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Chapter Text

Prologue

Ron shivered. No matter how they tweaked the environmental spells at Hogwarts, the dungeons were ice-cold an hour after sunset, even in the dog days of summer, and eerie, besides. Darkness seemed to cling to the stones that surrounded him, and he could not escape the feeling of being a small animal in a deep, dark warren, despite the slivers of moonlight enchanted to light the halls. So when a sound rang out amidst all the heavy silence, Ron's heart leapt into his throat.

"Weasley!"

"Merlin, Malfoy," he said with a hand clutched to his chest. "Don't do that!"

"What do you think you're doing, wandering about after curfew?" Malfoy demanded, sliding out of shadow and into the false moonlight. A tired smirk graced his pointy features. "We'll see what Professor Snape has to say about this!"

Ron pressed his lips together for a moment of silent rebellion. "I don't have time for this now," he said. He slipped past the blond boy and continued to move purposefully forward. "Besides," he shot over his shoulder, "I'm on my way to see Professor Snape."

Malfoy looked around as if to share this blatant falsehood with someone, issuing an incredulous little laugh. Ron reached one of the several winding staircases that led down into the dungeons before the Slytherin found his voice again.

"At this hour?" He manoeuvred in front of Ron and drew his wand. "I suppose next you'll say you saw Snape and McGonagall sharing Firewhiskey out of the House Cup."

Ron's features went grim. "Out of the way, Malfoy. I mean it."

"Petrificus!" Malfoy exclaimed, with a theatrical flourish that would have gotten him killed in a real duel. "Expelliarmus!" Malfoy shook his wand, as though he thought the magic were stuck, and a few good waggles would loosen it.

"Come along if you want," Ron ordered, sidestepping the flabbergasted Malfoy. "Only, hurry it up."

"There's something... gone wrong, with..." Malfoy stammered, trailing after him.

"And a good thing, too," Ron replied. "A Petrificus might've cracked my head open on these stones." He eyed the Slytherin. "Good thing you're as hopeless with a wand as you ever were."

"Shut up, Weasel! Ten points from Gryffindor for resisting a prefect!"

Ron rubbed at an encroaching headache. He didn't understand why this never got any easier; it wasn't as though he and Malfoy had ever been friends. But looking at Malfoy – at the dark, dark circles under his eyes, the paler than pallid skin, the hands that trembled, even now – he couldn't help but feel a little horrified, despite everything. The expression of dawning surmise as Draco attempted to remove points never lost its hopeless edge.

"T-ten points from –"

"There's usually a sort of little nudge that means the points have been awarded or taken away," Ron prompted, but he didn't stop moving. It wasn't like Malfoy was his only worry, tonight.

Draco Malfoy looked unseated. He jerked a small nod and paled even further, though Ron wasn't sure how that was possible. "Something's happened, hasn't it? My wand – I'm no longer a prefect, am I? They found it out, didn't they? And you – you used that – that Map... you're here for me... you're taking me to Snape..."

Malfoy's panic finally brought Ron to a reluctant pause. "Easy," Ron said. "I left Gryffindor Tower for Hermione, she's out wandering again. It's nothing to do with you." He drew the Marauder's Map out of his pocket. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good," he whispered.

The small dot labelled 'Hermione Snape' was not far ahead of them; she looked to be in the Potions lab.

Malfoy blinked over his shoulder, then took a stumbling step back.

Ron folded up the Map and placed it in one of the many inside pockets of his coat, continuing in Hermione's direction.

"Professor Snape..." Malfoy kept shooting him wary little glances, but he trailed Ron to the Potions lab, as Ron had known he would.

Ron knocked on the door and poked his head in. "Hermione."

"…the beeswax with the oil of sulfur," Hermione murmured thoughtfully, the thump of her boots muffled under the susurrus of her skirt as it swept the flagstones. "Only, there's every possibility that would interact with the citrus. Severus?"

"No, it's Ron," Ron said clearly, stepping through the door and jerking Draco forward with a nod of his head. "And Malfoy."

"…that might work," she allowed, sounding somewhat sarcastic, "if hellebore were anywhere to be found this time of year. Why do you insist on employing the most caustic and dangerous ingredients? We've spoken about that death wish; it doesn't suit you. Why not something gentler and more common? Neville said –"

"'Mione," Ron tried again, walking up to her pacing form and standing in her way.

"… well aware of your opinion of Neville, but no one can deny his skill in Herbology." She blinked. "Oh, Ron! Hello. Sev, Ron's here."

Draco's eyes traced Hermione's scarred face, the white streak in her brown curls. "Granger?"

Hermione leaned forward, head tilted to one side. "No-one's called me that in awhile." She frowned. "Are you quite all right?"

Draco sank heavily onto one of the low benches that ran along the front wall. "Your – your face –" He pointed out the long scar that ran across Hermione's left eye and down her cheek. Ron watched Draco's throat work. "I did that."

Ron lowered onto his haunches in front of the blond Slytherin and shook his head. "Your father did, with a head-on Sectumsempra. Thought it was poetic justice, reckon. She's pretty lucky, given that he meant to take her head off." Behind them, Hermione had taken up her monologue again, striding back and forth, arguing Potions with the empty air. Ron ignored her, for now: one thing at a time.

Draco groaned as he looked at Hermione. "You told me you were going to see Professor Snape –"

Ron took a deep, fortifying breath. "She is Professor Snape," he replied, his gaze trailing to Hermione's too-thin, pacing form. "The only Professor Snape for a long while now, no matter how she talks to him." He stared at Malfoy. "Can you hold the rest of your questions until I get her out of here?"

A sneer flickered across Draco's features before dissolving under Ron's unwavering gaze. "Y-yes. I mean, I suppose." Malfoy shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck.

Ron moved to intercept the agitated witch. "Hermione," he said.

Hermione's scar pulled her features ugly in her anger. "People are dying. I can go without a little sleep. I'm fine!" Then her shoulders fell forward, shrinking her frame. "Besides, we're close – so close. Just a few more permutations…"

Ron drew his wand. "Tempus. It's three in the morning. You're no use to anyone half-dead." He paused, then, a helpless expression stealing over his features. "Severus, you tell her."

Draco turned to stare at Ron, brows in his golden hair.

There was a stifling moment of quiet as Hermione tilted her head to one side in an attitude of fond yet exasperated attention. "…oh, very well," she huffed. "I know when I'm outnumbered. But I'll be back here first thing, you see if I don't."

When Ron reached out to clasp her hand, she jerked back from his touch.

"I'm not crazy," she said suddenly, cheeks flushed. "And I don't need to be led off to bed like a child." She nodded stiffly to Draco – "I hope you feel better soon –" and slammed the heavy, oaken door on her way out.

Wordlessly, Ron unfurled the Map atop one of the large workbenches and stared as the dot labelled 'Hermione Snape' moved again through the dungeons; Malfoy rose and peered over his shoulder. Ron breathed a deep sigh once she entered her rooms.

"What's the matter with her?" Draco demanded.

"She's alright," Ron said, defensively. "Mostly. It's just sometimes she thinks the war's still on –"

"Thank you, I divined that for myself," he snapped. "Her – her hair –"

Ron's lips flattened into a rigid line that trembled an instant before he replied. "She got that when she saw Harry die at the Battle of Hogsmeade. I never did credit it, but apparently, get someone scared enough and their hair really does turn white."

"The Battle of Hogsmeade – it's the Battle of Hogwarts that sounds familiar."

"It should. A lot of people died there. Including you."

For a minute, Draco only stared. Then, he took his wand out again and gave it an experimental little shake. "Lumos. Wingardium leviosa. Alohomora." The blond boy pocketed the wand with shaking hands. Malfoy's grey, luminous eyes scanned his; slowly, very slowly, the fog began to clear from them. "I went fighting against the Ministry Aurors. Surrounded, a dozen to one." He cleared his throat. "Some might say it was a very romantic end."

"Merlin's balls, Malfoy," Ron huffed. "You very nearly had me worried this time around."

Draco shook his head again, rapidly, from side-to-side. "How long was I out?"

"I haven't seen you in two weeks or thereabouts," Ron replied, "though time does seem to pass strangely, here." He eyed Malfoy. "You really look like hell."

"As you insist on reminding me," Draco replied, sniffing. "Let me reiterate that I was tirelessly working for my family's betterment when I died."

"Their survival, you mean."

"Better alive than dead."

Ron surveyed the empty Potions lab. "…maybe."

There was a space of silence. Ron was glad to have Draco back – loathe as he was to admit it – but there was always a few awkward moments shortly after his return. Ron wasn't sure what Draco thought about, himself – but for his part, Ron always began to wonder if someday Draco wouldn't come back. It happened to ghosts, sometimes: their sense of self dissolved away, especially if they'd died violently, and especially if they'd died without accomplishing something important. Draco's ghost ticked both boxes, and Ron couldn't help but think in these moments that it was only a matter of time.

Though Ron wondered who he was to judge. Sometimes, he would look up, and the depth of grey eyes and shock of white hair in the boy before him would startle him badly. Some part of him still longed for, expected, even, to be met with Harry, shoving his spectacles up his nose with one finger, lips stretching into Harry's wry, self-deprecating smile. And if mistaking Malfoy for Harry wasn't full-moon lunacy, he didn't know what was.

Sometimes he liked to imagine Harry was outside flying Quidditch, or down in the Great Hall, or hunched over a book in the library in desperate study for a Potions exam...

Sometimes he envied Hermione –

A low whistle emanated from beside Ron, and for a moment he worried he'd said that last part aloud.

But it wasn't Ron's strange thoughts, voiced or otherwise, that had garnered Draco's attention. "Would you look at this," he breathed, pointing out a large stack of parchment in a half-open drawer.

Ron lifted the pile free from the confines of the desk. It was covered with Snape's trademark chickenscratch as well as Hermione's flowing, elegant hand. Either the work was something Hermione read over and over, the work was something begun with Severus and continued on her own – or, worst of all, it was solely Hermione's work, and Hermione had taken up forging her husband's hand to further her fantasy. It wasn't dusty, so it must have been something that Hermione handled often.

"Your little girlfriend's been busy," Draco observed. "Do you know what this is?"

"Hermione was never my girlfriend," Ron snapped.

"A fact that still stings," Draco laughed. At Ron's severe look, he cleared his throat and began again. "These are Arithmancical calculations. Look at this, the Umlaght Equation, only – with one variable missing." He frowned.

"Queen's English, if you please."

"Gr – Sn – Hermione and the Professor were working on some potion that changed the perception of time."

"Why would you want a potion to do that?" Ron had learned over the years since Draco's death that the ex-Slytherin loved Potions and Magical Theory, and would babble on about them to anybody breathing, and sometimes to those who weren't. "I mean, the potion would only affect you, right?"

Draco grimaced in his inimical, Slytherin fashion: the kind of face that both mimed and mocked displeasure. "As always, you show no appreciation for the subtleties of the craft," he stated primly. "Saying space and time is a redundancy. There aren't just three dimensions: length, width, and height. You're not just your position in three-dimensional space: you're also who you are at this very moment. In the next moment you'll be slightly different, affected by your every experience. So whatever affects your physical body's position could also theoretically affect the moment in which you exist. And there are plenty of Transportation points."

The redhead considered this, rubbing at his chin. Ugh – he needed a shave. He was amazed that Draco hadn't mistaken him for one of his older brothers during his lapse. Hmm. Come to think of it – "is that why ghosts can get so confused?"

Draco beamed. "I knew you couldn't be as stupid as you look! That's exactly it. My body can't continue, so I can't progress forward in time, either – not without 'borrowing' from the living. The Hogwarts ghosts never lost track of time and place because there were always so many of the living to interact with, even over the summer..."

Ron nodded wearily, suppressing a yawn.

"What –? how insulting! This is fascinating stuff, Weasley! Fascinating!"

"Yes, yes, anything that drops from your lips is a pearl of wisdom. But some of us," Ron said, "are the living. And need sleep."

"I'm sure you could use all the beauty rest you can get," Malfoy replied considerately. He nodded to himself. "At least I died pretty."

Ron couldn't stop this second yawn. He rolled up the Map again and pocketed it, weaving a bit as he stood. "You... always say that," he commented, yawning again.

"Only," said Draco, "because it's still true."

When Ron finally made his way back to Gryffindor to sleep for what remained of the evening, Ginny was sitting up in the Common Room, warming her hands by the fire. She jerked up at the sound of his entrance.

"Hey, Ginny," he said awkwardly, opening his arms to her and patting her on the back when she leaned in. "Hey."

She pulled back and gave him a brave smile. "How's Hermione?" she inquired.

Ron shrugged. "The same. I'm sorry I took so long, but I ran into a certain Slytherin on my way down to collect her."

"Malfoy, or Draco?" she inquired.

"Malfoy," Ron huffed in amusement. He rather thought of them as Jekyll and Hyde, himself. "Took longer than usual, too, to bring him back to himself."

"Do you suppose he'll just forget everything after awhile," she wondered, "and not come back?"

A chill ran through Ron at this echo of his own thoughts. He'd come to rely on Draco as the only other denizen of Hogwarts castle who'd retained his sense of humour, not to mention that he played a mean game of chess. Ron found himself casting back, weighing the passage of moments and hours in his mind; this episode had been longer than the last; but what about the time before that? Had that been longer than the time before it? "Maybe, Gin," he conceded roughly.

She tucked herself under his arm.

He took her upstairs to the boys' dorm and slid into his old bed. She slid in across from him and they faced each other in the dark, like they had as children.

"What will you do tomorrow?" she queried, brown eyes intent.

"Tomorrow," he said, his voice soft with sleep, "I'll rework the low stone wall that pens in the animals at Care of Magical Creatures."

"And the rest of the month?"

He sighed gustily. "After that, I'll start in on the Great Hall."

She stiffened in surprise. "That's a big job."

"The biggest. I've been avoiding it."

He could hear her smile through her words: "…and at the end of the year?"

"And at the end of the year, Hogwarts will open again." He repeated their mantra and paused a solemn moment to believe it, to let the words sink into him until he was filled to the brim, until Gin could see the truth of it in his eyes. "What will you do tomorrow?"

Ginny nodded once and closed her eyes, her breathing going even, and he feared she'd fall asleep, too exhausted to keep their nightly ritual; but after a moment, her voice sounded groggily. "Tomorrow I'll finish harvesting the last of the potatoes," she whispered.

"And what will you do for the rest of the month?"

"Strengthen the notice-me-not charms around the perimeter of the grounds," she answered, her voice stalwart. "If only Draco's magic still worked!"

"And at the end of the year?"

There was a longer pause, and Ron shook her shoulder. "Gin?"

She opened her eyes and pillowed her head on her hands. "Ron, we really will, won't we?"

"Yeah," he assured her, then tried for bluster. "D'you think I'd be doing this much work if we weren't?"

"It's just – we were expecting help... but we haven't heard from anybody in so long…"

"What about Percy?" he prompted. "He told us the Ministry's back on its feet again."

"Percy'd say the Ministry's back on its feet if it were six feet under, Ron, and you know it," she said with a peevish frown. "Besides, when was his last letter?"

"A month or so ago," Ron admitted. "But that doesn't mean a thing. I'm sure he's very busy."

She snorted.

"No, really, Gin. Think of all that responsibility – all those people depending on him." He shrugged his free shoulder. "Percy's finally got all important – just like he always wanted." He paused. "Bet he wishes right now he wasn't."

That thought seemed to cheer Ginny. "Yeah – reckon you're right," she said, thumping his shoulder with her fist.

Ginny had always snored, loudly, but it would take more than that for Ron to send her packing. They guarded one another's dreams like this, Ginny kicking him smartly in the shin to remind him of where he was. He had the bruises to prove it, yellow and mauve and pale purple, some fresh and others nearly gone.

She turned back around and settled down.

He was three-quarters asleep when he heard her murmur her third and most important answer: "...and at the end of the year, Hogwarts will open again."

"Too right it will," he replied, and fell into slumber.

Draco usually shadowed Ron for a few days after he lost his place in time, waspish and uncertain by turns, but for some reason, perhaps due to his attitudes in life, he never actually entered the Gryffindor Common Room. Instead, he would camp out by the portrait of the Fat Lady and wait for the two Weasleys to emerge.

After Ron and Ginny stumbled out of bed and exited the portrait-hole, Ron lurched to a halt: the Slytherin boy was not following his usual routine. He looked up and down the hallway for the glint of white-blond in vain.

Ginny, still bleary-eyed, ran into Ron from behind. "Ow! Rooonnn," she whinged.

For a moment, he grinned; no matter how skewed things became, there was always Ginny for constancy. Ron slung an arm around her shoulder, and together the pair made their way to down to the kitchens.

"Have any new supplies come in yet?" Ginny wondered, selecting an apple for her brother, and tossing it to him.

"No," he replied, mouth full of damp fruit. A bit went flying across the abandoned kitchens and landed at Ginny's feet.

"Oh, gross," Ginny intoned. "For Merlin's sake, Ron! Are you twenty-two or just two?"

Ron paused, examining his half-eaten apple. "Am I twenty-two?"

Ginny quickly gave in to another grin as she leveraged herself up to sit on the edge of the kitchen table. "I figure it's March something-th."

Ron didn't like to think about how much time had passed since the last Battle of the war. "Could be." He removed some eggs from storage and lit a bluebell flame to cook with. By now, he was very familiar with the Hogwarts kitchens, though Ginny was better at manoeuvring in the place; everything except the small kitchen dining table was House-elf sized, including the circular wrought-iron apparatus hanging from the ceiling at periodic intervals, housing pots, pans, and various other kitchen implements, dangling at shoulder-height. He banged his head into one of them at least once a meal.

Alongside the eggs, he fried up two sausages, planning on splitting them with Ginny, Hermione, and Crookshanks; the Castle's other occupants usually fended for themselves. They had no bread because prepared foods had recently become hard to come by, but he had a little flour. Ginny came up alongside him and began to work it through with some water and a small bit of egg. She pounded it very, very thin and cooked it over a bluebell flame. The resulting mass was cracker-like, and smelled very good after so long without toast or muffins.

Perhaps it was the homey scents of bread and sausages in the morning, but the day had a vaguely festive feel. "I have decided," Ginny stated, at length, "that it is, in fact, March the first."

Ron frowned at her as she worked the edges of her cracker with a spatula and flipped it. "Well," he said. "Then Happy Birthday to me, I guess."

It was then that Crookshanks entered, purring with joy. He twined around first Ginny's ankles, then Ron's; Crooks had always had a fondness for girls, and for Hermione and Ginny in particular.

Once Crookshanks had been fed and petted and made much over, the two went off in search of their other living charge. Ron unfurled the Map, his eyes trailing automatically to the Potions labs. Much to his surprise, there were two dots there, and neither of them was Hermione. Taking off at a good clip, Ron reached the labs far ahead of his younger sister.

"…need either hellebore, avena, passiflora, or – yes – withania to accomplish that," a young male voice stated with confidence as Ron threw open the door. "Oh, hullo, Ron."

Draco Malfoy, luminescent and pale, was seated Indian-style atop a long, low, potions desk. Hermione's notes were spread out all around him in a vague semicircle.

"What are you doing in Hermione's things?" said Ron.

"Hello, Mister Wheezy!" rang a far smaller, and much-beloved voice.

"Dobby!" Ron greeted the small elf, pumping his arm up and down in joy. Then, "Dobby," he repeated in a much more sombre tone of voice, "what in Merlin's name –"

But it was Malfoy who responded, just as Ginny slid through the open door, his eyes wide, his usual flaxen-blond locks askew. "Weasley, I was wrong about the Muggleborn. I realize that now."

Ron blinked and eyed his out-of-breath sibling in shared dismay at this non-sequitur.

"Your girlfriend," Draco went on, waving his arms about for emphasis, "is amazing. A genius."

Ginny rolled her eyes and her lips parted to speak, but Malfoy didn't let her.

"No, no! – not like everybody always said in school. Like – like Einstein, or Merlin, or the Dark Lord. The sort of clever that – that changes the world."

Ron's amused dismay had left him, and left him cold. Shivers ran down his limbs. He felt himself assume that wartime stillness that meant he was ready to move in any direction. "Really?" he said. His voice emerged disinterested, despite the way his heart thrummed in his chest. "What has Hermione done?"

"Oh, it truly is incredible, Mister Wheezy, Geenie!" Comfortingly, Dobby looked as excited by Hermione's findings as Draco, bouncing a bit on his toes. "We is looking at her papers all the night long!"

"You've been at this all night?" Ginny demanded, looking concerned.

"Oh, yes!" Dobby continued gleefully, looking not a bit the worse for wear. "And what we is finding is that Mister Harry Potter, sir – we could be bringing Mister Harry Potter back, sir!"

Chapter Text

Ron swallowed past the sudden lump at his throat, as he and Ginny clutched for each other.

"You – what?" Ginny stammered. "You can – what?"

Draco scoffed. "This isn't just about Harry-bloody-Potter."

"Yes, it is," Dobby said very, very solemnly.

Draco ignored him. "It's about all of us! We could –"

Ginny cut him off with a violent wave of her hand. She strode up to Dobby and knelt in front of him. "How, Dobby?" she demanded. "How could we get Harry back?"

Dobby twisted his own small hands together in joy and then clasped hers between his own. "Miss Geenie, Miss Hermione is coming up with very clever, very strong magics."

Ron swallowed past his daze and spoke, voice trembling: "the potion – it would bring Harry back to life?"

Draco shook his head. "The potion confers the ability to go back in time." He took a deep breath, though he was long past needing oxygen. "When I say your girl's clever like Einstein, Weasley, I mean just like him. She's used some of his equations in the Arithmancy, and used that to layer the runes. It's incredible."

Ron had left school when he was sixteen, before he ever had a chance to sit his NEWTs, and he hadn't just kept on studying like Hermione, even if he had learned a number of useful skills in the name of the War. Still, for Harry's sake, he would stand here puzzling all day, if he had to. "Explain what would happen if the potion were taken and all of the Arithmancy and runes and chants and all that worked the way Hermione intended."

Dobby squirmed happily and bounced on his toes. "It would take you back, sir! Back right to Harry Potter, sir! When he most needed you!"

Ron's lips parted in surprise, and he felt Ginny's fingernails digging deep gouges into his palms.

"W-would it?" she managed. "Would it really?"

Draco's eyes cleared of his fevered excitement when his gaze lit on the pair. "It certainly seems that way," he offered.

Ron stared at Ginny, feeling numb and dazed.

The Slytherin's uncharacteristic mercy seemed to hold. "I admit I can't be perfectly certain," he continued. "I'm not as clever as your Missus Snape, I don't mind telling you. If what I've read is correct, however… and my interpretation of it is also correct… then there may be a chance."

Ginny quietly detached herself from Ron's side and moved, dazed, to sink into one of the dusty classroom chairs, staring blankly at a nameless spot on the floor.

"That's more 'if's and 'may be's than I like," Ron finally managed.

"It's as much as I can give you," Draco said, still watching Ginny. After a moment, though, he straightened, glaring at Ron. "Or any of us. I know you Gryffindors tend to think in Pottercentric circles, but this could be more important than just having a friend back."

"He was my best friend, and Ginny's fiancé," Ron snapped, suddenly cut to the bone by the hope that Draco was presenting. "Of course he's the person we'd want to help. Not to mention that Dobby here first said that–"

"Dobby apologizes!" the tiny elf exclaimed. "Dobby will go shut his fingers in the ovens, sir, right away –!"

"Oh, no, Dobby, don't do that!" Ginny said, then dropped her head into her hands.

"Gin –"

Ginny winced, wiping at her eyes. "So – so the question is: how do we do this?"

"And who goes?" Draco tacked on.

"All of us go," Ginny stated promptly. "Neither of you can pull this 'girl stays behind' business on me," she warned. "Malfoy, you're too pureblooded to think my life is worth more than a knut with a hole in it, and Ron, you wouldn't last a day without me."

"But we might need someone here, to pull us back in case things go wrong," Ron pointed out.

Malfoy glanced sharply between the two Weasleys. "Fine, then – if you won't say it, Weasley, I will. There is no going back. There's nothing to come back to."

Ron paused just a beat too long, acutely aware of Ginny's eyes on them. "It can feel that way, on bad days," he said.

"Look, it wasn't a bad idea, setting up camp at Hogwarts," Malfoy grudgingly admitted, including Dobby with a jerk of his head. "The Castle's always had a reputation for catching strays. But the other few who've straggled in came here to hide, not to start another army. They're tired and they're sick of war. That's why they're avoiding you, Weasley – they keep expecting you to turn recruiter and they're too ashamed to tell you no." Malfoy's lips thinned. "It's a matter of time before their guilt turns to anger against you, your people, for not saving them. I hear whispers of it already."

Ginny's next breath was shaky with suppressed emotion. "Percy –"

"Are you really that slow, Weasley?" Draco demanded, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Malfoy," Ron hissed.

"What are you planning on doing to me, then?" Draco inquired, not unkindly. He turned to Ginny. "Ronald here has been writing those letters himself, of course."

Ginny turned to Ron, lips parted and dead-white.

"He's lying, Gin," Ron said firmly, staring into her eyes, needing her to believe with every ounce of big brother left in him. "He's just being Malfoy – he wants us all to go for some reason, that's all, and doesn't want to tell us why -"

Ginny stood, gaze uncomfortably faraway. "I – I have to go," she said, and her eyes latched onto Ron's for one brief moment, the gaze almost apologetic. "…to the garden, I'm going to go sit in the garden." She slipped past Ron and ran.

"Dobby –" Ron began, but the elf anticipated him and took off to follow Ginny. Ron rounded on Draco, so furious he could barely speak. "You… you Death Eater scum –"

Draco stood and growled at him. "Grow a pair, Weasley, why don't you? She needed to know."

"Why?" Ron felt dismayed and despairing, which only made sense, but he hadn't expected to feel hurt, or betrayed. He supposed he'd confused Draco for Harry one time too many.

Draco stared him down. "You knew you were going to have to stop writing them at some point. You said so yourself."

Ron watched as Hyde slid once more into Jekyll, the friend who'd shortened the long hours between one sunrise and the next. "Right, but –"

"…and now she's angry with me instead of you. Besides, it got her out of the way."

Ron stared at Malfoy, agape. "What – why do you –?"

"Well, because someone – a human being – has to stay with Granger," Draco said, grey eyes clear and steady. "Maybe it is hopeless, maybe there isn't anything to come back to but I…" He shrugged, avoiding Ron's eyes. "I don't like the idea of her all alone, here. Rotting away with no one real to speak to, in that lab all the time… maybe I don't like abandoning anyone any more than I already have…"

Ron couldn't reply past the sudden lump in his throat.

"Besides," Draco went on, nodding towards the papers scattered about, "Snape's work is clear on one thing: a living being as the focus. Potter in this case. The more divergent the wizards doing the work, the more divergent the connections to the past, the less likely we'll be to end up where we want to go. That means the fewer people involved, the better. I'm a ghost so I don't count." He looked up at Ron again, his eyes flint-hard with determination.

Draco's words seemed to kick up a storm in Ron's gut, hope and fear churning there in equal measure. "We really are going to do this," he said.

"Yes," Draco replied, "and quickly. Ward the lab so no one can interrupt."

Ron stared.

"Now, Weasley!" Malfoy ordered, and there was an instant in which they stared at one another, terror and excitement pinging through Ron, before he nodded and cast the strongest wards he knew.

"Take that piece of chalk, by the board –"

Ron fumbled for the white cylinder and gulped.

"Now, start by drawing a large diamond – no, not on the board, you idiot, on the floor!"

Ron obeyed, not even wasting the time it would take for a glare. He knelt on the hard, potion-stained floor, knees smarting, and drew – and drew, as morning dragged into afternoon. Five diamond shapes that touched but did not intersect. A circle that touched them all without intersecting them. A rune shaped like an angled 'R' in the centre, one he vaguely recalled meant 'travel'; this was crossed with naubiz, an angled cross, drawn heavily atop it with four equal strokes. By the time an astrolabe had been employed, the rune jera sketched in thirteen places according to the position of the stars, Ron's natural scepticism had begun to re-emerge. "It can't be this easy," he protested when they'd finished the runes, resting back on his haunches and eyeing Draco. "Everybody would've tried it. To ask out that girl who got away – to save their favourite bloody dog, for Merlin's sake."

"Don't be ridiculous," Draco scoffed. "Quantum physics and Arithmancy aren't exactly common cross-disciplines." He frowned at one of the symbols scratched into the floor. "Uruz should be more slanted. You've an awful hand at this. Now: draw the curve according to the equations."

Ron had to push the lab tables back against the wall in order to make room for the expanding graphical pattern; and, when that failed, they too were covered with the chalk-runes, which now glimmered faintly as the rest of the room dimmed, as though they were drawing the light, gathering strength as Ron scratched until his eyes grew bright and his fingers ached, until the chalk was a stub and then gone again and again and again. The runes grew to cover the walls, then, symbols and formulae climbing them like ivy. And at last Ron stood in the centre and brewed a deceptively simple potion.

The flame was low as Ron's hands deftly sliced withania root into two-millimetre rounds, sinking them into the brew at one, three, five seconds. When the last slipped beneath the gently roiling surface, he waited, breathless, for it to turn red-gold.

"Ron –"

Ron looked up to see Draco Malfoy staring at him, an odd expression painted across his translucent features. "What is it? Did I do something wrong?"

"I want you to understand I'm doing this for the right reasons," Draco said earnestly.

"I know you are," Ron said; and he believed it. "You're an arse, Malfoy, but…"

Draco frowned in determination. His silvery ghost leaned towards the redhead, and for one, cold moment, Ron was certain Malfoy was attempting to kiss him.

Then, the ghost was touching him, sinking into him; and it was as though Ron had been drenched in the Lake in the heart of winter, or that was the closest that Ron could come to understanding the feeling that suddenly came over him. The small hairs on his arms stood up and he shook uncontrollably.

And then Malfoy was with him.

Draco?

A raw burst of apology, certainty, smugness and accomplishment assaulted Ron. Sorry, Weasley. But I can't trust you not to fumble this chance. Our one chance.

Ron watched as his own arm reached for the cup of potion completely without his consent, lifted it to his lips – caused the potion to slosh a bit out as he missed – and finally, as it raised the goblet to his lips and tipped the contents down his gullet in one, long draught.

Malfoy – what are you doing?

I've got to. A watery stream of reluctance and regret. The things I've done…

Ron couldn't allow this: it was unconscionable, that Malfoy could have brought the idea of Harry back to him, only to withdraw it… but the runes were glowing with power, the arithmancy lighting up under his feet, and control of his own body had tipped out of reach.

"I have to," Malfoy said suddenly, as though he were able to hear Ron's every thought – and if that wasn't the creepiest part of the whole business, Draco Malfoy using his voice to comment on a sentiment he'd seen in Ron's mind… There was a small pause as Draco pushed down Ron's fumbling, desperate attempts to regain control, his mental touch firm and incontrovertible as the runes lit gold and silver around them, their power spiralling outwards from the centre of the room. "You would have meant well, Weasley, but you wouldn't have gotten the job done. Pottercentric, remember? You'd have saved him and let the rest of the world rot…"

Control was now so far gone as to be a distant memory. Thinking horrible thoughts about Malfoy was his only recourse.

Draco's mental touch on his own turned discomfitingly soothing. "But me… I'll fix it all. You'll see."

Ron gathered his power into a ball of heat and light at the core of him, making one final effort at controlling the direction of the spell. He thought he heard a rough, rasping sound like metal on wood, the high notes of a woman's voice, but they were stolen by the wind-like rush that plugged his ears.

Then the runes flared to a sun-white brightness, and the world left Ron's senses behind.

Chapter Text

"…-ered henbane… but only – and for those dunderheads who refrain from listening at the most crucial moment in the brewing process, I will remind you of how little I enjoy repeating myself – only once the mixture has begun to emit a yellow smoke and acquired a certain degree of silvery lustre."

The voice was maddeningly familiar, but Ron's world was still black, or blank: contrast came before colour, and between one breath and the next he could make out the figure of a tall man with white skin and dark robes that nearly blended with a deep grey background. The next breath brought life into Ron's vision, colouring it with grey and then gold and then green and then the warm flush of pinks and reds, of life…

"…ister Weasley?"

"Professor?" Ron heard the word leave his mouth, felt himself automatically focus on the front of the room, on Severus, but he wasn't aware of a conscious desire to utter it, to move. He supposed his reaction to Severus using that tone of voice was Pavlovian.

"What did I just say?"

"I'm not sure, sir." What Ron was certain of just then would be on a very short list.

"Perhaps you ought to pay more attention to your surroundings, then," Severus began, but then Ron's searching eyes lit on a small, scruffy figure towards the front of the room, a figure with messy, dark hair that stuck up in the back, a figure who turned to face him, and the bright green of his eyes was visible even at this distance, and Severus's voice, all sound receded, and then the world tilted and black spots danced in the boy's dark hair and Ron –

Ron stood and walked out of the Potions classroom as rapidly as he could without running and into the hallway, making for the boys' loo.

The air above Ron thrummed with the noise of the House-Elves in the kitchens almost directly overhead, and the distant thump of childish footsteps sounded at the stair as Ron hurried past. The flagstones bore the recent scuff-marks, were absent of dust and vermin. And yet in all other respects it was the selfsame way he had come just the night before, following after Hermione, Malfoy trailing behind. The juxtaposition shook Ron.

He pushed his way through the door labelled 'Gentlemen' and locked it behind him, slumping against the worn wood. A wave of hot and then freezing cold stabbed through him like tiny needles, and he immediately patted at his hip –

- but the Aequus Aquas, a potion Ron had always been certain to never be without, was missing from his cloak pocket.

He slammed his head back against the pale wood of the restroom door and sank to a more stable, seated position, squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think calm, logical thoughts.

He was at Hogwarts.

Severus Snape was alive, or certainly looked and sounded it. He was teaching Potions, with every bit of acerbity Ron recalled. And Harry… Harry had been sitting (was sitting, was now seated) in the second row, next to, now he thought about it, a bushy-haired young girl. He could barely allow himself to hold that image in his mind: Harry seated next to Hermione, their heads bent together over a steaming cauldron, only a corridor away.

After the War, hope became a grave he dug for himself; he'd watched others bury themselves so deep that they could no longer breathe. Now that hope had returned, he found himself restless beneath its weight: uneasy, and afraid.

Someone hadn't turned the faucet all the way closed, and there was a rhythmic drip-drop-drip, drip-drop-drip, quiet and evenly paced, for Ron to focus on. He took deep breaths of metallic, water-tinged air. Slowly, the band across his ribs unclenched, the spots before his eyes melted back into brilliant, vibrant colour, and the shakes eased. Ron stood and stumbled to the bathroom mirror.

Dark blue eyes gazed back at him, startled and panicky, the whites showing all the way around. He closed them and took another steadying breath or two before opening them again.

He was young – young and gangling before growing into his shoulders, his hands. The freckles, the dated haircut that hung low in his eyes, the pouting mouth – he was the very picture of awkward teenaged innocence. It was no wonder that the twins had called him Ronniekins until he was nineteen years old, if this was what they were faced with every day they'd known him.

He turned the leaky faucet up all the way, cupped those overlarge hands and filled them with cool water. He took a careful sip and splashed his sweaty features, then ran a damp hand across the back of his neck.

"Are you alright, luv?" the mirror asked. "I only ask because you look a bit peaky."

Ron shook his head, more out of a low, steady sense of wonderment than disagreement. "It's hard to get used to." The pitch of those words was only slightly higher than the mellow, measured tenor of Ron's adult tones. "What's – what's the date?"

"The date, luv?" the mirror inquired sweetly. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't say. No one's mentioned it in here in ages."

Ron nodded. His usual equanimity was already returning to him, his breaths evening.

Malfoy's betrayal loomed large, and Ron's lips thinned. At least the bastard hadn't succeeded in usurping Ron's place in the spell entirely, though Ron would be lying if he said he understood the results. Wasn't the spell supposed to take him to the time and place Harry needed him the most? Ron had assumed that meant the Battle of Hogsmeade and Harry's death. It had been the biggest regret of Ron's life that he hadn't been there. Instead, it appeared that Draco had managed to upset the spell, set it off-balance, send Ron someplace – somewhen – else. When someone important had needed the Slytherin?

Ron's practical nature rapidly overruled his anger at Malfoy. What mattered most wasn't why he was here, but what he was going to do next.

With one of Voldemort's Horcruxes actually in the school, Ron's path was clear. He would fetch the Diadem as soon as it was safe, as soon as he could count on no one coming to look for him, in the dead of night, if need be. He would fetch all of the Horcruxes this way, in secret. And then, he would use Severus's assistance to destroy them permanently.

Tentative plan in place, Ron focussed on the most immediate of difficulties: he closed his eyes and anticipated coming face-to-face with Harry. Hey, mate – dunno, something must've disagreed with me from breakfast. Sure, I'll bet Snape's mad, but he'd be madder if I blew chunks before I got to the gents'…

Right. And Hermione… I can copy your notes, right, Hermione? - because he still would need to check the date, after all, and was well aware of how meticulously Hermione kept her notes – complete with what was on the board, what was said by the professor, helpful diagrams – and the date at the upper-right-hand corner of every parchment. Maybe, with the addition of a bit of anxiety, he should ask, just how mad was Professor Snape?

"Professor, Professor Snape," Ron mumbled into the mirror, continuing to attempt to sort the hair that kept falling in his eyes, somewhat unsuccessfully. Though Ron had learned rudimentary Occlumency – and they all had, during the War, those who were even the slightest bit able – he wasn't foolish enough to presume that he could stand up to Snape. If he could manage to brew the Aequus, that could help, at least.

That, and avoiding his eyes.

George. George would be difficult. Ron wasn't sure what it was he would say to the brother he'd lost so early on. And Percy… the last time Ron'd seen Percy, he was disappearing behind a cloud of grey smoke at the Battle of Diagon Alley. The last thing he'd heard his older brother say was a rallying cry to the fighters remaining.

Ron tried to picture Percy as he was, now: stuffy and boring and consumed with ambition. Remembering Percy like that seemed a bit of a betrayal to the man he'd become – and yet it might be the only way Ron would be able to face him again without faltering.

A tentative knock sounded at the loo door, causing Ron to jump and bang his head against the mirror. "Ow!" he whispered to the mirror's surface, which clucked at him.

"Ron?" a small, female voice queried. "Ron, are you in there?"

The voice was – had to be – Hermione's.

"Yeah. Just give me a second." Ron turned and put on his best, most rueful expression. "Hermione," he said, opening the door.

There she was, in all her vibrant, adolescent glory: Hermione appeared to have lost a few inches of height as well as an inch or two in the bosom department, but her face was fresh-scrubbed and shiny, alight with the fire of concern and a sweetly familiar furious, focussed intellect. Her hair, which she would later learn to tame, had never seemed bushier.

Ron couldn't help himself: he grinned. "Sorry. I dunno, something must've disagreed with me from breakfast."

Her concern magnified, if the line between her brows was any sign. "Are you all right?"

He scrubbed the back of his neck, abashed. "Think so, now. Bet old Snape's pretty mad, huh?"

Her large brown eyes widened, and her lips pursed into an 'o' of apprehension.

Ron struggled hard not to laugh – she was so pretty when she was worried for his marks, or his being expelled from the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.

"He stormed about terribly," she agreed, crossing her arms. "I think you'd best apologize when you go back in there."

"Maybe you're right," Ron replied, taking a bracing breath before leaving the shelter of the doorframe and striding back towards the Potions classroom.

"R-really?" Hermione stammered, trailing him. "I mean – yes, but – what'll you say?"

"Maybe that he'd be madder if I hadn't waited 'til I got to the gents'…?"

Hermione giggled. "Or not," she replied.

Ron eyed her. She fiddled with the skirts of her Hogwarts robes, the very picture of self-conscious anxiety. This blatant sign of fear of the Potions Master certainly seemed especially out of place, but then it'd be years before they... well.

The pair re-entered the classroom. Ron thought that in another place and time, the titters and whispers might have irritated or embarrassed him, but the classroom still seemed like a stage crowded with all of the favourite characters of his childhood, and it was hard to take any of it as seriously as he should.

"Well, Mister Weasley?" Severus whispered in his most sibilant, dangerous tones. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

But Ron heard an ancient echo of that selfsame tone of voice: you don't dare, do you, Mister Potter? You are not allowed, do you hear me? You cannot – overlaid with images washed in blood and pain. He swallowed and ducked his head, worried Severus would read his expression if not his mind. "Sorry," he whispered, and his voice was choked with emotion, oh no. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I must've eaten something bad, professor. It couldn't wait."

The class fell to an anticipatory hush. Ron heard the sounds of his professor approaching: the sweep of dark cloth as his robes slid against one another; the clack of his leather boots against the floor. He chanced a quick, darting look upwards, noting the taller man's furrowed brow before transferring his gaze once more to the flagstones.

"Perhaps, as you have missed the entire introduction to today's lesson, you will show that at the very least you have done the reading."

"Please, sir, Ron's feeling very poorly," Hermione began, still standing behind Ron. Ron caught sight of Harry's horrorstruck face in the audience of rapt students, and offered him a half-grin. To his surprise, Harry ducked his head, frowning.

"You will sit down, Miss Granger," Snape ordered, "and kindly stop poking your bushy mane where it does not belong."

Hermione stalked back to her seat.

"The charge of a Fiaski Class Potion, Mister Weasley?"

"Fiaski," Ron repeated. Anyone with even the most rudimentary knowledge of healing potions would know the answer… but he didn't know if a young Ronald Weasley would. "I don't know, sir."

When several of his classmates turned to stare at him, Ron shrugged awkwardly. I guess that was supposed to be an easy one.

"Appallingly ignorant," Snape pronounced. "Perhaps it didn't occur to you that you would have a fifty-fifty chance of answering correctly? Although it may be you're falling as behind in your Arithmancy as you are in this class."

Ron shrugged again. He'd forgotten how uncomfortable this could be.

"Sir, that's not fair!" Hermione burst forth. "Ron's ill, he should go to Madam Pomfrey –"

"Silence!" Snape growled. He paced the front of the room, once, twice; and while Ron knew the wizard's motions were pure theatricality, he doubted the schoolchildren could tell the difference. "Perhaps we ought to give Mister Weasley a chance to redeem himself. Can you name me the three ingredients that are all common to Umani class potions?"

Ron's eyes flickered to the cabinet where he knew Snape carried most of the Umani class potions ingredients. He was no Potions Master, but of course he'd made Polyjuice even in this timeline and many times since, as well as a very crude version of Veritaserum several times during the war. Maybe this one was safe. "Jabberknoll feathers," he said, then paused, as though mentally straining for the next ingredient. "Powdered magnesium," he went on, then paused again, wondering how long he dared wait, torn between the effort to look thoughtful and Snape's growing impatience. "Ginger root?" he finished, carefully hopeful.

Severus let out a put-upon sigh. "Ah, Mister Weasley – you very nearly shifted my opinion in regards to the depths of your ignorance." He jerked his head towards Ron's seat, and then he was off and running – "who can tell me which of Mister Weasley's answers is the most inane?"

"I can, sir," said a smooth, sycophantic voice from the back of the room as Ron slid back to his accustomed place. Ron looked up to see Draco Malfoy looking pleased as punch. "It was his last answer that was incorrect. It is, in fact, clarified salts."

"Correct," Severus replied with a flicker of a smile. "Take five points for Slytherin, Mister Malfoy."

Malfoy shot him a smarmy smile. The look on Malfoy's face was just the sort of obnoxious self-satisfaction Ron teased Draco for back… home. The wanker. Ron resumed his seat, shooting a calculatedly petulant glare at Draco.

"Of course," Snape went on, "there are far too many idiots in this class for us to manage Umani-class potions." Here he shot a significant glance ahead of Ron and a little to Ron's left– probably in Harry's direction, or Neville's. "Today, we will work on a far simpler class, the Neichi-class Potion. Can any of you tell me what is the purpose of such potions?"

When they began to pair up, Ron instinctively moved for Harry, but Harry had already latched onto Hermione, and was studiously ignoring the entire side of the classroom that held Ron.

