus!”, to which Malfoy steps aside swiftly. Ron redirects Goyle’s incoming barrage of curses upwards, carefully not letting them hit anything around. Fighting in close quarters with random objects on the verge of toppling is irritating.

Crabbe is about to have another curse thrown out when Malfoy holds him back.

“STOP!” he shouts. “The Dark Lord wants him alive—”

“So? I’m not killing him, am I?” Crabbe shouts back, throwing off Malfoy’s restraining arm. “But if I can, I will, the Dark Lord wants him dead anyway, what’s the diff—”

A jet of scarlet light shoots past Harry’s shoulder: Hermione has run around the corner behind him and sent a Stunning Spell straight at Crabbe’s head. It only misses because Malfoy pulls him out of the way.

“It’s that Mudblood! Avada Kedavra!”

Hermione ducks. Ron feels his blood boil and Harry must be the same as well, seeing that he aims a Stunner at Crabbe, who staggers out of the way, knocking Malfoy’s wand out of his hand. It rolls away and disappears underneath a hill of broken furniture and bones and Ron can’t help but guffaw at the irony of the situation, which is a stupid thing to do as it causes him to deflect Goyle’s latest jinx slightly off; it jostles a table in the middle of a bulwark and makes everything tumble down into a giant heap between them, blocking Ron’s vision.

Ron curses and makes his way over the pile. 

“Don’t kill him! DON’T KILL HIM!” Malfoy is yelling at Crabbe and Goyle, who are both aiming at Harry.

Harry, ever the opportunist, doesn’t waste his chance. “Expelliarmus!”

Goyle’s wand flies out of his hand and vanishes into the bulwark of junks beside him; he jumps foolishly on the spot, trying to retrieve it. Hermione finishes him off with another Stunner straight to his head.

One down, one wand-less and is cowering like a child behind a three-legged wardrobe, only one more to go.

Then Crabbe, one against three, decides to do something dramatic. And moronic. And suicidal.

A roaring, billowing noise is their only split-second warning and Ron blanches.

“You must be kidding,” he mutters and catapults himself over to regroup with Harry and Hermione.

“Like it hot, scum?” Crabbe roars and he’s fleeing, too, having no control or whatsoever over what he has done. The flames grow into an abnormal size in an instant and don't stop growing, licking up the sides of the bulwarks, which are crumbling into ashes upon contact.

(Children, this is why we don’t play with fire.)

“Aguamenti!” Harry cries, but the jet of water that soars from the tip of his wand evaporates in the air.

“Run!” Ron grabs his arm, pulling him along.

Malfoy drags the Stunned Goyle with him; Crabbe outruns them, utterly terrified now he has registered what he has done. Harry, Hermione and Ron are also running for their lives, and the fire is chasing after them. It’s not normal fire, it’s Fiendfyre; it rapidly engulfs everything in its vicinity and mutates into fiery monsters and it’s sentient, too, with a persistent desire to pursue any living being close by, to incinerate everything it can.

Like the Killing Curse, it’s a nature-defying curse—one of the few magic that breaches the seams between the planes.

Ron has plenty of experience in controlling forces and beings that are generally impossible to control. Which means he knows precisely what kind of madness it is when he sees it; which also means he wants nothing to do with it.

Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle are nowhere to be seen; Harry, Hermione and Ron are surrounded; the fiery beasts, snakes, dragons, eagles, chimaeras are closing in on them, claws and horns and fangs and tails lashing, and the heat is solid as a wall around them. 

Ron swears and calls to his magic. He feels it surge forward, materialising two vines which secure around Harry and Hermione and he launches them into the air, narrowly missing the fangs of a tiger as it snaps its jaws at them. The smoke and heat are suffocating and Ron slightly adjusts the space around them while surveying his surroundings to find the door, though it seems virtually hopeless amidst all the black smoke and raging fire.

Harry is still looking down at the inferno below, seemingly searching for something—someone.