"Ah, Mister Malfoy," Severus said with a wicked smile, "partner with Mister Weasley, as you seem to have a propensity for catching the worst of his blunders. Just as well, since you both seem to be without partners, today."

"Yes, sir," Malfoy said, but sullenly. Ron wondered what sort of trouble the blond boy had gotten himself into with his Head of House, or maybe his housemates, to be forced to pair with Ron. Then, he wondered if a younger Ronald Weasley would be thinking this, and tried to paste on a clueless expression… before realizing that he should still be steaming at the idea of working with Malfoy.

Snape shot him an odd glance – Ron reckoned that he'd probably looked as though he were having a fit – but was distracted by Seamus, who was apparently "attempting to set the classroom on fire!" rather than his cauldron-bottom.

Meanwhile, Malfoy brought his cauldron over and set it down at Ron's table with a dramaturgical thump. Ron eyed the other boy surreptitiously. He certainly didn't look very different from the ghostly Malfoy he remembered; his cheeks were a bit less hollow, his eyes were brighter, and his gaze more malevolent as he stared at Ron.

Ron realized belatedly that they had been staring at one another for awhile. "Uhm," said Ron.

Malfoy's gaze flickered up and down Ron in that odd way that purebloods had, sometimes, when they disapproved of you: examination followed by complete dismissal. "Yeah."

Which really didn't mean anything but that they'd both been caught out, and neither one was planning on mentioning it.

"So, Calming Draughts," Ron continued.

Malfoy stared. "Page fifty-two."

Ron flipped his own Potions book open to the correct page, well aware he could make a Calming Draught in his sleep. Then again, perhaps he didn't have to hide that, at the very least. Malfoy's equal skill would obscure his own, and Draco was certainly the last person who would mention his prowess to Snape, or anyone else for that matter.

Shrugging, he went to fetch the ingredients while Malfoy wordlessly retrieved the mortar and pestle, stirring rod, measuring stick and graduated cylinder.

"You'd best let me handle this, Weasley," the Slytherin finally deigned to mention, just before they got to work. "Unless, that is, you want to end up in the Wing. Again."

Ron flushed. He knew that when Malfoy got like this, it was best to leave well enough alone, so he shrugged and began preparing the ingredients.

Despite Ron's skill, Draco kept up a running monologue of insults: "…no, it says dice, Weasley, or didn't that Muggle-loving mother of yours teach you how to read?" and "Merlin, Weasley, could you be any more clumsy?" and, most creatively, "…did the Pulsatilla wrong you in another life?" Malfoy's insults were so free-flowing that when Severus passed by their table, he awarded the Slytherin five points for 'preventing Weasley from making a deadly mistake.'

Ron didn't know whether to laugh or shout, so he carefully bit his tongue and kept working, though it was hard to concentrate with Draco's constant litany ringing in his ears. Not to mention that he was doing all the actual work while Draco casually ordered him around.

When they'd finished and the potion was just the right sparkling blue colour, Ron sighed in abject relief, praying to the Potions gods – i.e., Snape – that he would never be forced to work with Malfoy again. This Malfoy again. No, any Malfoy… Ron shook his head to try to dislodge the memory of Malfoy's condescension as he effortlessly took the reins of the transportation spell from Ron's desperate grip. Part of him knew it was ridiculous to blame this Draco Malfoy for his future, dead self's actions, but another, equally large and far grimmer part didn't care so much.

The silver-haired boy, for his part, offered Ron a smirk that was half approval, half derision. "So, Weasley, you've finally learned to listen to your betters," he offered graciously, as though bestowing a careful compliment at a formal tea party. "Now that Potter's gone from your side, you've come to your senses? How gratifying."

Ron's temper boiled over. "It's not me that should come to his senses," he returned. After all, Draco's life would be a cruelly short string of lapses in judgment.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco gleefully returned, making Ron realize that the Slytherin had been spoiling for a fight all along. Of course, Ron thought with a groan. When isn't he?

Professor Snape moved to their table, sweeping there with that curious grace Ron had nearly forgotten. "Is there a problem, Mister Malfoy?"

Ron hid his own smirk. Even Draco couldn't escape the Wrath of Snape all the time.

"Professor," Malfoy whinged, "he's provoking me."

"I am well aware of how provoking Mister Weasley can be," Snape replied, eyeing him with disgust. "Nevertheless, you must persevere. Let me see your potion." Snape leaned over the brew and inhaled. He blinked, shoulders relaxing under the Draught's influence, then frowned at the cauldron's contents.

Ron examined the potion in turn, peering over the top of the cauldron and inside. It looked just right to him, but he'd have to get up very early in the morning to understand brewing better than Severus Snape. Clearly the other man had spotted something he hadn't.

Sure enough, the greasy-haired Potions Master skewered him with an evil glare. "Who's responsible for this?" he demanded.

Malfoy was all too happy to shift the blame to Ron. "He did it, sir," the Slytherin earnestly replied, eyes large in his pale face. Ron personally thought he looked mental rather than innocent when he did that, but he wisely kept those thoughts to himself. "Weasley did it all, he prepared all the ingredients, I didn't touch a thing."

Severus smiled, and the smile was distinctly unpleasant. "Then only he will have earned full marks."

Ron and Draco gaped in unison.

"Mister Weasley, see me after class."

Ron's sunburst of euphoria dissipated with an abruptness that was almost physically painful. Draco began shoving his things away with a distinct petulance, until another glare from Severus speared him.

The last five minutes of Potions passed like individual epochs.

When the rest of the students had finally disappeared, Ron trundled up to Severus's desk and stood, bouncing back and forth a bit on his heels, waiting for Snape to get to the point.

Severus, for his part, was staring at Ron as though he were a new, unidentified and potentially explosive potions ingredient. After a few minutes of close examination, during which Ron was careful to keep his gaze averted to avoid Legilimency, he spoke. "Mister Weasley," he began in a slow, careful voice Ron had only heard him offer his wife and Harry before, "do you believe the art of potion-making to be beneath your dignity?"

Ron's chin jerked up at that. "Sorry?"

"Perhaps you believe that revealing any sign of intellect will interfere with your social schedule, such as it is?"

Ron knew by now he was being led, but not where. "No?"

"Perhaps," the older man went on, this time with a more thoughtful air, "it was just a case of needing to hide your light behind that of a more powerful wizard… and now that need has been removed from your psyche, cut out like a cancer, by your split with Mister Potter."

"I don't need to hide behind Harry or anybody else," Ron retorted, feeling a little hot under the collar – which he knew was Severus's idea, damn him – but he couldn't help his flare of temper. "And whatever you're getting at, you can't blame it on Harry. I haven't even talked to him all lesson –"

"Exactly," Snape replied. "Without his influence, you appear to have transformed into an O-student."

Ron felt himself turn a brighter red. "No I haven't… Malfoy didn't do anything, but… he was reading the directions to me and correcting me all along…"

Severus eyed him, incredulous, bringing Ron up short. "Mister Malfoy was an indifferent student today at best, criminally negligent at worst. He handed you the incorrect ingredient not once, but twice; and both times, you immediately corrected him."

Ron swallowed. "I was only following the book. I'd have to be crazy to trust Malfoy."

Snape only looked more exasperated. "Mister Weasley, none of these preposterous excuses are going to pass muster. Any fool could see that the book was before Mister Malfoy, that he was, in fact, guarding it jealously in hopes you would make an error. Now, cease this infernal prevarication and kindly tell me why on earth it should be a secret how well you produce a Calming Draught!"

Ron saw his out immediately. "It's just that one potion, sir," he said, allowing some of his desperation to colour his voice.

Snape stared. "Well? And why is that?"

"I learned to make it the summer after my second year," Ron lied, gaining confidence as the story took shape in his head. "It was a bit much, y'know? My sister almost dying and Him being back, an' all. And Harry right in the middle of it! First year it seemed almost like an adventure, but summer after second year, me and Ginny both had screaming nightmares. Mum brewed it up at first, but I got the hang of it soon enough. Anyone can make a potion without a recipe when they've done it dozens of times. Sir," he added, with what he hoped was the right tinge of misery.

"And you have kept this a secret from your friends?"

"No one likes to hear a bloke needs that sort of help," Ron said, shuffling his feet. "The other boys look on the stuff we get up to like it's all some kind of lark, but me an' Harry an' Hermione, and Ginny, too, we know better." He shrugged. "Mum's been trying to help me talk about it more, but I just don't want to. Not with my mates, anyroad."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "And what else can you brew with such expertise?"

"I said it was just that potion. Sir."

"So you did. But then, what you just brewed was Calming Draught. Surely, if you needed Calming Draught over that summer, you needed Dreamless Sleep as well, given your screaming nightmares."

Ron blinked up at Snape in surprise, before quickly ducking his head. Snape was one of the cleverest blokes Ron'd ever known, but he'd never seen the man show off for the pleasure of it, before. If he was already guessing that Ron wasn't quite the fool he'd always thought, perhaps he was laying a trap by displaying his intellect so openly. Perhaps he was waiting for Ron to make a mistake?

"I can almost hear the rusty gears turning," Severus said dryly.

Ron shook his head. "All right, so I've been practising up a few others."

"A few others?"

In for a knut, in for a Galleon. "Polyjuice. Some Healing Potions, too."

Snape leaned in, peering at him, and Ron knew that he would not be able to lie. Snape was looking directly into his eyes, now, and closing his eyes or turning his head would be too obvious. He would have to be careful. "So you were lying about the Fiaski and Umani class potions," Snape said, and shook his head from side to side in wonderment.

"…yes?"

"For the upcoming war."

Ron's head snapped up, and for one, solid, horrible moment, he believed Severus already knew everything.

And then Severus did something so uncharacteristic that it took Ron's breath.

He placed one, narrow hand onto Ron's shoulder and squeezed.

When Ron looked up, it was to see a completely unfamiliar expression on the man's face: sympathy. A stern sympathy, with his eyebrows gathered together and the skin around his jaw taut, but it was unmistakable. "You have been preparing," Severus said, "since second year?"

Ron sketched a jerky nod.

"And Potter, somehow he makes it to the Triwizard Tournament even though he's far too young, and he leaps again into danger like it's some sort of game."

"A game he thinks is rigged in his favour, you mean," Ron bit off. Huh. Maybe he really was still angry about that. Angry at Harry for rushing in. For dying. For leaving him and Ginny and Hermione and Malfoy and Dobby alone, to scrape by as best they could.

…no wonder Harry was staring at him that way during class. They were fighting, because this was fourth year. Because it was the Triwizard Tournament…

"Ah," Snape drawled. "I think I finally see."

Ron looked up, brows furrowed. "You do?"

"Perhaps I do," Snape replied. He crossed his bony arms over his chest and his lips thinned. "Potter is still a boy at play, dashing forward with his wooden sword and paper crown… without thought, certain he is indestructible. Perhaps this… gap in maturity," he went on, "and not simple jealousy, is what stands between you and Potter, this term."

Ron swallowed. Leave it to Severus Snape to be savvy to his changed character so quickly, even if he couldn't guess how Ron's sudden maturity had come into being. "All right, so what if it's true?" Ron challenged, trying for the belligerent disregard a young man might display in these circumstances, and hoping he hit close to the mark.

"Then you bear watching, Mister Weasley," Snape replied. "You say you've been brewing advanced potions like Veritaserum since second-year? And somehow hiding the fact? In fact, hiding your very nature?" He leaned forward, eyes darkening, and Ron had the feeling he wouldn't be any more menaced if he really were fourteen. "Managing to dissemble with me is no small matter," Snape tacked on, and one eyebrow climbed.

"Well, I kept it from everyone. Except Mum," Ron improvised, because someone had to have taught him what he knew, and his mother was a very skilled witch who was part of the Order; Snape had to know what she was capable of.

"Miss Granger?" Severus pressed.

"Doesn't know a thing. Please, Professor," Ron said, with completely genuine feeling, "don't say anything to Hermione, there's no way she could keep any of this to herself." He frowned. "And… she could get it in her head that somehow, she and Harry have been taking advantage of me, or overlooking me in a way that somehow makes her, uh…" Synonym for 'culpable'… "…responsible." Close enough. "'Cause she's so fond of me, y'know. Or even –"

Severus pinched his nose with one hand and held the other in the air. "Enough, Mister Weasley. I have absolutely no desire to hear about the… sweet nothings… between you and Miss Granger."

Ron ducked his head, because whatever expression was twisting his features, he didn't want Snape to catch sight of it. "So what are you going to do?" Ron inquired in a small voice, once he was sure his features had smoothed to some semblance of blankness.

"Why Mister Weasley," Severus said with a flash of crooked teeth, "I thought you'd never ask. I was thinking that if, perhaps, you did a favour for me, I might be able to… overlook your predilection for playing the fool. And your unworthy attempts to deceive me."

Ron felt an all-over chill sweep him, top to toe. Blackmail, of all things. Well, he should have known never to underestimate Severus Snape's taste for grinding Gryffindors into dust. "And what would that be?" he managed through gritted teeth, still avoiding Snape's eyes.

"There is a rare potions ingredient that I should like to get my hands on," Snape said. "It grows wild nearby; it is called Aecaspus nigrus. I have been meaning to get some for myself, but I find that my hands are full. What with supervising my classes, writing my lesson plans, preventing catastrophe in my labs and making the occasional, if misguided attempt to pull Gryffindor heads out of Gryffindor –"

"Professor!" Ron blurted in helpless surprise.

"Bring at least two hundred grams of fresh plant to me by next Hogsmeade weekend, and we'll forget it ever happened," Severus said, dropping his gaze to straighten a stack of student parchments on his desk. "I should only be so happy to do so," he tacked on. "Already, I know far more about you than I care to know of any one of my students."

"Then we'll be square," Ron double-checked.

"Or triangular or checkered, or whichever shape most pleases you," Severus replied tartly. "If there is one thing I should hope I have taught you in class, it is that I do not repeat myself."

"Yes, sir," Ron cautiously replied. "Aecaspus nigrus. Got it."

Chapter Text

Ron was so deep in thought he did not see Malfoy barreling down the hall towards him until it was too late, and they went down in a tangle of limbs on the stone floor.

"Watch it, Weasel!" Malfoy shouted, planting a fist in Ron's midsection to push himself upright. "Eurgh, now I'm covered with bits of blood traitor."

Ron grinned up at him from the floor, not bothering to rise; he planted his fists on the cold flagstones behind him. "Cooties, Malfoy? That's childish, even for you."

Malfoy was furious at the insult, which had inexplicably hit home; Ron could see a flash of tooth around his angrily curled lip, and an unmistakable flush to his cheeks. There was a childlike roundness there that made him appear nearly a stone heavier than his ghost form, though of course Malfoy's ghost form had no mass at all. Malfoy's hair was mussed and his usually immaculate robes were askew, though he was correcting the latter with vicious tugs at his couture as Ron stared.

He must have felt Ron watching, though, because in a moment his blond head jerked up and returned the redhead's scrutiny. "What's so funny, Weasel?"

Ron realized he must have been smiling and pushed himself off of the floor to stand, smoothing his features. "Nothing at all, Malfoy," he replied. "Unless it's your hair."

It was doubly funny to watch Draco's hands flash to his head so quickly they looked like they'd Apparated there. Ron hadn't known the other boy was that sensitive about his looks, but he supposed everyone was at age fourteen.

Malfoy at this age is like a kitten with sharp little teeth. Even if it does sting when he bites, it's still hard to take him very seriously. His every action seemed exaggerated, predictable, and… immensely manipulable. Ron couldn't help but get a few ideas...

But at that instant, Hermione appeared. "Malfoy, you aren't bothering Ron, are you? He's ill!" She bustled up to the pair, slipped her arm officiously in his and began to stalk away, dragging Ron along behind her.

"Your girlfriend won't always be around to save you, Weasel!" Malfoy shouted after him. "We can always talk later."

The food. Sweet Merlin, the food.

It covered every surface, every table groaned with it, every breath Ron took was filled with its scents, its savour. He walked towards the Gryffindor table out of ancient habit and sat, piling his plate high with everything in sight before he even registered the people, their voices.

"Growth spurt?" Hermione inquired with wide eyes.

"Yeah, Weasley, you planning on leaving some of that for us?" Seamus playfully inquired across the sea of good things to eat.

Ron laughed automatically, then turned to his dish, his stomach sinking. Seamus was right: he couldn't eat all of this himself. But his instinct was to gather enough to apportion it out: a small piece for Dobby and three, slightly larger equal servings for the rest of the living. He wanted his sister's company so badly it was a physical ache, and with a pain that felt somehow worse, Draco's.

"Ron? Is everything all right?" Hermione whispered. "Are you still feeling sickly?"

"A bit," Ron answered – anything to explain what Hermione had to be seeing as odd behaviour. He stared down at his plate. "I think I might've taken too much."

"You are ill," she teased. "Just eat what you want."

Ron nodded and tucked in, careful to eat slowly and wait for his body to rebel. When his stomach didn't protest, he began to eat at a more regular pace, a bite of broccoli, a bite of roast chicken, a bite of potatoes, repeat. He looked up to find Hermione sneaking him funny looks.

"What is it now?" Ron said, putting his fork down.

"Nothing," Hermione assured him. "It's only… well, I usually have to pester you for most of the meal to get you to eat anything green."

"For Merlin's sake," Ron said. "They looked good tonight; is that all right?"

"Things taste different to us when we're sick," Hermione offered peaceably, and resumed eating her own meal.

Avoiding the greens on his plate at this point seemed ridiculous, so he kept on. Ron still remembered that first winter at Hogwarts, when he'd had to magic half of their food, his and Hermione's and Dobby's and Ginny's. When the first greens had popped up through the snow – wild onion and leek and crocus – Ron had finally been able to let go of the magic. He'd slept a week.

Ron looked at one of the roast chickens with new eyes. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to take it up to his room, put it under a stasis spell… but at that moment, it disappeared, and was replaced by dessert: lemon meringue, the tops white and fluffy; tiny berry tartlets, their edges hard with glittering sugar; and chocolate and mint ices.

Ron slipped one of the tartlets into his pocket. Judging from the groaning tables, Hogwarts wouldn't notice if he took what he needed fivefold. And if he did it bit at a time, there would be no awkward questions as to why Ronald Weasley wanted enough food for a party.

"Oi, Neville," he said, looking across the table to see the awkward boy shovelling potatoes into his mouth, "ever heard of Aecaspus nigrus?"

"Caspian nightflower? They're lovely," Neville said. "It's a Brightflower, one of the rarest. It grows on mountaintops, and the only way to find it is to dig through the snow."

Ron paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Seriously? That git."

"Who's a git?" Seamus asked.

"Snape is a git," Ron growled, and shoved his fork in his mouth.

"Professor Snape, Ron," Hermione chided.

"The 'professor' part can go hang!"

Everyone at the table quieted a moment, stared. Hermione had gone a bit white around the mouth. It was only then that Ron realized how loud he'd just been. He'd yelled at Hermione. He'd yelled at teenaged Hermione, whose eyes had gone wide and hurt.

"Sorry. Sorry," he said. "Just. Feeling really ill. Think I'll go on up."

"…the strain of fighting with Harry," he heard Hermione confide in the others, just before he got out of earshot.

Merlin. At least Hermione was willing to excuse a lot of poor behaviour in him. Eurgh, maybe that means she's used to it. And wasn't that a pleasant thought?

Ron didn't go far. He hung back in the shadows by the Great Hall doors to wait, which suited his mood just fine.

"Hey, Neville," he said, slinging his arm around the boy's shoulders as he left the Hall, "tell me more about this plant. Does it grow around here?"

Harry pushed past the pair, then turned to glare at Ron's draped arm before hurrying along.

"Uh…" said Neville.

"Don't worry about Harry, he'll come 'round," Ron said, staring hungrily after his best friend. A reconciliation without a blowout first was a fantasy at this point, no matter how he might want one. And that meant Harry would have to wait, no matter how waiting hurt.

"O-okay," Neville agreed. "Yes, I mean, it does grow here, I've seen it in the mountains with Uncle Algie."

"How hard would it be to get two hundred grams of it?" Ron said.

Neville eyed him. "It… it can't be smoked, Ron."

Ron snorted. "No, Nev, I'm getting it for Snape. Professor Snape. As a favour."

"Oh!" Neville flushed, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry, Ron, it's just… a lot of people ask me about… and I don't really…" He cleared his throat. "Anyway, a hundred grams would be just a few plants. Theoretically, I mean."

Ron smiled at Neville, wry. "What if it weren't theoretical?" he said. "What if we were to go into the mountains now, to find some? Do you remember where you saw them?"

Neville looked shocked. "Y-yeah. I mean, I think so. It was just last spring." He paused. "What about Hermione? What about Harry?"

"Just you and me this time," Ron said. "You're the one who knows where they are. I'm the one who needs them. I'd owe you one." You'd owe me one, for making you part of the adventure. "What do you say?"

"Wow," Neville said, wide-eyed. "Won't it be dangerous?"

"Not if we're careful. It's Professor Snape who's sent me to get some after all. He may be really, really rude, but I don't think Dumbledore would let him get away with killing us."

"Haha! No," Neville agreed, but he sounded uncertain.

Ron felt a pang of conscience. "Hey, listen, Neville, if you don't want to go…"

"No! No, I do," Neville said.

"…then you can use a Pensieve memory and show me where…"

"How do you do that?"

Ron looked up to find Neville honestly inquiring. Right. Neville didn't know how to use a Pensieve. They didn't have a Pensieve. And Ron's Legilimency was rocky at best.

"You could describe it to me. Where it is."

"Don't be silly. I'll show you," Neville said, jaw firming. "We'll need our brooms, and winter gear, and some trowels, and something to carry the plants in. And I hope your Lumos is up to par."

Ron grinned. "Well. All right," he said. "But it's your decision."

Neville's humble features creased in mirth. "Hey, imagine Professor Snape's face when you say I helped!"

Ron already had; that was part of the point. He thumped him on the back. "That's the spirit," he said.

Standing in front of his trunk back in Gryffindor Tower, Ron's own spirits drooped. He'd learned a few tricks from his mother when he turned seventeen or so: how to lengthen a sleeve, how to turn a cuff and keep it turned, how to widen or tighten the waist on a pair of trousers. But he'd apparently had a recent growth spurt, and everything in his closet was both threadbare and short. Experimentally, he lengthened a sleeve, only to watch the cloth disintegrate before his eyes.

He heard an uncharitable snort from where Harry was studiously not paying him or Neville any mind; nearby, Pigwidgeon kicked up a fuss, fluttering wildly in his tiny cage. Ron offered him a treat without looking, still frowning at his things.

Whatever. He'd just layer. A lot. Huh – there was a Weasley sweater. Knit things were easier to lengthen, because you could stretch the weave. Ron reached down to sweep it up and paused.

His entire childhood he'd received a Weasley sweater. Every year, from age two through age seventeen. Then the war came, and there wasn't any time for knitting, much less for knitting eight sweaters a year. Ron wasn't sure how she'd done it, really, even when there wasn't a war on. He eyed the yarn with more respect, then pulled it over his head.

Mmm. Even stretched, it was still very warm.

Ron pulled the collar of his button-down free of the tight grip of the sweater, and threw on another, open jumper over it. Then, a scarf and gloves, with his school robes over.

Dean looked up from where he was reading a Quidditch mag. "You two going out? S'not that cold."

"We're going on a long hike," Neville replied. "Ron wants me to show him a plant I found."

"Well. Each to his own, mate," Dean said.

Neville grinned. "Come on, Ron! See you lads later." He paused. "Bye, Harry…"

Harry looked up. "Er. Bye, Neville." He stared at Ron. Said nothing.

Save me from petulant teenagers, Ron thought, shooting a halfhearted glare Harry's way. Then, Merlin, look at him! The novelty and joy of Harry being alive wasn't going to fade anytime soon, no matter how exasperating his behaviour. Ron had to duck his head to hide a delighted smile from everyone. He was supposed to be furious with Harry, after all.

Ron walked outdoors with Neville, towards the broomshed. He took in a deep breath; the air was filled with the rich scent of decaying foliage and held a cool bite. The Forbidden Forest was a vibrant flush of oranges, reds, greens and golds.

Fourth-year, late October, early November. No, no, definitely early November – hadn't they picked the Triwizard Champions at the Halloween feast? If he and Harry were fighting, it had to be November. Ron wished he'd remembered to ask Hermione for her notes.

Ron picked out the two best school brooms, a Cleansweep 7 and a Comet 260. The Cleansweep handled better; he gave this to Neville. He mounted the Comet himself. "Are you sure you're going to be able to remember where you found the plant? From here, I mean?"

Neville nodded. "Uncle Algie and I left from Hogwarts to go for a 'bracing jaunt', he called it," Neville explained. "We went straight from Hogwarts. I know the way. You can count on me."

Ron wondered if he'd oversold it. Neville looked awfully bright-eyed and eager. "Sure," he said. "Just make sure we stay together. Do we have something to put the plant in?"

"Here!" Neville mounted his broom and took off – not bad, Ron noted, when he was focussed on something else – and swept over to the greenhouses. Ron dismounted to a trot, tucking the broom up under one arm. "Madam Sprout said I can use anything in here whenever I like," Neville confided, swiping a pair of trowels and a foldable shovel. Ron scooped a bucket up in one hand.

Neville grabbed an old burlap sack labelled 1 10 K, and pushed the bucket inside, followed by the tools. He cheerfully slung the bag over his shoulder and bounded a bit on his toes.

"It can't be far," Ron said, "not if old Snape thought I could get some. Let's leave a beacon, though, just in case."

"A beacon?"

Ron nodded. "A beacon makes a little line from your starting point to where you end up. If you get lost, you let it tug you back home. Watch." Ron withdrew his wand from his pocket, then paused, taken aback all over again.

It was his old wand. The first wand that was his: fourteen inches, unicorn hair core, willow, stout but springy. Ron grinned and twirled it. "Medulla panis," he incanted, swinging his wand in a giant loop around their heads, then stabbing his wandtip into the earth. "There," he said. "Now, both of us can find our way back to Hogwarts, no matter what."

"Wow," Neville said. "It's – melluda…"

"Medulla panis," said Ron.

"That'd be right useful in an emergency," Neville said. "Would it Apparate you back?"

"It wouldn't let you Apparate on the grounds of Hogwarts," Ron said. "It'll just tell you which direction to go."

"Still. Useful," said Neville and, enunciating carefully, "Medulla panis."

Ron ducked his head to hide the quirk in his lip. Trust Neville. "All right, ready to mount up?"

Neville nodded, and together they flew off into the early evening.

Ron's burdens slipped away as his feet left the ground. The open sky was above him, twinkling with stars. The air was crisp and fresh, but his layers kept him warm. A swift broom was beneath him and a quiet friend beside him. For the moment, all that lay before him was a simple and straightforward task: to find the herb that Snape wanted, to get him to keep Ron's secret. Everything else was the whisper of wind, the glow of the moon, and the land rolling out beneath him like a picture postcard, the mountains veering up in the distance.

"What - ape - er?" Neville shouted over the wind.

"What?" Ron yelled, pulling up beside him.

"I say, what do you think Snape wants the flower for?"

"Beats me!"

"Awful nice of you to do him a favour!"

Ron grinned. "More like I'm making up for today in class!"

"He said you could do this instead of detention?" Neville's eyes were wide in his round face, his scarf flapping behind him. "I'd pick a plant-finding trip any day."

"He didn't offer me the choice, mate," Ron said. "It was all, do this or else, you know how he is."

"He's very clever, though, isn't he?"

Ron barked a laugh. "Sure he is, and he lets you know it!"

"I think that's why he's so short with… certain people… in class," Neville said. "It's 'cause he's so clever, his brain works so much faster than ours, and it makes him impatient."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Hermione's brain works faster than mine, but she doesn't shout. It's his temper, Neville, not his cleverness. Sorry, but being brilliant doesn't change what a git he is."

Neville fell quiet, but the furrow between his brows showed Ron he was still processing that. "I don't mind so much," he said, eventually, "only that it makes me so nervous. Uncle Algie used to threaten to conjure bees to sting me, or toss me out a window, or smother me with my blanket to try to bring on my magic, but it's not like that worked. It's not like Professor Snape's way of doing things is any good. So I've got to think he can't help it."

Ron couldn't make himself pretend, just in this moment, that he wasn't precisely the man he was. "I think you're right, Neville," he said. "I think Professor Snape can't help being an arse. I think if he could, he'd be nicer to you. You're right brilliant at Herbology, and that goes hand-in-hand with Potions, doesn't it? He'll want an apprentice, someday, and all he'll have left is Malfoy. You'd think he'd avoid that if he could!"

Neville flushed with pleasure. "Thanks. You're really good at Charms and Transfigurations. Where'd you learn that spell, anyway? It's not in our Charms book."

Hermione invented it. "Dunno, read it somewhere… hey, look! Is that it?"

In the distance, Ron could see a pale, violet glow emanating from a mountain plateau to the southeast.

"Yeah – that's it, there!" Neville exclaimed, and took off like a shot.

Ron cursed under his breath and tried to match him, but the Cleansweep 7 was a faster broom as well as being more stable, and he eventually lagged behind. "Nev!" he shouted. "Don't go anywhere without me, I…"

Everywhere Ron looked was rimed in a lattice of ice and snow. What he assumed was Aecaspus nigrus dotted the plateau, some blooms submerged, some just barely pushing their heads up through the frost, six-petaled flowers with gold anthers that pulsed a pale violet phosphorescence out into the dark. Now and again, baby dragons lit on a flower to lick nectar before taking off again in a whir of fast-beating wings.

"Isn't it fantastic?" Neville said, flinging his arms out.

"Careful," Ron whispered. "Those are hummer dragons. Don't make a lot of sudden movements. Let's just get the flowers and go."

"In a minute," Neville said. "Oh, I'm going to remember this forever."

Neville's wonder was the flint and tinder that rekindled Ron's own sense of awe. He'd been trying so long and so hard to survive that being grateful to be alive hadn't struck him in a long time, but suddenly he was grateful that his lungs pulled in mountain air, he was grateful for his eyes that could take this in, and for his mind that would recall it. He was grateful for Hermione's brilliance – and yes, even Draco's betrayal – that had brought him here to see this, now, in this moment.

"Don't ever tell anybody about this place," Ron said, thinking of footprints muddying the snow.

"Yeah…" Neville said, then shook himself. "Come on, Ron, or we'll never get back."

Ron looked up to find that the other boy was offering him the folding shovel, smiling peacefully as he waited for Ron to take it.

"Yeah," Ron said. "Thanks, Neville."

Neville grinned. "Anytime."

The two dug around a likely-looking A. nigrus, one of the plants close enough to the surface of the snow that its head poked forth from the frost. It was rough work because the ground was barely thawed, but Ron and Neville managed to chip enough away that they got most of the root, just in case that was the part Snape wanted. Ron crowed as it was lifted from the soil; but then the phosphorescence dimmed, dulled, then stopped pulsing altogether.

"Oh," Neville breathed.

Ron sighed, bagging the dying plant.

"That's… maybe we should take some dirt, too. Just, you know, in case Professor Sprout wants to grow some."

Ron smiled. "Yeah, good plan."

Together, they chipped off near-frozen dirt until they could lift a little clump of plants free, chunk of earth and all.

"One more clump, maybe," Neville said. "To be two hundred grams and have enough for the greenhouses."

"You're the expert," Ron agreed, just for the pleasure of watching Neville fluster. Neville waved his hand in the air in negation and slapped a baby dragon to the side with his palm. "Oh, no!" Neville exclaimed, stepping back and away from the injured dragonet.

Neville's back foot slid on a patch of ice; it broke free from the side of the plateau.

Neville broke free with it.

Ron didn't think – he Apparated directly below where Neville had disappeared, thinking he would catch the young wizard as he fell – but he landed on solid ground.

It took longer than it should have to put two and two together. There was a little shelf just below where Neville had fallen, and that was where Ron found himself. Neville was slumped beside him, clutching his ankle.

"Think I broke it," Neville moaned.

"Merlin on a pogo stick, Neville," Ron said, running a hand up over his forehead and into his hair. "I thought you'd had it for sure."

"All this really sharp ice broke my fall," Neville moaned.

"Let's see it, now."

Ron unlaced Neville's walking boots to look at the ankle. It was swollen and discoloured, but no bone peeked through the skin. It was either a really nasty sprain, or a clean break. "You ever broken this ankle before?"

"Twice."

"Let me guess," Ron said.

"Uncle Algie," they said in unison.

"Okay, simple enough fixes for now, Madam Pomfrey for when we get back, reckon," Ron said. He scooped up a handful of clean snow and pressed it to the reddening flesh. Then, he blew on it. "Can you feel that?"

"Yeah, it feels freezing."

"That's good," Ron said. "Hold on." He took Neville's scarf and wrapped it tightly around the ankle. Then, he packed a bit of snow in a second layer, and bound the ankle again. "Does that hurt?"

"Yeah, but…" Neville squirmed. "Also, better, in a weird way."

"Okay. Let's get Snape his bloody plants and you to the bloody Wing. I'm sorry about this, Neville."

"Don't be! I'm all right," Neville said bravely. "Or, you know, I will be."

The two brooms flew off the cliff face and down to Ron and Neville's perch. "Here, we're going on the same broom." Ron encouraged Neville to sit behind him and prop his injured leg up on top of Ron's thigh. "And…" Ron Transfigured the burlap bag into a knapsack, complete with flap, and placed their tools and plants within. Ron hooked his non-steering arm underneath Neville's leg so that it wouldn't slip or jostle, and together the boys let the Medulla panis guide them home.

Ron breathed a sigh of relief once the lights of Hogwarts were in sight again. Neville had kept up a bright stream of chatter all the way back to the Castle, but Ron would feel better once he was safely in Madam Pomfrey's hands.

They landed at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and Ron carefully helped Neville dismount. He was so careful that he didn't notice the dark figures approaching their landing site until one of them called out.

"Mister Weasley!"

Ron looked up to see Professor Snape, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Sprout hurrying towards them. "Neville's ankle is hurt," he said. "He slipped on the ice."

"What ice?" McGonagall snapped. "Mister Weasley, where have you been?"

Ron looked up at the trio of adults, really looked. All three were practically vibrating with adrenaline. McGonagall and Severus – Professor Snape – looked torn between worry and fury. Professor Sprout was wringing her hands.

"We didn't go far," Ron said, carefully. "Neville, what do you say, twenty miles?"

"Less!" Neville gasped as Sprout ran to help him. "Fif-fifteen miles, as the broom flies, anyway, oh, ow."

"Up into the mountains!" McGonagall gasped. "Mister Weasley, what is the meaning of this?"

But Neville was already answering, after his fashion. "Look, Professor Sprout! Look what I brought you!" He withdrew the Aecaspus nigrus from the knapsack, still cool and ice-encrusted, and still throbbing with pale violet light. Some of the petals looked worse for wear, but the plant clump remained intact.

"Why, Neville, love!" Professor Sprout exclaimed, tilting the clump of earth this way and that. "I never! An Aecaspus nigrus! And so close to Hogwarts!" Her wondering expression hardened. "Is this why you went off school grounds?"

Ron could feel Snape paling and going very, very still.

"Well… yeah. I mean, yes'm," Neville said.

"The inquisition can wait, Pomona," Professor McGonagall interjected. "My pupil's ankle needs seen to."

"Of course. Of course! Forgive me, Neville, it's just… thank you, dear. But perhaps you'll make sure you're with an adult next time you go foraging?"

"Yes, Professor Sprout," Neville agreed sadly, and let McGonagall Mobilicorpus him. Sprout retreated, cooing to the clump of plants in her hands.

"As for you, young man… follow me. I believe the Headmaster wants a word."

Ron nodded. "Is Professor Snape coming along?"

"Of course," Snape said darkly.

Ron realized Snape was going to own up to his part in Neville's injury. It warmed his heart that, no matter how little Snape thought of him, he wasn't going to let Ron take the fall. Snape was really a good evil bastard at heart.

"Here, what's all the commotion?"

Ron peered ahead to see Mad-Eye Moody clomping towards them on his wooden leg. Ron's heart leapt – good old Mad-Eye – before memory rose up and rage choked him. Bartemius Crouch!

"Tsk, tsk," Barty Crouch clucked, shaking his head. "Injuries? Night excursions? Reminds me of when I was a lad! But Mister Longbottom, you're the last I'd expect to be out adventuring…" He waved McGonagall off. "Nonsense, Minerva, I'll take the lad from here." His curt gesture was so commanding that it brought McGonagall to a stop before she remembered herself.

"Are you sure, Alastor?"

"Sure as sure," Barty agreed. "The lad and I need to have a talk. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!...could have prevented this pass, I'm sure."

Ron reminded himself that if Barty were to kill anybody now, his long-term plans would be in ruins.

Ron reminded himself that if he were to draw now, and actually manage to get a curse off… Sectumsempra… cut him from stem to stern… before either of the Hogwarts Professors reacted, he'd be locked up in Saint Mungo's and taken apart to see where his cogs had slipped.

Ron forced himself to breathe normally as he watched Neville float away under Barty Crouch's wand.

He calmed himself just in time to see Snape doing the same. Merlin, had Snape known something was off this early? Perhaps he simply despised the real Mad-Eye. Ron sure remembered assuming that the first go-'round, but now… in light of what he knew, it certainly seemed that Snape was suspicious rather than angry. Sure, the twist to Severus's lip and the narrowed eyes could be taken for either emotion, especially if someone was so used to seeing fury in Snape's eyes that it was all they ever looked for.

Snape either came to the same conclusions as Ron – that hurting Neville Longbottom was far from in the other man's best interests – or let go of his roiling hatred towards the real Mad-Eye – because he turned to McGonagall to gesture her forward.

Together, the three made their way to the Headmaster's Office.

Dumbledore was the only Chessmaster Ron played and never beaten, although they played several times before the war. The old man sacrificed pawns left and right, but kept the higher-order pieces behind lock-and-key until just the right moment; he'd move space-by-space, then launch every piece on the board in such a tight lattice that it seemed as though the end had been inevitable since the first few moves. Ron would be arrogant to say he'd 'started to win' – more honest to say that he'd gained ground once, but only by being just as unpredictable as Dumbledore, himself. He'd closed his eyes between every move and opened them again, trying to view the board with a fresh perspective. He never planned more than two or three moves in advance. He changed his game the moment Dumbledore did.

He believed, at the time, that he'd slowed checkmate by three moves.

Thus, Ron knew it was useless to plan out encounters with the elderly wizard. Instead, he kept his eyes on the overall goal, which was to convince Dumbledore he was a useless child, someone of no importance beyond being Harry Potter's friend, and to do it without looking like he was guiding the conversation at all.

Professors Snape and McGonagall marched Ron into the Headmaster's office; Ron set the knapsack by one of the fluffy chairs Dumbledore favoured, and waited.

Dumbledore was attired in a sweeping, dark purple velvet nightgown, stitched with silver stars. A matching nightcap, complete with silvery boggle trailed down his silver hair. "Mister Weasley," he said. "Lemon drop?"

Ron grinned. Wow. Really, a lemon drop. He leaned over and scooped one up, letting it melt on his tongue. "Thanks," he said.

"Now, I hear you have been on a bit of a nighttime adventure?"

"Mister Weasley was out after hours," McGonagall sniffed. "Worse, he somehow managed to convince Mister Longbottom to take part; highly out of character."

"Is this true, Mister Weasley?"

"Yes, sir. I went out and convinced Neville to come with me. But Neville and I were just looking for a plant, and Neville knew where it was. He said it was close by," Ron said, keeping his eyes downcast. "We didn't mean to stay out so late, and I didn't think Neville would get hurt." He chanced a look up, let some of his very real misery and guilt shine through. "He will be all right, won't he, sir?"

"Severus, I notice you are being rather quiet on the matter. That's out of character as well, I daresay," Dumbledore opined, popping a lemon drop into his own mouth.

Severus shrugged, raising and lowering one shoulder in the sort of motion only he could use to convey grace. "It seems the boy will be punished. I do not see that my interference is necessary."

"And yet here you are," Dumbledore observed. "Neither boy is a member of your House. One wonders what keeps you from your bed."

This observation caused the Deputy Headmistress to turn slowly to face Snape, her brow climbing. "Yes, Severus," she chimed in. "What brings you here? It is a lovely evening out. Perhaps you wanted the view from the Headmaster's window?"

Ron waited, wondering whether the older man would own up to his part in the whole debacle.

Severus's lips thinned. "I merely wished to ascertain whether you were punishing these Gryffindors as you ought. I know you both have a weak spot for… adventurous pupils… no matter how hazardous their exploits might become…"

Both looked shamefaced at this pronouncement, although Ron had no idea what Snape was referring to. The Ford Anglia incident?

The Deputy Headmistress pushed past the awkward tableau to once more address Ron. "But what on earth possessed you to go hunting after this plant in the first place, much less in the dark?" she pressed with a frown.

"Neville really wanted some," Ron said slowly, and watched Severus's features freeze in place. "He said he saw some with his Uncle Algie last spring and thought they were really wicked. And," he added in sudden inspiration, "I… guess I was a little bored? Harry and I are on the outs, and I thought, well, I can make friends as easily as the next bloke. So I told Neville we should just go for it."

For a moment, Ron thought he'd laid it on too thick, but thinking about his mixed-up feelings for Harry must've pasted the right expression of frustration and contrition on his face, because McGonagall was clucking sympathetically when he dared meet her eye.

"That is no excuse for such brazen disregard of the rules," McGonagall said, but her tone was softer than before.

"You're right, Professor. I guess I just wasn't thinking straight. Just don't blame Neville, all right? He wanted the plant, but I was the one who talked him into going to look for it."

Snape seemed shocked out of his stupor. "Of course you did, Mister Weasley. The idea that Neville Longbottom should plan such a venture on his own…"

"Well, well," Dumbledore said, drawing Ron and the professors' attention to himself again with a smile and a chuckle.

Ron had forgotten the way Dumbledore squinted his eyes all tiny but somehow made them flash when he was amused. Moreover, he'd forgotten how it made you want to laugh with him.

"How marvellous, to find samples in such an area, far outside of their usual growing habit, isn't that so, Severus? And yes, indeed, how daring of Mister Weasley and Mister Longbottom! If it hadn't ended so badly, I might have considered awarding points."

"For sneaking out after hours? For putting himself and a classmate in danger?" Snape sputtered. To Ron's disgust, he appeared to have forgotten his role in the matter, entirely.

"On the contrary! For succeeding against stacked odds," Dumbledore said. "For going above and beyond in the name of scholarship and adventure."

Severus went white, twin points of fury bright on both cheeks the only colour on his face. He risked sneaking a look at the Headmaster, who seemed to be enjoying Severus's discomfiture immensely. McGonagall, on the other hand, still looked horrified.

"Headmaster!" she exclaimed. "The very idea of traversing out at night, travelling not simply after curfew, but out of bounds as well? For once I find myself in agreement with Severus. The boys' actions must have consequences. Unless you send a firm message, there will be a lot more young men and women sneaking out at all hours."

Unless Ron was mistaken, she and Snape had just exchanged a flicker of mutual commiseration over the Headmaster's head.

"What punishment would you and Severus suggest, Minerva?" Dumbledore inquired. "I bow to your expertise in the matter."

When Ron heard no rejoinder, he chanced a glance towards the assemblage to find that McGonagall's gaze was firmly fixed on him. "Professor?"

"Perhaps you'll consider it punishment enough to be a laboratory assistant for Professor Snape, until such time as he's decided you're appropriately penitent," McGonagall said dryly, "seeing as I believe Neville's interest in such a potent plant must've come from your class, Severus."

Severus's mouth worked silently for a moment. It was clear that she understood something of what had happened, although Ron could not begin to guess how.

"And do you feel this is an appropriate punishment, Mister Weasley?" Ron chanced a wondering glance up at the Headmaster – oh, yes, the old man was definitely enjoying this – before ducking his head back to the carpet. He traced the pattern with his eyes while he thought. The part of him that was fourteen was tempted to reveal Snape's duplicity and demand an apology. Wouldn't that stick in that great beak of his, being forced to apologize to a fourth-year? A part of him that sounded a bit like Harry advised him to ask for absolutely nothing in exchange for the lie, which was the sneaky, Slytherin way of keeping the man in his debt.

Then, Ron got a funny idea. A funny, terrible idea.

Didn't the pawn get to move two spaces on its first go?

"Yes, sir," Ron said to Dumbledore, and turned to Snape, whose sour expression spoke volumes about what he expected from Ron.

"If it isn't too –" onerous, arduous, much of an imposition – "much, then… maybe he could take Neville on as well."

The expression on Severus's face! Ron had never seen that look before. "I shall be fascinated to hear what could motivate such a request," he said, finally, in a curiously flat tone.

A quick glance around the room showed equal if not greater curiosity writ on McGonagall and Dumbledore's faces.

"Neville knows plants," Ron said. "But he's rubbish at Potions. I think he could be a Potions Master someday, because he's very patient and careful and kind of brilliant. If he could just relax enough to brew."

Snape stared, then scoffed, then stared some more.

"I hardly think," McGonagall began, but Dumbledore interrupted.

"Splendid!" he exclaimed. "What a splendid, selfless request, Mister Weasley! Of course, it will be fulfilled." And he turned to Severus, brows raised.

"I hardly think," McGonagall tried again, "that Longbottom and Severus should be the best of matches."

Dumbledore twinkled benignly at them all. "I'm sure Severus will be equal to the task of being… gentle with Mister Longbottom. As it is Mister Weasley's request. And as Severus is part of the reason behind Mister Longbottom's injury."

Ron wondered, now, if Dumbledore knew of Severus's request for the A. nigrus – and if so, what he made of Ron's refusal to give the older man away. Whether he was aware of this indiscretion or not, Dumbledore knew his target. Severus now felt responsible for Neville being hurt; before now, Ron was sure he'd been blaming Ron and perhaps Neville himself, for being so clumsy as to slip and fall.

It was laughably easy to make Severus blame himself for someone else's foolishness. Ron felt an unfamiliar stab of fellow-feeling.

"Of course," Severus agreed, the darkness lifting from his brow. "Until and unless Mister Weasley and Mister Longbottom no longer require my aid in their… scholastic pursuits," he said, lip curled.

Oh, no. Severus would terrorize Neville until he ran screaming.

But, "of course," Dumbledore was saying with a solemn nod. "Or until you no longer need a pair of assistants."

"Assistants?" Severus drew back in horror. "I assumed Mister Weasley referred to tutoring. Mister Longbottom is the most dismal Potions student I've had in years. Employing him to assist me in any way would be disastrous."

Ron felt the corner of his lip twitch up. He noticed how carefully Severus avoided an assessment of his own skills.

"Perhaps, as Mister Weasley implies, the young man has hidden depths," Dumbledore suggested.

"To the depths of Hades!" Severus exclaimed, which Ron thought was a bit much.

"Now, Severus. Why don't we go and visit Mister Longbottom and see if he is amenable to such an arrangement? Mister Weasley, it's off to bed with you, and soon enough to us all. Good evening, Minerva."

"Yes," Severus said, with an air of reprieve, already turning for the door. "Let us talk to Mister Longbottom and see if he is… amenable."

Dumbledore patted the younger man consolingly on the shoulder. "Come along, now, Mister Longbottom's already had a long evening. We wouldn't want to keep him waiting…"

Ron could tell from the line of Severus's back that the older man would have dearly loved to whirl on him and shout, but that time and place constrained him.

Ron was left with a glaring Minerva McGonagall.

"Erm…" he said.

McGonagall gestured with a curt jerk of her head and Ron rose from the overstuffed chair to warily follow. They were nearly to Gryffindor Tower before McGonagall spoke.

"Don't think I don't recognize that something is going on, here, Mister Weasley."

Ron frowned. "Professor?"

"Don't give me that gormless look," she shot back. "I've seen it on your brothers' faces."

Ron ducked his head. "It's just that I don't know what you mean. It's real gormlessness, Professor, honest."

"Hrmph," McGonagall said as they reached the Fat Lady's portrait. "What has Mister Longbottom done to you that you wish him to become Severus Snape's assistant? Or is it out of some perverse sense of even-handedness – you wish him to be in precisely as much trouble with his Head of House as you are?"

Ron kept his gaze lowered, but McGonagall lifted his chin with one, crooked finger.

"And none of this hangdog flim-flammery either, Mister Weasley. I don't know why Severus Snape fell for it, but I did not."

"Sorry. 'M just trying to be respectful," Ron muttered.

"Deceitful, more like."

"It's just – Neville was talking about how he really respects Professor Snape –"

McGonagall broke through with an unladylike snort.

" – but he doesn't learn very well from Snape, and I thought, well, Neville knows loads about plants, and they should really get along better, because Neville knew about a plant S-Snape was talking about in class," Ron stammered. He'd been about to say Severus, because he'd been thinking about Severus wandering the hills just outside of Bainbhidh, growling, the trifold leaf, you little idiots, or did Pomona have as ill luck making anything stick in your oleaginous skulls as I? Unless you want your friend to die, you'll find twenty healthy plants… The sun, bright but filtered through the thick, foggy air, made the hillsides look like a fairy world, Harry's face in shadow and in light, Ron's basket near to full, the warmth of the sun beating on his shoulders.

Luckily for Ron, for all McGonagall's perspicacity, even she could not tell one stammered sibilant from another. "And you suppose placing them in close quarters and asking Mister Longbottom to accomplish a task for which he is ill-suited will improve Professor's Snape's temper? Ach, don't answer that," she immediately ordered, scrubbing a hand down her face. Then, her eyes snapped open. She leaned forward. "Mister Weasley… did Professor Snape ask you to find that special plant in return for… something else?"

Ron didn't have to fake his shock. "W-what?"

"And you managed to find it," she said, "and ask the right person, which he wasn't expecting… could the secret you've been hiding be that you brew extremely well?"

Ron blanched, and immediately averted his eyes.

"I did not Legilimize you, Mister Weasley," McGonagall snapped. "Did you discover that Severus could…? No, don't answer that either. It's deduction, child, plain and simple." She paused. "Do I have to explain my reasoning?"

Ron frowned. Ronald Weasley plus interest in potions ingredients plus help from Neville plus Harry and Ron fighting plus Snape's penchant for challenging his students to accomplish the impossible? "No, Professor."

"What I don't understand is why you lied to the Headmaster. And to me." And McGonagall looked at him severely over his spectacles.

"Sorry!" Ron gasped. "I could see that look in Professor Snape's eye, you could too, couldn't you?"

"I'm surprised you can tell his expressions apart," she said. "The man doesn't exactly emote."

Ron pressed his lips together.

"Hmm," said McGonagall.

Ron shifted from foot to foot. "I'm knackered, Professor," he hinted, gazing longingly at the Fat Lady.

"Aren't we all," McGonagall returned.

"Yeah, I really am."

McGonagall sighed. "I do hope you know what you're doing, Mister Weasley."

"My perpetual hope," Ron said, then winced a bit. Perpetual was maybe too big a word for Ron Weasley, aged fourteen. However, Professor McGonagall seemed too deep in thought to notice.

"Well?" McGonagall said.

When Ron only stared, she sighed again, more deeply. "The price of greatness is responsibility," McGonagall said, cryptically.

But then the portrait swung open.

"Thanks," Ron said, and McGonagall raised a brow. Thanking her implied he'd been having difficulty remembering his own password. "G'night, Professor. See you tomorrow," Ron said, rapidly, backing up into the Gryffindor Common Room and blowing out a breath once the portrait swung all the way shut.

The Common Room was quiet; flames crackled in the hearth, casting a warm, friendly glow about the place. Ron took another deep breath. It was almost like home, really. It was almost like Ginny was about to bound down from the bedroom and cluck her tongue at him for staying up so late, plans can wait 'til morning, Ron! But even with the soft fire's glow keeping the Common Room dim and smooth-edged, he could make out signs of life: a textbook dropped here, a scarf tossed over a chairback there. A chess set…

Ron slipped up to it. Merlin, he remembered these! It was his own old set, although it seemed he'd left it out for anyone to use. Ron tilted his head to one side, watching the board. He roused the king's pawn, who muttered sleepily. "Come on," he whispered. "E4."

Grumblingly, the pawn lifted up its skirts and moved, glaring.

"All right, that's all for now," Ron told it. "Go back to sleep."

Chapter Text

Ron climbed the stairs and opened the door to the sound of sleeping boys. Dean and Seamus were breathing deeply – Seamus was snoring, like always – Ron grinned – but Harry's slit eyes met his in the dark. Ron gave an awkward nod before climbing into his own bunk. He had to have it out with Harry, but the middle of the night wasn't the right time, and in front of the other boys wasn't the right place. Ron flopped on his bed without washing up and cast as strong a silencing charm as he could muster this late. Immediately, the snores, breathing noises, and even the sense of Harry's glare cut off, as though someone had flipped off the Wireless in the middle of a discordant note. Ron was struck with the impression, much stronger, now, that Ginny was about to crawl between his curtains and curl up on her side, go through their nighttime ritual.

Go to sleep, he ordered himself. Relax.

Instead, his breath began to wheeze.

"No," he said, under his breath. "No, no, no, you're fine, stop it, stop it." Ron willed his heartbeat to slow, his breathing to go even. "You're fine, you'refineyou'refine," he chanted under his breath, flicking his wand around to be double-sure of his Charm, because suddenly it struck him how he must sound, huffing for breath, chanting to himself. He laughed at himself a little, between wheezes.

Merlin, it had all been so close. Listening to McGonagall dissect him, his fault Neville'd gotten hurt, all because he'd forgotten he wasn't an adult anymore and that Severus wouldn't ever order him off-campus and mean it. No, no; don't think of that. Count your breaths, you idiot! Hold for a count of six. Breathe out for a count of – oh, Merlin, STOP, no one's hurting you!

The recrimination didn't ever help, but Ron couldn't ever help but include it.

Either his methods worked or exhaustion took precedence, because he woke with a flinch in the wee hours, rolled over to get a bit more comfortable, then woke again with a start a few hours later. Early morning light spilled through the curtains, and, when Ron peeled them back, he saw the boys' faces painted with the slack innocence of sleep.

Ron cast a Silencio Perispherico around himself and knelt at his trunk.

There wasn't much to be going on with. His clothing was scant and threadbare, and his school robes were a relic of one of his older brothers. Ron loved his parents and knew they'd done their best, but even at age twenty-two, the state of his wardrobe was embarrassing. Underneath the clothes was an announcement about the Triwizard Tournament clipped from the paper – oh. Ron didn't remember it being that important to him. No wonder he'd been so cheesed off at Harry.

There was a ticket stub for some Quidditch match – Bulgaria vs. Ireland? The date said 1994, which, unless Ron was mistaken, meant it was the match he'd gone to with Cedric and Harry, where… Ron stuffed the ticket stub down to the bottom of the trunk.

When his hands encountered something sharp, he yanked them back. He lifted all of his clothing out of his trunk and peered into the bottom layer.

Ugh. Broken quills, piles of parchment, and three-quarters-empty ink bottles littered the bottom of the trunk. Many of the parchments were ripped or torn or even crumpled into balls. How'd he expect to find anything when he needed it?

He probably hadn't. Ron was not exactly compulsive about keeping his things neat as an adult, but he did not enjoy disorder, either. He Vanished all the crumpled bits, all the broken quills, combined the bottles of ink and stored the other bottles at the bottom, in case he found anything interesting that he wanted to keep.

Now, though, he thought he might understand why his younger self hadn't wanted to neaten up. With everything broken or damaged thrown away, the trunk was only one-third full: there were five shirts, only two of which were in good enough condition to be worn without shame; three trousers of the same quality; five pairs of socks and of underthings that were at least clean and not worn through. A scarf; mittens. Three quills. Two full bottles of ink; three empties. A scant stack of lowest-quality parchment. And some memorabilia, clearly meant to cheer Ron. Ron looked around at Harry's trunk, so overflowing that there was an edge of some shining toy spilling out the side, and felt a blaze of shame and jealousy he thought he should have outgrown.

That. That was why his younger self had been so angry. Even though he knew better, sometimes it had seemed as though Harry led a charmed life.

Ron cancelled the Silencio and moved into the Common Room in a bit of a strop.

Nobody else was awake, yet. Pure, white light, the sort that only comes just after sunrise, was shining through the castle windows, illuminating everything so that it looked sharp and very, very real. And Ron saw that children had left their papers sitting out.

Ron began to paw through them. October 21. 1 Nov. 30/10/94.

"What are you looking for?"

Ron looked up to see Hermione descending the girls' staircase.

"Morning, Hermione. You're up early," he said.

"No earlier than usual," Hermione returned, her bushy hair swishing to and fro as she lightly swept down the steps. "It's you who's all bright-eyed at six in the morning. It's positively out of character. Where's Ron, and what have you done with him?"

Ron hoped his laugh was convincing.

"Now, what are you looking for?" she asked. "Maybe I can help you find it."

"I dunno," Ron said. "I just have this weird feeling I left something here. You ever get that?"

"Oh, yes," Hermione agreed. Her cheeks were very pink. Ron wondered if it was cold in her dorm. "So I'll just look for something in your writing, shall I?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

Together, they searched. 2 Nov. It was the latest date he could find, even though he'd searched through every paper in the room.

"Ah ha!" Hermione exclaimed. "Here it is, Ron. Your History of Magic notes from yesterday."

Considering the state of his trunk, it made sense that Ron had left something in the Common Room. He reached for the parchment. 2 Nov 1994, it read... in Hermione's handwriting. Clearly, she'd added it for him. If that was yesterday, then today was the third of November.

"Hermione, have you got a calendar?"

"Of course! For revising."

"Charlie said he might come and visit on the fourteenth. I just want to see what day of the week that'd be," Ron lied. He knew that Charlie was coming, to deal with the first Task.

Hermione dug in the pocket of her robes – of course she carried her revising schedule in her pocket at all times – and handed it to Ron.

History of Magic had been yesterday – and Potions had been yesterday, just when he'd arrived. According to Hermione's schedule, that could only have been Tuesday. So today was Wednesday. They had Charms. But Hermione had Arithmancy after, which Ron knew he'd never taken. He supposed that electives were on Wednesdays, because the rest of Hermione's schedule was filled up with things like Transfiguration, DADA, and Charms, which Ron knew were his classes as well. So what had he taken that Hermione hadn't?

Oh, Merlin. There must be a Divination on Wednesday.

Maybe he could just not show up.

"Thanks, Hermione." He handed Hermione her revising schedule and smiled. "Want to go off to breakfast?"

Hermione's gaze snuck in the direction of the boys' dorm, and Ron's heart sank.

"Oh, I see," he said. "You want to wait for him. That's all right, then."

"Oh, Ronald. He's more vulnerable than you," Hermione said earnestly. "You've your family, you've got support, no matter what. Harry doesn't have that, not without us. If we both abandon him, he'll have no one."

"I haven't abandoned Harry," Ron growled. "I would never abandon Harry."

Hermione's eyes were wide. "Well, he doesn't know that. All he knows is that we've always been on his side, but now you won't speak to him. Don't you know people have died during the Triwizard? Harry knows, and it scares him to death."

"He does a good job at hiding it," Ron returned.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course he does," she said. "He's got to be Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived."

"He doesn't have to be the Boy Who Lived, not with us," Ron returned hotly. "D'you know what he said to me when he was named Champion? I didn't put my name in. That's all. He wouldn't say why he thought it'd happened, even when I asked. He wouldn't ask for help. One day, it'll get him killed, Hermione. He'll die, and then…" Ron wound down, remembering where he was, who he was talking to.

Hermione had gone white in the face. "Oh," she said.

"Yeah." Ron shrugged. Let Hermione see he was angry at Harry because he was scared for Harry. That wasn't just a grown-up thought. He'd been scared for Harry from the first moment he cared for him.

"Oh, I…" Hermione's eyes welled with tears, and she clasped Ron to her for a swift, warm moment before pushing away from him, almost hard enough to make Ron stumble. "I – you should go to breakfast."

"Okay," Ron said, and swept a curl away from Hermione's face before he could stop himself.

"Okay," Hermione echoed, eyes big and brown, a tear caught in her lashes. "Oh, look!" she said in an overly bright voice. "Someone's playing a game!"

Ron turned in the direction of Hermione's pointing finger to see the table with the chess board.

Black had moved – queen's pawn to D6.

"Huh," said Ron, and the pair approached the table.

"I always think those kinds of games are the most thrilling," Hermione said, "where you don't actually know who's playing whom."

"I'm white," Ron said.

Hermione smiled at him. "I've never had the head for chess, really."

"That's funny," Ron said, moving his queen's pawn to D4 with a tap of his wand; it scuttled forward importantly, forming a united front with its fellow pawn. "You think so far ahead."

She shrugged. "Maybe I just never put my mind to it."

"You never played me, before. I mean – uh, ever."

"Perhaps I'm afraid you'd bruise my ego," Hermione admitted, " as I'm quite certain you'd win. And then where would my vaunted cleverness be?"

"In your head where it belongs, Merlin willing." He nodded at Hermione. "So, I'll… see you later?"

Hermione ducked her head to tuck her hair behind one ear. "I'll keep an eye on the board and see if anybody moves the pieces," she promised.

Ron stuffed the HoM parchment into his trouser pocket and exited the Common Room, planning on trailing Harry throughout the day. He knew they'd never taken any classes apart. As long as he lagged a bit behind, no one would assume anything out of the ordinary.

A few scattered Ravenclaws furiously revising for exams, and a lone Slytherin were in the Hall when he arrived. Coffee appeared at his place – thank Merlin! – and Ron settled down at the Gryffindor table.

Draco Malfoy stumbled through the doors to the Great Hall looking like Merlin's very curse. He parked himself at the Slytherin table, far from the early-bird firstie, whose wide eyes said she was just as glad.

Ducking his head so as not to be observed, Ron watched as Malfoy twitched his robes as he sat down to ensure they lay cleanly, just as he always did. It made Ron realize that he knew how Draco's mind worked, and he hated to waste an advantage.

A basket appeared on the table full of breads and rolls of all kinds – banana bread, croissants, crusty Italian, and crispy toast – followed by a pot of butter, interrupting Ron's musings. Small plates appeared next, with little butter knives.

Huh. Apparently when you came to breakfast early, you got a bit of the royal treatment. Even the Ravens had stopped bickering over Arithmancical proofs to fill their plates with steaming bread, and the child at Slytherin gave a tiny exclamation of delight.

Draco Malfoy growled, stood, and stalked out of the Great Hall without taking anything.

Without much of a plan, Ron followed him – but not before he grabbed a double-handful of toast and a croissant. He was ravenous. I must be in the middle of a growth spurt.

Draco was outpacing him. For a moment, he contemplated following the other boy, but when Draco turned towards the stairs, Ron figured he was probably heading towards the Slytherin dorms.

"Malfoy!" he shouted. "Oi! Malfoy!"

Draco spun, eyes darting left and right. He looked positively hunted.

Ron came to a halt, a good ten feet away from the other boy. "All right, Malfoy?" he asked.

"Shut up," Malfoy said.

Ron had to remind himself that this Draco Malfoy knew no shades of grey: Muggles were an evil blight on Wizardkind and Ronald Weasley was his enemy. An expression of concern did not fit into Malfoy's image of Ron – therefore, Ron's words had to be a mockery.

How hemmed-in that must feel, Ron thought to himself; what a narrow space to live in.

"Without Granger and Potter, you appear to have lost the ability to speak," Malfoy said. "So, which one of them pulls the strings and which is the ventriloquist? Does Potter stick his hand up your –"

"Whoa!" Ron exclaimed, putting his hands up in the air. "Lower your wand, Malfoy, I come in peace. Honestly, you left in the middle of breakfast, I just came outside to make sure you weren't about to swoon."

Malfoy squinted in suspicion. "I'd make a joke about wands if I thought you were clever enough to grasp it."

"And I'd swear on Gryffindor honour, but that'd only make you sure I was lying," Ron said. "How about I swear on Salazar? By the way, it doesn't take much cleverness to 'grasp' a wand, Malfoy, you should know."

Something in Malfoy seemed to relax a notch. His shoulders lowered, and he stuck both hands in his pockets. "Very well. If you must know, I was hoping I could go back to my dorm and close my eyes for another half hour. Does that satisfy you?"

Satisfy. Merlin, boys our age have a one-connection Floo. "Yeah. And lay off the Potter jokes, all right? In case you haven't noticed," Ron said, the path to an alliance beginning to crystallize in his mind, "we aren't on the best of terms these days."

Malfoy's eyes glittered with spite. "Oh? I hadn't noticed. Drop the Mudblood and win the million Galleon prize at the tracks, and you might just be one of us again." He paused. "On second thought... no. No, Weasley. None of your mother's spawn will ever be one of us."

Ron flushed. The nerve of the little arse! "If I thought you had any idea what you were talking about, Malfoy, I guess I'd be offended. But I know you're only repeating what your father tells you. I reckon you better watch who you're calling a puppet -"

Malfoy drew. "You shut up about my father!"

Ron eyed Malfoy's wand, exasperated but resigned; he'd given his own temper free rein, after all. It was a little hypocritical of him not to expect Malfoy to do the same. "How about you don't talk about my family, and I won't talk about yours," he said.

"Oh?" Malfoy said, jouncing his wand the way he always did, as if he had to give it an extra-hard jiggle to shake the magic loose. "You mean your Muggle-obsessed father and your fat, ugly mother?"

Malfoy's attempts to goad him were pretty comical on the surface, but Malfoy was wild-eyed, and looked to be in a strange and brave sort of mood. Ron thought he really might cast, right there in the hallway.

"Malfoy, honestly?" he sighed. But he felt a moment's regret, maybe, for pushing on Malfoy's weak spots when he knew Malfoy far better than Malfoy knew him. It wasn't sporting, somehow.

Malfoy began that ridiculous flourish of his, slow as Goyle's Arithmancy.

Ron drew and made a furious lash with his wand in a single motion, and Malfoy was pinned to the wall in an eyeblink, and then upside down. Ron lowered his wand hand, trembling with some unnamed emotion. Malfoy was so eager, wasn't he, to come to harm?

"For Merlin's sake. You never know when you're outmatched, do you? You've always got to prove it, don't you? Do you believe so strongly in the purity of your blood that you think it won't spill?"

"Blood traitor," Malfoy hissed. "Like I'd ever listen to you!" But tears welled in his eyes; he shook, as much as Ron's Body-Bind would allow.

"I'll let that go, considering all that pure blood's rushing to your head," Ron said. "But seriously, Malfoy..."

Ron stared, realizing he had no idea what to say to press Draco in the right direction, nor even what the right direction might be. Draco Malfoy was a puzzle he couldn't solve, a chess board with too many pieces in danger, and every move leading to a sacrifice.

The Draco he knew - Jekyll to Malfoy's Hyde - was kind, in his way, even when he was cold; and he was witty and insightful and companionable. But Malfoy was a bigot and a bully, with a blind spot a league wide – and a coward, besides. How both of these people could be Draco Malfoy was beyond straightforward Ron. So when he first arrived in this time, he'd assumed that Malfoy was real and Draco was a charming illusion projected by Malfoy whenever he wanted something badly enough.

But that didn't make any sense, did it? It wasn't as though Malfoy had known about the time travel spell all this time, right? His excitement on discovering it had been all too real. He wouldn't have been pretending to have a kinder side all this time just to that end. So both were really Malfoy, and that was doing Ron's head in. How could he encourage Jekyll and discourage Hyde?

"Dizzy..." Malfoy muttered.

"Oh," said Ron, because Malfoy's face was bright pink and his eyelashes were fluttering drunkenly; people weren't meant to be held upside-down for but so long, no matter what the twins said. Come to think of it, he had dark rings under both eyes. Maybe the lack of sleep was at work on Malfoy's temper.

Why wasn't Malfoy sleeping?

An idea blossomed in Ron's mind, fully-formed, and he knew he was right, though he wasn't quite sure how.

"I know why you can't sleep, Malfoy," he said. "You're seeing it all go wrong, aren't you? Not a world where Harry wins... but one where he loses." He leaned close, ensured Malfoy was meeting his gaze. "Tell me... did you meet He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named this year?"

The other boy's eyes widened impossibly further, and his breath caught. His lips parted, and for a moment, it seemed he might speak.

"Harry's going to win. I'm going to make sure of it. Not until this exact moment did you even begin to think I was capable of besting you, or thinking for myself. No one does. I'm more Slytherin than you are, and don't you forget it. When you're ready to join the right side, you let me know."

Ron righted Draco and let his feet make contact with the ground. He steadied Malfoy by the shoulder until the other boy could stand without swaying.

"And don't call Hermione that filthy name again," he said, quiet.

Ron didn't think he'd been in Draco Malfoy's company for this long without hearing him speak. He'd be lying if he said it didn't make a refreshing change.

Ron turned to go back to the Great Hall, and saw two figures coming down for breakfast. "Well, go," he said over one shoulder. "Get some sleep."

Draco scurried, but not before the figures came close enough to see that they were Hermione and Harry.

Hermione blinked. "Was that Draco Malfoy?"

Ron shrugged. "He'd gotten lost on the way to Slytherin. I was just giving him directions."

Hermione stared. Harry glared. And they went into the Great Hall ahead of him without another word.

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, Harry continued to ignore Ron. Draco Malfoy alternated between giving him horrified and considering looks. Ron worried he might have pushed Malfoy firmly and finally off the path of the Light; or maybe he'd been dramatic enough that Malfoy would report his unusual behaviour to a professor. Or both.

As the rest of the week stretched out, that became less and less likely. But then Ron had his very presence in the past as evidence that Malfoy was nothing if not unpredictable.

Then there was Snape. And Neville Longbottom.

During any free hour, Neville could be found with his nose buried in a Potions book, studying up for their first session with the irascible Potions professor and muttering quietly to himself. Said professor had not, in fact, summoned either Ron or Neville, and showed no inclination to ever do so, though Ron kept that bit to himself: it was only that Neville was so keen.

Ron was shocked at how quickly Potions and Charms came back to him, but disappointed that he didn't seem to be any better at his other subjects than before. Charms had always been his best, and now he knew some formidable battle magic and drew like a dueler; Potions included skills Ron had continued to improve on as he grew older. Arithmancy, History, Transfigurations and Divination were about the same. Ron hadn't forgotten that much about them, but he hadn't started out knowing that much, either, which left him an A student, just like before. Ron did spend a lot of time, though, with his own nose in his Potions and Charms texts, trying to figure out what he should and shouldn't know as fourth-year Ronald Weasley.

"Want to join us for a game of pick-up?" Dean inquired one afternoon, when they were all sprawled in the Fourth-year boys' dormitory.

Ron peered up over his Potions textbook to see that Dean was wrapped up for the November weather, Seamus and Harry standing behind him. Harry held his Firebolt, and Seamus carried a newer-model Cleansweep.

"Neville and Ron have turned into Snape's little pets," Seamus said. "You seem busy, Ron."

Ron felt his hackles rise despite himself. An adult. You're an adult. "Not too busy to show a few firsties how to play Quidditch," Ron replied with a smirk. Merlin, Ron, you're twenty, not twelve.

"Well, come along then and show us how it's done," Seamus said with a lopsided grin.

"If I'm welcome," Ron said, gaze trailing to Harry's face.

Harry rolled his eyes and tilted his head away, but he didn't say anything. Ron took this to imply enthusiastic agreement.

"Yeah, all right," he said, scrambling up out of the bed and leaving Potions for later.

Together, the four tromped outside into the crisp fall air, making for the broomshed. Not everyone had his own broom, and besides, that was where all the balls were located. "Where's Neville?" Ron inquired of Dean, who seemed the most friendly that moment.

"Off on one of his rambles, I expect. You know how he always gets a bit feverish for the outdoors this time of year."

No; Ron had no idea that Neville got a bit feverish for the outdoors. "Because it'll be winter soon – no more plants to gather?"

"No one likes tramping through the snow for hours on end, even with a warming charm," Dean agreed with a laugh, flashing bright teeth. "It's like he's a little squirrel, hoarding it all up for winter. Though he did corner me at one point and discuss the identification of medicinal trees' bark last winter."

"Merlin, I'm sorry," Ron replied with a laugh.

Dean shrugged. "Actually, it was kind of interesting from an artistic perspective." There was a pause as Dean visibly struggled whether he ought to go on or not, and Ron tried to look as neutral as possible. "We're maybe writing a book together one day," Dean mumbled, "for plant identification and such. I've already made some sketches and things."

"That sounds brilliant, Dean," Ron said bracingly, while the realization they would never have gotten the chance to finish it in his own timeline clutched at him with icy fingers. He would've remembered something like that. "You could show me sometime."

Dean laughed. "Are you asking me to invite you to my room to show you my sketches?" he queried, waggling both eyebrows.

"Ha. Ha," Ron replied, and by then they were close enough to the shed that further chat seemed unnecessary. Dean and Ron carried out the ritual choosing-of-the-least-awful-school-broom while Seamus and Harry chatted about something – Merlin knew what, Harry had never really been a chatty bloke. If anything, it seemed as though Harry was going out of his way to seem like he was really fond of Seamus's company and that they were having a good time. Ron tried very hard not to steam.

An adult. You're an adult.

Up in the sky, he didn't feel much like one, though. For the second time since he'd arrived in this brave old world, Ron let himself fly and think of nothing.

When they descended, a tiny first-year was jumping up and down, breath misting in the cold. "Professor Snape wants to see you, Ron!" she squeaked, and dashed away, pigtails bouncing and robes streaming out behind her.

"Guess your master's calling, Ron," Seamus grinned. "Better go running."

The thing about Seamus was that Ron didn't figure he really meant it. He was always just a bit rougher-speaking than the other boys; he'd had Neville in tears more than once, and always tried to apologize via the one-two punch of proffered chocolate frogs and silent, imploring looks. The twins, for all their teasing, never truly meant to be cruel to Ron, either. They joked about the spider incident now, but even in his twenties, Ron still vividly remembered they way they'd apologized, after, and did sweet things for him right up to that magical moment where they figured he forgave them. Then, it was back to business as usual, with no lesson learnt. Seamus was the same sort, really.

So, "yeah, all right," he replied, and shoved at Seamus just for show. "Better see what he wants."

They stared a bit, sure, but Ron figured they'd chalk it up to increased maturity or something since there were a lot of people who would've brushed off Seamus's comment as good-natured ribbing. And because second-guessing his every action was growing exhausting.

Ron traipsed down to the dungeons, because if that was the only message the firstie had – that Snape wanted to see him – Ron figured he was in the Potions classroom. Malfoy was not lurking about for once, and so he was able to slip into the room unmolested.

"Mister Weasley," Snape said, without looking up from some slimy thing on a cutting board – and how in Merlin's name did he –

Ron was brought up short by the sweeping look Severus sent his way, the disgusted curl of his lip. For a second he took it rather personally before –

"Oh. Me and the mates were out flying around when you rang. Bit of Quidditch," Ron said, plucking at his sweaty clothes.

"No," Snape replied.

Ron blinked. "No?"

"Now that I know that your posturing is simply that, putting it on in my presence is even more insulting," Snape replied, turning back to chopping the – tentacle? – with extreme prejudice.

Ron froze. Could he really drop the Ron-Weasley-age-fourteen bit? Just in this room. The very thought was such a balm that Ron felt it go through him, loosening his shoulders and tingling out his fingers and toes. Snape already knew it was put-on anyway, right? And knew how to spot it, given that he was something of a genius with reading people. So what did it matter?

"I hear the rusty gears turning again," Snape murmured, turning the board to dice the Potions ingredient in the opposite direction, hands moving smoothly, practiced, without thought. But staring at it like it required thought which in fact translated to giving Ron time to think without being scrutinized.

Oddly, it was that Snapeish bit of courtesy that decided it for him. "Yeah, all right."

Snape looked up at him with a raised brow. "It is a strain, then, pretending to be someone you've outgrown."

"You'd know," Ron shot back, then winced. "I mean..."

"Very well; everyone has his secrets," Snape muttered, though more to himself than to Ron. "In any case, as it's Saturday you may aid me in preparing the ingredients for next week's classes."

Ron cast about for gloves before remembering where Hermione kept them. He supposed he could cover by saying he remembered seeing Snape get them before, but when he looked in what he thought of as the usual place, they weren't there. That made sense, he guessed; when Hermione had been working in the lab for the war, she'd probably rearranged everything to her liking.

And Severus probably hadn't minded.

Present-tense thoughts, Ron urged himself.

"Gloves are in the drawer left of center," Snape said, and Ron fumbled a pair on. "There is a spell as well. Do you know it?"

Ron shrugged.

"None of that nonsense," Snape reminded him.

"I really don't this time, Professor," Ron protested. He kept his few guesses to himself. There were a lot of different kinds of protective charm and he knew a few. He didn't know which one, if any, was used to protect hands from caustic substances in Potions class, and he figured throwing out some guesses could reveal the depth of his knowledge. Leaving the mask off was one thing; revealing the entirety of his true nature was another. "Wouldn't that interfere with some of the ingredients anyway?"

"In what way?" Snape inquired, stacking all the chopped bits and placing them in a jar of what smelled like brine.

"Okay, just because I said I wouldn't – you don't have to test me," Ron said, pulling out a pair of dragonhide gloves and tugging them on. "Because some ingredients are charmed, and maybe a charm over your hands would interfere? I'm not really good at magical theory."

"Understanding such a basic concept does not require intimate knowledge of magical theory," Snape snorted, "but a third-year Potions knowledge, or perhaps common sense." He paused, motions arrested as his thoughts ground to a halt. "I see. You don't have the slightest conception of what should be considered common knowledge. That is why you seem so inept in class; you don't know what you ought to know."

Ron declined to reply. "So, what do you need me to do?"

At that moment, the door opened without so much as a knock, making Ron wonder who would dare – only to discover that it was Neville, loaded down with baskets of plants stacked so tall that he couldn't see Ron gawping.

"...I did find some of the Helichrysum, Professor, but the mandrakes aren't ready for harvest, yet, Professor Sprout said so last week, and we may have to order more boomslang skin because we're low again... oh, hi, Ron," he added as he dumped his baskets down on the lab bench.

"Er, all right, Neville?"

"All right," Neville replied cheerfully as Professor Snape went over to inspect his finds. "The Glechoma is right fresh," he added with more enthusiasm than Ron had ever heard him use while speaking to anyone, much less his dreaded Potions professor. He sounded like a street grocer trying to tempt the Potions Master to purchase his wares.

"Hmm," Snape said noncommittally. "I suppose they will do in a pinch. Weasley, cast some preserving charms over these."

"Need anything else, Professor?" Neville chirruped, not dented in the slightest by the implied criticism.

"You may start on your extra essays."

Neville rather had the look in his eye that he had when stopping Ron, Hermione and Harry from sneaking out in first-year. "All right, then," he said, and moved unerringly towards where, even nearly a decade later, the Snapes would keep their extra parchment.

Snape seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but Ron was still sorting it all in his head. Clearly, this was where Neville had been spending his off-hours, maybe since Thursday, and he and Snape had reached some sort of accord. And Snape had been waiting until that accord was established before adding Ron to the equation, as though he were a potentially confounding, experimental Potions ingredient.

While he processed – or, as Severus liked to put it, as the rusty gears turned – Ron separated out the potions ingredients for separate stasis spells. That way, even if Severus – Professor Snape, Ron reminded himself for the umpteenth time – needed one plant but not another for a lesson, he could Finite one spell without ruining the others and needing to re-cast. He recognized ground ivy and sunflower leaves, bachelor's buttons and chicory flower because they were edible plants and not because of their Potions virtues. There was also a broad, dark-coloured flower that read as poisonous to Ron's senses and magic, and Ron clamped down on the urge to ask if Neville had washed his hands after gathering; even at age fourteen, Neville Longbottom had probably forgotten more about magical plants than Ron would ever know.

Ron remembered that first, fresh spring at Hogwarts, how gleefully they'd plucked and eaten the young chicory leaves and then flowers, and later the bitter, satisfying smokiness of the roasted roots in the fall. It was odd, because that first winter had been awful, they'd nearly starved; but he found he now had a reflexive fondness for those things that had helped them survive, even if one of them was a tiny, leggy blue flower with stems so strong they required a spell to sever them from the root.

Because they wilted so fast, he cast his preservation spell first on their bright basket. To his surprise, the dragonhide gloves seemed to have a queer effect on his magic, spreading the spell out more weakly but more evenly. He'd never cast while wearing dragonhide before. He caught Snape's smirk out of the corner of one eye; clearly, the other man had meant him to discover this unusual property.

After that, Snape set him to slicing shrivelfigs into halves while he retreated to his desk to grade. It was all surprisingly peaceful, Snape snorting in the background, sometimes, the rustle of his and Neville's parchments together, the reasoned hmm of thought when Snape read something with actual potential or Neville pondered quietly over a point. It felt a little like the time Gin had found that book of puzzles in the library and they'd sat together in the normally-silent Gryffindor Common Room, the flames blazing. After awhile, Hermione had wandered in and they'd given her a page, and for once her great brain was focused on reality, even if reality was if a Seeker leaves the goalpost in a horizontal trajectory at one meter per second, and the Keeper at the exact opposite end approaches at a 20% faster rate, where will they meet, provided the field is regulation-length? She'd sprawled out before the fire like a great cat, gold catching in the white streak of her hair and kicked her legs behind her before ordering "another", and "another", faster and faster, and Ron and Ginny laughed and indulged her, each proceeding at a far more normal pace – which is to say that neither of them could complete the puzzles very well at all and they arrived at the wrong answer half the time – while rolling their eyes and smiling at each other. Ginny had kicked out at him companionably with bare, white toes, and then there had been that quiet, just like this quiet, and –

And suddenly Ron missed them like burning.

He knew why it had taken nearly a week: they were here, of course. It was hard to miss Hermione when Hermione was in front of him, and more herself than she'd been in ages. It was harder to miss Draco Malfoy who, so far as Ron's emotions were concerned, seemed to be acting out a parody of his usual, casual dickishness. And it was brilliant to have Harry and Severus back at all.

So brilliant that it had taken him this long for it to sink in that he'd lost everyone he truly cared about. Everyone he'd fought to protect. That winter huddled together had made he and Hermione and Ginny and – Merlin help him – Draco Malfoy even closer than the trio had been back in the day. They'd depended on one another for food, for affection, for sanity. There was something to that, when you put so much time and effort and hard work into ensuring someone else's well-being: it made you more reluctant to let them go than someone with whom you'd shared a pint and some good laughs. Now they were forever out of his reach, and outside the circle of his protection, and he'd done it himself, he'd left them on purpose –

Fingers plucked the knife from Ron's loose grip, and he found that he was staring into the darkened eyes of Severus Snape.

"Why did you take off the gloves?" he inquired.

Ron looked down at his hands, which were encrusted with shrivelfig. "I couldn't hold the figs properly with them on. I know they're not caustic. I thought you just wanted to show me the effect the gloves have on charms."

Snape shooed him to the basin. "Wash and rinse your hands."

Ron did, and while he was still drying them, the yawning blackness of grief slowly lifted. An effect of the figs, he realized. Maybe not when you plopped one into a cauldron, but maybe if you handled them for an hour, the way Ron had been doing. It struck Ron that this could have been part of some kind of plot to deduce him, but then he remembered that Snape had instructed him to wear the gloves.

But surely, a spy like Snape knew what was going on in his own classroom. Surely, he had noticed Ron removing the gloves after the first few mangled figs.

Or was he falling back on a sort of child-like thinking about Snape? He wasn't a god; grown-ups weren't perfect. Sometimes they just didn't notice what they were supposed to, Ron thought. He had only discovered this recently, on realizing that he was an adult, and that he really still had no earthly idea what he was doing, half the time. The realization was obvious but still somehow heartbreaking, like the day Ron truly accepted he'd never be a famous Quidditch star like his parents had assured him he could be if he did his best and tried his hardest.

He'd hated Severus growing up, but even Ron could see that allowing Neville some time to brush up on the basics where it was silent but he still had help if he needed it was probably the best possible thing Severus might have done with this enforced time. Yet Ron had no illusions that if he were still the teenager he appeared to be, he would have railed about the unfairness of Neville's punishment and speculated darkly about what tortures Snape was visiting on him. He would have done his best to make Neville feel awkward about any Potions knowledge he did manage to garner, because it would have been important to him to verify that nothing good ever came from Severus Snape.

In short: he wouldn't have been fair.

Ron startled, realizing his thoughts were still wandering down grief-stricken paths, and washed his hands again, this time more vigorously.

Over the course of the next week, it became more and more usual for Snape to send some poor, easily-intimidated first-year (or any-year Hufflepuff) to fetch Ron from his place in the castle, sometimes interrupting meals, sleep, or even other professors' lessons. Ron learned to take the interludes in stride, and even to look forward to them. Snape spent a bit of time teaching him the fastest and smoothest ingredient prep techniques, so that by the end of the week, Ron's hands could move while his mind wandered, then went eventually and blessedly blank. Neville continued to grow like the sort of blossoming plant he loved to study, a finicky one that required just the right amount of light and water to bear fruit. There were moments when even Snape fell quiet for once, as though his whirling dervish of a brain found it all just as restful as Ron did. His voice fell to more measured tones, and his patience for Neville and Ron's mistakes seemed boundless, so that eventually Neville stopped flinching whenever Severus walked by. Ron felt as though these study sessions or whatever they were had turned out to be just as salutary for Severus Snape as they were for Neville Longbottom.

On his off hours, Ron studied his schoolwork in hopes of appearing a fourteen-year-old boy to everyone but Severus Snape and maybe Neville Longbottom, played chess with his invisible opponent, and pondered how to steal Gryffindor's Sword.

Rowena's diadem was in the Room of Requirement, of course, but Ron saw no reason to move it. No one had so much as touched the thing in thousands of years, and a week or two more couldn't hurt anything. In fact, since Ron wasn't sure how he'd explain someone spotting the diadem in his school trunk, it was probably safer there than anyplace else.

The Sword, however, was another matter. Ron knew from hazy memories that the Sword sat in a beautiful crystal case in Dumbledore's Office, but that at some point in time, Dumbledore had produced a replica and hidden the real thing. Knowing Dumbledore, that had occurred around when he decided that the Sword was truly important, which could have been any time past their second year, when Harry killed the Basilisk with it. Since Ron didn't know when the Sword would be taken from out in the open, it paid to move fast. But the obstacles he faced were even worse than with the diadem: how would he get his hands on it, and where would he put Godric Bloody Gryffindor's great honking Sword when he got it? Surely there were protections around it, unlike the Diadem, which was merely hidden in plain sight.

The thought of telling Dumbledore the whole story and letting him take care of everything had occurred to Ron, but it was a wistful and childish feeling. It was true that the elderly wizard hadn't done such a bang-up job of it the first time, but with Ron's help, he'd know more, now. Still, when Ron envisioned what could go wrong, it gave him the creeping shivers. When it came down to it, Ron didn't trust anybody but himself to move all the right pieces into play; and suddenly Ron thought he might understand just what Draco was feeling when he tried to shove Ron out of the spell... little though he liked it.

One evening, he stumbled out of the Potions classroom long after supper, bone-weary but in the best of ways: loose-limbed and relaxed and ready to sleep the sleep of the righteous. He'd done ingredient prep until he'd reached that beautiful zen place where he didn't worry about the rise of Voldemort or the end of the world for whole minutes at a time. Then, he'd helped Neville revise an assignment and Snape managed to persuade him to have a look at first-year essays, which were every bit as howlingly funny as Ron had always half-expected, while still being absorbing enough to take Ron's mind off his troubles.

Ron stretched his arms over his head and then tousled his hair back and forth a few times, trying to return the circulation to his scalp. He half-walked, half-stumbled forward, only to encounter a dark form lurking in the corner between the wall and the stairwell that led up from the dungeons.

Ron drew, but relaxed when he caught a flash off of a pair of spectacles and the sight of pale skin. "Harry," he said, pocketing his wand. "What are you doing all the way down here?"

"That's my line," Harry said tightly, emerging from the shadows. "What are you up to?"