And then there’s a faint, distressing human scream, almost drowned out by the roars of the all-consuming flames.

One glance at Harry and Ron knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“Harry, it’s—too—dangerous!” he reminds Harry. 

“We can’t just leave them!” Harry retorts.

Let the scumbags who brought about all these bollocks in the first place burn alive? Ron would gladly do so. 

“You can’t save everyone!” he argues instead.

Harry yells back, “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try! They don’t deserve to die here!”

Urgh, why? Just, why?

Ron lets out an frustrated groan and circles back, “If we die for these bloody wankers I’ll kill you myself!” 

Activating his scan for lifeforms among the inferno, Ron is able to detect Malfoy with his arms around an unconscious Goyle, perching on a tower of charred desks that is about to collapse altogether. He dives, extending two more tendrils to snatch the both of them up; swerves upwards, barely avoiding the tongue of a snake, and accelerates.

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Everything happens as though it’s a film playing in slow-motion. Percy aims a jinx straight at Thicknesse, who falls to the ground with tiny spikes breaking out all over his body, he seems to be turning into a sea urchin. Fred is dueling with another Death Eater, demolishing him with three separate Stunners, while looking at Percy with glee and pride, as their uptight, serious brother has just made a joke.

The air blows up and everything happens as though it’s a film playing in slow-motion. Ron isn’t sure what he sees, what he hears; he just knows something is wrong, really wrong, as though he’s suddenly in zugzwang, he has no choice but to move, he has to move and he only knows to reach out, to push the grinning redhead out of the way—he isn’t going to make it, he isn’t going to make it—and before he knows it their positions are switched and the world tears apart, everything erupts into pain pain pain pain pain pain and he can’t tell what is what anymore—

The sky is blue, his brother’s wide, frantic eyes are blue, his magic burns blue and the fire burns blue and fresh blood somehow turns blue like devil’s blood and he thinks, this is fine, too—

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(“You have not told Harry the truth yet.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t find the right moment.”

“You need not apologise. If anything, I am the one to blame. I have made you suffer too much.”

“So you know what you did wrong. And—please, don’t look at me like that. Save it for Harry. Though he’d forgive you anyway.”

“I must say, I always underestimate you. Or perhaps it is you who always manages to exceed people’s expectations.”

“And they say I’m an underachiever.”

“You do not take compliments well, do you?”

“What I’ve done—there’s nothing to be proud of.”

“You should be, my boy. You have accomplished deeds that most men could never dream of. You have my sincerest gratitude.”

“I did it because I wanted to. Although, if you had to, I’m always down for another game or two—but, sadly, that’s not possible.”

“It is regrettable, indeed. You have been an outstanding player. Taking your age into consideration, one could even call you a chess genius.”

“You flatter me.”

“I am being perfectly honest. You have been the most fascinating opponent I have played against in decades.”

“Likewise. I’m sure you’ll find another worthy opponent in the afterlife, Professor. And I hope you have a good time in general. For what it’s worth, you deserve it.”

“And I wish you the best of luck on your journey as well.”)

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(He draws his eyes shut. The threads slip themselves between the stitches and pull, pull until they snap and the world fractures and moans and magic bleeds from the cracks, drips, drop by drop, like a tap which hasn’t been turned off all the way, the colours blend together into crystal clear, cold and harsh and sharp; the gems fall one by one to the lower bulb of the hourglass, clank, clank, clank, counting down each second before the universe devours everything.)

(This is his last magic spell in this reality. It’s not like he has anything else to lose.)

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Voldemort bellows Avada Kedavra and Harry screams Expelliarmus and jets of red and green collide midair and it explodes and flames flare up at the dead centre of the circle they have been treading.

Only this time the fire isn’t yellow; it’s blue, of burning sulfur and butane, of will-o’-the-wisp and Rigel of Orion; and there’s also static, sparks, lightning strikes, comets, pulsars, brilliant and erratic and alive; energy crackles not unlike someone’s exasperated grumbles, who the bloody hell uses Disarming Charm against the Killing Curse?