Ron blinked. Harry had never aimed menace at him before, and it was weirdly chilling – far moreso than Malfoy had ever managed, even at his worst. It was probably because Ron had bloody memories that showed Harry capable of murder. "What I'm... up to?" he echoed.

"You've been slinking down in the dungeons with Snape," Harry said intently. "I've seen you on the Map loads of times. And now I want to know what you two are doing down here."

"If you've looked at the Map so often," Ron said, vowing to talk about Harry's stalking issues later on, "then you've seen that it's always Neville and me and Professor Snape," he said. "What dire deeds could we possibly be doing around Neville Knight-In-Shining Longbottom? This is the bloke who hexed us first-year because he thought we were up to no good, you know."

"Maybe you've got him fooled, or Imperiused, or –"

"Now hang on a minute!" Ron barked, a spark of true offence igniting in his chest. It wasn't often that Ron's honour was impugned, and the insult kindled the righteous indignation that came of being falsely accused.

Harry seemed to check himself. "No, I... it's just, you've been so jealous –"

"Jealous!" Ron growled. "I like that! You, going off and being so chummy with Seamus – don't think I don't notice how you cling to him when I'm around –"

"Well, and since when are you and Neville so friendly?" Harry shouted back, his green eyes flashing behind his spectacles. "Neville with his plants and his memory and his –"

"I remember someone saying Neville was worth ten of Malfoy," Ron interjected. "He's behind me, you know, still in the Potions classroom. He could come right 'round the corner and hear you saying these awful things about him."

This seemed to pull Harry up even more, and Ron could read in his eyes that part of him was regretting he'd ever snuck out after hours to corner Ron. But just as Ron read that, he saw Harry marshalling his arguments behind his eyes, drawing himself up to his full height. "Look, I wouldn't need to say awful things if you'd just tell me what's going on," he muttered crossly. "I don't want to fight."

"Could've fooled me," Ron snorted before he'd fully processed what Harry had said, but once he broke it down he snorted. "I get it. It's got to be something dire, right? Something dramatic," he added, not noting how very much he sounded like their Potions Master with that particular proclamation until it was out of his mouth, and by then it was too late to do anything but watch Harry's eyes flash wide, then narrow in reflexive dislike.

But then Ron realized he was arguing passionately, offended, even... when Harry was exactly right. Of course he wasn't who he said; of course he was up to something. Merlin, Harry's instincts were good, even if he didn't have any logic to back them.

Well, he justified to himself, Snape and I aren't up to anything –

But even that wasn't the case. Snape knew something about Ron that Harry didn't...

"Anyway," Ron finished, "it's nothing that affects you."

Another lie. Of course destroying the Horcruxes would profoundly affect everyone in the Wizarding World, and Harry more than most.

Ron bit his tongue to stop himself from speaking. He knew that his tone of voice and body language had grown less and less assured as he'd gone on.

"Yeah," Harry said angrily, then shuffled both feet. When he spoke again, it was a half-muttered grumble so faint Ron could hardly make it out.

"What?" Ron said, leaning forward. "Listen, if you've got something to say –"

"I said we used to trust each other," Harry bit out, whirling away to the stair. "Never mind. This was a waste of time," he added thickly, then vaulted up the stairs and out of sight.

Ron stood in the gloom of the dungeons, arms hanging useless at his sides, breath coming quick. No, he told himself, firm. Not here. Just a little longer. Just wait a little longer, until you're in bed, is that so much to ask? Just ten more minutes...

Merlin, he was such a mess. He couldn't breathe; Harry's words echoed in his head over and over again, stuck on infinite loop, we used to – used to – we used to trust... Ron knew it wasn't the content of the argument that had upset his equilibrium, not really: it was the way it had elevated his heart rate, his breathing, and it would only settle down when all his adrenaline was spent... Ron slid down, focussing on the reality of the rough stone that scraped against his back through his robes, the solid sense of it, bolstering him, protecting his weak flank...

Ron wished briefly he was mad enough to bang his head against the wall to chase the thoughts away. It hadn't been this bad since he'd started carrying the Aequus around; he knew better, now, than to wander around without it, or he had. Never again, he told himself firmly, you barmy fool.

His vision had begun its tedious dance-before-loss-of-consciousness, and Ron forcibly prevented himself from continuing his self-flagellation – from telling himself that no one panics like this over an argument, and a silly one at that.

And then Draco Malfoy's face wavered into view in front of him.

"Malfoy," Ron gasped.

"Fuck," was Malfoy's eloquent response.

"Potion," Ron gasped. "I need my potion."

"Yeah, yeah," Malfoy said, and patted down Ron's pockets, but the potion wasn't in its usual place at the inside front pocket of Ron's cloak, because... Ron knew he should know the reason, but everything had gone so hazy... "Where the fuck is it, Weasley?" Malfoy demanded. "Did you drop it? There's nothing here!"

"Don'tknowdon'tknow, it hurts," Ron said, because he'd somehow forgotten that part: that when he'd been having trouble breathing long enough, his ribs began to ache, as though his lungs were expanding far beyond their usual homes in a desperate bid to win him more air. The pain brought him a little out of his panic, made him realize how odd it was that Malfoy was kneeling in front of him in the here and now. "What are you... doing... here?"

"What am I doing here?" Malfoy rasped, then shook his head to clear it. "All right. I'll wake Snape –"

"Classroom," Ron huffed, and then, before Malfoy could question him, "in his... classroom."

Malfoy stared at him for a split second, and even through the haze of lack of oxygen, Ron could see the calculation flash across his mobile, childlike features, as though it had suddenly occurred to him that Ron lying near-comatose on the floor was a situation that called for smug declarations, or dithering, or blackmail, or even further injury. Malfoy rose, coldness sweeping across his features like encroaching fingers of frost, and Ron thought it still spoke rather well for Draco that his first instinct had been to help Ron, even if he then thought better of it; and he also remembered, in a way he hadn't been able to even moments ago, that he would really be all right if he only waited this out. He'd be uncomfortable, certainly. For hours, probably. But in the end, he'd emerge grumpy and so frustrated with himself that he was fit to tear out his hair, and missing a few hours' sleep but... all right, in the end. He wasn't about to die, even if his lungs and his heart were doing their utmost to convince him otherwise.

Ron only realized that he'd been steeling himself to watch Malfoy to wander off whistling when instead, he stood staring at Ron, holding perfectly still. The boy blinked hard a few times and then shook his head, once, as though he were attempting to dislodge a thought. For some reason, it reminded Ron of the way that Malfoy shook his wand to free it of magic and he smiled, helplessly, and Malfoy settled once more into Draco before him, in a way that took what little breath Ron had to spare. Hullo again, Jekyll, Ron thought a little dizzily. Draco blinked a few more times, said, "Potions classroom," distractedly, and took off at a trot.

Ron let go of a lungful of air, only then realizing that the panic attack was beginning to ebb. It was still very hard to breathe, but his vision had mostly steadied. Malfoy had provided a distraction from the panicking about panicking he knew could happen if he wasn't careful, or if an attack came on suddenly enough to also surprise him. He'd come to himself enough to be doing his measured breathing exercises when Snape swam into view, Neville beside him.

Marvellous.

"Mister Weasley," Snape said lowly.

"Hi, Professor," Ron gasped.

"Can you stand?"

"Think so," Ron said, and pulled himself to his feet, only to lose his sense of place abruptly, an awful feeling, like losing control of your broom or being under Confundus. Neville ducked immediately under his arm, and together they hobbled the short distance back to the Potions classroom.

By the time they arrived, Ron was huffing piteously and feeling flayed by the others' scrutiny.

Very well – their imagined scrutiny. Ron was a little busy to be scanning anyone's features for pity or disdain.

Snape deposited him onto a lab bench and immediately shoved his head between his knees.

Ron didn't know why anyone ever did that ever. It always made him feel dizzier and as though he were going to vomit. A pair of hands braced his shoulders and this was better; he could still lean a bit forward without folding his insides like an accordion. Even better, he discovered, was leaning back, head supported, though when he was unfolded into that position, he caught sight of Neville's frightened eyes.

"S'all right... Neville," Ron breathed. "Sorry. I... go through this... a lot."

These words seemed to have the opposite effect Ron had intended: Neville's eyes grew wide and his lips trembled.

"It's really... fine," Ron said, beginning to feel irritated with himself again, inescapably. Like he had any control over this, but that was the kind of thought that only made him feel worse. "It looks... dramatic, but... it's over quickly, and... I'm used to it..."

Snape spooned some potion into Ron's open mouth and massaged his throat like a puppy's.

Ron swallowed helplessly, then felt his heart rate kick down two notches.

Oh Merlin. That was better. Ron took two deep, experimental breaths, and looked up to grin at Snape. "Thank you," he said. "Wow. Thanks, that's... really... a whole lot better..."

Snape's expression shifted from smug to wary. "But it did not work," he said, staring accusingly at the bottle of Calming Draught in his hands.

"Aequus... aquas," Ron said, and swallowed when Snape turned to stare. "Only thing that –"

"Mister Malfoy, we could use your help," Snape said.

It was only then, peering over Snape's shoulder, that Ron could see Draco Malfoy, pale and blank-faced, a tiny wrinkle between his brows the only thing that betrayed that he had any emotions about what he was seeing at all. He was leaning against the cabinets that were bolted magically to the walls in a parody of relaxed confidence, but he pushed himself off and hurried over at an impatient look from Snape.

Then Ron got to watch as the unlikely trio of Snape, Draco, and Neville Longbottom began to brew a complex potion together. He thought that fourteen-year-old Ron's brain probably would have exploded at the very thought, but he didn't have energy for the pretence, and he guessed that any anomalous behaviour would be attributed to, well, being in the middle of a panic attack. Neville fetched ingredients, having sourced several of them himself, and long since learned the locations of the others, though Severus wisely ordered him to stand back and watch once the actual ingredient prep and brewing began. Draco's fingers flew through the slicing, dicing and crushing of Potions ingredients, just as Ron's had begun to do, though he didn't work with the same casual expertise that Severus displayed; and he helped Severus perform the steps to the potion with a focus that was frankly not a little bit scary, while Ron panted helplessly and Neville squeezed his hand. Finally, an hour later, the complex potion was complete.

Ron was stirring through the dregs of his attack, but he accepted the potion graciously, not wanting the others to feel they had laboured until Merlin-knew-which-hour for nothing. The Aequus went down his throat like ice, tasting of lavender and Passiflora and hawthorn, slowing his heart rate and spreading a calming balm across his jittering mind. He took his first unlabored breath in hours and stood, creaky and stiff as an old man. Every muscle tensed and tightened from trembling; his ribs felt as though they had been whacked with the business end of a broom handle. When he stood, he was dizzy and faintly trembling, though from post-panic exhaustion rather than nerves.

"Sit back down, Mister Weasley," Snape ordered, and Ron sank gratefully back to the lab bench.

Ron's knee-jerk impulse was to apologize. It was incredibly awkward, now that the panic had passed, to note how both boys were staring at him as though he might fall back into hyperventilation at any moment. "Thanks," he said, eyeing them both. "I mean it. That's. Uh... thanks," he added intelligently, hefting the rest of the bottle to show his appreciation. Or what his appreciation was for. Or something.

Neville nodded, still looking worried, so Ron turned his attention to Malfoy.

"I do hope we do get a class excuse for this," Malfoy said in bored tones. "I don't suppose I can attend Transfiguration first thing tomorrow..."

"Ha bloody ha," Ron croaked.

"Language, Mister Weasley," Severus chided him. "And just this once I will provide each of you with a Potion that makes each hour of sleep feel like three."

Ron perked up. The Tenebris somnum potion! Severus had made it for them many times during the War. It was lovely.

He reflected, with a pang, how much Potions knowledge he'd apparently accumulated. When he first arrived, he'd believed it was all incidental to knowing Severus Snape: that there would be gaps in his knowledge that would render any conversation about Potions essentially indecipherable. But the longer he spent here, the less certain he was of that initial impression. Apparently, knowing Severus Snape well enough to watch him brew and listen to him prattle on about Potions ingredients was as good as an O on his OWL, at the very least.

Malfoy huffed disconsolately.

"Relax, Malfoy," Ron muttered. "You'll get plenty of beauty sleep."

The speculative glance Snape sent him told Ron nothing but that Severus found that statement interesting for some reason. Maybe it was too fond. Maybe he'd heard Draco use the phrase 'beauty sleep' to describe his own somnolence enough times that it rang familiar. Maybe the way Ron had said it made it seem as though he had first-hand knowledge of the effects of the Tenebris somnum.

Ron was too tired to imagine all the ways this might go wrong, and that was a relief of its own dark sort: he was so exhausted that he could no longer blame himself for any mistakes he might make. "I'd like that Potion, now, Professor," Ron mumbled. "I'm absolutely wrecked."

Escaping was his only option at this point.

Severus was already parcelling out three doses in three phials, and Ron almost reminded him to pour one for himself before thinking that Severus Snape was a grown man and, as far as Severus knew, Ron was not. He would not take too kindly to being chided to look after himself better.

Each boy took a corked phial and slipped it into a robe pocket.

"Mister Malfoy," Snape said. "We will discuss what you were doing out after curfew without permission tomorrow after your Transfigurations class, no matter the fortuitous consequences. Mister Weasley, we will discuss why you were wandering around without the aid of a potion your health clearly requires after you finish with Potions. Mister Longbottom..." Snape sighed. "Adequate work today. Tomorrow..." He took another deep breath. "Tomorrow we will begin working on your brewing."

For all that Malfoy and Ron had been the ones admonished, it was Neville who blanched. "Are you... sure, sir?" he said in a small voice. "Maybe I can just... you know, keep on gathering ingredients and things, and writing about theory a bit longer. Just until..."

"Until world's end, I imagine," Snape said tartly. "No. Much as it pains me, Mister Longbottom... it's time you moved on to the more practical aspects of Potion-making."

Ron wondered, through his haze of exhaustion, why Snape was choosing now of all times to comment on Neville's progress before he realized.

Better for Draco Malfoy to know that Neville Longbottom was receiving intensive tutoring and carry that tale than strain his imagination to come up with another, more inventive one on his own. Well done, Severus, he thought. You do think of everything, don't you?

"Each phial contains three tablespoons; each tablespoon correlates to approximately one hour's extended sleep. With three hours' sleep," Severus said, eyeing the clock, "you should feel as though you have slept for nine. The healthy amount for teenagers," he added darkly.

Ron snorted. He couldn't help it: Snape sounded like someone's father, which fit with neither his schoolday nor his Wartime conception of the man.

"Thanks, professor," Neville began, which started a flurry of thank-yous from the other two boys as well. Neville and Malfoy preceded Ron out the door, but he turned at the threshold, wanting to say something to Severus, he knew not what.

"Go to sleep, Mister Weasley," Snape said in that gentled voice that Ron so seldom heard.

"Yessir, I will, just. Thank you? Thank you, that was – I really..." Ron was doing this all wrong, he felt, stumbling over a tongue heavy and slow with fatigue. "No one's ever," he tried, but that wasn't fair to anybody. Gin had tried, she really had, and at least Draco read the ingredients aloud to him from one of Severus's old potions books, wide-eyed and panicky enough for the both of them, sometimes, in emergencies. But no one had held his hand like Neville. No one had brewed for him like Snape and Draco. He'd never gotten to ride it out safely, quietly. Never been able to rely on someone else's steady hand when his own shook.

He wanted to convey this to Severus, but his brain wouldn't obey.

Severus leaned forward so that he could see just beyond the open classroom door. "Mister Longbottom?"

"Yessir," said Neville, and took Ron by the arm.

Chapter Text

Malfoy was still standing at the base of the steps when Ron and Neville reached them. Never before had he looked more like his ghostly self, pale in the flickering torchlight only a few hours before dawn, his features blank save that small wrinkle on his brow that Ron had noticed before. It made him look puzzled, like he himself wasn't entirely certain why he was standing there.

"Malfoy," Neville said.

"Longbottom," said Draco, but his eyes were trained on Ron.

"I'll be all right, Malfoy, really," Ron said wearily. "Go to sleep. You'll see my face tomorrow and it won't look even half so much like death, I promise."

Malfoy bristled. "I'm not sure why you think I'd care," he said.

"Because you're here," Neville said, and he said it with such confidence in Malfoy's goodwill that the boy in question faltered. It was as though Draco had seen things suddenly from Neville's perspective, and didn't like the view.

"Well, that can be remedied," Malfoy growled. He spun on one heel and marched off in the opposite direction of Gryffindor Tower.

"What was that all about?" Neville wondered, helping Ron climb the first set of stairs.

"Buggered if I know," Ron half-lied. "Though he's been talking to me near-civilly ever since Harry and I started arguing. Maybe he figures it's an opportunity."

Neville issued a very un-Neville-like snort of derision. "Sure," he said. "You and Harry are best mates. You'll be close again in no time."

"I don't think Malfoy knows from best mates," Ron said. But Malfoy played chess with Ron even when he was sick of it, and found puzzle-books to amuse the living, and was careful and respectful of Hermione's research, and joked with Ron, and spoke uncomfortable truths Ron wasn't always ready to hear, and camped outside of Gryffindor Tower when he lost his way.

Oh, Merlin. Malfoy had been Ron's best friend for years... and he hadn't even noticed.

Later, Ron wouldn't remember much of the trip up to Gryffindor Tower, just a lot of putting one, leaden foot before the other, to the backdrop of Neville's doing well, and just a few more, Ron. He folded himself into bed, working the cork away from the phial with his teeth while Neville dragged his shoes off of his feet, and collapsed into unconsciousness as fast as falling.

When Ron woke, he was actually more exhausted than the morning before, but that was what came from avoiding sleep for days on end before finally giving in – it always took longer than he expected to 'catch up'. He'd forgotten, too, that the Tenebris somnum produced remarkably vivid dreams, as though to compensate for the limited time spent in real, deep sleep. Ron vaguely recalled a medieval contest of arms between Harry, Voldemort and Snape, with Hermione and Draco commentating as though it were all a Quidditch match... Voldemort had a javelin, Ron recalled bemusedly as he tugged his trousers up over his hips.

The other boys were already out of the room but for Neville, who was still asleep; Ron jogged over and jostled his shoulder. "Hey, Neville," he said, warming with affection as sleepy teenaged Neville stretched and blinked stupidly. "It's morning."

Neville's gaze snapped to his, suddenly wakeful. "All right?"

"Yeah, just like I told you and Malfoy," Ron said, amused. "Sorry for giving you a fright, yesterday. Happens sometimes. Only sometimes; you don't have to worry, all right?"

"All right," Neville said, but he kept darting little glances at Ron throughout their morning routine, as though he expected Ron to break down into a shuddering mess at any moment.

It was to be expected, Ron mused, trying to keep his equanimity. He felt that way himself, sometimes.

Together, they traipsed down to breakfast, Ron with the distinct feeling that, while they weren't late exactly, they had best eat swiftly. Ron sat down at Gryffindor with Hermione on one side and Neville on the other, Harry across from them, and Ron suddenly remembered their argument from the evening before, that he was supposed to still be furious with Harry. But so much had happened last evening that the actual fight that had been the impetus for Ron's attack had been driven clean from his mind.

Harry spent the next five minutes studiously ignoring Ron to glare at his poached egg as though it had done him a personal wrong before muttering something about homework and disappearing.

"Did something happen?" Hermione said, picking at her eggs. "Something else, I mean. It seems worse, today."

Ron shook his head. "Neville and I have been doing work for Professor Snape as part of our punishment for, er, you know."

"Yes, Ronald, I do know," Hermione said patiently, "though you still haven't explained what you were thinking going off into the mountains like that, or what that has to do with Harry."

"Well, Harry thinks... Harry thinks I'm, uh... HarrythinksI'mplottingagainsthim," Ron blurted, stabbing his own egg with enough force that his fork screeched against the plate.

"He does not," Hermione blurted, darting an infuriated glare at Harry's retreating back. "Why, that's ridiculous. You hate Professor Snape. Don't you?" she implored, which was ridiculous, too. She'd always been after Ron to show Snape more respect, and now she was practically begging Ron to badmouth the man.

At the same time, Neville was staring at Ron, waiting to see what he would do: if he would betray the man who'd looked after him last night with such unwavering diligence.

"Snape's all right sometimes," Ron conceded, trying to seem begrudging, "but that doesn't mean we're bloody well plotting."

"Language!" Hermione said in just the same tone that Snape himself had used the evening before, and Neville and Ron huffed a laugh simultaneously. "What?"

"Just," said Neville, eyeing her. "Er. Nothing."

"Well!" Hermione said. "I can see why Harry's suspicious, given this change of heart! What on earth made you shift your thinking about him?"

Ron shrugged, but Neville stepped into the breach.

"He's really a far better tutor than professor," Neville gushed. "He's so patient and so good at explaining things –"

Hermione's brows climbed towards her bushy hair. "Are we talking about the same Professor Snape?"

"He really is different when it's... quiet," Ron allowed. "He's really..." Soothing to be around. Companionable. Kind. "Well, it's not torture like I thought it'd be, is all I'm saying."

Hermione eyed them both. "So Harry has leapt to the conclusion that you're both being blackmailed or under the Imperius Curse or worse."

"Something like that," Ron sighed. He caught Malfoy's eye at the Slytherin table and nodded at him. Malfoy merely narrowed his eyes.

"And then there's that," Hermione said, sipping her morning tea.

"And then there's what?" Ron asked innocently.

"Ronald Weasley," she said, lip quirking – against her will, it would appear. "Harry and I caught you speaking with Draco Malfoy the other day, and you just casually nodded at him like the two of you are actually on speaking terms! Honestly, it's no wonder Harry's gotten the wrong idea. I might've too, if I didn't already understand just what was going on."

"And what's that?" Ron inquired, curious to hear her theories and feeling relatively sure she would never guess the truth.

"Well, you're – you know, expanding a bit without Harry around all the time. Finding your own way. I think it's good, really. I think you'll be better friends after you have."

Ron wondered what Hermione would say if she found out that Severus had expressed a similar sentiment: in Harry Potter's absence, you appear to have become an O-student...

But there was no way to surreptitiously slip in the idea that Snape and Hermione shared a point of view on the matter, because Hermione was gathering her things. "History of Magic, Ron," Hermione said. "Come along, or we'll be late. Just... be careful of Draco Malfoy, all right?" she added as she pulled him along by the crook of his arm. She frowned. "He's not like us."

Ron did all right in History of Magic, mostly by keeping his head down and his gob shut. He knew just about as much about history as he had before the War, which was to say nothing. He doodled on the edge of his notes just to keep up appearances, pretty certain that Ronald Weasley, aged fourteen, couldn't be bothered to take notes on a class in which no one but Hermione Granger expected to receive more than an 'Acceptable'.

Charms was something of a disaster. They were practising Summoning Charms, which Ron thought any fool could perform. Apparently, there were several fools who could not – and today, that included Harry Potter.

Ron had partnered automatically with Neville, whose bolstered confidence seemed to be up to the challenge of Summoning a pillow. Though Neville's charm started off shaky, working with Ron put him at ease. Soon they were making something of a game of it, seeing how fast they could make the pillow move, how slow, and how high. Ron laughed aloud when Neville weakened and strengthened his charm experimentally and the pillow minced forward, taking tiny, jerking steps through the air. Harry and Hermione, on the other hand, appeared to be having more trouble: Harry couldn't seem to make his pillow move in a straight line, and once he even slammed Hermione about the face with it, though she took it with remarkably good grace.

At the end of Charms, Ron caught Flitwick taking Harry aside and handing him a parchment. Neville shot Ron a triumphal glance before tempering his expression to something more sympathetic: usually Neville was the one who got extra practice at the end of a lesson.

Ron and Neville left the Charms classroom for lunch, anxiety churning in Ron's guts – he still hadn't decided what he was going to tell Snape – when Harry stormed past them, Hermione trotting worriedly at his heels.

"That's trouble, and no mistake," Seamus said, drawing up beside them. "Harry in a high dudgeon – he'll be even worse than usual."

A coterie of Cedric Diggory followers swarmed past, giggling and whispering, Hufflepuff scarves tied around their waists and holding back their hair.

"Well, and then there's that," Dean added at Seamus's side. "That'd send any bloke to the highest dudgeon there is."

"I don't know a dudgeon is a place you can be," Neville offered tentatively. "Anyway, I'm sure it'll sort itself."

"Yeah," Ron said heavily. "Right."

"If you'd only make it up," Seamus said. "For the good of the Tower."

Ron sighed. "I – yeah, sure." He wasn't certain where he was on his timeline, or when it was he'd forgiven Harry, exactly. "I'll try, anyroad. Can't say he'll take me back."

"Flowers and chocolates," Seamus said wisely. "Shoes? Fancy restaurants."

"You're a right handbook of cliches," Ron laughed. "Somehow I doubt that's going to work on Harry." He frowned. "We've always been friends. I'm not sure how to apologize."

Neville looked confused. "You say, 'I'm sorry', Ron."

Dean clapped Neville on the back, and Ron huffed a laugh. "Absolutely right, Neville," he said.

Lunch didn't seem to be the right moment, however, since Harry and Hermione sat on the long bench before the Gryffindor table bent together and speaking in hushed voices, Ron decided with a bitter pang. It was probably better to talk to Harry in the evening anyway, maybe at the Tower itself. He was pretty sure the others would agree to clear out if they figured out what Ron was about.

Ron watched as one by one, most of the Gryffindors got up to leave the table. It wasn't only that he didn't want to walk two steps behind his erstwhile best friends, though if he were to be honest with himself, that was part of it. The other part was that he needed a good story for Snape about his panic attacks and why he hadn't mentioned them up to now. No closer to an answer, he realized that his conversation with Snape would certainly not go very well for him if he were late for Double-Potions, which he was about to be, so he rose and walked swiftly in the direction of the dungeons.

But when Ron skidded down the last few steps to the dungeons, he found everyone standing out in the corridor around the Potions classroom. Snape didn't usually allow loitering, though some students always tried to put off entering the Potions classroom until the last possible moment; so the situation seemed off to Ron, and off meant unsafe. He drew, but kept his wand tucked into his sleeve.

Ron recognized that the Gryffindors seemed to be facing off against the Slytherins, though the Slytherins were looking more hateful even than usual, and seemed to be wearing some kind of patch next to the crests on their robes.

"...isn't all they do," Malfoy was saying gleefully to – yes, to Harry, Ron thought as he crept closer. "Watch!"

As though they'd choreographed it, all of the Slytherins tapped their new badges which now read, Potter Stinks! in big, block letters that glowed Avada green.

"Oh, you're all so incredibly clever," Hermione hissed. "How long did it take you to come up with the slogan, Malfoy? On second thought, that was your father's work, wasn't it? After all, he does all your thinking for you."

Ron remembered this, now. He remembered leaning against the wall casually (falsely casually – just as adolescent and stupid as Malfoy had been in the Potions classroom the night before) but he didn't remember Hermione putting it quite that way last time. Ron blinked himself free of his abstraction just in time to notice Harry looking at him hopefully, before his expression hardened and he turned away – as though he'd thought Ron might help him before reminding himself Ron wouldn't.

That feeling of bitterness flew through Ron's veins again, like a wash of wormwood. Enough, he thought, and moved to stand beside Hermione. "I can just imagine you down in the dungeons applying sticking charms for hours on hours, just to get a quick laugh from Slytherin. This is petty, Malfoy, even for you."

Malfoy blinked at him, as though he hadn't expected Ron to chime in at all. Ron spent a moment feeling a bit smug. Harry still has friends, Ron thought rebelliously. Or maybe Malfoy thought somehow that their brief interlude the day before meant that Ron would struggle before deciding to support Harry over him – but that was ridiculous.

"Oh, did you want one, Weasley?" he replied casually. "It did take some work, but I've got loads. Lots of demand, you see. Only don't touch me; I'll be scrubbing the bits of blood traitor off of me for hours. Granger, I'm sure you know what that's like."

Hermione drew her wand with a growl, and Harry drew his, and suddenly their spectators were darting back. Ron still had his wand up his sleeve, hadn't brought it to bear.

Malfoy seemed to notice he was alone in the hallway all at once; even Crabbe and Goyle were hanging back just out of reach, as though Malfoy had fleas. "Go on, then," he said, quietly, eyed wild. "Go on then, Potter, you want to. I know you do. You want to kill me, don't you? You wish I were dead. No Moody here to save you from yourself, now, Potter. Why don't you show the world what you're really made of?"

Harry swallowed, his wand hand slowly ticking down.

"Harry, no –" said Hermione, just as Malfoy jiggled his wand hand.

"PROTEGO!" Ron roared over Malfoy's incantation, and the half-formed hex flew off-course...

Straight towards Hermione. A buzzing filled Ron's ears as the magic of the curse flew towards her – there was no way he was going to get off a second charm fast enough –

"PROTEGO TOTALIS," boomed a very familiar voice, and Ron gasped as the hex sliced a single curl off of Hermione's head before dissolving harmlessly into shards of light.

Hermione gave one, head-to-toe shiver and the curl came free of the rest of her head to spill into a coil on the stone at her feet.

The corridor's inhabitants held a caught-breath silence... all but Malfoy, who was panting shallowly, lowering his wand hand. "I didn't – I didn't mean –"

"Mister Malfoy," said Snape, because of course it was he who had cast the totalis, "your wand, please."

"But – I didn't," Draco began piteously, and Ron almost felt moved.

Almost. That had very nearly split Hermione's head open. Draco was all ready, fire, aim, and Ron knew for a fact that his impetuousness would get him killed someday. He was all too aware that, with events up in the air as they were, there was the distinct possibility that Draco's carelessness could now get other people killed instead of only himself.

Snape plucked Draco's wand from his nerveless fingers. Malfoy looked rather as though he'd been beamed across the back of the head. "Mister Weasley, please take Mister Malfoy directly to the Headmaster and wait there for my arrival."

"Yessir," Ron muttered, and came forward to claim Malfoy.

"Sir!" Pansy Parkinson piped up. "Sir, that isn't fair! You need to send a Slytherin along, too, at the very least –"

"Miss Parkinson," Snape interrupted in a far quieter voice that nonetheless sliced through Pansy's babbling. "Do you presume in this moment to advise me of the wisest course of action?"

Pansy gulped and stepped back.

"Mister Weasley, if you will be so kind," Snape said faintly, and Ron approached Malfoy again, trying hard to pretend that everyone wasn't staring at the whole scene like it was a new and delectable sweet at Honeydukes: greedy and interested and mulling over the taste in their mouths.

"Come on, Malfoy," Ron said, and that seemed to rouse Malfoy out of his stupor enough to make him take a step forward.

"Ron," said Hermione.

Ron turned to see that Harry and Hermione were staring at him blankly. "You'll be all right," he told them, gently, and tugged Malfoy forward by the arm.

Ron could hear the distant sound of a professor lecturing once in awhile, but as it was really the start of the class period, no one was yet wandering looking for a drink of water or a bathroom break. He and Malfoy had the corridor to themselves. The school felt ghostly-empty, echoing and vast.

"Why that curse?" Ron said quietly, still holding Malfoy by the arm. He didn't figure Malfoy would try to dash off: he still looked too shocked with a side of horrorstruck. Still, he wasn't about to take any chances. "Why not seriously anything else? Anything at all."

At this, Malfoy seemed to rouse himself. "Had it coming," he spat.

"Hermione had it coming?"

"No," he muttered, tugging at the edge of his sleeve. "No, I was aiming for Potter. You know I was."

"And Harry deserves to be split open," Ron growled.

"Yes," Draco said. Then, "no," smaller.

"For fuck's sake, Malfoy," Ron said, finally reaching the end of his rope. He scrubbed both hands wildly through his hair and turned to face the other boy. "The only reason you aren't about to go away to Azkaban for murder is good luck. You know that, right?" Ron blinked in sudden realization. "I was... lingering at lunch. If I hadn't been up in time... Harry or Hermione would be dead." He paused. "Snape was there - it took both of us - Hermione. Hermione would be dead," he repeated, and suddenly felt weak in the knees. "She would've – you would've killed her. By accident." He blinked up at Malfoy, who was going impossibly paler.

"Potion," Malfoy choked, and Ron reached into his cloak and took a sip of Aequus Aquas, counting his heartbeats as they slowed.

"I may not like Granger, but I don't want her dead," Malfoy said, voice shaking.

Ron looked up from where he was tucking the bottle away again to find that Malfoy's features were earnest and imploring. "That's the problem," Ron said as his heart rate slowed under the effects of the potion. "Casting a curse that might well be an Unforgivable if more people knew it existed, with twenty witnesses, right in front of a Professor's door? Even your father can't get you out of this one, even with bribes. Even with Obliviate."

Malfoy was staring, now. "So your criticism is that I should've been more Slytherin about my at-ttempted murder," he stammered.

"No," Ron sighed. "No," he said again, staring into Malfoy's wide grey eyes. "I don't think you know what you're doing," he went on, pushing past the fact that Malfoy's eyes were swimming. "I think you believe you want to be feared, when nothing could be further from the truth. I think if you won't shift from the path you're following, you'll go mad."

Malfoy gave a funny, hitched gasp.

"And I think you're halfway there," Ron went on, inexorably, all his worries spilling out on the floor between them. "I don't think you know why you chose that curse. I don't think you know why you're so angry, or upset, or afraid. And because you don't, you can't control it. And because of that... someone will die. Maybe you. Maybe Hermione. Maybe," Ron said, "maybe me, because I can't help but keep trying to stop you."

A fine shudder ran through Malfoy. His lips parted as though he would speak, but instead, a choked-off sob emerged.

He clamped down on it with a rapidity that nearly broke Ron's heart in and of itself, because it was so practised, but Ron held back from offering comfort. Part of him wondered if Malfoy – Hyde – really thought that 'remorseful' was simply how he should behave while alone in the company of one of Hermione's allies. He wondered if Malfoy would have still judged remorse to be the right emotion to display if Snape had appointed another Slytherin to accompany them. And most of all, he thought of how genuine Malfoy's efforts to help had seemed when they'd discovered the Professors' spell; how confidently he'd ordered Ron to draw the sigils, how heartfelt his apologies as he betrayed Ron for his own ends.

Ron shook his head. "Come on, Malfoy. Merlin knows we don't want to arrive at the Headmaster's Office after Snape gets there."

Draco nodded, squaring his shoulders, but he still looked paper-pale, and he stumbled when he moved forward. Ron grabbed for his arm again, and told himself it was just to ensure that the other boy didn't dash away while his back was turned.

After guessing every possible sweet he could think of, Draco mumbled something about Cockroach Clusters, and the spiral staircase emerged that would take them up to see the Headmaster. Luckily, they were in fact there before Snape arrived, though that meant that Ron would have to explain why they'd come.

"Greetings, Mister Malfoy, Mister Weasley," the Headmaster said from behind his desk. Ron tried very hard not to stare at the gleaming Sword in its case just behind him. "What brings you here today?"

Malfoy's breath seemed to freeze in his chest.

"Duel in the corridors," Ron said shortly. "Malfoy very nearly got off a nasty hex, sir."

"Is that all?" Dumbledore said. "Sherbert lemon?"

Ron elbowed Malfoy.

"No, thank you, sir," he said faintly. Then, when Ron elbowed him again, "the curse was Sectumsempra. Sir."

Dumbledore blinked. "Mister Malfoy, I cannot say I am not disappointed. But it didn't connect, you say? How fortuitous."

"Only because Weasley is fast on the draw. Sir," said Malfoy again, as though he were kicking himself into the sir part every single time.

"I see," Dumbledore replied, and there was a small space of quiet. "I suppose," he said eventually, "that you are very lucky, then, that Mister Weasley was so close by."

"Yes, sir," Draco said, and that, at least, sounded genuine, though Ron barely knew whether he could trust what Malfoy sounded like.

"Do sit down, boys," the Headmaster urged them, and Ron didn't let go of Malfoy's arm until the other boy was safely in a seat, before turning to his own. "I have the feeling that we may be chatting awhile. In which class did this occur?"

"No class," Ron said loyally. "We were all in the corridor."

"The hallway?" Dumbledore looked surprised, as well he might; Hogwarts wasn't known for its public brawls. "Before Potions," Dumbledore filled in knowingly, and Ron wondered if the man seriously had every year's and house's class schedule memorized. "The curse was aimed at Mister Potter, I presume."

Malfoy nodded, then seemed to think better of his silence. "Yes," he rasped.

"Mister Malfoy," Dumbledore began. "Surely, you see that this rivalry between you and Mister Potter must come to an end." He popped a sherbert lemon into his own mouth and sucked on it meditatively. "One we hope is not a final end," he added.

Draco squirmed in his seat.

"Easier said than done," Ron blurted, and he didn't know why he'd said it until Draco looked up at him, abject relief in his eyes. "Harry and Malfoy have been at one another's throats for over three years, Professor," he went on. "The time to break it up would've been first year, maybe. I'm not sure if they can keep their hands off one another, now."

Dumbledore turned to face him. "You seem remarkably calm, Mister Weasley," he observed, "for someone whose friend has just been threatened with such a vile curse."

Ron had no answer for a long moment, and he only began to scramble for one when he realized that Dumbledore was content to wait him out until an answer emerged. "I wasn't calm," he said levelly. "Malfoy and I had a talk in the hallway before coming, so I've cooled down, some. And I may not like Malfoy, but even I can see that if threats and shouting were going to get us anywhere, this all would've been settled ages ago."

"Very mature of you, Mister Weasley," Dumbledore praised him, but then Severus Snape stepped in, and Ron felt the tension wind up his shoulders and the back of his neck.

Snape's face was white, and there were two hectic spots of colour on each cheek. "What. Were. You. Thinking? Where did you learn such a spell in the first place? How dare you aim such a thing at one of my students? I don't care if they are Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw or Slytherin..." But he broke off at the lack of expression on Draco's face. "If you are only capable of understanding or caring about Slytherins, Mister Malfoy, perhaps it may surprise you to know that your actions could easily end up costing me my job!"

Draco had begun to tremble, again, and he was clamping his mouth closed so tightly his lips were white.

"Professor Snape," Ron began.

"Thank you, Mister Weasley," Snape said without taking his eyes from Draco, "but you are no longer needed here. Please return to the classroom."

Ron held his ground. "I was there for the whole thing, Professor, and I'm – I'm an unbiased observer."

"Ha!" Snape shouted. "Unbiased! You would see Mister Malfoy sent to Azkaban for attempted murder –"

"Severus," Dumbledore interjected. "Perhaps it's best you cease, now."

Snape swallowed, as though it were suddenly dawning on him that he might be giving Ron ideas.

"Thank you, Mister Weasley," the Headmaster said in more congenial though no less intent tones. "Professor Snape and I do appreciate your restraint and your frankly very circumspect behaviour, but I do believe your professor to be correct. You ought to go find your friends."

Ron felt his teeth grind together. Shouldn't Malfoy have an advocate present? But Heads of House functioned in loco parentis when Hogwarts was in session: Snape was Draco's advocate. Snape was so infuriated that Ron had actually forgotten the fact. He rose reluctantly to find that Draco was casting him a desperate look – don't leave me alone, here! – but Ron was backed into a corner. "Class is still in session?" he stalled.

Snape nodded wearily. "Professor Flitwick agreed to step in," he said.

Ron thought about Professor Flitwick trying to keep control of the Potions class under the current circumstances. "Yeah, all right," he said, wishing he had further excuse to stay... but he didn't... and in the end, he had to watch the door close on Draco Malfoy's terrified, hunched form, Dumbledore on one side, Snape on the other.

When he returned to the Potions classroom, the chaos was every bit as dramatic as he'd expected. The Gryffindor boys were clustered around Hermione as though they thought another cutting hex would come her way at any moment, and the mutters sounded angry, like the moments before a pub brawl. It was only when Ron appeared in the doorway that they silenced, sudden as a dunk in ice-water.

"Well, is he still alive?" Parkinson called out into the quiet.

"Mister Weasley," Professor Flitwick said anxiously, "do take a seat."

Ron made a split-second decision. "Professor Snape says there's a quiz," he announced to the class. "An essay quiz. After you've finished it, you can leave."

Everyone looked horrified.

"I'm too upset," Parkinson whinged. "Professor, I can't," she added, appealing to Flitwick. "My nerves. I feel light-headed all of a sudden..."

"You know he'll grade them," Neville said loudly. "You know how Professor Snape is."

Parkinson's friends cooed over her supposed condition, but Ron could tell that Neville had straightened her priorities.

Ron sidled up to Flitwick and moments later, the small man was clearing his throat. "Very well, children, quills and parchment out, books away... wands, too, Miss Parkinson... all right, now. The question is: Given a batch of Wolfsbane, discuss how the potion would alter if: 1) Ruby were used in place of moonstone; 2) The clockwise and widdershins directions were both reversed; 3) The potion were placed under stasis in its final stage for no more than three hours." As Flitwick spoke, the three parts to the question appeared on the blackboard behind him. "You may begin."

Ron cast a quick glance around the room. Sure, everyone was looking disgruntled verging on murderous, but their glares were for the board or their parchments, now, and not for each other. If Ron were lucky, they would avoid a second or a third assault today.

Flitwick did what all the better professors did during test-time, which was to walk menacingly up and down the rows as his students scribbled – checking for cheating, so Ron thought, until he noticed that the man's hands and pockets were filling up with Potter Stinks badges, some of which the Slytherins had forgotten to change back.

Ron smirked, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote.

"Brilliant," Hermione said when she emerged, without Harry at her side. Ron cast about for him; he'd assumed that Harry was at the knot of Gryffindor boys protecting Hermione, but apparently not. "Making everyone leave one at a time, basically. Snape can be clever sometimes," she allowed, catching Ron's eye. "Oh, er. Harry had to go..."

"Had to go," Ron repeated incredulously. It was hard to imagine Harry letting Hermione out of his sight after this.

"Something about pictures for the Triwizard," Hermione said tentatively.

Oh, well, if it's for glory, Ron thought traitorously, sure, Harry would leave Hermione wherever. "Are you all right?" he said, fingering her lock of chopped hair.

"Oh, yes," Hermione assured him. "It was... very frightening. Very close. But I'm fine, really. What happened in the Headmaster's Office?" she inquired, lacing her arm through his and steering him away. It was quite some time before dinner, really, since no quiz with three questions could last all the way through Double-Potions; they certainly had time for a stroll.

"I'm glad you're all right," Ron said.

"That doesn't answer the question," Hermione snapped pertly back, her brown eyes alight with curiosity.

"I guess I was thinking about how Malfoy isn't," Ron replied. "I think there's something really wrong with him."

Hermione blinked. "Well, yes: he's Malfoy."

"Beyond that," Ron replied. "I don't know. He acted as though he were beside himself he'd nearly hurt you. I'm not sure how far I trust that, but if that's true, it means he cast the curse without realizing what he was doing."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "Do you really think so?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Ron said, shaking his head. "Sometimes he gives this impression that everything he's doing is part of some kind of grand show. That he's actually forgotten how to be honest at all, to the point where I wonder if he's capable of being honest, even with himself." Ron laughed. "Then I think I'm probably giving him too much credit, and what you see really is what you get."

Hermione grew quiet. "What's going to happen to him?" she wondered.

"Dunno; Snape and Dumbledore wouldn't let me stay. Maybe his father really will hear about this and snatch him from the jaws of punishment. Again," Ron muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

"You've been doing that a lot," Hermione said, reaching her hands out to his hair. "You look a mess, hold still."

Ron held still and patient as she put his bird's nest of a head of hair back into some semblance of order, or so he hoped. She could be artfully arranging it into spikes.

"You really care what happens to him, don't you?" she whispered, without moving back.

"Hermione," Ron said, lips tugging up into a smile, "I really care what happens to everybody."

"Even the people who hurt other people," Hermione checked, voice low.

"Even those people," Ron sighed. "It's stupid, but if no one really stands up for Malfoy, he'll always be the same little gobshite as always. I'm not saying I can change him, I don't think I can, or even need to, really, he just needs someone, anyone standing in his corner who isn't there because they've been paid to be, and I think that really might be enough for him to –"

And then Hermione's lips were pressed to his, hard, before she bounced back on her toes.

Ron gawped.

"Sorry," Hermione said. "Sorry, but..." Her brown eyes grew warm. "Ron, say something. Is it – was that all right?"