Harry blinks and sees the Elder Wand fly high, stark against the sunrise, and he, with the reflexes of a Seeker, catches it. Tom Riddle’s own Killing Curse forces what’s left of his own soul out of his body and he falls backward like a puppet with its strings snapped, his body feeble and shrunken and motionless, his pale hands empty and his snake-like face vacant. Voldemort is dead and Harry has two wands in his hands, the legendary Wand of Destiny and Ron Weasley’s willow wand, and feels as if there is an electric current running over his body.

Harry turns his gaze skywards and greatly resents the fact that the sky is a blue so idyllic when the earth is soaked in blood and countless souls are lost. It reminds Harry of Ron’s right eye, the good eye, which is—was—so so so blue, as if he has—had—the whole sky in his eye, clear and bright and fervent, even when his magic mutated him, consumed him. He can’t help but wonder how Ron did what he did, how he could smile despite the soul-crushing pain, how he could make magic feel all the more magical. 

Harry wonders, in the end, who the actual hero is.

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are you satisfied?

i suppose. it could be worse. how did i do?

only you can decide that. does it really matter anymore, though?

yeah. this is the end. now it’s time i pay the price, isn’t it?

look again.

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First and foremost, he is a wizard. He is born with magic, magic is a part of him and he is a part of magic. The roots, the branches and the leaves of Yggdrasil cheer in millions of voices and so does magic; heaven sings and hell howls and earth calls and universe hums all the same, past and present and future come together into a single dream, a sole purpose.

He suddenly realises, life and world and universe and magic are one and only, a seed planted inside him, sprouted by innocence and curiosity, bloomed under sunlight and rainfall and laughter, quill scratching on parchment and charcoal scrawling on paper, fantasies and desire for a path, a reality he has tried so hard to look for and fight for since childhood. The world inside him is an ever-raging storm of colours and sounds, a macrocosm filled with stars, nebulas, planets and galaxies. And for the first and also the last time, he opens up and lets it all out.

He thinks it’s supposed to hurt, an excruciating pain enough to burn him into nothingness and erase him from this reality, because the world is a sadistic bastard. And it does hurt, somewhat, but not in the mortal and trivial way he knows and expects; the pain goes as abruptly and quickly as it comes and when everything is said and done he sighs in relief and smiles with the entire universe in his eyes, in his heart and in his whole being. The universe is his whole being.

It begins with a seed, a flame, a what if, a hope, a seemingly impossible dream; it grows with care and experience, with imagination and passion, with resilience and not giving up; and the universe laughs, this is the end.

There is no end.

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Ron Weasley has a few—no, a few dozen sketchbooks, with thousands and thousands of drawings. The world explodes like supernovas, chaos in its purest state, of dancing colours and bouncing shapes and stretching curves, ever-changing and ever-expanding. He has no words to describe this magic, the magic only he can see, touch or use, the magic that belongs to him and him alone.

Ron Weasley dreams. He dreams of the mid-June sky, the shade of forget-me-nots, of flaming locks, of his siblings chasing each other in the vast meadow at the end of the village, of ink, paint and charcoal staining his fingertips. He dreams of Hogwarts basking in sunlight, golden and majestic; dreams of the vivid emerald of Harry’s eyes and Hermione’s small and neat handwriting on parchments, of chess games and Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes and grandfatherly smiles. Dreams of blue static and glowing tendrils, of green Avada Kedavra and red Expelliarmus. Dreams as his world screams and thrashes and breaks until there is only stillness.

Ron Weasley dreams and dreams and dreams, until the colours spill out of his mind, pour into his drawings, flood his world; and he dissolves into that colourful ocean, dissolves into magic, into the universe and turns into stardust; and he thinks he can finally stop dreaming.

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fin