Ron swallowed several times in a row, looking down into the features of the girl he'd always, always loved. Her warmth, her brilliance, her...

...cheeks, still baby-round. Her childlike spontaneity and romanticism... because she was still a child.

And he wasn't.

"Oh, Merlin. Hermione," he said, his voice breaking on the name.

The hopeful smile fell off of her face, and she blinked hard, as though he'd slapped her. "That's not the good sort of 'oh, Merlin', is it?" she said in a small, high voice. "Oh, dear. Oh, dear, I've gone and made a mess of things."

"No!" Ron exclaimed, wanting to grip her shoulders and afraid of touching her; he saw her noticing the abortive motion. "No, I mean, you haven't. At all. It's just..."

"It's not me, it's you?" Hermione inquired acerbically.

"You're not ready," Ron blurted.

Hermione drew herself up into a slender sword, gaze haughty. "Excuse me?" she hissed. "Ronald Weasley, I get to decide what I want – not you. You can tell me 'no' and that's fine," she added, her voice breaking in a way that showed it to be anything but fine – "but you can't tell me you're turning me down for my own good – I won't allow that sort of condescension."

Ron looked down at her face, her cheeks flushed and her eyes swimming and he thought, distantly, I'm about to make the worst mistake of my life. "There's a maturity gap," he said.

"Oh, so now you're saving me from making a terrible decision because you're not worthy of me?" Hermione sputtered, as though she could barely believe what was coming out of Ron's mouth. "Or," she said, eyes widening, "no. No, you think you're too mature for me," she breathed. "You said I'm not ready. Just who have you been spending your time with, if I'm so inexperienced?"

Ron shook his head wildly. "For Merlin's sake, Hermione, stop jumping to conclusions! I haven't been with anybody, you know that!"

"I'd stop jumping to conclusions if you'd start trusting me again!" Hermione shouted.

Ron reeled back. "I do – I do trust you," he said, the echo of Harry's shouting ringing in his ears.

"But you don't," Hermione said with tears in her eyes. "Harry said you've been in Snape's classroom until all hours, and after he went to confront you last night, you went back – for hours more. I know you aren't doing anything evil, Ron, I'm not Harry, but our imaginations would have far fewer pieces to fill in if you'd just explain what's going on!"

Ron let himself imagine it for a moment, telling her. Hermione, you marry Severus Snape when you're nineteen in a field, with his arm in a sling and a plaster over your hexed eye, but you look so, so happy when you do. Hermione, you watch Harry and your husband die and you lose your mind, and I look after you, I do, I try, and it isn't ever, ever enough. I'm not ever enough.

"I'm just not interested," Ron choked out. "After that, what else is there to say?"

Hermione turned bright pink. "Oh."

"You're pretty. Really pretty, Hermione. And brilliant goes without saying. And so, so kind. And not for me to have," he said, firmly.

And for the first time, believed it.

Something of that certainty must've come through, because Hermione averted her eyes and said, "oh," in a smaller voice. "All right. I'm pretty and clever and kind and not mature enough to be with you, not for you, and you're not for me. No means no, Ron; you don't have to explain it anymore." She issued a funny little laugh. "In fact, can you stop explaining it to me, right now? Could you maybe never explain it to me again?"

Ron swallowed. "Yes. I mean. I won't? I'm sorry."

Hermione waved him away without looking up. "I'm not angry," she said, slowly, "but if you could not be around me for a little while, that would be brilliant."

Ron shuddered, silent, feeling as though the faultlines inside of him were all pulling apart at once. "Sure," he said aloud. "Of course.

Chapter Text

As horrible as it was, the argument presented Ron with an opportunity he would never otherwise have had.

Ron had given a lot of thought to the Moody problem over the course of the past week. Telling anyone was right out – they'd wonder how he'd guessed, and they'd interrogate him until they figured out he wasn't who he said he was. And Ron was sure, now, of the differences in his magic: no matter his skill level, he had the power of an adolescent wizard, and not one born to greatness like Harry. There was no way he could quietly take Crouch out, and wasn't sure how to avoid getting caught even if he did come up with some brilliant way to overcome him.

That left stealth and good Wizarding sense.

Ron knew that Polyjuice Potion wasn't just complicated, but expensive. The trio hadn't stolen from Snape's stores in Second Year merely because it was convenient, but because a few ingredients were rather hard to come by. Presuming that Crouch didn't have secret accounts after being in Azkaban for over a decade, or a stash of incredibly expensive ingredients that had somehow survived his years of incarceration, he, too, was stealing from Snape's stores in order to produce the pricey potion.

If Ron stole those ingredients first, Crouch would have to vacate Hogwarts or risk being discovered. His absence would be noted, and the professors would inevitably search Moody's rooms and discover the real Alastor at the bottom of his trunk. No one would be able to give Harry the advice that would get him to the final rounds of the Triwizard with any hope of winning, and therefore the Portkey wouldn't work.

Of course, that left the enchanted cup to deal with so that no one else could be spirited to Voldemort, but that was ages away. Ron could figure something else out between now and then and, if he was careful, prevent the rise of Voldemort altogether and destroy the Horcruxes over his summer vacation.

Harry was being interviewed, Malfoy was up in the Headmaster's Office and Hermione wasn't speaking to him. That meant that no one would be looking for Ron apart from Neville, not for hours.

He snuck back down to the now-empty Potions classroom. The door was unlocked, as Ron had suspected it should be. Professor Flitwick hadn't been certain whether or not Snape had taken the key with him, so he'd helpfully left it open.

Even if Snape hadn't been preoccupied with Draco upstairs, it was probably dinnertime by now. Chances of anyone being down here at the same time as Ron were slim.

Ron felt a brief pang of sympathy for Snape, who might not have noted his stores dipping but certainly would notice ingredients missing. However, that made for only the briefest of hesitations before Ron retrieved the four most expensive ingredients in Polyjuice's recipe and set them on a Potions bench.

"Fire?" he whispered aloud, but only Merlin and Severus Snape knew what might happen if he were to set all four on fire at once. He resolved to empty them into some paper sample bags and bury them outside the Forbidden Forest.

The whole business took a heart-pounding but utterly uneventful fifteen minutes, up until Ron slipped out onto the grounds to dispose of them. There, he caught sight of a fancy carriage pulling up to the gates, drawn by a pair of snow-white horses. Ron ducked behind a large shrub to see Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy emerge from the confines of the carriage.

Apparently, his father did hear about it, Ron thought. It didn't surprise him; he was pretty sure Pansy Parkinson had given it five minutes before dashing off a letter to her own mother, and from there it was only a matter of time.

Ron waited in the shadows, but the hansom stayed right where it was, a House Elf in a smart black pillowcase holding the reins. If the carriage were to stay put, he couldn't guess how long it would be. Quite possibly hours, as the Malfoys hashed out Draco's punishment with the Headmaster and Snape.

Wonderful, Ron thought sourly, glancing down at the incriminating paper bags in his hands. Perhaps he could walk in the opposite direction – behind the Castle and down to the Lake – but he didn't fancy how open it was that way. All it would take would be for a curious student to look out a window or decide they'd like a nice walk after supper, and they'd wonder what Ron Weasley was hiding in the dirt.

Defeated, Ron withdrew to the castle, hiding the bags in his robes and wondering what to do, next.

The Room of Hidden Things! What better way to check on the Diadem and hide the potions ingredients at the same time? The way was clear, with the vast majority of Hogwarts students still eating supper. Ron climbed the stairs all the way to the Seventh Floor, blessing his fourteen-year-old constitution. He wasn't sure how the Professors did it well into their... well, best not to speculate on the age of Professor McGonagall.

He strode back and forth before the Room of Requirement, picturing with great clarity the Room of Hidden Things, with its piles on piles of junk. Though even as he tried to focus, he wondered: surely if all the 'junk' were items that someone had desperately needed to hide, there were some intriguing bits and bobs tossed among embarrassing journal entries and unsent love letters.

Ron peered inside.

The Room looked like nothing so much as a cathedral at midnight mass. Huge columns rose up to Ron's left and right, coming together in an artistic sweep at the room's high centre. Faint illumination seemed to emanate from the ceiling itself, so that it cast only a liminal glow on the vast array of books, gee-gaws, gleaming bottles and ancient furniture, all of which was piled with the lack of care one might expect to find in generations of witches and wizards secreting some treasure away in a guilty rush.

"Accio Horcrux," Ron tried. "Accio Diadem?"

Well, he hadn't supposed that would work, but he'd also expected that the Diadem would have caught his eye right away. It had Harry's, hadn't it? But maybe that was a case of like calling to like, the Horcrux in Harry somehow knowing the Horcrux in the Diadem. The ancient thing could be anywhere in the entire, cathedralic Quidditch pitch of a space.

Ron was so daunted by the task that he vowed straightaway to determine some kind of categorizing system for the objects. Surely there were other powerful items, here, some of them Dark. It wouldn't do for some firstie to stumble in to toss something on the pile and become enamoured of some bloody Ring of Power or something. Perhaps some of the items would end up coming in handy. Besides, in all this mess, organization was the only possible way Ron would ever know where he'd been.

Ron whirled his old wand between thumb and forefinger while he thought. "Accio... boomslang skin," he said.

Immediately, four objects came whizzing towards him.

"Bloody hell!" Ron shouted, just managing to stop them all from slamming into his head at once. He peered around, turning himself in a slow circle to view the items hanging before him in the air.

Two were in drawstring-pouch sorts of things that looked as though they'd been packed away by the very same packrat. The third was in its original packaging from... 1847, if the label could be trusted. The fourth was nearly dust; Ron was surprised the spell had recognized it as boomslang skin.

The specificity of the charm coupled with how many items it had summoned was a yet more daunting sign of the expansiveness of the space and the variety of the items contained therein, but Ron had an idea. "Conversio," he cast, but with a delicate hand; and watched, as the two pouches retreated slowly enough for him to follow.

As he'd half-suspected, a huge Potions cabinet stood half-hidden by a column, and it was filled to the brim with ingredients. Some were in drawstring pouches, like the boomslang skin, but others were in dark brown glass jars, labelled with a fine hand. Ron felt the odd sort of pang that used to go through him as he wandered the empty halls of a scorched Hogwarts, looking at those things that had once belonged to the living. The things that had been left behind. Whoever this Potions enthusiast had been, he'd been – as, Ron figured, most of them were – meticulously careful with his things. The entire cabinet sat as though it had been organized and tended to yesterday, save 'b', where the removal of the boomslang skin had disturbed the soldierly little line of ingredients.

Ron set the pouches back in place and had an awful thought.

What if this were where Crouch was getting his ingredients? Voldemort had been overconfident in thinking only he was clever enough to have discovered the Room of Requirement. After all, all it took was for someone to walk past the Room a few times, thinking of something clearly. What if Crouch found this room himself, as Harry had? As a lifelong sneak and liar, he was probably thinking of hiding things more often than most.

But then Ron remembered. Boomslang skin. He'd known to steal it, along with bicorn horn, because they were the most expensive and rare ingredients to Polyjuice. And what had Neville mentioned just the other day?

Low on boomslang skin again, Professor...

Again, Ron thought, meant they'd noted it low once and replaced it already. Crouch had to be stealing from Snape, and that meant that the potions stores here were still a secret.

Ron felt peculiarly relieved. He found he didn't want to think ill of the unknown Potions Enthusiast who'd laid all these ingredients by with such conscientious care.

Ron placed his stolen store of boomslang skin behind the others. If he was going to tidy, Ron thought, he might as well start here. "Accio..." Ron wracked his brains. "Accio the best book on potions ingredient quality?"

Nothing.

Somehow, Ron doubted that there were no books about potions in the Room, especially given the Potions Enthusiast's store. Perhaps he'd just phrased the Accio wrong. "Accio no more than three books on the quality of potions ingredients?"

Nothing.

Ron licked his lips, which already tasted dusty. Rather than fiddling with Accio again, he phrased his question directly to Hogwarts herself, and though he was in the Room of Requirement, he took three steps left, three steps right, and three steps left again. I need to be able to tell which of these ingredients are salvageable.

When Ron opened his eyes, there was an ancient book resting at his feet. He stooped to gather it into his arms: Qualitative and Quantitative Measures of Potions Ingredient Identification, by Josiah Smythe. "Thanks," Ron said aloud, looking around the Room. He wondered where his Accio had gone wrong.

"Hmm. Maybe this book wasn't here," he muttered aloud, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe Hogwarts knows the best book on potions ingredients was elsewhere, and wouldn't let the spell give me something with awful advice?" Ron blinked. "Hey, er... Accio books with awful advice!"

Ron gulped and cast Finite as a throng of books rose out of the rubble like a horde of zombies from their graves. "Wow, my spell knows what I would consider awful advice. Or maybe it's really books with objectively incorrect information?"

It was probably best he didn't work alone a lot, now, though he had, before. Ron had developed the tendency to talk to Hogwarts herself, pat her brickwork and rub a thumb over her balustrades like another man would absently stroke an old and faithful dog.

Ron flipped through the Potions book idly. It was a little in-depth for his purposes, but always had a marked-off section for ingredient quality at the end of each entry; and after awhile, Ron began to note patterns. "Accio any ingredient in this Potions cabinet over fifty years old," Ron incanted.

Nothing happened.

"Bloody hell," Ron swore. "Er... Accio any item in this room over fifty years old."

Zombies again. Ron quickly cast Finite when the Potions cabinet itself began to lift.

So that worked; but all the items were no more than fifty years old, which meant that none could be tossed away automatically. "Accio items in this Potions cabinet that have not been stored properly," Ron tried.

Shockingly, two items lifted. Ron cast the Banishment Charm and they flew off to a relatively empty corner of the Room which Ron mentally designated junk. Just as before, Ron wasn't certain which were enchanted, and which, therefore, could be safely destroyed with an Incendio.

"Accio... any item in this cabinet that is past its expiry date?"

Twenty or so bags and jars flew to Ron, and he Banished them. Not so shockingly, the careful Potions Enthusiast had marked the expiry dates on the shorter-lived items.

That still left nearly seventy bottles, bags, pouches and jars. Ron looked around the room and figured he might actually spend a year categorizing all of this, though it would probably be a year well-spent.

He ran his fingers along the edges of the cabinet thoughtfully, then opened the book on Potions quality and began to read. Soon it became rote to flip to the back of the section and scan the ingredient for the proper attributes. Ron made his way from Adder's Tongue to Dragonsbane without pause before looking up at the ceiling. "Could I get some water, please?" he said.

Suddenly, there was a glass of water next to Ron. He stared at it: it was clearly a Hogwarts glass, the sort they used to serve pumpkin juice. "Thank you," Ron said; he hadn't expected that to work. So far as he'd known, walking outside the Room was the only thing that allowed its nature to change, but first he'd gone through the motions by turning in place, and then he'd ignored the motions altogether.

And still: result.

Maybe the Room was more accommodating when you were polite. Or when you were doing something kind for it?

Ron continued working on the Potions Cabinet until he could barely see straight, and his stomach gurgled. "Tempus?"

An illuminated clock appeared in front of Ron's face. It read nine-thirty.

Well. It was no wonder he was hungry. He'd missed supper, and then some. "I'm coming back, all right?" he said aloud. Then, "thanks for the water," when nothing else seemed to be forthcoming.

Ron jogged through the halls, which were already very dark; nine-thirty over Scotland in November meant a darkness that swallowed sounds and shrouded objects from firelight. Nevertheless, Ron caught sight of himself in the reflection of a suit of armour and paused.

"My goodness," said Sir Cadogan, "don't you look a fright! Lead me to the knaves who have assaulted thee, good sir!"

"I've been organizing things," Ron said waspishly, scrubbing his hair while leaning forward. Bits of dust spiralled down, but thin strands of what felt like spiderweb stuck to his fingers.

Spiders. Ron still didn't like them, much. He might have scrubbed a bit harder for a few moments.

"Are you certain there is no attacker?" Sir Cadogan said, sounding almost disappointed. "No alarm to sound, no host to muster?"

Sighing, Ron limped down the hall. He hadn't realized it, but he was still a little sore from his panic attack the day before. Even his fourteen-year-old, flexible self could only take so much abuse. After Malfoy's fit and an evening of hunched-over sorting and reading, Ron felt he'd finally worked hard enough that he would probably sleep no matter the sort of dreams that awaited him, though he would take some Aequus before bed to ensure that he would at least keep on an even keel.

In fact, Ron thought, and uncapped the potion phial, slipping out of sight of the Fat Lady's portrait before taking a swig. There we go. No chance anyone would notice, now.

Ron strode up to the portrait. "With great power comes... er. Wait. Greatness... shite. Oh, the price of greatness is responsibility."

"Everyone's been looking for you, you know," the Fat Lady said disapprovingly as her portrait swung open. Ron stepped over the barrier and wondered if there had ever been any handicapped students in Gryffindor. It seemed odd to put a great honking obstacle there, didn't it?

"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed once Ron reached out to close the portrait behind him. He whirled around to see that Hermione was surrounded by a coterie of Gryffindors of all years, most especially girls of lower years, though a few of the older boys hung on the outskirts, standing with such a deliberate air of toughness that Ron had to bite the inside of his cheek to avoid a smile.

"All right, Hermione?" he said, dusting off his trousers.

She rose from her perch and approached him, looking worried. "Where have you been?" she whispered.

Ron shrugged. "Erm..." He realized he'd grown so unused to accounting for his whereabouts to anyone that it hadn't even occurred to him to make up a lie, beforehand. "Around," he said eventually.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Fine. Look, I'm really sorry about before," she added. "I didn't mean you had to run away. In fact, I take it all back. I think we can be mature about this, don't you?"

"Absolutely," Ron agreed, bobbing his head. "What's all that about, anyhow?" he queried.

Hermione eyed him, clearly wishing to be certain of Ron's sincerity before relaxing her guard. "I'm sure I don't know," Hermione said, but she sounded exasperated. "They mostly seem to want me to tell them all about my brush with death. Over and over."

"Now you know how Harry feels, I suppose," Ron said absently.

"Do I? If I do, it's awful," Hermione said. "But," she added in a more confidential tone, "it's also... sort of nice? To have all that attention to myself, for once. I just... I do wish they'd leave me alone, if only a moment." She wrinkled her nose – adorably, Ron's traitorous mind filled in – before continuing. "The worst is that they keep wanting me to tell it differently," she said. "More dramatically, I guess, which makes sense in its way, but they also seem to keep urging me to change details. The same ones."

Ron found that rather odd. "Which ones?"

Hermione waved a hand. "Oh, I don't know. I guess anything that makes me sound like more of a romance novel heroine. Your game's moved again during dinner –"

"Hermione," one of the first-years piped, shivering deliciously. "I want to see the curl again!"

Hermione pressed her lips together very hard, as though she were trying not to laugh, or else trying not to scream. Maybe both.

"Good luck," Ron said.

Hermione tsked at him and returned to where she had pride of place before the fire.

Ron examined the board to find that Hermione was right.

Since he'd started the game, he'd found that the pieces moved about once or twice a day. He and his mystery opponent had about a score of moves, each, which meant that the game was well underway – and very interesting. Ron's bishop was being menaced, but it was easy enough to get it out of the way. He stared at the board, trying to discern if his opponent were being wily, trying to open up the board for a broader attack, or simply force Ron to retreat to 'use up' a move… or if there were some other way out of the attack, some way to move closer to his goal and also block...

Ron moved a pawn to block his opponent's efforts, settling it right next to the bishop. Now, if the knight dared take his pawn, it would next be captured by Ron's bishop.

Whoever the other player was, Ron could already tell they were a good strategic thinker, but it was early days, yet, so far as a good game of chess went, the players still feeling one another out.

After his move, Ron climbed the stairs to the boys' dormitory, where everyone was engaged in quiet, before-bedtime activity. Dean and Neville were poring over something together, seated at the edge of Neville's bed. Seamus was scribbling out some homework, and Harry was lying flat, staring up at the ceiling, glasses removed. Ron wondered if that meant he was contemplating the Triwizard Tournament, and the nature of the first task – it was the first, wasn't it? Someone would've babbled about dragons by now if it had already passed...

But it seemed that they'd all been waiting for Ron. The moment he closed the door behind him, Harry rolled into a seated position, and Dean and Neville stopped speaking immediately on sight of him. Seamus put his parchment aside, and the stares were so intense that Ron was half-tempted to look behind himself to see what fascinating person or thing could possibly have netted such focussed attention.

" 'Lo," he said, tentatively.

"What happened?" shrieked Neville.

Ron's lips parted as he slowly absorbed that, just like Hermione's audience outside, his fourteen-year-old self's friends wanted to know the story. Merlin – Ron wanted nothing but to plant his face directly into his bed and sleep for a week.

"Is Malfoy expelled?" Dean asked.

"I don't know," Ron said; then, hoping to head them off at the pass, "I don't know much of anything, really."

"That's a pack of lies, that is," Seamus growled. "Don't hold out on us, now, Weasley! Did he cry like the wee little babe he is?"

Ron choked a bit on air.

"Sweet Merlin, he did!" Seamus gasped, slapping his knee. "That's brilliant. More, Ronald, give us more."

"Seamus," Neville said quietly.

"What?" Seamus said, when the others stared. "Come on, Neville, he hardly stopped poking fun at you to breathe. Harry, you're with me on this, aren't you?"

Harry was wearing the grim face that Ron recognized so well from the War. "I do think that he'll kill someone someday, if no one stops him," he said.

"Oh, come on," Ron blurted. "It's Malfoy, remember?"

The others' stares reminded him that no one did remember. Only Ron knew Malfoy's Jekyll-and-Hydeish nature, or guessed at it, anyway. All the others knew of Malfoy was his worst self: petty and selfish and casually cruel, and impetuous on top of everything else. A powder keg waiting for a spark.

And really, did Ron know any different? He'd thought he saw something he recognized in Draco the night before, but then Malfoy had gone and done that very mad thing in, as Ron had pointed out, a very public place. If Hermione didn't seem too bothered, the rest of Gryffindor more than made up for her indifference in sheer protective rage. The bodyguards she'd suddenly acquired attested to that.

"Are we talking about the same Malfoy?" Harry bit off. "Because the Malfoy I'm talking about nearly murdered Hermione right in front of us. And the Ron I know would be ready to kill him for it. The Ron I know would be suggesting we sneak upstairs to the Headmaster's Office and do the job before the Aurors could!"

"Well, isn't it a good thing that I'm the one who's here instead?" Ron shouted back.

The entire room fell to eerie silence.

"B-because," Ron stammered, knowing forward was the only way to go, "it seems to me we don't need a second hothead in here, ready to cast before he thinks! Did you see Malfoy's face? I don't think he even knew what that curse was for!"

"Well, what kind of mad idiot casts a curse he doesn't know what does?" Harry shouted back.

"You do!" Ron returned.

"I'm not that thoughtless, Ron," Harry said coldly. "And you don't know me very well if you think that I am."

"Dumbledore said," Ron began, noting how everyone perked up at those words: Dumbledore said – "that you and Malfoy have to stop fighting or one of you will kill each other even by accident, and neither of you wants that –"

"Malfoy'd like nothing better than me dead –"

"You don't know that!" Ron shouted. "You don't know a bloody thing, and yet here you are, talking like you have all the answers! Well, you don't, that's all, you don't and you never did and you won't listen..." Ron huffed. "You won't listen to me."

Because that was why Harry died, wasn't it? So sure he knew best. So sure that his sacrifice would somehow win them the war, since he held the remaining Horcrux.

Only Voldemort had made more. He'd started making more when he felt the first one go, or so their intelligence informed them later, late, too late... and he'd only grown madder with it, but no less cunning...

Harry had gone off to meet his death like the boy-hero in all the stories, young and unafraid, and believing himself wise; and when Severus had seen him, he'd given up his own life to try to prevent Harry from making that deadly mistake. Instead, he'd died as well, and it was all too late...

Except for Hermione, who'd been precisely on time.

"I don't know a bloody thing?" Harry echoed. He didn't appear to have heard anything after that part. "Now I know you've been hanging around Snape too much."

Part of Ron was tempted to apologize. He hadn't meant that part, not really. If Harry was so sure he knew what he was doing, it was only because people expected so very much of him, when he was still only a boy who believed he was indestructible, and when the world had so far supported the outlandish notion.

But, the thing was. The thing was, he'd meant every word of the rest.

"All I'm saying," Ron said, hanging on to the last shreds of his temper with both fists, "is that Malfoy's fifteen and an idiot –"

"I'm pretty sure he's fourteen, Ron," Seamus said, eyeing him warily, "like the rest of us."

"It's a saying," Ron began, but Harry cut him off.

"I get that you're trying to be reasonable, Ron," Harry said slowly, "but it's beginning to seem like you're on Malfoy's side and not Hermione's."

Or mine, Harry all but said, with that deliberate omission.

Ron looked up to meet his best friend's eye just in time for the hard line of Harry's jaw to give way to the smallest of trembles. Ron looked swiftly away so Harry could at least pretend he hadn't seen it, and relented.

"I'm not defending him," Ron sighed. "What he did is indefensible. I just feel..." Responsible. Responsible was how he'd felt about everyone who'd been part of their broken little regiment back home, and Malfoy, for all his arseholishness, must have still counted as a member in some dusty corner of Ron's psyche. He must still want to protect Malfoy. To prevent his death.

"...sorry," Neville filled in, then eeped when everyone's eyes landed on him. "If Malfoy really didn't know what that spell did... I mean, if Hermione's parents press charges, Malfoy really could go to Azkaban for attempted murder, when he didn't even mean it."

Seamus frowned. "I don't think I understand what's going on. Who are you people?"

Dean elbowed him. "Gryffindor's trying to take the high road, keep up," he said, and everyone laughed, a little nervously.

"But," Seamus said, more somberly this time, "being serious, now, mates. What if that's the best thing? I mean, clearly he's slipped a... er, gone a bit... er, he's not right."

They sobered.

"I guess it's not up to us," Harry admitted, prosaic... though he shot Ron another glance, half-antagonism, half pure Harry-curiosity.

"Thought I saw his parents pull up in a gilt carriage," Dean snorted.

"Yeah, I saw that too," Ron agreed. "Don't know what they hope to gain by it. This isn't something they can make disappear if they throw enough Galleons at Dumbledore."

"Why not?" Dean snorted. "I hear they threw money left, right and centre in the War, and somehow got everyone convinced Malfoy's dad had been under the Imperius. Maybe that's what they'll do again."

"Watch it, lads," Seamus said sternly. "I'm sure they'll be examining our wands for signs of compulsion spells, first of all."

"Mad-Eye," Harry suddenly said.

When everyone turned to Harry, he made sure he caught all of their eyes. "They'll arrest Mad-Eye, or they'll say that Mad-Eye taught someone the Imperius Curse a little too well. There's a way to see what spells have been cast with a specific wand?"

"Sure," Seamus said. "It's, er..."

"Priori incantatem," Ron said, then wished he hadn't. He suddenly understood the look on Hermione's face in class when she knew the answer but was trying to 'give someone else a chance'. It was maddening to sit on information you knew you had, especially when giving it could help someone.

"Right," Harry said. "So Malfoy'll claim he was under compulsion and he'll say that it was Moody who did it." He stood. "I've got to tell the Headmaster."

Ron sighed. "You go on ahead, Harry, but I'm pretty sure he already knows Moody was teaching Unforgivables in class. Even if Moody'd been stupid enough not to get permission first, it was all around school in a flash, wasn't it? You're not going to tell him anything he doesn't already know."

Thwarted, Harry perched again on the side of his bed. "Well, we can't just sit here and do nothing."

"Yeah," Ron repeated gamely. "Let's storm upstairs and kill Malfoy, why don't we?"

Harry huffed, lips quirking what appeared to be unwillingly. "That was what I said you'd want. I'm not about to kill Malfoy," he muttered.

"Well, glad that's been decided!" Seamus said, slapping both hands against his knees as though the matter had been settled in some fixed and final way.

Ron snorted. "We'll find out what'll become of Malfoy in the morning," he said. "For now, I'm knackered, and I'm going to sleep."

The others muttered and Dean groaned aloud, as though they would've liked to discuss Malfoy's fate well into the wee hours, but Ron had worked the matter through in his own head as well as he was able, and he'd had a miserably long and harrowing day. His last thought before he lost his battle with consciousness was to wonder what he would do, if anything, if Draco really were sent to Azkaban.

Chapter Text

Ron woke gritty-mouthed and cold, feeling that he had barely slept at all. Perhaps it was due to the early hour he'd dropped off, but no matter how he tossed and turned and buried his nose into his pillow, he could not fall back to sleep at five in the morning.

Nothing for it, Ron thought, resigned, and dragged himself into a seated position.

His gaze looked ragged in the bathroom mirror, red-and-purple half-moons clear under his fair skin. He still looked fourteen, Ron thought wearily, if no one looked too close. It was a good thing, really, that he wasn't a hero like Harry, scrutinized wherever he went. It was a good thing people took it for granted that his break with Harry should change him. It was a good thing he'd arrived in his early teenaged years, when out-of-character behaviour was considered par for the course, a phase, a blip on the road to eventual maturity. It was all such a good thing.

Ron tugged at the skin under his eyes, figuring maybe a hot shower could reduce the swelling. The heat sank into his skin and he emerged feeling more human.

The pieces on the chess board had moved again, so Ron stared down at them through a damp fringe before using a pawn to capture his opponent's. Then, he went downstairs hoping for strong tea with lemon, but he'd settle for coffee.

He'd settle for an infusion of caffeine directly into his veins, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

It was then he saw the heading to The Daily Prophet, sitting on the Gryffindor table: abandoned by someone who'd woken even earlier than he.

Hogwarts Houses at the Brink of Civil War?

Innocents Caught in the Crossfire!

By Prophet Reporter, Rita Skeeter

screamed out from the front page.

Breath caught in his throat, Ron snatched up the paper to read:

This reporter arrayed herself for battle: Quick Quotes Quill, parchment, best heels, finest lipstick and scent, a little giddy at the thought of meeting the Triwizard Champions – and who could blame her? The Triwizard Tournament hasn't been held in centuries but was touted as quite the spectacle in its day. Then, the additional tidbit of news, that our very own Harry Potter

He isn't your Harry Potter, Ron thought with a rising tide of fury –

that our very own Harry Potter was to participate in the Tournament, despite his mere fourteen years... well! What reporter wouldn't be chomping at the bit to capture such a captivating turn of events?

But what I discovered was far more sinister.

Ron sat down at the Gryffindor Table by feel, pressing the newsprint flat.

That very morning, unbeknownst to this reporter, a near-deadly altercation had taken place in the hallway directly before Professor Severus Snape's Potions classroom.

Ron's gaze darted up to the dais, but none of the professors had arrived, yet.

Draco Malfoy, a troubled young man with a Hogwarts file as thick as this reporter's thumb, had orchestrated a mean-spirited prank against the youngest Hogwarts Champion. Boys will be boys, and surely a noble spirit such as Harry Potter would have been able to bear up under a bit of teasing. But then, Mister Malfoy drew his wand.

" It's happened several times already," a student, who wishes to remain anonymous to protect his safety, said. "Malfoy's always been after Potter, threatened him loads of times. Jealous of Harry being in the Tournament, if you ask me, and not entirely right in the head."

The Curse Mister Malfoy used is known as Sectumsempra, which means roughly 'the final cut'. A heroic Ronald Weasley

Ron lifted a hand to scrub at his forehead, issuing a rough bark of laughter.

A heroic Ronald Weasley, son of Ministry official Arthur Weasley, thought fast enough to block the curse, only to have it deflect to a Miss Hermione Granger: a strikingly pretty Muggleborn girl with whom Harry is especially close, and who nearly lost her life that afternoon. Instead, a single lock of her raven tresses

"Seriously?!" Ron growled.

fluttered down to rest at her feet, severed neatly from her head.

It was Weasley himself who escorted Mister Malfoy from the scene, showing a compassion that surely does Gryffindor House credit. Indeed, rather than accuse Mister Malfoy, Mister Weasley voiced concerns about the young man's state of mind. "I don't think he knows why he's so angry, or upset, or afraid," Ronald Weasley confided to this reporter after the dramatic events of the day had run their course. "I don't think he even knew why he chose that curse."

Ron's lips parted in surprise and horror at this echo of his exact words from the day before. Could Skeeter have followed them in her beetle form? He racked his brain for anything he might've said or done that could have seemed off, or un-Gryffindor, or not-fourteen. When all he could discern was his rising panic, Ron realized he had no choice but to keep reading.

It may be that young Mister Malfoy has been experiencing mental disturbances, possibly even as the result of coming up against the bad end of another student's wand – or even a professor's. Several students have confirmed that Mister Malfoy was the victim of a nonconsensual Transfiguration from the notoriously unstable Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody earlier in the term.

Too, this reporter found the gang of students – mainly Slytherins – ambushing Mister Potter in Hogwarts's Halls disturbing. Later that evening, she overheard Gryffindor students plotting the best way to end Mister Malfoy's life – though as Mister Weasley pointed out, there was the distinct possibility that the young man was not in his right mind.

Have House rivalries gone too far? Is Hogwarts at the brink of Civil War? Has the Triwizard Tournament widened the rift such that Hogwarts students think nothing of attacking one another in the hallways between classes, in broad daylight, where other students – even Professors – might see?

This reporter, with a heavy heart, fears the answer is a resounding 'yes'.

Ron stood up and whisked his robes off, examining them from every angle, but Skeeter was gone. For it was now clear to him that it was his back on which she'd hitched a ride. Who else had been present for all of all the events Skeeter described in such great detail but him? The fight; the walk to Dumbledore's Office; Gryffindor Tower where Harry had spoken about Malfoy being killed for what he'd done...

Ron's hair stood on end as he realized that Skeeter might have seen the Room of Hidden Things, been with him when he'd addressed it aloud, had seen how to command it. Merlin above: in that case, she'd have seen him stealing the Polyjuice ingredients. She'd been up in the Headmaster's Office, though she'd clearly made the executive decision to continue sticking with Ron rather than remain to hear about Draco's punishment. Better for a story to have one, main point of view, Ron supposed dizzily.

Surely, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore is capable of seeing as much. The question on this reporter's mind becomes, why does he not act? A question that surely many parents of Hogwarts students are asking themselves this very moment... especially once they heard that Hogwarts is teaching the Unforgiveables in 'Mad-Eye' Moody's Defense Against the Dark Arts classes – at every level.

What has Hogwarts become?

Ron let out a huff of breath when he realized that she hadn't mentioned the theft, but it felt more like a reprieve than a rescue. This was far from Skeeter's usual drek about Harry weeping over the loss of his parents, or a romance between –

Could Skeeter have seen Hermione kiss him?

Ron blanched. If so, Skeeter was sitting on a goldmine of gossip. Secret rooms at Hogwarts, plots to assassinate Malfoys, the theft of Potions ingredients for Merlin knew what purpose (even Ron wasn't paranoid enough to figure Skeeter guessed which of the multitude of potions containing boomslang skin and bicorn horn was important), a salacious romance between two of Harry's best friends... Ron had no doubt that she would unleash that couched as a story of betrayal, romance and revenge or some bloody awful thing like that.

Merlin. She'd make it Arthurian – she would.

If she'd been perched on him the whole time, she had enough for months of articles, really. She wouldn't spend all her capital at once.

Sure enough, there were follow-up articles, but all by second-string reporters. One was entitled Quality of a Hogwarts Education, lambasting the school as a whole and Severus and Dumbledore in particular. One was an admittedly interesting article about the history of House rivalries, buried on page twenty, and obviously cut for space. And, on the second-to-last page of the paper, was a tiny photograph of Harry and the other Triwizard Champions, with a blurb only. Spelling all their names wrong but Harry's.

Even 'Cedric' was spelt 'Cedwyn'.

Ron set the paper down to find that a few students had joined him: early birds who couldn't sleep, Ravenclaws up for some last-moment revision. No one else had a paper, yet. Though it was childish, and surely there were students who had the paper delivered, Ron crumpled The Prophet up into a tiny ball and cast Incendio with twice the power he usually used.

The paper went up in a flash-bang, though no one paid it much mind; flash-bangs were rather common at Hogwarts, even at the breakfast table.

A ray of hope shone for a brief moment. If Skeeter had followed Ron until the Headmaster's Office, then found Harry, she could still have gotten all the information that was present in the article. There was a possibility she hadn't seen the robbery, the Room, or the kiss, though Ron didn't want to place too much faith in his luck.

"Going for the insanity defence," Hermione said, seating herself down across from him. A tiny, jewelled clip held the chopped bit of hair away from her face.

"Excuse me?"

"Malfoy," Hermione said. "It's all over the paper. It's obvious the Malfoys are going to push that their son has had a break with reality. Maybe due to an offensive spell. They didn't even have to say it first. Skeeter did it for them. It's 'public opinion', now."

Ron considered the article in the light of being heavily Malfoy-influenced, and suddenly the picture came clear. "Huh," he said.

"There was also one that derided Hogwarts altogether," Hermione said worriedly. "No one will believe it, will they, Ron? I mean, certainly we've had some poor professors," her logic forced her to assert. Her nose wrinkled. "Er... all right, several really bad... some who were actually He-Who-Must-Not-Be..." She huffed. "Well, anyway, the long-term professors are mostly all right... except for Binns... and Trelawney, she's an old fraud... and Snape is out-and-out cruel..."

"Steady on, Hermione," Ron said dryly as hot tea appeared at his place, and a darker brew appeared at Hermione's.

Bless House Elves, Ron thought fervently. Bless them forever.

"You don't like tea with lemon," Hermione observed.

" 'Course I do," Ron muttered, sipping at his. "'S an acquired taste, is all."

"Anyway, Hogwarts is amazing," Hermione said, loyally. "I wouldn't change it a bit. Except, well..."

Ron tuned her out a bit as he turned events over in his mind. The variables were beginning to make him feel a bit dizzy. "You know," he said, coming to a decision, "I can't figure out how she knew all those things. You know I didn't give her any quotes," he added darkly.

Hermione eyed him. "Ronald Weasley, you did read that article, and you let me go on and on!"

Ron smiled. "But Hermione... you like to go on and on."

She swatted him. "Fine, so you didn't give her quotes. So who else could have heard you?"

"Well, anyone in the hallway before Potions, I guess," Ron said, thinking it through. "But it was only me and Malfoy who heard me tell him that I thought he'd gone half-mad, and that he didn't know what he was doing when he cast that curse."

Hermione frowned. "But if it was the Malfoys who were guiding the content of the article..."

"Malfoy's too vain to give up what I said about him," Ron dismissed, "no matter what kind of trouble he was in."

Hermione chewed over this while she sipped her – chai? Chai, Ron decided. It smelled spicy and delicious. "Maybe," she agreed.

"Worst of all was the murder bit," Ron added. "Before you ask, yes, the boys brought it up."

"The boys," Hermione echoed. "Ron, you'd be one of those, in case you'd missed it."

Ron shrugged. "The other boys."

"Brought up murder."

Ron shrugged again. "Not seriously. Well. I hope not. But yeah. Do you really think anyone would march out and tell other people about that conversation? It doesn't exactly reflect well on Gryffindor."

Hermione shook her head. "No, I suppose it doesn't."

"And anyway, there was a funny beetle... on Harry's shoulder," Ron improvised. "Markings on it were like Skeeter's glasses. It made me think..."

"I'll see what I can figure out," said Hermione. "If Skeeter is an unregistered Animagus, she'd be in a lot of trouble."

And that was as good as a promise from anyone else, so Ron relaxed a bit and finished his tea, while the Great Hall grew louder and louder, then hushed again as news of the article travelled around.

Malfoy wasn't anywhere to be found over the course of the next day. Rumour was, he'd been suspended – no one knew for how long.

The Hogwarts professors seemed to be taking the article especially poorly, and spent the next week pairing disgruntled Slytherins and Gryffindors in every shared class. While most of the Hogwarts students agreed with something resembling good grace, Pansy Parkinson refused.

"We're natural enemies," she insisted, glaring daggers at Ron when he dared to laugh aloud, "and I don't see why everyone else insists on pretending we're not."

Lost House points and zeroes in all her classwork did not seem to move her, nor did a quiet conversation with Severus the following Tuesday. Worse, since there were fewer Slytherins in the year than Gryffindors – and since Malfoy was gone – Ron and Neville were still able to pair up in Potions, even though every single Slytherin was required to partner with a Gryffinor, while Parkinson sat it out at the edge of the classroom, looking halfway between tears and a hex. It was almost amusing watching the two sides of the so-called Civil War size one another up across a Potions desk, judging who was the lesser of a half-dozen evils.

Hermione latched onto Crabbe, oddly enough, and Harry and Blaise Zabini seemed to get on well enough to avoid murder. But Ron noted the resentful glares sent his way from both sides of the aisle and realized that the others saw Ron and Neville's potions partnership as a mark of favor rather than an acknowledgement of two realities of which they were unaware: that Ron was probably the best Potions student in the class now Malfoy was gone; and that Neville was all right in Potions so long as he had a calmer, more skilful partner. Snape's decision – like all of his decisions, Ron reflected, amused – was a tactical one. Poor Neville, having been picked out as the weaker link, had Tripping Jinxes and Bat-Bogeys and Tickling Charms sent his way every other moment, but the Slytherins were stealthier than ever and were rarely caught in the act. Between Pansy's truculence and the Slytherins' vengeance, however, not a day went by when Slytherin didn't lose fifty points... which, of course, only enraged the Slytherins further.

Wednesday, as Ron was passing the Transfigurations classroom, he saw Pansy finally abandon her officious silence. "...blame it all on poor Draco!" Ron heard her screeching, while he was still some distance off down the hall. "Maybe things would've gone better for him if he'd gotten that curse off – maybe it only worked on hair, did anybody stop to consider that?"

"Miss Parkinson," Ron heard Professor McGonagall say, "if that curse had been allowed to progress unimpeded, Mister Malfoy would be a murderer, and he would be in Azkaban."

Ron came to a halt just before the classroom, not wanting to cross before the doorway and be spotted by McGonagall.

"Take yourself to your Head of House," McGonagall snapped when Parkinson muttered something poisonous under her breath.

"For what?" Pansy snapped. "Loyalty?"

"For a damning lack of good judgement," McGonagall returned, and Pansy flew out of the classroom and down the hall, not even noting Ron standing there.

Thursday brought the return of Crouch's Defense Against the Dark Arts. Ron watched with a black gaze as Crouch sipped from his hip flask, but more sparingly than before. Clearly, he'd already visited the Potions classroom to find his store of ingredients empty and knew he'd have to stretch out his supply.

It was only a matter of time before he was sent packing, Ron thought. Hermione was handling Skeeter, just as before; if anything, he only had to worry that she might be a bit too harsh with the woman for spying on her friends. The organization of the Room of Hidden Things was proceeding apace. Ron was through the Room's potions ingredients and had moved on to books, which was taking a sight longer. He'd visited Hogwarts library to analyze the way they grouped by subject and ran into Viktor Krum, wandering about aimlessly – looking for Hermione, Ron realized with a pang.

A much smaller pang than even Ron would've expected. Krum, for all his Quidditch glory, was a child in Ron's eyes, his inexperience and hesitance clear on his chiselled features, the way he dry-washed his hands as he searched for Hermione, hope and terror painted across his features in equal measure.

Saturday was a Hogsmeade weekend, and Hermione begged him again to make it up with Harry as they sat together in the Common Room that morning.

"I already said I would," Ron muttered. "He's being a bit difficult is all."

"Can you blame him?" Hermione pressed. "Look, the First Task is coming up soon..."

"Is it?" Ron said in alarm.

"You know it is," Hermione said. "It's all anyone's talking about."

Ron had been occupied, between Snape and Neville and Skeeter and the Room and Crouch.

"Anyway, we're going to the Three Broomsticks later. Maybe you could at least meet us there? That way, when we see you I can pretend I didn't know you were going to be there..."

"Merlin, Hermione," Ron groaned, "that's the only place anybody goes! You're not going to have to pretend it's not weird to see me there."

"Just be civil," Hermione implored, "it's all I ask. All right?"

"I will be if he is," Ron replied.

Later, Ron hung outside of Scrivenshaft's, fingers itching.

Most of Hogwarts' library had been destroyed when a vandal tried to access the Restricted Section, so books had been in rather short supply. Though Ron had never been particularly bookish before, he now had a soul-hunger for the written word that was probably hard to explain to someone who'd never been deprived of it. Scrivenshaft's was a poor substitute for a proper bookshop, and Ron was saving up for new robes, so it wasn't as though he could afford to spend his pocket money on books, and no one would think Ron Weasley would voluntarily spend time in a bookshop...

Ron was trying to invent an excuse for going inside that met even his shaky standards of credibility when he saw a familiar head of bushy hair and turned to find the eerily-familiar sight of Hermione Granger talking to herself.

"Come on, Harry... no one's going to bother you," Hermione was muttering.

"Merlin on a pogo stick," Ron swore. He tossed one more longing glance at Scrivenshafts before turning to follow them at a respectable distance and meet them at the pub. He was of a mind to chide Hermione, who wasn't exactly being subtle.

The roar of sound when Ron opened the door to the Three Broomsticks made an icy trickle go up and down the back of Ron's neck, as though everyone were turning to stare. Part of Ron knew everybody was going about his business, but it felt like far too many people in far too little space. The air, too, was thick and warm in comparison to the bright chill of November outside, and Ron felt a sudden impulse to retreat right back the way he'd come.

A moment later, though, the bright colour and over-warm air and susurrus of chatter resolved into individual voices, the voices of people Ron knew. Fred, George, and Lee Jordan sat at a table off to his left, laughing uproariously at some joke or other, and Hogwarts students of all shapes and sizes packed the place, spilling over the tables and hovering at the bar. Here and there, a knot of Beauxbaton girls and a cadre of Durmstrang students spoke in thick Russian or lilting French. Rosmerta looked a little harassed, honestly, though she seemed especially appreciative of any grown-up who'd braved the crush to stay, sending a particularly warm smile towards...

...Crouch and Hagrid.

Probably asking about the dragons, Ron realized. No harm in that, I guess. Let Crouch think he's succeeding.

Madam Rosmerta caught sight of Crouch sneaking a sip from his hip flask and her look of welcome soured. Ron guessed that if anybody was taking up space in her tavern, they'd best be paying for the privilege.

"Ron! Ronniekins!"

Ron turned to see Fred and George waving him over with eerily synchronized hand motions. "All right?" he asked as he seated himself.

"All right yourself, you heroic sod, you," Fred proclaimed. "Madam Rosmerta! A butterbeer for the conquering – oof!"

Ron withdrew his elbow, but Madam Rosmerta was already at the table. "On the house, luv," she said to Ron, ruffling his hair. "That was very brave, what you did last week for our Hermione."

"Ta," Ron muttered, feeling himself flush, "but you don't have to –"

"Nonsense," Rosmerta said, and returned to the bar.

"Ooooooh," Fred and George said in unison.

Ron grinned at them and toasted his butterbeer.

"So, Ronniekins, what's it like to have the limelight all to yourself for once?" Fred inquired. "Sure, you may have to share it with the Triwizard Champions –"

" – the Savior of the Wizarding World –" George went on idly.

"And all of Beauxbaton and Durmstrang," Fred added.

"All right," George conceded, "how does it feel to have a fraction of the limelight?"

"It can go shine someplace else," Ron replied, taking a slug.

"Really?" Lee said. "I would've thought it'd have been brilliant, having your name in the papers like that."

"Eh," said Ron.

"Our little brother," Fred intoned. "So world-weary. So filled with ennui."

Ron half-choked on his butterbeer. "Sure."

"Now that he's famous, nothing can faze him now," George added. "We little people are of no interest to –"

"Okay, Merlin's sake," Ron groused. "What do I say to shut you up? Where do I point the Finite?"

Of course, Ron was grinning on the inside, and he had a feeling that the grin kept flashing across his features. Hopefully, he looked less like he was going mad and more like he was pleased about being famous, but trying to play it cool.

"So, since last we spoke for any length of time, brother mine," Fred said, "you went flying into the ice-cold mountains to fetch a glowy plant and got assigned to detentions with Snape for all eternity. Then, you saved Harry's life and it got into the papers."

"Er," said Ron.

"Anything else we should know about?" George said.

Apparently, being in his twenties didn't make Ron any less terrified of his brothers' creepy, synchronous, near-Legilimous understanding of the way his brain worked... and their ability to plot three steps ahead of him.

"Have you actually done away with Malfoy, and that's why no one's seen him?" Fred murmured. "Because that would be brilliant."

"No one's killing Malfoy," Ron said as Moody and Hagrid approached the table where Hermione was sitting. Hagrid seemed to be examining an empty jar in Hermione's possession. He pointed down with fingers the size of sausages, and Hermione nodded, using her wand to punch some holes in the top of the vessel. "...though everybody keeps talking about it a lot," he added distractedly. "Bit creepy, you ask me."

Lee blinked at Ron. "Weren't you the one who couldn't stop laughing when Moody was banging ferret-Malfoy all around the hallway?"

"Did I laugh?" Ron didn't remember being gleeful about it, for Merlin's sake, though he couldn't deny that seeing that as a fourteen-year-old had been very... satisfying.

"You were gleeful about it," Fred said, making Ron wince. "I think you would've been right glad if Moody'd broken his neck."

Ron took another sip of his butterbeer so he didn't have to respond, and eventually the conversation turned, as he'd hoped it would, to Quidditch.

Ron caught Hermione's eye as she moved to walk past the table, but she shook her head. It seemed that Harry was going to pretend no one knew he was just behind her, wearing that blasted Cloak – even when he kept stepping on people's toes. Ron had braved the crowds for nothing. Nothing but a free butterbeer, anyroad.

"Hermione!" Lee said as she drew close to their table. Hermione closed her eyes a moment before turning, wearing a bright smile. "If it isn't our damosel in distress!"

"Yeah, save her again, Ron!" George hooted.

Hermione's lip curled and Ron thought she might have actually begun a growl. "I am a perfectly capable witch who is skilled at looking after herself!" she shrilled. "And the next person who claims I'm not is going to get an up-close-and-personal demonstration of my abilities!"

"Easy, there, Hermione," Lee said, which Ron could have told him was precisely the wrong thing to say.

"Easy?" Hermione echoed. "Do you find my reaction to your patronizing attitude inappropriate, Lee? The only reason I was in danger at all was because Ron cast Protego! And it was Professor Snape who saved my life, a fact that everyone seems to have conveniently forgotten!"

She flounced out so quickly that Harry, in an attempt to follow her, tripped and landed with a helpless (and invisible) cry of pain. Ron looked up to find Cho hiding a sympathetic giggle behind her palm.

Ron hid his face in his hands. Sometimes, just being around a teenaged Harry Potter, he felt waves on waves of empathetic humiliation.

Chapter Text

Harry had a detention with Snape that evening that he'd neglected to discuss with Ron or Neville, who arrived for their usual pre-week prep session to find that Harry was up to his elbows in the entrails of some poor creature. Neville's features twisted sympathetically but he went straight to his essay work as usual, while Ron suited up to help with prep, feeling queerly cheated. This was supposed to be his off-hours, when he didn't have to pretend at being Ronald Weasley, aged fourteen. Ron wasn't sure what Neville thought of that, but he hadn't breathed a word to anyone, and Professor Snape continued to treat Ron as though he were some kind of mildly interesting puzzle he tended to pick up in the evenings when he was bored.

"Mister Weasley," Snape called, the moment Ron slipped through the door.

Ron approached the professor's desk, glowering. "I didn't know he'd be here," he said, allowing a bit of the petulance he felt to come through. Letting himself be fourteen could sometimes feel pretty good, too...

Snape eyed him, then Harry – still stubbornly glaring at the entrails – and back to Ron again. "I didn't imagine this split of yours would be permanent," he admitted, "much less after you'd saved the ungrateful brat's life."

It hadn't occurred to Ron to want or even expect thanks, really. Everyone was reeling at the time. But it was true that Harry hadn't so much as mentioned it, since. He sighed, scrubbing both hands through his hair. "Me, neither, I guess," he said.

"But you'll keep looking after him anyway," Severus observed. It wasn't a question, though he paused as though he expected Ron to add something. "As will I," he finished briskly, when nothing else was forthcoming. "Here, first-year essays."

Ron peered over to the lab area, where Harry was mutilating the Potions ingredients. "Sure you don't want to switch us?" he said lightly. "Those'll be unusable."

"Oh? Those aren't a Potions ingredient," Snape said mildly.

"It's just something disgusting to keep Potter occupied," Ron realized.

"Don't – " Severus said sharply, then took a breath. "Do not call him that," he said more quietly. "Do not saw at the ties of your childhood with so cavalier a hand," he said, yet quieter. "You will lose him."

"And what do you care if I do?"

"I care because, Mister Weasley, if Potter grows out of his trust of you, he will no longer keep you at his side, and you will no longer be capable of protecting him."

Ron remembered, throat going dry, how his fight with Harry had kept him in the Great Hall; how, if he'd been even a fraction more stubborn, he would have missed deflecting the Sectumsempra that nearly took Hermione's life. "Yeah," he said, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Ta, Severus." He realized his mistake immediately. "I mean!" he said, staring up at Snape in horror. "Professor Snape," he said, feeling his face burn crimson. "Can we please forget I said that?"

"Yes," Severus said. "So long as you do not repeat the error. Though it's a first," he muttered, stacking the first-year essays with a distracted hand. "Here you are, Mister Weasley," he said. "Address this legion of assaults on the English language and morass of misunderstandings regarding the nature of magic in general and Potions in particular."

"Yessir," Ron said, and stole one of Severus's quills off of his desk, along with a bottle of heartsblood ink. He escaped to one of the laboratory tables to score the essays with a feeling of reprieve.

Though the cursing and splashes of entrails never did quite fade out of Ron's awareness, the essays eventually garnered the majority of his attention. "Listen to this one, it's a doosey.

It is clear through a study of Potions Mastery that the foundation of Hogwarts is built upon women."

Snape snorted aloud.

"What do they mean, it's built on women?" Neville sputtered, clearly picturing legions of witches physically supporting the foundations of Hogwarts. "Ohhh," he said, before Snape or Ron could reply. "How d'you fix it?"

Ron said, "It's clear through the study of Potions that much of the..."

"Zeitgeist," said Snape.

"No one knows what that means besides you," Ron muttered.

Snape was clearly sifting through his lexicon. Ron figured that could take awhile.

"Maybe foundation is okay?" Neville said, then muttered, "foundational knowledge? Surely there's one word for that."

Snape moved around the desk to stand over Ron's shoulder. "It's clear through the study of Potions that many of the fundamental tenets of the discipline were pioneered by women," he said.

"First of all, tenets? And second of all, you can't pioneer a tenet," Ron groused. After staring at the weirdly-phrased text for a moment, he said, "Women have made many important contributions to the study of Potions at Hogwarts."

Neville let his head fall forward in dejection. "You always know how to say it so clean," Neville moaned into the slate surface.

"I wouldn't put my head on that," Ron muttered.

Neville pushed himself upright with a grimace. "I think I've revised this one until my eyes are bleeding anyway, Professor," he said. "Are you ready for it?"

Neville had long since figured out he ought to ask. If Snape were grading something, he could be very ill-tempered when roused before he was through, and the same went for when he was brewing. On the other hand, he was usually positively happy – for Snape – if he were interrupted in the midst of planning a lesson.

"In five minutes," Snape muttered, crossing something off of his own pile.

"Merlin, Ron," Neville said, leaning over Ron's grading. "It is important to remember that the foundations of Hogwarts do not rest literally on the bones of your foremothers? That's downright Snapeish."

Ron shook his head. "If I were being Snapeish, I'd make some comments maligning her ancestry, or her intellect, or her face."

"That's enough, children," Snape murmured, clearly lost in the last essay.

"Sure," Ron muttered, turning to the next. He of all people wasn't a child; but sometimes it could be fun to pretend.

Neville shrugged. "Spelling?"

"Sure," Ron said. "Or weren't you –?"

"Yeah, that's right," Neville said, standing. He moved back to the cabinet where he'd been organizing the cabinet of Venenifiometers.

"Mister Weasley, why don't you make some preliminary corrections on Mister Longbottom's essay whilst I finish this," Snape said distractedly.

Ron turned to Neville, who was head-and-shoulders into the cabinetry. "You don't mind?" he said.

"What?" Neville muttered, sticking his head out over the top of the cabinet door.

"I said, you don't mind if I have a look at your essay?"

"Oh! No, that'd be brilliant!" Neville gushed, and stuck his head back in.

Ron frowned at the work. Maybe it was that he'd gotten rather used to the sloppiness of the first-years, but... "Neville, actually this is quite good!"

"What?" Neville inquired. "Hang on."

"Look, I think you don't really understand this bit here..."

Neville looked up with wide eyes. "How did you know?"

Ron scratched his cheek against the feathered end of the quill as he thought. "It's just – it doesn't sound like you. So I guess that must mean you quoted a book or a paper or something. Not the textbook though, doesn't sound like the textbook, either. Maybe that medicinal plants book you have up in your room?"

"Blimey," said Neville. "You can tell all that?"

"I can tell you don't get it. Which part is confusing? I'm sure S-Snape can explain."

Severus, sitting there on the tip of his tongue, again.

"It's the bit about why we stir widdershins versus clockwise," Neville said gloomily. "I've never understood it."

"What potions do you stir only clockwise?"

"Er," said Neville. "Let me think."

Ron turned his attention back to Hortense Harrington, who seemed to believe that no sentence was complete without a semicolon or two. She was a Hermione sort and would soon learn better, but meanwhile it made reading her paragraph-long sentences torturous and tortuous.

Two words she had used in her essay, presumably to demonstrate that she knew the difference.

"Oh, er, I think I already see what..." Neville muttered. "Clockwise for things to come together; counter for them to come apart. Is it really that simple?"

"I'm still not much good at theory. Hands-on bloke, me."

"The ones where you do both... are like Polyjuice," Neville said slowly, "where you're pulling something apart to put it together again in a new way?"

"Ask Snape later on," said Ron, though he almost didn't want Neville to do so. Drawing any attention to Polyjuice Potion would...

...would...

Ron felt like kicking himself. He moved to Severus's desk and stood, practically vibrating in place when the older man held up a hand to ask for patience. After a moment, he lowered it, then raised his gaze to meet Ron's.

"What is it, Mister Weasley?"

"Just... I had a horrible thought," Ron said, shifting from foot to foot. "The ingredients we're low in... they're the ingredients to Polyjuice Potion," he said, lowering his voice when he felt Harry's attention perk up from the back of the room.

Snape's brows lifted. "Dare I ask how you know how to make Polyjuice Potion?"

"I made it in second year," Ron said, perfectly truthfully.

"Of course you did. And so?"

"And so someone's making Polyjuice. And not the three of us," he added, meaning he, Hermione, and Harry.

Snape frowned.

The hip flask, Ron thought desperately. Think of the hip flask – he never goes without it – he's sipping from it all the time –

"Thank you, Mister Weasley."

Ron stared. "...that's all?"

"That's all," Severus said, waving him back to his chair.

Ron didn't budge. "You are going to –"

"Yes," Severus smoothly replied, arching a brow.

"But you're not going to let me –"

"No," Snape said.

Ron wasn't sure how to feel about this. "...but... you'll let me know how it –"

"Certainly," Severus agreed. "Now, let me grade in what passes for peace amidst the screaming agonies of the Oxford comma."

"You aren't playing a chess game with me, are you, sir?" Ron impulsively inquired.

"If that's some sort of tortured metaphor –"

Ron tsked. "No, an actual chess game. There's a set in the Gryffindor Common Room, and I was just wondering if my invisible opponent was you."

"Well. Perhaps it is merely Mister Potter in his infamous Cloak," Severus growled. "Yes, I do know about it. Mister Malfoy's descriptions of a head floating mid-air last year were... most illuminating."

Ron longed to ask Snape about when Malfoy would return, and whether the school were pressing charges, but the mention of Harry had reminded him all of a sudden that the boy in question was still in the Potions classroom, tucked in the back, and sorting entrails with a murderous look in his eye, so he found it best to let the conversation end there.

The rest of the evening was spent quietly, with Harry departing after an hour of labour and ten minutes of scrubbing in an attempt to dislodge the entrail smell from his hands.

"Did it have to be entrails?" Neville murmured, peering into the sorted bucket.

"Yes," said Snape.

"Why was he here, anyway?" Ron wondered aloud.

"Another student's punishment is not your concern." Snape straightened the stack of graded essays and lay them neatly on his desk.

"It was for duelling in the hallways," Ron said, "wasn't it? You know Malfoy was baiting him with those awful badges. You know that those two poke at each other until one of them –"

"And so I should not punish them, giving the impression thereby that such behaviour is acceptable? Because Potter was provoked?"

"No," Ron muttered, and finished grading his stack of essays. He really didn't have the first idea what he'd do if he were Malfoy's and Harry's professor.

Afterwards, Ron slipped out the door to be a glorified librarian for a few hours.

The Room was happy to see him these days, if a magical Ur-dimensional space could be said to be happy. When he entered, the torches flared a little brighter and the air seemed to clear. "Okay, where were we?" Ron said aloud, supremely safe in the knowledge that Skeeter was probably already trapped on Hermione's desk like some kind of exotic pet. "Ah, autobiographies. Accio biographies and autobiographies!" Ron encanted, casting Finite just before they reached him – and set to work.

When Ron stumbled in around midnight, he was surprised to see a lone figure standing by the fireplace, muttering something into the flames. It was long past curfew, and even further past Gryffindor's official 'lights out', which was eleven-thirty for upperclassmen.

Ron realized that it was Harry who was before the fire when the other boy stood and whirled.

"Who was that?" Ron wondered. "Who were you talking to?"

"None of your business!" Harry snapped. "Anyway, where have you been? Still hanging around Snape, like some great greasy git-worshipper?"

"Sorry," said Ron mildly, Snape's advice ringing in his ears. "I guess I'll just..." he added, gesturing toward the stair.

But Harry wasn't through. "Just thought you'd come nosing around, did you? Skulking around, like some ruddy Slytherin?"

Ron knew – Harry had told him – that he'd been initially Sorted to Slytherin. He'd told Ron only days before he died, actually. Harry accusing him of being a Slytherin and therefore corrupt was a bit rich. "Sorry, next time I'll leave you to give your latest interview in peace," he bit off, and Harry pinked.

"Er..." he said, and suddenly – Ron didn't know how – he just knew.

"You're the anonymous student who called Malfoy a nutter in Skeeter's article?"

"I figured he could use a dose of his own medicine!" Harry shot back. "I didn't do anything wrong!"

Ron scoffed. "You know that isn't true, or you wouldn't be shouting it, would you?"

"Why are you bothering to defend Malfoy, again? And why are you hanging around Snape?" Harry looked wild-eyed, ready to reach out with nails and teeth, wand be damned.

"What, instead of you?" Ron returned.

"I know, it wouldn't do for anyone to pay any attention to me," Harry snapped, "what with you being the hero in the papers." He scooped something off of the floor and threw it at Ron as hard as he could; it bounced off of Ron's forehead. "There you go!" Harry laughed bitterly. "Something for you to wear Tuesday! Now you'll have a scar like mine – that's just what you've always wanted isn't it?" he shouted.

Ron moved to Harry's side in three, great strides and caught at his arm. "No," he said.

Harry looked up at him through his glasses, wild-eyed. "What?"

"No, it's not what I've always wanted," Ron growled, "and no, you're not going to storm off after all that, after chucking something at me! It's time to talk this through."

"No," Harry said. "No, I – let go of me, Ron."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Ron, using his two stone advantage on Harry shamelessly. "Did I rob you of your dramatic exit?"

But then Harry ended the argument in a way always seemed to work on Ron.

His green eyes went suddenly wet, and he ducked his head swiftly as though Ron could possibly miss that he was tearful when they stood so close. "Let me go," he muttered, giving another halfhearted tug on his arm.

"Not a chance," Ron replied in a very different sort of voice.

"I don't want talk about it," Harry said mutinously.

"But you do," said Ron. "Just look at you."

Harry snuck a glance up at Ron, then around the room, as though there were anybody listening in. "It's just," he said, voice wobbling. "It's just that it's dragons."

Ron nodded slowly, not able to manufacture surprise. "The First Task is dragons," he said. "Who was that in the fire? Was it Sirius?"

Harry nodded, a single, anxious bob of the head. "He said one, simple spell, he said it wasn't going to be complicated, but then I heard you coming, I told him to go, and he never got to say..."

Ron kept nodding, and he kept firm hold of Harry's arm.

"And you – you're supposed to be my best friend," Harry said suddenly, hiccoughing, "but you're not – you're not –"

"I am," Ron said, his voice crackling with intensity. "I was angry with you for putting your name in is all."

"But I didn't!" Harry burst forth passionately, torn between anguish and fury. "You don't know how awful it is – I wouldn't – I wouldn't ever..."

"I believe you, mate," Ron said. "But you were chuffed when your name was called. What was I supposed to think?"

Harry stared. His huge green eyes blinked a few times as though he were wondering if it was safe to agree. "That's not fair," he rallied. "Just because –"

"That's not fair isn't an answer," Ron pressed. "Didn't ask for my help, did you, or Hermione's? Because you thought you could keep being brave, all on your own," Ron said, and it came unfettered all of a sudden, his frustration and rage and desperate, anguished love. "It's you who're my friend, do you understand? Not the Boy Who Lived," he went on to Harry's increasingly gobsmacked features. "It drives me mad when you play the part to the crowd, and that makes you and everyone else say I'm jealous. But someone's trying to hurt you through the Tournament, and you know it, and being all Gryffindor-to-a-fault isn't going to help you, it's just going to make you a very heroic corpse –"

"Karkaroff," Harry said with a sharp nod, as though it was the first piece of what Ron was saying that he'd properly absorbed. "It's got to be; he was a Death Eater..."

"So was Snape," Ron growled. "Even if it turns out Karkaroff's a criminal, that doesn't mean he did this." Ron's gaze strayed to the chessboard in the corner. "You can't just think in straight lines when you're surrounded by enemies who like complications."

Harry nodded, accepting this bit of logic. "Why don't they ever just kill me?" he wondered. He didn't say it in a self-pitying way. "When – when a curse like Malfoy's is all it takes..."

"If you want to get caught," Ron agreed. And if your plan doesn't involve resurrecting your dead Dark Lord first, Ron thought with a grimace.

"I guess," Harry said, rubbing at his eyes behind his glasses. "Let's not do this again anytime soon, yeah? Don't tell Hermione, but she's a rubbish best friend."

"Yeah," said Ron. "All right."

Harry looked around for a second time, and Ron began to realize with a pang that he was checking for witnesses again. He'd done it just before he'd begun to panic about the dragons. He moved awkwardly forward until Ron realized what it was that Harry was about.

Ron snaked his arms around Harry's waist, and Harry spent a second trying to decide where to put his hands, like he'd rarely been embraced before, which was probably true. Ron held Harry close with his considerably larger bulk and took an inadvisable breath in, and it swamped him all in a rush, who it was that he was holding.

"Ron... Ron, you're knocking the breath out of me, just a bit," Harry said, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Sorry," Ron said, withdrawing with a teary grin. "Reckon I must've missed you. A little."

Harry grinned in the firelight, before the smile fell off of his face. He groaned. "Dragons!"

"We'll sort it," Ron said. "We'll sort it, you'll see. For now you need to go get some rest. We'll start fresh tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah," Harry said, sounding a bit dazed. "Listen, Ron, you won't tell Hermione that we cried, will you? I don't want her to be all... smug about it."

"No, no," Ron assured him. "I'll only tell her that you did."

Chapter Text

All things considered, it was the best Ron had slept in weeks.

It didn't surprise him, therefore, that he didn't awaken until late in the morning. Ron made his way down into the Great Hall to find that he was amongst the last of the stragglers to eat breakfast; Harry and Hermione were long-gone.

He found them later in the library, Hermione babbling.

"Well, there are Switching Spells... but what's the point of Switching it? Unless you swapped its fangs for wine-gums or something that would make it less dangerous... The trouble is, like that book said, not much is going to get through a dragon's hide... I'd say Transfigure it, but something that big, you really haven't got a hope, I doubt even Professor McGonagall... unless you're supposed to put the spell on yourself? Maybe to give yourself extra powers? But they're not simple spells, I mean, we haven't done any of those in class, I only know about them because –"

"Hermione!" Ron exclaimed, and Hermione looked up in shock before her jaw snapped shut with an audible crack. He sat at the table next to her, across from Harry, who looked up at Ron with an open, relieved sort of grin that Ron returned.

"Have... have you two made it up?" she whispered.

Harry shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

Ron vividly recalled Hermione's original reaction to their reconciliation, so he was surprised when she snapped, "well, it's about time! All the back-and-forth between the two of you, it's made me positively dizzy! Anyone'd swear you two had nothing better to do than pick at each other! Oh, wait – we're trying to stop Harry from getting killed! And you say I'm the one who needs to sort my priorities!" she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, I think you need to make it up to someone else as well as each other," she added.

Ron cleared his throat. "I'm sorry we put you in the middle, Hermione."

"Well!"

"Sorry, Hermione," Harry echoed. "You're so brilliant. I've no idea why you put up with us at all."

Hermione let out another huff of air but seemed mostly mollified. "Very well, only don't do it again," she ordered. She slammed her book closed. "I don't even know why we're searching in the library," she admitted. "No one is going to have suggestions for how to fight a dragon."

"Fight one," Ron echoed.

"Well, I assume."

"Well," Ron said slowly, trying to appear as though he were putting a great deal of thought into it and reminding himself that it wasn't cheating since in the other timeline, Harry had won – "dragons are rare creatures and they're expensive to keep up, or so Charlie says. I don't imagine the First Task is to kill a dragon. Pretty awful and pretty expensive, wouldn't you say?"

Hermione was nodding as though this made a great deal of sense to her. "Sometimes the Wizarding World seems a bit barbaric to me," she admitted. "I did think it was awful, but no more awful than the Tournament as a whole."

"So, if I'm not killing a dragon..." Harry murmured. "Wait! Charlie said that they were all nesting mothers."

Ron knew of Charlie's involvement, but since Harry hadn't mentioned that last night, he evinced the expected surprise that Harry had met up with his brother.

"So anyway," Harry went on, "maybe I have to steal an egg!"

Hermione sighed. "How is that less barbaric?"

"No, an egg makes sense. Or something else that can stand out in a nest," Ron replied. "So you don't need to fight a dragon, Harry. You just need to get something from a dragon's nest."

"Oh, is that all?" Harry said.

"I always wondered why you didn't just ask it," Ron said. "I mean... I mean I was wondering if you could just ask the dragon nicely. Would it understand Parseltongue?"

Hermione and Harry stared at him.

"Always the tone of surprise," Ron sighed, though they hadn't said a word.

"It... it might," Hermione said, eyes flashing. "Harry. Harry! Fetch me Men Who Love Dragons Too Much, it might say! What language do dragons speak?"

"Maybe try looking for a book on languages," Ron said idly, amused to see Hermione in full Research Mode. "Or on snakes. I don't think people try to talk to dragons, much; not since Merlin, anyhow. Can't imagine why," he added.

"You're enjoying this," Harry accused. "You had that all chambered and ready to let fly. You were just waiting until I came to ask you."

"Just proving my worth, aside from the comic relief," Ron said.

Harry muttered something under his breath.

Ron eyed him seriously. "But now it all depends on your powers of persuasion," he said. "You can't just assume that because you can speak its language it's bound to obey you. The Basilisk didn't."

"The Basilisk was being controlled by Voldemort," Harry said, gaze faraway. "I think if I'm just polite... and I just explain it clearly enough..."

"Yeah," said Ron, "though it's probably also good to have a backup plan." Ron knew he wouldn't have to say anything about the Summoning Charm; Moody's doppelganger would, regardless. Still, it gave him the shivers, the idea that Crouch and Harry would spend any time alone together, ever.

Ron spent the rest of Sunday and part of Monday organizing the Room's books and exchanging a few moves with his unknown chess opponent; he'd found enough furniture that he could begin to create rows on rows of shelving almost like a library or a bookstore at one corner of the room, penning meticulous labels and casting preservation charms when he was through. He was into handicrafts, which was a weird sort of thing to wish to hide: books on woodworking, and knitting, and sustainable farming, whatever that was.

Maybe they were from Slytherins embarrassed of their desire to create anything, or Ravenclaws whose peers disdained any venture apart from study; maybe they were stolen from students who wanted them back, Ron reflected as he dusted a thick tome on crochet that might have belonged to Luna.

He also clocked hours of moral support: playing Gobstones and discussing Quidditch and going for bracing walks around the Lake with Harry, who was beginning to unravel a bit at the seams. Ron and Hermione made a marvellous tag-team, Hermione giving Harry brisk talks about the Task, and Ron avoiding the subject altogether, to get Harry's mind off things. Ron hadn't experienced that sort of camaraderie with Hermione in awhile, the sort where they communicated full sentences with their eyes. It was warming and lovely and quite a relief after his and Hermione's unsettling, romantic moment the week before.

But when the Task approached on Tuesday, Ron could barely think. He'd already taken three sips of his Aequus Aquas, and he fully expected he'd be sipping as oft as Moody before the day was through. Harry was a pale ghost beside him; nothing Ron or Hermione said seemed to have any effect at all...

When McGonagall came to the Great Hall to claim Harry, Hermione and Ron followed him until they'd reached the main entrance, Ron's panic clawing higher and higher in his throat.

"How about 'no'," Ron interrupted as McGonagall looked on, anxious but clearly impatient to be gone. "How about you tell them 'no', Harry? You're too young! They can't fault you for –"

"The Triwizard Tournament is a magical contract," said Hermione, looking green.

"Sod magical contracts! It's not an Unbreakable Vow!" Ron shot back.

"A what?" Hermione stammered.

"It's all right, Ron," Harry said, blank-eyed, clapping a hand to his shoulder. "I'll be all right," he said, and strode off down the hall, McGonagall trailing in his wake.

The last words Harry Potter had ever spoken to him. Ron reeled.

"Ron. Ron. Ron," Hermione said, tugging him backwards. She laced her fingers together over the top of his shoulder and leaned her body weight against his. "It's fine, really. It's Harry, he's always come through before..."

Merlin, if that wasn't the worst thing to say.

"You've got to pull it together," she urged him. "Come on, Ron, for Harry. If he sees you're scared, he'll forget Parseltongue. He'll forget everything. Come on, Ron, you can do this."

Ron took in a hitched breath and nodded. "Yeah, all right," he said, running his hands down his robes as though adjusting them after his panic, but in reality feeling the outlines of the hard, glass bottle tucked in the inner pocket. "You go on ahead... get us a seat..."

Hermione eyed him worriedly, but drew back, patting him on the shoulder, and, after a quick scan of his features, darted away in a flurry of dark robes.

"He's everything to you, eh?"

Ron whirled to find that Moody – Crouch – was standing just behind him, half in shadow. Ron's pulse kicked like a rearing horse. "Best mate," Ron said, mouth dry.

"But it's more than that, isn't it?" Crouch said meditatively. "Potter's all that's good in the world, hmm?"

Ron wasn't sure what Crouch could gain from this conversation... or what he, in his guise as Moody, meant for Ron to think of it.

Maybe it was only that he was a man, nervous before watching the next stage of his plan unfold – just like Ron.

"Harry represents everything good in the world to a lot of people," Ron said. "To me, he's my friend. And that part's worth more to me than a dozen Saviors."

"Then I'm sorry," Crouch said, clapping his – Moody's – broad hand against Ron's shoulder, the same shoulder that Hermione had leaned her weight against to calm him.

Perhaps that was why Ron experienced a flash of accord. "Do you play chess, Professor?" he asked, dry-mouthed.

"I like a good game," Crouch agreed. "My father and I played often. But you haven't asked, yet, why I've apologized."

"I thought it was obvious, Professor," Ron said steadily. "Harry's always in trouble, isn't he? He doesn't mean to be, there isn't much he can do about it, but he is. I'm always going to worry for him. And because he's the Saviour, everyone's always going to want a piece of him."

"Well," said Crouch. "You just stick by his side, lad, and it'll all come out right in the end."

Ron stared after him as he clumped down the staircase. Could that have been the real Mad-Eye? But no – surely Professor McGonagall would've said, if –

Would she? Ron wondered. He'd given Snape all the pieces of the puzzle days ago, which was plenty of time for him to draw his conclusions; but if a Death Eater had been teaching at Hogwarts for ten whole weeks, maybe Dumbledore wouldn't want the public to know... especially in light of the bad press about Hogwarts being so dangerous. The only person Ron could ask was Snape, so he moved out into the shifting crowd to search for him.

The crowd was like a living, breathing creature, hefting and shifting its enormous bulk as everyone jockeyed for the best view. With the entirety of Beauxbaton and Durmstrang out in the stands, not to mention certain members of the community who had paid for tickets, it was probably more people than Hogwarts had seen on its grounds in generations. The roar of the crowd was like the vocalizations of the very dragons that the Champions would soon face.

Ron drew. "Point me Severus Snape!" he incanted, and strived forward, through the press of bodies, the noisome smell of thousands crowding his nostrils, his pulse thundering in his ears. "Point me Severus," he incanted again, and someone knocked into his arm, jouncing him so hard he nearly lost his grip. He feverishly scanned the stands, knocked this way and that by impatient tall people who'd come to watch his best friend fight for his life. Ron pushed his way through until he was nearly breathless with panic, unwilling to reach for his potion for fear it would be knocked out of his hand.

But the crowd, for all its awfulness, wasn't infinite, and eventually he caught sight of a dark head, taller than the students around him, and pushed through the sea of people with renewed determination.

"Mister Weasley!" said Snape, a bit louder than even his normal, booming speaking voice.

"Professor!" Ron greeted him, then wondered how he was going to ask, surrounded by all these people. "That situation we discussed on Friday... is it resolved?"

"As I said, I would let you know if it were," Snape replied.

Ron worried his lower lip between his teeth. It seemed that he'd had that conversation with Barty Crouch, Junior. But he still couldn't make it fit, either with Crouch himself, or the Moody he was pretending to be. It almost sounded like Crouch intended to warn him of something – something for which Crouch wasn't responsible? Something Crouch didn't want to happen?

Or maybe, Ron thought with a chill, he was simply offering his condolences to a boy to whom he meant no harm. To a boy whose world he knew was about to crash down around him.

Ron slipped the Aequus out of his pocket, concealing it with his hand, and took a swig of the potion, Severus's eyes following the motion. What if he'd been wrong to give Harry new advice? No matter how brilliantly Harry had flown last time, Ron knew that he was a foot away from being speared through the chest with tooth and claw over and over again, and that some element of luck had played a part in his previous success. There was nothing to do now but wait.

There was nothing to do, now.

Ron felt someone bang into him with more force than usual, sending him sprawling into Professor Snape, who caught him under the elbows, expressionless. "Perhaps you should –" Snape began, before they both realized that the person who had launched into him was Hermione.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, white-faced. "Oh, hello, Professor," she added politely, before rounding on Ron. "I've been looking all over for you. I think I'm going to be ill. Dragons, what were they thinking? Professor McGonagall said that there are safeguards in place, but I've no idea what that means. Surely if the dragon stomps him, nothing they can do will reach him fast enough –"

"Miss Granger!" Snape barked.

Hermione subsided, shoulders slumping. Ron patted her arm carefully.

"We've prepared him as well as we can," Ron said, knowing it was true.

The next half-hour was absolute agony. Hermione and Ron clasped hands as first Cedric, then Fleur floundered about on the field. Ron's left hand was going numb, but he dared not release Hermione, who looked as though she might shake apart at any moment.

Ron's stomach dropped and swooped as each of the children fought to acquire their egg. If this was how the Triwizard Champions performed when they had advance notice, it was amazing any of them had gone on to survive the second challenge at all.

The crowd certainly appreciated the show: they oohed and aaahed and gasped at all the right moments, as though it were a hotly-contested game of Quidditch or a show-duel.

Surely, Ron thought, surely this was worth bringing to an end: these complacent, heartless idiots, happy to watch these children put through their paces, just as happy to return home to their House Elves and their warm fires and their rich food, and hash over the best bits, sharing the most savoury morsels with their friends. If this was the world, truly, then the world could burn. Deserved to.

"I think I'm gonna," said Ron, and clambered down the stands, Hermione's hand clinging to his briefly before he escaped her reach. Onlookers cursed him as he jostled them, temporarily blocked their view – Merlin forbid they miss a moment of the spectacle, Ron thought, with another vicious stab of feeling, like his stomach were on fire and the flames were licking up his throat. Behind the stands, Ron could still hear the crowd gasp as one entity, though one woman screamed: the delicious sort of scream Hermione issued when she read a good horror novel.

Ron had a series of disjointed thoughts about maggots devouring dead things, and carrion vultures and Harry, Harry standing unbowed after the second task, as everyone applauded that he'd managed to save Ron's life, that he'd done the honourable thing and gone back into the dark water for Gabrielle...

Ron shook himself, pacing, and shook his hands out at the wrists; maybe that would banish the need to throttle something. For a brief, intellectual moment he wondered if he'd actually managed to overdose on the Aequus – or if his agitation had to be expressed, somehow, that he'd pushed the potion to its limits and beyond, and what had emerged from underneath the panic was fury.

"Mister Weasley," said Snape.

Ron looked up to see that Severus Snape stood several feet away, that they were out by the Quidditch equipment shed, but he did not stop moving. He felt if he stopped moving, he would explode. "Don't," he said. "Don't, if you come near me, I'm going to scream," Ron bit off, "or start a punch-up."

"In that case, I shall stand here," Snape said, leaning against the shed and crossing his arms.

Ron shook his hands out a few times again, as though they pained him, though they didn't, and looked up at Snape out of the corner of his eye. Ron opened his mouth to speak; closed it; opened it again. "What is it?" he finally barked. "Why are they – what do they think – is it just entertainment to them?"

"Yes," Snape said, lip curled. "I believe so."

"Are people like that?" Ron demanded. "Are they really?"

Snape stared at him and said nothing.

"Right, you think they are, but you think – you think you shouldn't say to me –"

"I think it's a lot more complicated than you imagine," Snape returned. " 'Are people good?' is not a yes-or-no question."

Ron pushed a breath out. "I like that. Neville said I know how to say things simply. You know how complicated it all really is, though, don't you?"

Snape huffed. It sounded like a stillborn laugh.

Ron felt a bit calmer, now. "Krum up?" he said.

"Yes," Snape replied without looking. "You know," he went on, "it's pure entertainment to most of them. But not to everyone."

"Obviously not," Ron barked before checking himself. Snape never stated the obvious, so he couldn't have been referring to Ron and Hermione. "So what is it to everyone else, then? Why would they do this, take young witches and wizards and –"

"Come, Mister Weasley, you know better."

Cold shot down Ron's spine. "Training," he rasped. "It's playing at war."

"Fleur Delacour may fight at your side, one day, or perhaps head a regiment. Wouldn't you feel more confident knowing that she took on a dragon when she was only seventeen? Would that not inspire her foot soldiers to leave their families, to fight against an implacable enemy, knowing they may never return?"

Fleur had Ron's back once or twice, and yeah; knowing that had helped.

"I hate it," Ron said.

"Yes," Snape replied.

"I hate them all," Ron spat, "but I think I understand Voldemort, now –"

The colour shot from Severus's face. "Do not say the name!"

"I understand," Ron tripped on, "wanting to think the world would do best with a clean slate. Let's start from scratch, eh? See if we can do better, next time –"

"Mister Weasley!"

Ron clattered to a halt with a feel that was almost like an out-of-body experience. He rubbed at his eyes. "When's Malfoy coming back?"

Severus eyed him warily. "He already is back," he said. "He was forbidden from watching the First Task; he is spending some time getting caught up on the schoolwork he missed."

"Did he tell you why he used that curse?" Ron pressed, peering up at Professor Snape through his fingers.

"He despises Potter," Snape offered.

Ron realized that it probably wasn't a stretch to think that Malfoy could cast such things at Harry without a second thought, never mind that he hadn't ever before; after all, Malfoy could spit poison better than anybody but Severus Snape. He did it so well that it was easy to forget he'd never hurt anybody in his life... that, apart from saying dreadful things, the only physical altercation Malfoy had been in up to this point was Hermione Granger slapping him, and Crouch banging him about the hallway...

And no one but Ron knew that he'd cast a tooth-growing curse at Harry the first time around, rather than one meant to split him stem-to-stern.

The roar of the crowd brought Ron back to himself. "That's Harry," Ron said. "I'd better go back to Hermione... she'll be having kittens." He paused. "I'm sorry I said I was going to hit you," he muttered in lieu of thanks.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor for threatening a professor," Snape mildly replied.

Ron laughed. "Yeah, reckon that's fair. But just so you know, I never meant it."

"Perhaps in the moment..." Snape muttered as Ron passed him and began the jog back towards the arena. It was then that a different sort of gasp emerged from the crowd: the scandalized, horrified sort. Ron broke into a run.

The Hungarian Horntail's head was ducked down to Harry's level, and Harry was hissing at it in snake-language, his broom held tightly in one hand. It was one of the most incredible things Ron had ever seen, the dragon staring at this small boy in consternation as though it were attempting to determine whether or not Harry was some strange species of snake. It blinked huge, golden eyes at Harry with the most sceptical look on its face that Ron could imagine on a dragon, and then hissed back at Harry, who stood in the path of its breath, his hair and robes billowing behind him as though he stood in the midst of a hot summer storm.

Ron wanted to cheer: it was clear that the dragon not only understood Parseltongue but could respond in kind.

Ron had never before seen an audience so silent. They held their breath while Harry conversed with his dragon, until the vicious creature lifted its haunches and rolled a golden egg forward. Harry said something to the dragon in turn – probably a thank you – and picked it up with his free hand.

Displeased murmurs broke out among the crowd.

"Three minutes!" boomed Ludo Bagman's voice. "That... that really is, er, something, isn't it?"

The murmurs rose into a roar. The audience wasn't just angry, Ron realized – they felt cheated, cheated of the fight the other Champions had given them. They'd expected really death-defying feats from Harry Potter, and instead, Harry had a civil conversation with the enemy and asked it nicely. To Ron, who liked things simple, it'd seemed the most obvious choice all along, even back when he really was fourteen. To everyone who liked complications, it probably seemed –

"Cheat!" one member of the audience shouted. "Cheater!"

"Dark Wizard," muttered another.

Harry didn't let any of it show, of course. He hitched his head higher and then hefted the golden egg over his head – a big fuck you all of which Ron could not help but approve.

And then he disappeared.

The audience fell silent as the grave. Ron stood, his gaze darting around to see that Fleur and Cedric were missing as well.

He made every egg a Portkey, Ron realized. He didn't know which dragon Harry would get, so he did it to every egg...

He'd been so stupid. He'd been so stupid. He should've told Severus from the start who was drinking Polyjuice. He should've told Severus where he was from straightaway. Severus would've seen that stealing the ingredients from Crouch would only accelerate his timetable, not prevent him from being successful. Merlin, Crouch had warned him for whatever mad reason of his own, and Ron hadn't listened, hadn't understood...

The stands were in chaos, now, people screaming, stampeding away, as though they expected a repeat of the match between Bulgaria and Ireland the summer before... it would be impossible to escape, unless...

"Accio Harry's broom!" Ron shouted... but it had disappeared with Harry...

Two hands grabbed onto Ron painfully. Ron blinked to find that Hermione was clutching his left sleeve, and Severus Snape had hold of his right arm. He'd forgotten their existence entirely.

Hermione slammed into him and Ron automatically brought his arms up to protect her... the elbow of a fleeing student slammed into her head and she slumped in his arms. "Bloody hell!" Ron shouted. "Protego totalis!"

A bubble sprang up around the three, though Hermione still looked dazed. Ron looked up at Snape, and around himself to the fleeing students, and made his decision.

"Professor Snape," he said urgently, the Protego insulating them somewhat from the noise, "they're at a graveyard," Ron went on. "Voldemort's father's grave, they're going to try to resurrect him using Harry's blood. The other Champions are there by chance, he'll kill them all, if no one stops him."

Snape stared at him, and Ron lowered his Occlumency shields for the first time, pushing forward the memory of Harry haltingly describing Cedric's death.

"I'll tell McGonagall where you've gone. And we can discuss it all later, apart from how you're going to have to say it was you who figured it all out and not me."

Hermione stirred in Ron's arms.

"Professor!" Ron shouted.

Severus stared intently into Ron's eyes, then took off without another word.

When he departed, it was as though Ron's senses had acquired permission to receive information again: the shouts and frantic scrambling of the crowd pressed in from all sides. Knowing there was no way he could push past them all with Hermione tucked under his arm, Ron cast a Cushioning Charm on the ground, and jumped free of the crowd, Hermione clamped close. By then she had revived enough to be on her feet, though she still seemed dizzy; together they limped towards the Castle, where Ron found Professor McGonagall and conveyed 'Snape's' message.

From there it was a waiting game. Ron's bottle of Aequus had long since emptied, and he began to feel that, with all the doses he'd taken over the course of the day, he was in for a serious backlash when his latest slug wore off. Hermione was beside herself, sobbing into Ron's shoulder and gripping his robes, and Ron wasn't sure why he hadn't joined her. He'd even stopped castigating himself over his failures: the only thing left was emptiness, as though someone had scooped out his insides and laid them out to dry in the cold November sun. They were in the Hospital Wing, though Ron couldn't really remember making his way there.

Madam Pomfrey gave him and Hermione both a Calming Draught, but that only made Hermione's sobs less wild and more despairing, and increased the queer feeling of hollowness behind Ron's breastbone. It was only once her tears had dried that Severus Snape stumbled into the Hospital Wing, blood dripping down his chin; he had Harry Potter tucked under one arm, half-hidden in his cloak. Krum and Fleur stumbled in after, each supporting the other.

Ron vaulted to his feet, Hermione beside him, and together they drew Harry into their arms and clutched at him until Harry swatted at them with one, bandaged arm, and they subsided. Pomfrey set everyone into a bed; moments later, Gabrielle Delacour flew into the hospital wing and launched herself at her older sister, who patted her hair while she sobbed into Fleur's bedclothes; eventually Fleur gave in, her polished demeanour slipping, hugging her little sister to her chest desperately, singing to her in broken, tearful French.

Ron did a headcount and froze. His gaze darted to Snape's.

The grim man shook his head, once.

Still? (Again?) Merlin, he hadn't done any better. If anything, he'd made everything worse. All the Triwizard Champions could've died, couldn't they? All because Ron thought he was so clever...

(You don't know a bloody thing, and yet here you are, talking like you have all the answers! Well, you don't, that's all, you don't and you never did...)

Amos Diggory entered the Hospital Wing, eyes wild. "Oh, thank Merlin!" he exclaimed. "You're all back, safe and sound!"

And then, he looked around the Wing.

"Where's my boy?" he said. "Where's Cedric, where's... where's my boy? Cedric!" he called. "Cedric, where are you?"

"Mister Diggory," Snape said, "I am so sorry to say that your son is no longer with us."

"No longer – with us?" Amos repeated, with a sick, half-grin on his face as though he were sure Severus was making some kind of terrible joke and he felt obliged to humour him. "He was here only a moment ago, I wished him good luck... he was so proud," Diggory said, and for a moment his certainty was so solid that Ron nearly gazed about the room, just to double-check.

"Mister Diggory," Madam Pomfrey said, "perhaps you should sit down. I have a Calming Draught here, we've been passing it 'round," she said in a mild bid for lightheartedness. "Perhaps you could use some, too. Professor Sprout is on her way –"

"Sit down?" Diggory shouted. "What good will that do? A Calming Draught? My son – you're saying my son is dead?" he said, and the desolation and disbelief painted across his features made Ron want to stop looking, made him want to duck his head.

Look at that, Ron ordered himself. Take a good, hard look, Ronald Weasley. That's down to you.

"Cedric was very brave," Fleur said unexpectedly, her soft voice breaking through Mr Diggory's sobs. " 'E pulled me behind him, 'e cursed the Death Eaters. You should be so proud."

And even though this seemed to bolster the older man, Ron felt a brief flicker of the same fury he'd felt out on the Quidditch Pitch, listening to the stands cheer. Amos Diggory should not be proud of his son's death, no matter how brave he'd been. And Ron knew Voldemort had said, kill the spare – or was it kill the spares this time? – and that was that... Cedric couldn't have had a chance to be brave…

Cedric was just a boy who'd not been important enough to use, and so Voldemort had snuffed him out like a candle.

Yet Ron felt sure the Light would put his death to use soon enough; that his name would be a rallying cry. It was already happening, right before his eyes.

Madam Pomfrey led Mr Diggory into her office and plied him with strong brandy, but he screamed and wept until she cast a Silencing Charm at the office door.

Then there was only the quiet.

Chapter Text

Harry must have slipped out of the Wing in all the commotion, because when Ron looked up what might have been a minute or might have been ten minutes later, the other boy was gone, and his escape had somehow evaded Hermione's notice as well.

"Oh, we have to do something!" she exclaimed wildly. "He oughtn't be alone!"

"Miss Granger, do cease screeching," Severus said, palming his forehead, then rubbing at his temples.

Hermione obligingly lowered her voice to a near-whisper, though her voice lost none of its urgency. "I'm sorry Professor!" she said. "But Harry's slipped off again!"

Severus scanned the Hospital Wing as though he expected to catch sight of Harry hiding behind the curtains or curled up in a corner. Then he issued a small sigh, and for a moment it seemed like his teacherly facade would break. It was as though with the havoc of the Triwizard and the death of Cedric, and Mister Diggory and everything else, this one more thing was simply too much to bear.

"It's all right, Professor," Ron said quickly. "I'll find him. Should I bring him back here?" Where you can keep an eye went unstated.

After a moment, Severus shook his head, pressed down by the weight of exhaustion. "Madam Pomfrey's medicaments have done all they are capable of," he replied. "It is best that Mister Potter be with friends – in his dormitory, where he is safe." Snape's lips twisted darkly, and Ron was wondering if he was thinking how Sirius Black had snuck into the dormitories only the year before.

"I don't know how we'll find him," Hermione said. "Only I've been working on a spell that can locate objects? It's called Point Me," she went on.

Severus's black gaze darted to Ron; but before Ron could say or do anything, Hermione went on:

"It's something I developed because I thought it might come handy in the Triwizard Tournament, to help Harry find his way, you know?" She paused at a hitched breath. "I don't suppose it'll be of any use now they're cancelling it."

Snape's dark eyes narrowed. "Cancelling it, Miss Granger?"

Hermione looked around the Hospital Wing, at Fleur passed out in bed, her little sister compulsively stroking a lock of her golden hair, at Krum, who was staring at the ceiling, unblinking. "The Triwizard Tournament," she said, voice quavering.

Snape eyed her, unimpressed. "You had best use your charm to find Mister Potter."

"They are – they are cancelling it," Hermione said stridently.

"Miss Granger. Your voice," Severus said lowly, rubbing at his temples.

"They are!" she whispered as Ron led her away. "The nerve of him –" she began, only to find that their way was blocked by Minerva McGonagall.

"There you are!" the Deputy Headmistress exclaimed, looking harassed. "Everyone is to return to their dormitories at once."

"Yes, Professor," said Hermione, "we're just going to fetch Harry, first."

Ron had to admire Hermione's remarkable ability to confidently agree with authority while fearlessly flouting it.

"Yes, yes, do make sure that Mister Potter is with you," she said absently and, squaring her shoulders, moved to enter the Hospital Wing.

Hermione cast Point Me and they followed its direction until it pointed straight up.

"Isn't the Room of Requirement that way?" Hermione inquired, training her gaze heavenward as though she could peer through the ceiling.

"Dunno, maybe," Ron agreed, though he suspected she was exactly right, as usual. Together, they tromped up, and up, and up until they reached the seventh floor, Hermione casting once or twice again, just to be sure. When they arrived at the seventh-floor corridor, Hermione said, "let me," and strode back and forth in front of the Room of Requirement, eyes closed. The door appeared, and the two sidled into the magical space.

Ron was startled to discover the Room was in its guise as the Room of Hidden Things before realizing that Harry had probably come here in search of a place to hide himself. The Room had obliged, in the most literal possible way.

"...what is this place?" Hermione whispered, closing the door behind her. "Some kind of museum?"

Ron gazed about with new eyes, realizing for the first time that the front of the Room now appeared less like a garbage dump featuring embarrassing romance novels and childhood toys and more like a curation of curiosities. It was still rather menacing, however, the stacks of items making unusual shapes in the dark, and Hermione grabbed for his hand, darting him a look that dared him to protest.

Instead, he clapped her hand in turn and led the way through the mazes of things: a pile of candlesticks, three Penseives, a wavering pillar of old Potions journals stacked higher than Ron's head, a carefully-arranged display of much-beloved stuffed animals and comforting, childish gee-gaws that had Ron's chest twinging at the thought of firsties hiding their loveys away for decades on end. Of those same children growing older and forgetting those once-cherished toys had ever mattered to them at all.

They found Harry hidden in the stacks, leaning up against the handicrafts section. His feet were sprawled out in front of him as though he'd been knocked backwards and hadn't bothered to rise again; his wand was drawn, but his hand was curled only loosely around it. He looked up at Hermione and Ron when they stood in front of him without raising his head, a dark flicker of green eyes.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said, and suddenly Harry's eyes were filling with tears and he was whipping off his glasses to press his fingertips to his closed lids.

"I left because I needed to be on my own a minute," Harry said from behind his hands. "I just needed to think."

"Yeah, but you can't go wandering off like that, mate."

"We were so worried –" Hermione began.

"Well, maybe I'm sick of everyone being worried," Harry bit off. "Maybe I'm sick of everybody wanting a piece of me! And people –" For a moment, Harry struggled to master himself, voice thick with tears. He removed his hand from his face and Ron could see that his eyes were wild. "When someone wants a piece of me," he said, so slowly and deliberately that the effort it took was clear, "other people get hurt. Other people die." His throat worked as though he were about to throw up. "You two should – should steer clear of me. I'm poison," he said, and laughed; and the laugh was something Ron had heard emerge out of the mouth of the dying and despairing on the battlefield.

And then, Hermione slapped him.

It wasn't a love tap; it was a full-on, Draco-Malfoy-how-dare-you whack. Three things happened instantly: Harry's head snapped back; his cheek began to bloom bright red; and his laughter cut off as though Hermione's slap had batted it far, far away.

"That's..." Hermione said, pale and shocked, looking as though the slap had taken her by every bit as much surprise as Harry. "That's," she said, voice firming, "for suggesting we abandon you. Don't – don't do it again. I thought you were dead," she said, "do you understand? I thought you were dead."

"And I'm saying it'd be better –" Harry began, then threw his arms up when Hermione lunged for him, only to realize that she was wrapping slender arms around his midsection and squeezing.

Harry's arms hung at his sides as though he wasn't sure he deserved the affection, and Ron gasped. "Me, too," Ron said, and part of the icy blanket of shock seemed to lift all of a sudden. "Oh, Harry, I thought you were a goner," he laughed helplessly, and swept Harry and Hermione into a hug with his larger arms. "Wake up, you nutter, you're still alive," he breathed into Harry's ear.

The force of Hermione's nodding agreement jittered through the three of them, pressed so close together it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

"I missed you," Ron muttered, quiet, into Harry's hair. It was the first time he'd thought of them as a trio in years. He indulged in running a hand over both their heads as they pulled back. Hermione smiled at him through her tears, and Harry pinked, looking pleased but confused, so he supposed they hadn't minded it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Hermione said, gripping Harry's left hand, hard.

Harry clasped her hand between both of his own. "No," he said. Then, "yes. I don't – don't want to, but..."

Ron interrupted him. "It's up to you, but Dumbledore is probably going to ask sooner rather than later."

"Dumbledore found me on my way here, somehow," Harry said dully. "We spoke, I said – something." He huffed. "I don't remember it very well, is that funny?"

"Shock," Hermione said.

Harry shrugged. "One minute I was holding up the golden egg, and the next I was in a graveyard," he said, "and C-Cedric and Fleur and Viktor, too. Everyone had their wands holstered but me. And there was W-Wormtail, and a voice from a bundle in his arms said kill the spares, and – and then Cedric was dead..." Harry's eyes had gone faraway, and his breathing was light and shallow. He shook himself as though attempting to work himself free of the memory, then peered forward anew, as though he hadn't quite been able to banish it...

Hermione squeezed his hand, bringing Harry back to himself, and he smiled at Hermione weakly.

"Anyway, that was when a bunch of people Apparated in," Harry went on. "Professor McGonagall was there, and the Headmaster, and Professor Burbage, and a lot of people I didn't recognize. The other Champions and I ducked behind gravestones and started casting curses, just stuff to trip them up, you know..."

"Go on, Harry," Hermione encouraged him gently.

"The next thing I know, it's Professor Snape, herding us together and away from the fighting. I told him I could fight – I told him I could avenge Cedric, that I had my broom." Harry blinked. "He said I was bleeding and I'd clearly been Confunded and he was going to Apparate us directly to the Hogwarts gates."

Ron gawped. "He –"

But Ron's shock couldn't hold a candle to the inferno of Hermione's intellectual curiosity. "He Apparated four people at once? He didn't!" she exclaimed.

"I'm telling you he did," Harry said, "though he looked ill afterwards. I had my doubts where he was taking us," Harry went on with a blush, "and I kicked and got off a few curses..."

"On a professor? Harry!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Hermione," Harry said with long-suffering patience and a hint of his old humour, "wasn't it you who cast Expelliarmus on Snape just last year?"

Hermione subsided with pinked cheeks. "Exigent circumstance," she said primly.

"Anyway, he just pulled us all in tight and ignored me," Harry said. "When I saw Hogwarts I nearly..." Harry drifted off into something that was not-quite-memory again, his eyes glazing over.

Ron tried to think of something good to say. You've had a very close scrape, he thought, but it wasn't enough. We're so glad you're back. Sure. They'd already said so.

And then, Ron had it. "Accio the best whiskey in the house, and Accio three tumblers," he said.

To his relief, the best whiskey at Hogwarts was in the Room of Hidden Things – hardly surprising when you thought about it – and Ron cast a Cleaning Charm on the dusty tumblers that zoomed at him, each a different colour glass. He passed the green to Harry (Slytherin), the red to Hermione (because he'd love her always) and took the blue for himself. He poured each of them a slug and held his glass aloft.

"To Cedric Diggory," he said.

"Cedric Diggory," Harry said.

Hermione stared at the contents of her glass as though she weren't certain whether she should be holding it at all, but only said, "Cedric," before tossing it back.

When she doubled over coughing, that was Harry's and Ron's cue to enjoy the drink slowly, eyeing one another over the top of the glass in a moment of shared humour.

Sipping his whiskey carefully, Ron realized that where he really wanted to be was back in that moment where he had one arm around Harry and one arm around Hermione, sheltering them from the world in this place no one knew existed. But that moment was gone, and this moment too was bound to pass; he couldn't freeze them in amber here, heartbroken and not a little bit tipsy, but safe under his eye. Hermione leaned down to pillow her head on Harry's shoulder, and his hand curled around her upper arm, holding her in place, and Ron was fiercely, gladly grateful for them both.

They removed to the Tower and were immediately beset by their fellow Gryffindors. Though the expressions of their classmates didn't seem so saturated with prurient interest, now.

Parvati was the first to speak. "Is it true? Is it true about Cedric?"

Harry nodded. "He's dead," he agreed. "Voldemort killed him."

There was a gasp, and a firstie wavered on her feet.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed.

"No, Hermione," Harry said, the hero-face plastered across his features that Ron so detested. "They have to know. They have to understand what they're facing..." Harry cleared his throat. "It was Voldemort," he said, and Ron caught sight of Neville in the crowd, who flashed Ron a pained smile. We'll be all right, Ron mouthed, and Neville nodded, stalwart determination in every line of his plump body. Ginny appeared at Ron's side and ducked under his arm with a grave smile.

Ron felt rather like the mother dragon in the first Task must've: danger all around, but every one of her eggs in arm's reach. Ron had seldom been so settled in himself since he arrived, in fact. If Malfoy were here, he thought, and for some mystical reason not hexing anybody, Ron might be something approaching content.

After Harry finished telling the Gryffindors what had happened that afternoon, he said, "I want you to carry this story to anybody who will listen," he said. "Write your families. Tell your friends in other Houses. The real truth must come out before the papers get a chance to tell their version of the story. Can you do that?"

Ron looked out over their audience. Lavender was nodding, rapt, and Hermione looked as though she were about to turn her attention from S.P.E.W. straight to a letter-writing campaign. Fred and George were exchanging volumes of complicated conversation with their eyes and swift head-jerks alone. Others in the room looked frightened, and not all of them were firsties. But Ron had to hand it to Harry. They were all convinced. Full of conviction. Certain they'd follow Harry's banner, even the ones who knew well enough to be scared.

Welcome to the war, Ron thought, and then hated himself.

Somehow Minister Fudge made it most of the way to the Tower before being turned away by Minerva McGonagall, but not before he'd shot a few questions Harryward, impugning his honour and his sanity. Fred and George and Ginny swept in to ask Ron a few questions of their own, but in reality to prod him for details and ensure that none of the trio was hurt, which Ron appreciated in the abstract more than he could say... but he wished, selfishly, they could've asked him after ten hours' sleep.

From the Minister's clumsy accusations, Ron could discern that Barty Crouch Junior was indeed in custody, which at least implied that the true Mad-Eye was safe. Sirius was on his way according to Harry – an owl had arrived just moments after Harry gave his speech. Ron still hadn't answered to Snape for his foreknowledge about the graveyard, and the impending interrogation loomed. And his mother and father had owled him to say they were coming to see them all straightaway, the moment the Headmaster gave them the go-ahead.

The Deputy Headmistress swept into the Common Room long after lights-out, but she did not seem surprised when all of her charges, even the smallest ones, were still awake. She tapped her wand against the door and it made such a sonorous clang that she gained everyone's attention immediately.

"This is the night that never ended," Harry groaned, and Ron nodded.

"We have been dealt a heavy blow, today," she said. "A mass owling has gone out to every parent, written by Professor Sprout and signed by Dumbledore and myself. It requests that parents refrain from visiting until the funeral, which is scheduled for tomorrow."

Ron thought she would finish with some platitude, but her shoulders firmed and she went on:

"I am sorry to report that Hogwarts was breached by an impersonator using Polyjuice Potion," she said, and Hermione and some of the upper years gasped in tandem. "Professor Moody was, in fact, a young man named Bartemius Crouch, Junior, who escaped from Azkaban earlier this year."

There was no more room for shock. A few students exchanged glances, and Ron saw two firsties reach for one another's hands silently, but no one gasped or exclaimed. They sat, pale and quiet, their gaze trained on their Head of House.

"He arranged to have the eggs from the First Task made into Portkeys, and all of the Triwizard Champions stood together to face He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," she said. "He was in a weakened state, but he is still very much alive, and has the same quest as ever he did." Her chin lifted. "I lived through the War, and can tell you that the evilest thing He ever did was plant the seeds of doubt, to destroy our trust in one another. He preyed upon our weaknesses until some of us believed he was the only one left to turn to. He convinced those without the wisdom to hold onto power that they deserved to take power by force. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was, first and foremost, a talented manipulator and a remorseless liar."

McGonagall went on, eyes steely behind her spectacles. "When your friends and neighbours encourage you to push your fellow wizard away because he is different from you, I want you to remember that it is those who feel alone in this world who become low-hanging fruit for Him to pluck.

"To stay open-hearted when the world grows dark takes immense courage," she said, spearing them all with her steeliest gaze. "When you feel frightened and angry, and want to lash out... when you need the courage to be kind, I want you to remember Cedric Diggory. I want you to remember his warmth and willingness to laugh. And then I want you to show the world that Gryffindors know there is more than one way to be brave."

There was a vast, yawning silence for a moment, and then someone broke out into applause. Then the whole room was hooting, hollering and stomping as one entity, as though Gryffindor had been suddenly ordered to make as much noise as they could. Ron joined them, feeling a fluttering around his heart.

Minerva McGonagall merely hitched her chin up another centimetre and gazed around the room steely-eyed, nodding lightly now and again as though their wild response was no more than her due.

Where before the Gryffindors were frightened but determined, McGonagall had made them excited to help. They were already breaking into little knots to discuss and to plan, eyes alight with possibility.

Ron was so fond of all of them suddenly that he felt he ought to burst.

Then, McGonagall summoned him with a pointed look.

"Mister Crouch has requested he have the opportunity to speak with you," she said. "Do you know what he could possibly want?"

Ron shook his head, slowly. "He – he spoke to me right before the Triwizard, but... no."

"He has agreed to tell us more about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's plans," Minerva went on, "but only on the condition he is permitted to speak to you, first." Her gaze grew severe. "He no longer has his wand, Mister Weasley. Hogwarts staff would be with you both at all times. All the same, I don't like it one bit, and if you refuse, I will not press the matter."

Ron had no earthly idea what Crouch could have to say to him, but it really didn't matter. If Crouch had promised to give important information if Ron spoke to him, then Ron would speak to him. "It's all right, Professor, I'm not afraid," he replied, only to have McGonagall sigh at him before beckoning him again out of the portrait and down the hall.

If being afraid and jangling with reflexive panic weren't the same things, Ron reflected, no one had to know that.

"Why did you say all that in the Common Room?" Ron said. "I thought you might tell us to batten down the hatches, not to remember to be kind."

"I suppose it was Mister Crouch, himself, that made me say it. That and you."

"Me?" Ron squeaked.

"Your extraordinarily level-headed treatment of Mister Malfoy," McGonagall said, "when he shot off that curse at Miss Granger. And then, tonight! Professor Snape did not say very much, but he did not seem to be surprised that Mister Crouch was looking for you, which leads me to believe you were instrumental in sending the Head of Slytherin to the right place, trusting he would do well by the Triwizard Champions, including your best friend.

"As for Mister Crouch," she went on, "he is quite mad, and pitiable; well, you'll see it for yourself, I suppose. All that aside, we are not at war yet. Don't mistake me; we will fight," she said as they reached the Headmaster's Office. "But it won't be war unless He can attract supporters again, and I intend on making that as hard for him as I can. Cockroach Clusters," she added, and it took Ron a moment to realize that was the password to the Headmaster's Office.

Inside the Headmaster's Office, there was absolute silence, though the room was full. Dumbledore stood behind the desk, and Severus loitered by the door; Bartemius Crouch, Junior sat in one of the chairs before Dumbledore's desk, as though he were a naughty, misbehaving schoolboy, his hands and feet bound by magic. Someone had done him the courtesy of shrinking his clothing, or else he had Charmed it to self-size in case he transformed unexpectedly, because Mad-Eye's trousers and vest seemed to fit him; and yet he still gave the impression of being weaselly and underfed. His eyes and hair were wild, and he jittered one leg up and down as much as his bindings allowed.

"Professor," Ron greeted. "Headmaster."

"Mister Weasley," Dumbledore said heavily. "Please have a seat."

Ron eyed the chair next to Bartemius warily. "I'll stay standing, thanks."

"An understandable decision," Dumbledore observed. "Sherbert lemon?"

"I'll have one, thanks," Bartemius said suddenly.

To Ron's surprise, Dumbledore Charmed the lemony candy to float over to the prisoner, who opened his mouth and sucked the sweet greedily.

"I feel I must inform you, Mister Weasley," Dumbledore said heavily, "that we have called you here so urgently not because the matter is so pressing, but because we feel certain that your parents would forbid your interaction with Mister Crouch, were they here... and they are on their way. I have only begged them to stay their hands until Mister Crouch is removed from the premises. While your parents are not at Hogwarts, your Head of House is responsible for giving her permission, and Professor McGonagall, as my employee, has agreed to allow it. Do you understand?"

Ron nodded. "I understand you need to get information from him, and that if I talk to him, he'll agree."

"That is an accurate assessment of the situation," Dumbledore said.

Ron turned to face Professor Snape, who was still hovering by the door, wondering why he wasn't asking the obvious question. Was asking something Ronald Weasley would do? Ron was all too aware of McGonagall's and Dumbledore's eye on him, though Snape seemed to be practically avoiding his gaze.

"Uh, why not give him Veritaserum?" Ron said. "You could do that, right?"

No one looked shocked, so perhaps this kind of logical leap was something even a fourteen-year-old not exactly known for his perspicacity could make.

"Mister Weasley," Professor McGonagall said, "just before he was captured, Mister Crouch swallowed a poison known to react to Veritaserum. If we administer it, he will die."

"And shuffle off before he gives us anything useful," Snape snapped.

Ron nodded. Clever, he thought. Really clever. He'd never heard of such a potion during the War. It would've been a good thing to know how to brew.

"I said I'd do it." Ron stared at Bartemius to find that he was staring right back, mad eyes wide and lips slightly parted. "Right here?"

"Not with this lot around," Bartemius replied, licking his lips nervously. "I will speak with you alone."

"As we already told you, Mister Crouch, that is quite impossible," McGonagall sharply returned.

"Then getting the information you want will also be impossible," the man said, licking his lips again in a way that didn't seem entirely voluntary. His gaze flicked over to the corner of the room. "Very well. I'll talk in front of Severus," he went on, "but he gets to decide what to tell you, and no Pensieves. This information is time-sensitive, Dumbledore," he said, but his gaze moved to Ron. His mad, brown eyes pinned Ron in place, and the room around Ron seemed to still like a broken clock.

"It's all right," Ron heard himself say. "I'm okay with it as long as Professor Snape is still here. What can he do?"

"It's what he can say that worries me," Minerva said, brow furrowing.

"Severus?" Dumbledore said.

Snape jerked a nod.

"Very well," Dumbledore replied. "You may use the side-room." So saying, he cast Mobilicorpus on Crouch, complete with desk chair, and floated him into a tiny room that Ron had never noticed before, Ron and Severus following in his wake.

The room appeared to be a small sitting room, complete with Dumbledore's usual fluffy chairs, a side-table, and a steaming tea service. Ron ignored the tea and sat down in one of the chairs; Severus remained standing, wand out. Ron supposed he was worried that Bartemius had some sort of trick up his sleeve, and Ron agreed, but he thought blackmail rather than violence was the order of the day. Somehow, Crouch had gotten wind of the fact that Ron wasn't himself, that he was from another time. Had his Occlumency slipped? Had he given up some factoid that Crouch in his guise as Moody had asked only days beforehand and the real Ron hadn't known?

"Well," Bartemius drawled, once they were settled. "Isn't this cosy?"

"Speak and be done," Snape growled. "Do not presume to delay your readmittance to Azkaban."

"Oh, I'm not going to Azkaban," Crouch said. He smiled, sickly and horrible. "The poison I swallowed will kill me soon. It's just that much faster when you add Veritaserum into the mix." He looked at Severus with pity lurking in his mad, mad eyes. "I've failed the Dark Lord, Severus. You of all people understand what will happen to me if I attempt to escape His wrath. If I don't choose my own death, the manner of my doom will be beyond my wildest nightmares." He eyed Ron gleefully, as though they were in on a private joke together. "Besides, being Kissed is so boring," he said.

Ron blanched.

"Cease your rambling," Severus said blandly.

"Weasley knows I'm not just rambling; don't you, Weasley?"

Ron eyed Crouch, but the moment where he could have pretended he didn't know what Crouch was talking about had passed. "How do you know you'll be Kissed?"

"Ahhh, there's the question," Crouch said, "and here's the answer. The same. Way. You. Do," he said, grinning, looking as proud of Ron's deduction as he would if Ron were still his student in Defense. "The same exact way."

The horrible thought dawned in Ron's mind: the Death Eaters had found the spell and used it. Used it on one of their own, to send him back to a time when he would still have had his mind intact – more or less – and was in an ideal position to... to what? To end the war faster, for Voldemort?

"You see," Bartemius observed, "or you're starting to."

"Why have you come, if only to do the same exact thing as before?" Ron demanded.

Crouch leaned forward, features open and candid; Ron could see how he'd fooled people, even the people closest to him. "Too many people died, don't you see?" he said. "Too many of us gone forever. Fighting for blood purity and we killed half the purebloods in the country; did you know that?" he said, hitching an incongruous sob and slouching, elbows resting loose against his knees.

"What are you babbling about?" Severus growled.

"Half," said Ron, aloud. He'd had no idea of the numbers; he hadn't let himself have any idea.

"Dying out already, and we slit our own throats," Bartemius sang. "Two generations, maybe three, left? Maybe less if we keep on killing, killing, killing."

Severus's expression bespoke a man who was arriving at a conclusion he didn't like. "Ask what you want of the boy and fulfil your promise!"

"I can do better than that," Bartemius said. "I can tell you where all seven are –"

"I know where they all are," Ron said grimly. "I don't need you for that."

"I can tell you where and when the attacks –"

"I know all that, too," Ron repeated.

"Ah, but they don't know how you know. You don't have a reason for knowing, not one that you can tell them, and I do," Bartemius said, tears springing to his eyes and falling down both his cheeks. "That's why I called for this conversation, don't you see? It gives you an excuse. For knowing..."

"Why do you even want to help?" Ron demanded. "Why did you try to warn me about the First Task?"

Bartemius laughed through his tears. "It's not the question you want to ask, Mister Weasley," he said in a horrible parody of Mad-Eye Moody's gruff tones, followed by a high-pitched giggle.

"How long do you have before this potion kills you?" Severus snapped. "Stop delaying and tell Mister Weasley whatever it is you want him to know!"

"Sure," Bartemius said, a crafty gleam in his eye. "They're all dead."

Ron felt a wash of cold travel from his heart, outward, to tingle in his head and fingers and toes.

"Every one of the refugees back at Hogwarts. Granger, your House Elf... your sister. The Death Eaters heard a rumour about the spell, and they came. It was easy to get in. You shouldn't forget all the places a rat can hide and a snake can slither." Bartemius licked his lips absently. "You're angry. You can kill me if you like, it's nothing to me, now –"

"Mister Weasley," Snape broke in, "Miss Granger and Miss Weasley are quite alive –"

"They all die," Bartemius informed Severus conversationally, tilting his head to look up at the black-haired man. "Everyone dies, sooner or later. Sooner rather than later, these days." He turned his attention back to Ron. "He still doesn't know, eh?" Bartemius said genially. "You might've... welll," he drawled pausing. "I didn't exactly tell anyone, either, did I? It's a case of the pot calling the kettle."

A sudden thought leapt up from the sea of horror drowning Ron's brain. "The Death Eaters – they'll all be coming. They'll surprise everyone... anticipate everything we –"

"The Potions classroom was destroyed," Bartemius interrupted, "in the fight. We burnt it down. I burnt it. Not on purpose, not having a soul at the time – or much of a brain, you see. The spell was used only three times before the spellwork was destroyed..." He paused, staring into Ron's face. "Is that horror I see?" Bartemius whispered. "Horror on my behalf – horror for me, Weasley? Wondering why I didn't die after I was Kissed? The Dark Lord kept me on as a pet. I didn't have any will of my own, and it amused him to tell me to do things... Figure out ways to keep me alive longer, to stretch it out..." The man's gaze grew faraway. "Do you understand? Being sent here was the Dark Lord's last laugh... knowing his past self would insist I carry out my mission over again... knowing how it ended... knowing I had to obey or die..."

"That's enough," Snape said, and hauled Ron to his feet. "We've heard you, listened to your madness as you required. We are done. Now, inform the Headmaster of your precious intelligence."

"It's got to end somehow," Bartemius shouted as Snape dragged Ron away, "the killing! Do you plan on doing it yourself, with your own hands? Can you?"

The door slammed and Ron heard people talking; Snape was talking to someone else. Must be Dumbledore, Ron thought muzzily, but there were hands on his shoulders that were steering him, and eventually, he woke up enough to see that he was moving to the dungeons with Snape prodding him forward, and eventually pushing him into a chair in an office Ron had never seen before.

"Stay here, do you understand?" Severus said, staring into his features. "Stay right here."

Ron nodded, and Severus disappeared.

Chapter Text

Later, Ron would not know how the time had passed, or what he had been thinking about; all he knew was that some time later, Severus returned, and pressed a cup of hot tea into his hands. Ron sipped it mechanically, feeling the warmth radiate out from his throat, his stomach. It was only then he realized he was shaking and freezing cold. He curled his hands more tightly around his cup and picked his head up a bit.

He was in an office – Severus's? – with no clear memory of arriving there. There were bookshelves lining the wall behind the desk, and another, smaller shelf just behind and to the left of where Ron sat. A fire crackled in the hearth to the left-hand side, just where Ron was sitting. Ron was surprised by the conclusion that Severus valued his visitors' comfort more than his own. Or the placement of the furniture wasn't Severus's decision at all: the colours of the wallpaper and upholstery were green and grey, and the patterns were Victorian. Perhaps nothing had altered in this room for years before Severus became Head of House. He returned his attention to the black-painted desk, where Severus sat, eyeing him warily.

"There you are," Severus said quietly. "Are you tracking? Can you answer my questions?"

Ron nodded.

"Take this," Severus said, pushing a small phial across the table to Ron. It was the Aequus.

Ron didn't care if he'd already taken three times the daily recommended dose; he tipped back the entire phial and breathed around the loosened knot in his chest.

"Well, then," Snape said, quiet. "Are you a Seer? Have you hidden this, too?"

Ron thought, briefly, of how much easier that would be: to simply See the future rather than have lived it, emerged from it with all the scars of war, and be plunked down at the beginning again. Finally, he thought he knew why it was here and now that he'd been brought by Hermione's and Snape's spell: this was the first shot fired, wasn't it, in his generation? The first casualty of the new war.

"If I put together Bartemius Crouch's mad ramblings," Severus went on, "he seems to be under the impression he used a spell to go back to certain events in his own history; and so did you. Thus your knowledge of certain events... or that is what he would have me believe."

Ron thought if he moved, he might come unravelled at the seams like an old scarf. He might spill his guts all over the floor.

"Come now," Severus said, voice soft. "Must we wait the hour entire, just to be sure? Or will you speak?"

"What?" Ron rasped, and when the word barely scraped out of his throat, he tried again. "What?"

"You had access to my Potions stores," Severus said, steepling his fingers. "You had my trust," he added, voice dark. "You were not yourself; you were someone who was more mature, with another's skill set. And, if that weren't enough, you constantly carried a potion around and kept sipping from it."

Could that be why Severus hadn't arrested the false Mad-Eye? Because he had another suspicion as to who was making Polyjuice?

"Then there was the fact that you stole ingredients from me," Severus growled, control over his temper dwindling.

Ron's jaw dropped. "I – how did you–?"

Severus set his teacup down on the desk with a hollow thunk. "Do you not know me better than to think I would not enchant my own Potions stores? How many students a year do you suppose try and make off with something?"

Ron pulled himself up in his seat. Do you not know me better...? If Severus was prodding to discover who Ron was, he was doing so in the most Slytherin of ways. "I thought – with how many students had to access the cabinet... that you wouldn't enchant it during classtime, if you enchanted it at all," he admitted. "I thought it was worth the risk."

A strange expression flitted across Severus's face for an instant: a slight widening of the eyes, a parting of the lips.

"You weren't sure until just now," Ron accused. "You were double-checking." He sighed. "So I stole the ingredients for Polyjuice. Why say nothing? I'd've thought you'd have me expelled, at least. Unless you – you thought I was in league with Bartemius Crouch," Ron realized. "You thought I was using it for myself... you thought you'd catch us both at once –"

"And when he asked specifically for you, my absurd theory appeared more and more plausible," Severus said, and now spots of high colour sat in his cheeks, though the rest of his face remained sallow as ever, and his fingers held tight to the edges of his desk.

He blanched. "You really think I'm not me," he realized, logic catching up to the thundering of his heart. "Must we wait the hour," he repeated, incredulous, hurt, just like he'd been by Malfoy, but that comparison wasn't fair, was it? Severus had no reason to trust him. "We weren't working together," Ron repeated insistently. "I only stole those ingredients so Crouch wouldn't get at them, not to make Polyjuice for myself –"

Severus blanched. "You knew about Crouch," Severus said, "all along."

Ron fell silent.

Ron had left his charges behind and they were all gone, but he didn't even know how to grieve, since they were also all here. All here, and all was salvageable.

All but Cedric Diggory.

"So, what are you, twenty-one? Twenty-two?" Severus snapped.

Ron stiffened. "What?"

"Because only a child would presume he were capable of handling this on his own!" Snape growled, pushing himself to his feet and whirling to pace before the window behind his desk. "Only a child who thought himself a grown-up: in short, a wizard barely in his second decade."

Ron pushed himself to his feet. "I am an adult," he said lowly. "I've dealt with more than you'll ever know –"

"Have you?" Snape said, low, deliberate. "And what was the result of all these character-forming experiences?"

Ron's hands dropped to his sides and the room went a bit blurry. "You didn't handle it any better, for your information – you died!"

"I was meant to die, I expected to die!" Snape said. "I didn't expect Potter to!"

Ron was shaken all over again, gazing wildly at the other man in sheer amazement.

"You're here and he's not," Snape observed venomously. "Do you think I don't know his character? He'd demand to be the one who went back, unless he weren't available. What did he do, fall on his sword, thinking it would save the world?"

That was exactly what Harry had done, and suddenly it was before Ron's eyes all over again, Harry's bloodied body dangling from –

"What? What are you thinking -?" Snape said, ducking to catch Ron's eye.

Ron whirled away. "No, you can't see –"

Snape seemed to realize they were at an impasse; he lowered his hands to his sides and took a deep breath. "You knew about Crouch, and you chose not to tell anyone," Severus said, low. "You chose not to tell me. You should have sought my advice. I would have –"

"I was planning to," Ron blurted, desperate. "But not at first. Without working with me, you wouldn't have believed anything I had to say. I'm still Ronald Weasley: a Gryffindor, and Harry Potter's friend! And anyway, I tried to tell you about Crouch –"

"You tried to," he spat. "I thought at the time that you were covering up the theft, and your discussion of Polyjuice was an invention to justify why the ingredients should be gone!"

Ron pressed a shuddering breath out between his teeth. "An invention? Why would I have stolen the ingredients, if not to prevent someone from making Polyjuice, or to make Polyjuice myself?"

For the first time, emotion crept across Snape's features. "Why should a student who is skilled in Potions steal the most expensive ingredients in my stores?"

"To – experiment on his own, with ingredients he wouldn't normally be able to find? Or," Ron added in sudden and horrified inspiration, "to sell them." He felt his cheeks heat. "You really thought that I would steal from you and sell the –"

"It would not be the first time a skilled Potions student resorted to stealing to further his craft, or to make ends meet," Severus snapped.

Ron realized the man was speaking from experience.

Severus's eyes flashed. "Did you know Aecaspus nigrus was a fool's errand? Of course you did; you know all about Potions," Severus answered himself, darkly. "But you fetched Longbottom to help you anyway. You wanted me to trust him as well, then. You wanted all three of us to work together." Snape's black gaze swept Ron top to toe. "Ta, Severus, you said – it rolled off your tongue when you were too tired to remember to call me Professor. I come to trust you eventually, and you wished it had happened sooner."

"Of course, Severus," Ron said. "But –"

"No," Severus interrupted with a slicing motion of one hand. "Mister Weasley. Did you suppose that you crossed some magical barrier to adulthood, like running at Platform 9 ¾ with your eyes closed? Do you suppose when you hit the age of twenty you instantly earned the right to my given name? Do you suppose that when my old students see me on the street, they call me Severus? No," Snape said, snapping his robes closed as he folded his arms across his chest. "You have not earned the right. You lost any respect you might have kindled in me when you withheld information that might have saved Cedric Diggory's life." Snape's eyes were black holes pinning Ron in place, unforgiving and full of rage. "Did you imagine yourself in the role of the saviour – for once, standing in Potter's shoes, just as you'd always wished? Did you imagine you would ride into the past, a white knight to right all our wrongs, single-handed? Did it not daunt you, did you not wonder if you were equal to the task? Did you not think to ask for Dumbledore's help at the very least, or did you consider your own twenty years time enough to become both wiser and subtler than he?"

Ron shook his head. "I – I thought –"

"Yes?" Severus shouted. "Tell me what you thought!"

A loud bang rattled Severus's office door, and both Ron and Severus jumped.

Ron realized he was trembling and colder than ever, and that he felt he had swallowed a stone. He was able to piece together that it had to be the wee hours of the morning and that anyone knocking on a door this late had to be bringing more trouble with them. He saw his own horror reflected on Severus's face, and for an instant, they shared a helpless moment of communion.

"...Severus?" filtered through the thick wood of the Potions Master's office door.

The sound seemed to shake Professor Snape out of his abstraction, because he strode to the door and opened it wide.

Ron only realized he'd drawn his wand at the same moment he realized that it was his Mum and Dad standing in the doorway. "Oh," he said, and his knees gave out. He managed to drop in the direction of his chair, and hoped no one noticed.

"Ron! Ronnie!" his mum carolled, and bustled in, pulling Ron to his feet and squeezing him in her arms.

Ron experienced a moment of emotional white-out, where he couldn't remember how to reciprocate an embrace. He hung in his mother's arms like a load of laundry until the pair were shaken by Ron's father throwing his arms around the both of them.

"Oh, Ron!" his mum exclaimed, running her hands reflexively over his hair.

"Hi, Mum," Ron finally said as she drew back.

Ron hadn't thought of his mother being young or old, really: she was just his mum. But the early years of the war must've worn on her, because she looked young to his eyes, now: young and vital and terror-struck. Her eyes swam with tears. "Merlin, I just came from the Hospital Wing and poor Mister Diggory, and then I heard that Harry was back in the dorms asleep, of course, and I didn't want to wake him, not after the ordeal he'd been through, but you!" she exclaimed, holding Ron at arm's length as though she were checking for injuries, "that terrible man demanded to speak to you! And you let him," she added darkly, transferring her glare to Severus.

Who appeared perfectly composed all of a sudden.

"Mister Crouch had certain information he was only willing to give up if Mister Weasley engaged him in conversation," Professor Snape said, folding his arms in front of his chest again. "I was with him the entire time; the man never touched him."

"But I don't see what such a man could possibly want with Ron," Mrs Weasley protested.

"Surely," said Ron's dad, "they weren't, er... close."

Ron blanched. "No, Dad, nothing like that," he said quickly, only to see his parents shoot him a concerned look. Probably fourteen-year-old Ron wouldn't have cottoned on to an ugly idea like that so fast. "He just – I think he wanted to explain things to someone, honestly. Talk about how He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had threatened him, explain he hadn't wanted to do it. Say what he knew about Him and his plans. About what would happen if he won." Ron shuddered despite himself. "Professor Moody – er, Mister Crouch – knew how close me and Harry are, and kind of apologized to me before the First Task, even though I didn't really know what he was talking about just then." Ron snuck a look at Snape to try and gauge whether he was doing a good job of dissembling, but Severus's face was blank as a sheet of fresh parchment. "I think he wants to be forgiven before he dies."

"No one could forgive such a man," Mrs Weasley huffed, and Ron suddenly wondered if poor Cedric was slated to die no matter what Ron or Crouch or anybody else did. He wondered if there were certain things that were simply fated to happen.

Then he wondered if Snape was right, and it only suited him to think so, so that he did not have to spend the rest of his life wondering if he could have done something different that would have saved him. If he, too, wasn't looking for absolution.

"Well, that's just about enough excitement for tonight, I should think," Mrs Weasley said. "Ronald, go up to Gryffindor and fetch a few changes of clothes."

Ron searched his parents' faces.

"You're coming home with us for a few days, son," Arthur said. "Your mother and I figure you need a little time off, away from all this."

"I don't," Ron blurted. "I'm fine. I'm really fine."

"Ron, dear," his mother said kindly, "you're trembling head-to-toe, and you're grey as your Aunt Mathilda's ghost. You've had an awful shock, and we want you to come home. And," she added with asperity, turning to Snape, "we want you away from this awful place." She turned back to Ron, features kind once more. "Home's the thing for when you need to settle yourself."

"I want to stay here," Ron protested. "I want to go to Cedric's funeral."

"Were you close with Cedric?" Mister Weasley said, and when Ron shook his head,

"Last thing you need, then," said Mrs Weasley. "Get you all worked up again. No, Ron, dear, this isn't a request."

Ron's mind scrambled about for a moment, as though there were some responsibility he couldn't leave, some skein that would unravel if he let go. He stood in the middle of Severus's office, thinking:

Harry. Ginny. Hermione. Severus. Dobby. Draco...

Draco.

He had to be sure Draco was all right; Draco hadn't been himself. But surely Severus would do that. Surely it was even more Severus's business than his. Who was he to think he could steer Draco better than his Head of House? And surely the Headmaster and Severus and Minerva would look after Harry. Surely there was a small cadre of Gryffindor boys who appeared to consider Hermione's well-being their own, personal business.

"All right," Ron said, and let all the threads go.

"That's the spirit, dear," Mrs Weasley said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Let's Floo from the Headmaster's Office. That awful man is gone, now," she added, as though Ron were worried; but then, Ron's wand was still gripped tight in his hand.

He shot a last, helpless look at Severus.

Severus, who thought he was a simple child, even with all he knew, now.

The dark-haired man was staring after Ron with the same exhausted blackness that Ron could feel closing over his own head, threatening to drag him under. It was the last Ron saw of him before his mother closed the door.

They arrived at the Burrow still in the dark of night. Ron tried hard not to look at anything too closely; the last he had seen of it, the house had been burning.

His mother and father urged him forward, past the entry hall, up the stairs, and to the door of his bedroom, which smelled of teenaged boy even months after Ron had left for school. It was probably sunk into the wallpaper and the sheets and the curtains, hormones and stale crisps and dirty socks. Everything was so orange, from the Chudley Cannons poster to the Chudley Cannons bedspread to the Chudley Cannons rug across the floor, and Ron fiercely wished to be able to give a fucking damn about something as silly as Quidditch again; he wished he was the boy his parents thought, hacked off at being coddled and eager to be back at school with his friends.

" 'Course it's still orange," Arthur said, quiet. "You didn't think we'd change it 'round with you at school, did you?"

Ron turned to see that his parents were still in the doorway, that a moment had passed and not a few minutes, that he had probably said some of that aloud. "'Course not," he said rustily, and hoped it was the right answer. He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around again, because it was surreal: more surreal, somehow, than all of Hogwarts intact; more incredible than Harry Potter, alive and full of all the fears and foibles and zig-zagging energy of adolescence. It was all the ephemera of his childhood, all he had once found precious, and since thrown away: his own, personal Room of Hidden Things.

Something smooth touched his hands, and Ron realized that his mother was pressing a glass of warm milk between his palms. Behind her, the room was dark; his father had departed, and Ron had missed it.

"Lie back," his mum said once he'd drained the glass. "There you are, my darling. There you are, my dear," she said, pulling the blankets up over him.

"Mum," said Ron.

"Shh," she whispered, smoothing his brow, combing his fringe out of the way with her fingers.

"It's all gone so wrong," Ron said, and suddenly, helplessly, he was gasping out a sob.

"Hush, now," she said. "Hush, sweetheart. Why don't you sleep a little, there's a good boy."

Ron woke with a start what felt like only minutes later, rolling into a seated position before he remembered where he was.

It was still dark outside. The bones of the house creaked and sighed in the winter wind.

Ron reached out to drag his knapsack close and rummage through the bag of his things; he withdrew the Map and incanted, I solemnly swear I am up to no good, just to be sure that Harry and Hermione and Neville were all safe in their beds, and going through his nightly recitation of what he would do the next day to ensure they all stayed safe. But when he lay back down he slept only fitfully until cooking smells finally roused him. He scrubbed a hand over his head, rough, before emerging into the kitchen and the bright winter light that came spilling through the kitchen windows and the large, sliding glass door that led out into the back garden.

His mum was at the stove, making pancakes or corn fritters, the warm, vanilla-and-fried-dough smell filling the room. His father was seated at the table, though it was far too late for him to still be at home; and when Ron sat down, his mother ruffled his hair and plopped a cake in front of him with a boysenberry smile and blueberries for eyes.

He'd forgotten she used to do that when he or any of the others felt low.

"Thanks," Ron said, looking up again when she thunked a thick glass of milk and a cup of tea beside the plate before sitting down. Ron found he was ravenous; all that running about and no food, he realized, had taken its toll. He'd barely realized it at the time, but he'd only eaten breakfast the day before, he was so worried over Harry.

Harry! Ron's hand jolted, sloshing milk on the countertop, and he felt as though he had still been sleeping when he'd jogged down the stairs. "Is Harry all right?" Ron said. "Have you heard anything from Hogwarts?"

Arthur seemed to have been waiting for this question. "Professor McGonagall sent word to Gryffindor that you would be staying here with us for a few days, and Harry asked after you. I'm sure he's fine."

"As fine as anybody could be in such circumstances!" Mrs Weasley exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron with unwonted force. "Putting young people through such a trial!"

"You and Hermione'd get along about it, I think," Ron observed, shovelling another forkful of cake into his mouth.

"Your brothers send you their love," his mum added, and Ron groaned.

"Seriously, did you tell them I was here? I'll have to hear about 'ickle Ronniekins' for the rest of the school year!"

"Well, that'd be very wrong," Mrs Weasley said, seating herself across from her son. "After what you've been through. I can't imagine anyone'd make fun."

"Have you met Gred and Forge?" Ron muttered, stabbing his cake viciously.

"If they do, they'll have a Howler," she promised.

"As if I'm going to go reporting to you!" Ron scoffed. "This is the thing, you never understood that –"

Her eyebrows climbed. "What is it that I've never understood, Ron Weasley?"

Ron felt as though he kept realizing over and over again where he was and who he was speaking to, and how odd it all was. He straightened in his chair and let himself gaze about the kitchen before looking once again at his parents. After Harry, he'd become aware that not everyone who looked after a child was like his mum and dad, but only now did that really seem to sink in. "I'm all right," he said, setting down his fork. "I'm really fine. You can send me back."

"A few days at home won't hurt anything," Arthur said, folding his hands.

"I can't just hide here," Ron protested. "I'm grateful you came for me, but –"

"Just listen to him!" Molly exclaimed, looking at her husband. "Ron, we're your mum and dad, and we'll decide what's best for you."

"But I need to be at Hogwarts," Ron said, thinking of the Room of Hidden Things and the Diadem, Gryffindor's Sword in the Headmaster's side-room, Harry, Hermione, Neville, Draco... and Severus. What would Severus tell Dumbledore? What if Dumbledore knowing that Ron was searching for the Horcruxes prevented him from ever finding the Ring? It was the only Horcrux Ron wasn't sure how or where it had been found.

A creepingly cold thought occurred to Ron, then. What if Severus had told everyone who Ron was? That he wasn't who they thought – that he was a changeling who'd taken their friend's place? The thought of Harry and Hermione looking at him like a stranger was unbearable.

"You don't," his mum said, insistent, secure in her knowledge of Ron's life. "Not this instant. We'll see how you seem tomorrow. Right now, you're pale as death and... and you're not yourself, dear."

Ron jerked his head up to look both of his parents in the eye.

"Oh, don't take it so," she went on, thinking his sudden interest was due to offence. "I only mean that you're awfully quiet and soft-spoken today," she added, looking imploringly at her husband.

Arthur nodded at her before angling himself towards his son. "When a man goes through a difficult time," he said, steadily, "it's all right to feel like he might like a bit of quiet for a few days. That's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed," Ron protested, but he squirmed in his seat. It was true that he felt as though he should be at Hogwarts, working towards his goal; he was practically twitching with it. Ron gripped his tea tightly to hide the tremor.

His mum reached out to put her hand over his, her warm brown eyes filled with the sort of motherly understanding Ron hadn't seen in four years.

Ron subsided. Perhaps he wouldn't put up a fuss so long as he was still going through the withdrawal. His parents could think it was the little aftershocks of trauma – that was all right – and Ron could return to Hogwarts once he was feeling more himself. "Okay, a few days," he grumbled, and finished off the hotcake on his plate.

But the day was hard to fill, and Ron wondered if an escape from the trauma of Cedric's death would have been any better for a fourteen-year-old Ron than for him.

The garden sparkled and crunched with ice; there was no weeding to do or gnomes to flick over the fence. The house was near-empty, so doing the dishes or the laundry took twenty minutes if he dawdled. The books that Ron coveted were all about the house, but he knew better than to scoop one up and devour it a la Hermione: his parents would surely notice such a sudden shift in his preferences. Besides, he wasn't sure he'd be able to sit still long enough to get through more than a page at a time. Ron had no desire to go flying: he was trying to calm down, not rev up.

This left little to do but wander the house, shiftless and aimless but jittering with a tethered energy like a crup at the end of his lead. Ron felt more and more that the young man who'd lived here was someone else entirely, and could barely make himself touch any of his things. Even asleep in his own bed, Ron felt like a guest at best, and a thief at worst.

The second day, he shoved his feet into the warmest boots he could find – an old set of fur-lined dragonhide work boots of Charlie's – threw a scarf around his neck, buttoned a coat up to his throat, tucked his wand securely up his sleeve, and went on a meandering jaunt across the Devon countryside.

The air was thick, and frost gleamed, crystalline, over skeletal branches and old dead thistle flowers. It reminded Ron of their first winter on the run. Hermione kept warm with Charms, but sometimes she would tire and forget and the tips of her fingers would go blue with cold. One of them would renew it for her if they noticed, but she never spoke of her discomfort except to laugh. She'd kept their spirits up in a way Ron, used to a Hermione framed by school assignments and Hogwarts rules and regulations, never could have foreseen. He'd loved her so much, that year, because she never lost hold of what made her Hermione: that core desire to improve the world for everyone. Now he thought about it, that was probably when Severus – still 'Professor Snape', then – began to fall in love with her, too, just a little.

How could he have helped it?

The air cleared as Ron walked, but kept the hush of cold. Did sound travel less when it was cold, or were people and animals quieter when it was cold? Hermione or Severus would know. Draco would pretend to know, Ron decided, but he wouldn't have any better idea. He wouldn't mind speculating for a half an hour, though, if Ron didn't interrupt.

Ron wondered if it was all right to miss him. He thought of the others: the people he'd left behind to die. He should want to grieve. But, Ron realized as he skirted an ice-shrouded shrub, after the initial shock of it, it still felt like a warning rather than reality.

He had the chance to set things right, and not just for Harry. You think in Pottercentric circles, Draco had accused, but it wasn't true: he was saving the world, not just Harry Potter.

He thought again of Harry's and Hermione's faces twisted with distrust and realized there was more than one reason this had been a secret he'd wanted to keep to himself. Ron never wanted Harry and Hermione to know how close they'd come to oblivion, or that Ron wasn't the boy they knew. In his mind's eye, they grew up and lived happy lives, and all was well: Ginny with Harry, of course, and Hermione with – well, perhaps not with Severus anymore, but probably not with Ron, either. He hoped she'd still be happy.

(It turned out there were limits to Ron's selfishness after all.)

Something wet kissed up against his nose; he looked up to see that had begun to snow.

After the first few, tiny flakes spit out over Ron's head, the snow began falling fat and round, clumping in Ron's eyelashes and settling on his scarf. He headed for home a little faster, but out of a sense that was the done thing in the middle of a storm rather than because he felt uncomfortable. A thought bobbed up from Ron's mind as he made his way back across the countryside: that without this or that turn in the pathways of his life, he never would have been here to see the thick snow falling on the ground, hushing the air around him, or the stolid cows in the field shaking off their blanket of wet; the tree branches slowly pressing down under the weight of stacks of snow, and the woodsmoke emerging from distant farmsteads; and through it all, the sun sparkling incongruously bright. It was as though the world was leaning down to whisper its message into Ron's ear. Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it so, so beautiful, and aren't you glad you're the one who's here to see it?

When Ron looked up, Severus Snape was coming towards him along the path, flakes of snow settling against his dark hair and catching in the folds of the black, hooded cloak around his shoulders. The wind whipped up to stir the bottom of Severus's cloak in the breeze as he caught Ron's eye.

The suddenness of his appearance made Severus into a chiaroscuro snapshot against Ron's closed lids: the man in black against the backdrop of white. Then Snape was upon him, reaching out, snakelike, to fist Ron's cloak at the back, like he intended to shake him.

And all the while, Ron was hard-wired to believe the man was his professor and had the right to manhandle him when he'd done wrong; and because later, if he'd flinched away from Severus's hauling, tugging hands on the battlefield, he'd be dead half a dozen times over. So Ron went unresisting where Severus hauled him, which was to the back of a pine tree, which then dusted their hair and cloaks with fresh clumps of snow.

"Hullo to you, too, Severus," Ron wheezed.

"Where is he, then?" Severus demanded.

Ron's fingers and toes tingled with a sudden loss of warmth. "Did Crouch escape?"

For one, purely entertaining moment, Severus's features registered nothing but consternation before he thumped Ron back against the pine again, for emphasis. "What? No! Ron Weasley, where is my student, Ron Weasley?"

Ron didn't pretend to misunderstand. "I don't know," he said.

"It may be that the child was more trouble than he was worth," Severus sneered. "I suspected he played stupid even at age eleven –"

"Hey!"

"...but I did not want him dead," Severus went on unheedingly, "I was not sincere in my frequent wishes that he... disappear. So: what is it that you have done with him? Is he with you in that skull of yours?" he added, tapping Ron on the forehead and making him rear back. "I understand that there certainly would be enough space for two –"

"No one's here with me," Ron said, clenching and unclenching his fists. "It's just me."

Severus's expression sobered; he sighed, his breath fogging the air between them.

"Of course you'd wonder about him," Ron said. "You're too clever not to wonder and too good not to worry."

Severus released him with a final push and slid back out of Ron's space. "I don't wonder," he said. "I don't wonder. I know." Severus's lip twisted. "Sit, Weasley," he ordered, gesturing towards a fallen log half-covered in snow. Ron dusted it off with the edge of his coat and plunked down, keeping a wary eye on the man, while Severus used the more elegant solution of a warming spell. For a long while, Severus stared straight ahead, until Ron's line of sight was drawn in the same direction as his: the quiet, snow-draped wood surrounded them, the fat flakes falling in their hair and catching in their eyelashes, the burble of still-moving water in the distance; now and again, the cry of a bird rang out through the muffled air.

"Once, I did as you did," Severus said.

Ron turned to face him.

"I returned to when I was seventeen, about to join the Death Eaters," Severus went on, still looking straight ahead. "I thought I could save the Potters, undo the damage I had done."

"You – you never told us that," Ron stammered.

For the first time, Severus turned to face Ron, and the edge of his lip quirked, bitterly. "I had sworn to myself I should tell no one," he replied, "for fear they would discover and make use of the spell themselves. But, I suppose I can reveal the truth of the matter to someone who knows the bones of it, in any case."

"What – what did you do?"

"I wanted to save them, desperately," Severus said, ducking his head to reveal the snowflakes caught there. "I went back again and again... could never determine the right moment to make the correct shift. What history shows now is the best outcome I could manage."

Ron absorbed this, slowly. "How many times did you try?"

"I lost track."

Ron turned this over in his mind as he looked out over the trees, now rimed with a fine layer of snow and ice. "So, He Who Must Not Be Named hearing about the prophecy, and the Potters, and everything – if it hadn't happened that way, it would've been worse?"

Severus tilted his head so that Ron was in his peripheral vision. "If the Dark Lord had not heard the prophesy, the Potters wouldn't be convinced to go Godric's Hollow to hide, and they would've died, all three, in Diagon Alley. If Lily was spirited away, she died last of her family, in Lustleigh Cleave. Without his mother's dying love to protect him, Potter died of the Killing Curse. No matter what I did, I could only ever find one path in which any of them survived."

"Was that the – original outcome?" Ron said.

Severus smiled. "You do ask the right questions, Mister Weasley. No; initially, all three died at Diagon."

A whoosh of breath left Ron in a rush, tension draining from his shoulders, the back of his neck. He slumped forward, then turned once again to Severus. "So it's possible to change things for the better... But everyone had to think you betrayed the Potters..."

"I suppose I thought that others hating me was preferable to the baby's death," Severus said. "And I knew that everyone whose opinion I valued would forgive me if they ever knew the truth of it."

Ron nodded to himself, rubbing his palms together in the cold. He wondered if that was why Severus resented Harry so much: he was a daily reminder of the man's ultimate powerlessness to save his only friend.

The older man's mouth worked briefly before he continued, and Ron felt a queer shiver go through him: never before had he seen Severus Snape at a loss for words.

"All I tried to do," he finally said, spreading his hands helplessly. "All I failed in doing. And in the end," he said. "In the end, I am not certain my actions made for a better world at all. We believe we can control the course of human events, Weasley, but even in linear time, such a conceit is arrogance beyond all measure. We cannot anticipate the dips and twists and turns, and the levers of the world that move them. That is why I was so angry with you," he went on. "In observing your arrogance, I was reminded of my own."

Ron struggled to reassure him. "I don't expect things to go perfectly. I don't have a picture of the way I want them, even," he added, despite the fact that he'd been picturing just how things would turn out if all went well only moments ago. "It's all right if I don't understand every twist and turn the world will take; I don't expect to. Any change is better than what I left behind."

"Is that so?" Severus said. "Can you truly not imagine anything worse?"

Ron scrubbed his hands over his face; both cheeks were going numb with cold. "So it wasn't the Cruciatus and the hot pincers all the time," he admitted. "We stole some good moments, too. But there were things that – no one should have to live through what Hermione and Harry lived through. I'd do anything to make sure they didn't have to," he said, on the verge of tears without warning and intently focussed on ensuring Severus believed him.

"Granger and Potter had a rough time of it, did they," Severus said blandly.

"I know what you're thinking, but they really did suffer worse than me," Ron said. "All the time," he added, thumping his chest, "there was a pain, just here, because I could never forget what they'd been through. That pain is gone, now, because I know they're not suffering. I can make it that they never will, too – not like that."

Just for a moment, Severus Snape's features softened, if an exposed slab of granite can be said to soften. It was not a look Ron had known Snape to direct at him before.

"I still don't believe you understand," he said. "You certainly do not apprehend that I am refusing to help you in this matter."

"In... what matter?" Ron said. "In helping me what?"

"Whatever it is you have come back to change," Severus told him. "You will have to change it, or not, without me."

"You're kidding," Ron gawped. "Because of some butterfly-flaps-its-wings-in-Tokyo bullshit?"

Severus rested his elbows on his knees and leaned toward Ron, black eyes grim. "You're a child playing with a wand he thinks is a toy," Severus said. "You presume to fix reality to your liking, blithely unaware of the consequences. Will you not listen to someone who tried and found that it never would go the way –"

"You won't even do it to save your own wife?" Ron bit off.

He had the satisfaction of seeing Severus go very, very pale. "What, my – what?"

And the satisfaction of seeing him stammer.

But Severus looked very young and oddly frightened, all of a sudden, and it dawned on Ron in a peculiar flush of wordless understanding that he wasn't even thirty-five years old; that if Ron's family had all survived, Severus would be around Bill's age.

"Why did you say that?"

"Sorry," said Ron, who half was. "I guess it's not your fight after all." He stood, turning to face Severus. "Can I at least have your word you won't go shouting who I am from the rooftops? You won't tell Dumbledore or the Order?"

Severus shuddered. "That would not... go well," he said, absently rubbing his left forearm.

Ron blinked. The man had tried that in his own adventures, and the end hadn't been pleasant. So much experience, if only Severus would –

But he won't, Ron reminded himself, you're on your own, like you were before; it's no worse than before, so stop worrying at it. He stared down at Severus, who did not stare back. Ron had thrust the word wife at him like a weapon, but he hadn't begun to guess just how deeply it might cut.

All around them, the snow still fell; the tips of Severus's fingers were a harsh pink, and his cheekbones and lips were almost the same colour. Ron tilted his head to the side and fingered his wand. Ah, what harm? he thought, and cast a warming charm over Severus's face and fingers. When Severus looked up blankly, Ron furrowed his brow. "Ta, then, for that much," he said, spinning his wand before pocketing it. "See you, Severus."

This time, Snape did not bother correcting him.

Chapter Text

In the end, it was only three days Ron's parents kept him.

Over the course of those three days, Molly somehow knit him a new scarf, with zig-zagging patterns and a scarlet fringe. Ron fingered it and it was weighty in his hands, warm and cosy.

"Thanks, mum," he said, wrapping it around his shoulders, which were still narrower than felt entirely natural.

She drew him into an embrace. He wasn't taller than she was, yet, but he would be by the end of the year; he still remembered how she'd fussed the first time he pointed it out. "Now, you don't let your brothers twit you about spending a few days at home, you hear? Give Ginevra all my love, and don't forget the letters."

Earlier that morning, Mrs Weasley had delivered Ron a veritable stack of letters: one for him, one for Harry, one for Hermione (so she did not feel left out, Ron supposed); one to Ginny, one to the twins (Ron figured what she had to say to one wouldn't be any different than what she had to say to the other); one to Professor McGonagall... and one to Severus Snape.

Ron knew why he'd become the letter-boy: the Weasley family had retired Errol, and sending all of this via post-owl would take at least a Galleon. So Ron thrust the letters into a small knapsack he slung over his shoulder and tried to figure out how to say goodbye. "I'm really all right," he decided. "I just had a bit of a shock, mum, that's all."

"Well, I know that," she replied warmly. "Work hard, now, and get your grades up in Potions. I've asked Professor Snape to keep an extra-close eye on you from now on."

You shook your finger at him, more like, Ron thought with a quirk of his lips. He wondered if the letter to Professor Snape were actually a Howler in disguise. Molly Weasley hadn't known that Severus had come to visit them, or else she was keeping that to herself, but she'd muttered a few times about the professors keeping a better eye on their charges at school.

"Well," she added, "all right, then, go off to the Floo, there's a good lad," she added briskly. "The Three Broomsticks, remember."

Ron rolled his eyes. "I know, mum," he replied.

"Just – take good care of yourself, will you?" she blurted. "Oh, I've things to do!"

Ron watched her retreating back with a funny, twisting ache in his chest and wondered if he ought to say something. But his mum swept away before Ron could figure out what that might be.

So Ron tossed the Floo powder in and stepped out of the fire and into Hogsmeade.

Leaves crackled dully underfoot; it hadn't snowed, here, or if it had, the ice had already melted away, though the wind whistled bitterly down across the Lake. It made it feel as though Ron's time at the Burrow had all been a dream. It was Saturday, so no classes were in session: Ron was able to walk past Hagrid's hut in the afternoon sun and up to the Castle without seeing a living soul, hands thrust inside his pockets for warmth, new scarf fluttering behind him.

But for that Hagrid's hut still stood, it was easy to imagine that the Castle was empty all but Hermione and Ginny and Dobby, and perhaps the few anonymous stragglers who kept to themselves and never stayed long. For a brief flash, it was Ron's life again – not his waking nightmare, just his life – and he settled back into it with a sigh as he looked on the seeming quiet of the world.

And then he flinched away, horrified. To wish for that inoffensive life where nothing was expected of him but that he manage to survive was almost sacrilege in the face of this opportunity.

Ron squared his shoulders and settled with a queer pang of regret back into the form and thoughts of Ronald Weasley, aged fourteen.

His hands shook as he climbed the stair to Gryffindor Tower; suddenly, he wished he'd spent some of his recovery time brewing Aequus, though maybe the temptation to take it every moment could have been too much for Ron. The entire Common Room seemed to turn as one to face him, conversations dying mid-syllable.

"Ron!" Surprisingly, it was Neville, not Harry or Hermione, who rushed forward to clap Ron on the back. "You're all right!"

Ron nodded, scanning the Common Room for Harry and Hermione.

"They said they were going to the library," Ginny said with a roll of her eyes. "Again."

"...but we changed the password," Neville said, frowning. "How did you ever get in?"

"I tried Cedric Diggory, and then I tried Remember Cedric Diggory," Ron said. "Doesn't take a Charms Master."

Ron felt a pair of heavy arms slam down on each of his shoulders and winced.

"Come with us," Fred intoned dramatically, and steered him away.

" 'Bye, Ron!" Neville called sunnily.

Ron let himself be led away to the darkest corner the cheery Gryffindor common room had to offer; when Fred and George glared at the firsties playing Gobstones there, they squeaked and fled.

"Now, seriously –" Ron began.

"No," said Fred, holding one hand aloft. "First, you must listen."

Ron eyed them warily. "All right, Fred, George?"

"No, we are not all right!" George exclaimed.

"You haven't been here so you haven't been infected yet," Fred said.

"...infected?" Ron said, matching his brothers' low, conspiratory tones.

"...with the spirit of House Unity," Fred finished.

"We're here to save you," said George. "You should be grateful."

"You still hate Slytherin, don't you?" pleaded Fred.

"I don't understand," Ron said.

"It started with that speech of McGonagall's about not leaving anyone alone," George admitted. "Which was a pretty bit of oratory and all that, we were awfully proud of good old McGonagall..."

"...only some of the firsties took it seriously," Fred interjected with a horror-struck expression. "They spoke to the Firstians – Firstie Slytherins, you know – about feeling alone..."

"...and some of them cried," George said.

Ron felt as though there was something he was still missing. "So the firsties made some new friends?"

"It would have been one thing if it had stopped there," Fred said wisely. "But instead, they started saying that we didn't like Slytherins... that we made fun of the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws..."

"...which you do," Ron filled in.

"But like it was a bad thing!" Fred wailed.

"And I guess they must've done the same thing to Draco Malfoy and the other fourth-years," George said. "Shamed them, I mean."

"Tried to!" Fred corrected. "I've been reliably informed that I have no shame."

"Anyroad," George said, rolling his eyes, "next thing you know, he was apologizing to Hermione."

"In public," Fred intoned. "In the Great Hall."

"And she accepted his apology," George whispered.

The pair let that hang in the air a moment.

"And that brings you to the scene of horror we witnessed right before you entered the Common Room," Fred finished, throwing his hands into the air. "Draco Malfoy dropping off mystery boxes and my sister taking them. Right out of his Slytherin hands! Graciously," he added, as though the word were poisonous. "But you're safe!" he went on.

"You haven't been tainted!" George tacked on.

"You still hate Slytherins..."

"...right, Ron?"

Ron's gaze darted back and forth between the pair of them, but he'd held on as long as he possibly could.

He burst into deep, belly-shaking laughter and couldn't stop for some time.

"What?!" Fred exclaimed, full of offended dignity. "Don't you see that this is an emergency of the grandest proportions?"

"Harry does!" George chimed in, at which point Ron's laughter cut off.

"What did Harry do?"

"Do?" George echoed.

"What does Harry ever do?" said Fred. "He walks around muttering to himself and casting dark looks."

"He thinks Malfoy and the other Slytherins are lulling us all into a false sense of security," George said, nodding wisely.

"...before his master plan kills us all, like he almost killed Hermione," Fred finished with relish.

"What if Harry's really serious, and decides to have a go at Malfoy before Malfoy carries out this dastardly plan?"

"Then it'll be a first," George muttered,

"...seeing as Harry might glare at Malfoy, but he never starts anything," said Fred. "Though everyone rather wishes he would."

Ron had to admit they had Harry to rights. "So what'd Malfoy drop off?"

"Our doom," said Fred.

Ron looked across the Gryffindor Common Room to see that Ginny was distributing something from a box with a Slytherin crest painted on the side. He strode up to peer inside.

To his amazement, it was the Support Cedric Diggory / Potter Stinks badges. But instead of Support Cedric Diggory, they now read Remember Cedric Diggory.

Ron lifted a button out and examined them with rising incredulity.

"What if they're all Portkeys, like in the First Task?" George hissed.

Ginny huffed. "Don't be silly, Fred; no one has enough magic to enchant all of these to be Portkeys. Besides," she added with a huff, "it would be pretty dumb for Malfoy to curse something and then hand-deliver it." She gave him her best disappointed look. "We're trying to make a real change here, you know."

Ron snorted; he'd forgotten Ginny's habit of 'mistaking' one twin for the other when they'd irritated her.

One of the upperclassmen nudged his fellow and they jerked a chin in the Weasleys' direction. Interesting. Creepy, said Ron's instincts, but the best thing to do for now was to ignore anyone who might be thinking of mocking his sister's choices.

The only possibilities left were that Malfoy had some nefarious scheme planned that involved getting into the Gryffindors' good graces... or that Malfoy was genuinely trying to get into the Gryffindors' good graces. That the lesson with Hermione had actually sunk home. That Malfoy had learned from his mistakes and decided to change. Of course Ron had thought so before, but apologizing theatrically in front of the whole Great Hall seemed an authentically Malfoy reaction to a realization of wrongdoing.

"Hang on a tick," Ron said to the twins. "Mum sent you two a letter."

Both paled.

"Mum?" said George.

"Sent a letter?" finished Fred.

"And it's not even red this time," Ron replied, and passed it off.

"Hey," Ron said to Ginny once Fred and George had wandered off, grumbling to themselves about Slytherin or the letter's contents; he couldn't say. "When Malfoy apologized to Hermione, were there flowers?"

Ginny looked up, smirking. "Charmed birds, actually."

"Yeah," said Ron. He leaned over and gave Ginny a great, smacking kiss on the side of her head. "You've got good instincts. Don't listen to that lot." He showed Ginny her own letter and dropped it into the box she was carrying, since she had no hands free.

She flushed at first but then puffed up a bit. "Well, I know that," said and, squaring her shoulders, she carried her cargo over to a likely-looking group of first-years.

Much as Ron wanted to hunt down Harry and Hermione next, the letters to Hogwarts faculty burned in his pockets. When he knocked on McGonagall's door, she wasn't in, so Ron slipped the letter under her door with a sigh of relief.

That left Severus's.

Ron had no idea where the man's rooms were, and had some idea of leaving it atop Severus's desk in the Potions classroom – but when he arrived, the door stood open. Heart sinking, Ron crept forward to find the other man was there, cleaning up and preparing for the week to come. He was in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up, the absence of his robes striking. He looked more the man Ron knew than ever. Ron watched him for a moment from the open doorway as he tidied, binding one set of assignments with a spell here, casting a cleaning charm on the chalkboard there.

Ron cleared his throat and Severus whirled in place, wand in hand.

"I come in peace," Ron said, standing on the line between a joke and a home truth.

Severus didn't return it, not even with that little quirk of his lips that meant he was amused; but he did pocket his wand.

"My mum asked me to give you this," Ron went on, entering the classroom and proffering the letter.

Severus took the missive warily, eyed him, then sliced it open with a Potions knife. Drawing the three-fold parchment out, his gaze skimmed over its contents. "Did you read this?" he said.

Ron shook his head. "My mum sent it to you. Of course not."

Severus eyed him one more time. "Very well," he said, and turned back to his organizing.

"That's it?"

Severus did not look up. "That will be all," he said, all crisp professionalism save his averted eyes.

Ron took it like a punch. "Yes, sir," he said. He turned on his heel and exited, turning to lean against the wall by the open door, bristling, and grappling with it.

Severus was doing just as he'd promised, regaining his distance, Ron reminded himself. Fixing his mistake in trusting Ron. And it had been a mistake... one that had cost Cedric his life. Knowing Severus, he was castigating himself for playing a wait-and-see game instead of acting straightaway.

Ron had tried and failed to get Severus Snape on his side. He could try again. He would try again.

But just now he felt weary and small and hollowed out from effort.

Three days at the Burrow hadn't fixed that feeling.

Ron found Harry and Hermione in the library researching the Second Task. They were seated before a huge stack of books older than the staff's combined ages, though Hermione shoved them to one side so that she and Harry could accept their letters.

"Because they're still going forward with it, Ron," Hermione said, pocketing hers unopened. Her hair was flyaway, her expression harassed. "Can you believe they want everyone to keep risking their lives? And poor Harry with barely any time to mourn –"

"Poor Harry who's sitting just beside you," Harry reminded her, squeezing her hand nevertheless. "Who was never really friends with Cedric in the first place..."

"It's traumatic," Hermione insisted. "Don't pretend it wasn't, Harry, not to us. We saw you when you first got back, don't forget."

Harry's hand hadn't left Hermione's; Ron saw Harry squeeze it again, shaking it a little for emphasis. "I couldn't forget that," he admitted, gaze darting up to Ron and back again to include him, a little embarrassed to do it at all.

"What on earth did Crouch want with you, anyway?" Hermione demanded then, blunt as she always was when she was vexed. "We were both so worried; you were up in the Headmaster's Office with that... that madman, and then you were simply gone. Oh, Professor McGonagall told us you were just fine and not to bother her about it, and not to worry..." Hermione went on.

Ron could fill in the blanks: Hermione had clearly been at McGonagall ever since he'd left. He imagined Hermione's bushy hair bristling with indignation as she confronted the old witch, and had to smother a laugh.

"...but of course I couldn't just stop!"

Harry leaned forward confidentially. "...Someone else's been traumatized," he said.

Hermione did bristle, then, like a cat. "Well!" she exclaimed. "So sorry to be worried over you! Over you both!"

"Crouch was mad, like you said," Ron broke in to stem the tide of a raging Hermione. "He'd tried to tell me something about the attack before it happened, and he wanted me to back him up."

Hermione's logic seemed to bob up through her panic. "Well, that seems a bit odd, doesn't it?" she inquired with a frown. "I mean, for him to say anything at all. Do you suppose he was coerced?"

"I think so," Ron said, just as Harry snorted, "'Course not!"

"I mean," Harry said, turning to stare at Ron. "It's not as though Voldemort –"

Ron flinched.

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, then," Harry corrected. "He's got loads of followers. I'm not sure that he'd have to trick anyone to do what he wanted."

"Tricking and coercing someone aren't the same thing," Hermione said. "If Voldemort –"

Ron contained the flinch this time through sheer force of will, though his heart fluttered wildly.

" – ordered you to do something and said he'd kill your whole family if you didn't do it, what would you do?" Hermione finished.

"Well," said Harry, pretending at rumination, "I'd have to think about it very carefully, you understand."

"Fine," Hermione said with a roll of her eyes, "if he swore he'd off the two of us."

Harry sobered pretty quickly. "All right. So all he wanted was proof he'd almost-somewhat-kind-of tried to warn Ron? Pretty thin evidence to help keep him from Azkaban."

"I don't think it did," Ron said. "But he was mad as a box of garden gnomes. I don't figure he knew what he was saying at the end." That ought to cover any rumours that might surface, or so Ron fondly hoped.

"You sound almost sorry for him," Hermione observed. "Is this like worrying over Malfoy?"

Since worrying over Malfoy had gotten Ron a lip-lock from Hermione last time he mentioned it. He must've made a face, because Hermione's did something funny in response – a don't you dare combined with scarlet embarrassment with an aftertaste of pleased reminiscence.

"Malfoy," said Harry darkly.

"...And here we are again," Hermione said, thumping her chin into her open palm and looking up at Ron. Now her face was full of false irritation layered with affection: a you know how he gets, Ron, sort of look. It was followed by an I brought this on myself kind of sigh.

Hermione had a million little looks, and Ron was fond of all of them.

"He's up to something, Hermione. You know he's got to be," Harry persisted. "He's... Malfoy. He can't just go turning over a new leaf. Ron's with me on this."

Ron raised both hands in the air. "We've already established I feel sorry for the bloke," he protested.

"You can't feel sorry for Malfoy," Harry said, and it was less disbelief and more as though the concepts sorry and Malfoy were epistemologically incompatible. As if Ron needed any further confirmation, Harry added, "...he's... Malfoy."

"He's a human being, Harry," Hermione said tiredly. It sounded as though she might have had this conversation, or some flavour of it, several times while Ron was at the Burrow.

"Sorry if it's hard for me to believe that he tried to kill you, but didn't really mean it."

Ron was pretty sure if he protested, both of his best friends would be sure he was Polyjuiced or Imperio'd. Anyroad, Harry had a point. "Well," Ron said, settling himself in the seat across from them and resigning himself to a long argument, "when it comes to Malfoy, it's hard to say whether he's actually sorry or just figures he should seem sorry."

But apparently this, too, was a shocking thing to say.

"Have you really gotten to know him so well?" Hermione said in a small voice.

"What?" Ron stammered. "No. It's just – that he's a Slytherin, is all." But that wasn't it at all, really, it was just what Ron knew about Malfoy. The way he lied like breathing, unless it was really, really important; and how then, you almost couldn't get anything out of the bloke but the unvarnished truth. "Anyway," Ron said, "what's this about the Triwizard?"

Harry took a golden egg and placed it atop the table with a thunk.

Ron instinctively recoiled.

"It's not a Portkey," Hermione said, tiredly. "It's the clue for the next part of the game."

"Have you tried opening it in different locations?"

Hermione eyed him oddly. "How did you know? We only got it to open when Harry went up to the Astronomy Tower to think." She reached out for the egg and lifted a tiny hooked latch on the side; the egg flew back on a hinge to reveal a small scroll. Ron stood to lean over and get a better look at the writing:

Above, beyond the seeming ken

The wisdom of all mortal men

Is where you'll see us, if you dare

To travel and to find us there.

Be swift, young hero, for you will find

We've taken what was yours to bind

Dallying will seal your fate –

An Hour's time will be too late.

Ron stared at the parchment, hands shaking. "They changed it," he said. I'm still to be taken, it seems, but they've changed it.

Hermione was looking on in concern, but Harry shrugged. "That's what I figured as well," he said, reclaiming the note and tucking it back into its golden home. "These aren't the original eggs, after all," he added, avoiding Ron's eye.

The original eggs were probably scattered about the graveyard where Harry and the other Triwizard Champions had travelled.

Ron thumped back down in his seat, feeling dizzy. "They changed it because of Cedric," he said, Severus's words thumping in his ears. 'We cannot anticipate the dips and twists and turns, and the levers of the world that move them.' Merlin, they'll take me again, and I'll have to let them, won't I? Escape will reveal me. Though at the very thought of incapacitation... at the idea of a wand to his back... at the thought of losing hold of consciousness, against his will...

He thought he might throw up.

"Ron," Hermione said tentatively, "are you all right?"

"Never better," he murmured, scrubbing both hands through his hair and bringing his focus back to Harry and Hermione. "So, what d'you reckon?"

"Well," Hermione said, slipping into research mode, "it looks as though the next task might take place somewhere... elevated."

Ron nodded. "That... that makes sense. I thought... they might put it in the Great Lake or something."

Hermione blinked. "Well. If you thought that the terrain might be part of the challenge this time around, and I do believe you're right. Harry and I think that the Second Task is someplace very high up – someplace, perhaps, where it might be challenging to breathe."

Ron gripped his hands together under the table, tighttighttight. "Yeah, makes sense," he said faintly.

"So we're researching breathing spells," Harry tacked on. "It's, er, all we've been doing since you left, actually."

Hermione sighed. "I know that the Second Task seems a long way off now, Harry, but you can't just put it off! You've got to do research."

"Hermione's approach to life," Ron said fondly; and when Harry cast him a terribly hopeful look, he added, "come on, then, Hermione, it's time for supper. The brain needs fuel to work, you know."

That evening, Ron slipped into the Room of Requirement, closed the door, and leaned his whole weight against its solid bulk. To his surprise, he felt his knees go a bit liquid, and since he was alone he let them buckle.

If he'd thought it was hard to maintain the facade of Ronald Weasley, aged fourteen, before, it was nothing to the challenge of play-acting now that he knew Severus's dungeons could no longer serve as his respite. It had taken everything Ron had just to play uncaring and a bit dim in front of Harry and Hermione at dinner, when he longed to tell them everything.

The Room was just as Ron had left it, of course, but it looked tidier than he remembered: perhaps he was recalling some composite stage of his progress rather than the latest version. The dim lighting flushed a bit, as though the Room knew it was being admired, and approved.

It was queerly tempting to stay on the floor; to let his head tip back and rest a bit. Or perhaps more than a bit.

But Ron heaved himself upright with an almighty shove of both palms against the flagstones, and considered where to go, next. There was a huge pile of books that he hadn't yet tackled, that he'd been putting off for two reasons. First, Ron was pretty sure that the stacks of books were not concealing Rowena's diadem, so it was difficult to justify prioritizing them over the hope chests and school trunks in the far right-hand corner. The second was Ron's near-consuming book-hunger, that encouraged him to save the stack for a treat.

Well, he was sure in need of a lift, now.

Ron cuffed his sleeves and began to dig.

The first several books seemed to be a peculiarly specific brand of girls' adventure story written with the Victorian in mind, and which Ron knew to be quite popular at Hogwarts: Anne of Green Gables, Little Women, Dandelion Cottage, The Secret Garden, and A Little Princess had at least a half a dozen copies, each. Some appeared to be circa 1900, while others were dogeared paperbacks or beloved, hardcover twelfth editions with ribbons in rich colours to mark the place. Ron grinned at the redhead on the cover of the first; she looked a veritable Weasley, with her robe-like Muggle dress, old-fashioned boots, and queer hat. She was holding a threadbare carpetbag in front of her with both hands, and the artist had captured a look of wistful stubbornness in her expression: not a lot to go on and not a lot to work with, but determined to succeed. Ron placed Anne on the shelf with a pang.

The next pile seemed to be made up of mysteries: Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys, as well as three copies of a book called The Westing Game. Having grown up in a live-action version of The Hardy Boys, Ron found himself less interested in these than in the turn-of-the-century poor-girl-makes-good novels. He still arranged them with care, smoothing out the curled pages and running a soothing finger down bent spines, ensuring that the 1930s Nancy Drew holding a smoking pistol was placed before the 1950s girl in the poodle skirts no matter the number on the side.

Nancy kept company with an equally large number of bildungsromans including two Taran Wanderers and six copies of The Fellowship of the Ring. Ron tossed a copy of Beowulf from hand to hand. He'd never read it, but he knew it was kind of a coming-of-age story and kind of an adventure story and kind of belonged to that ephemeral group of books called classics that had nothing in common but a general sense of awe in the public eye.

The books seemed to be getting thicker, more weighty in Ron's hands, promising whole worlds of words. A Song of Ice and Fire felt like a doorstop in Ron's palm, and The Eye of the World was nearly as big. Finding shelf space was suddenly a problem; Ron moved Muggle and Wizarding histories to the same shelf and pressed on.

The Handmaid's Tale had an evocative cover, with a woman in red creeping away in the night. Crime and Punishment had some pages creased more than others, as though the book's owner had read certain scenes or chapters over and over again. The slender Anthem was a surprise after the weight of Tess D'Urbervilles and Les Miserables.

Someone liked comics: there were volumes and volumes of something called Maison Ikkoku, and Please Save My Earth, piled next to dozens of Star Trek novels, both original series and Next Generation, with terrible drawings of the actors on the covers. For some reason, the idea of a fourth-year like Neville curled around a novel about spaceships while sitting in his magical castle, wand tucked behind his ear, tickled Ron.

By the time he was through, Ron was sweaty, covered in dust, and smelled like he lived inside a library, but happy. There was something about all those books in a neat row by Ron's own admittedly warped concept of genre, and then by author, that was very satisfying.

It was probably approaching midnight, but Ron strode up and down the row of shelves he'd created, running one finger over the spines of each of the books he'd dusted and arranged, and paused, tilting his chin up to the ceiling, listening. "What d'you reckon?" He looked down at the shelf a moment, then looked up again, and shrugged. "For a bloke who'd like to escape a bit. Nothing too heavy, you understand, just –"

The light in the Room shifted so that it spilt down from the high ceilings to lay across the spine of a book – then another, and another. Ron reached for the illuminated volume closest to him and opened it to the first page: In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

"All right. Thanks," Ron said, clutching the volume to his chest, and didn't go to sleep that night at all.

Ron stumbled his way through Herbology and made so many mistakes in Care of Magical Creatures that even Malfoy was eyeing him with consternation by the time Ron slouched off. The Blast-Ended Skrewts were not exactly a foe one could face while half-conscious, so Ron mostly let Harry and Hermione take the reins. Even so, he nursed a blistered finger and barely escaped getting his eyebrows burnt off.

Lunch roused him a bit, especially when a cup of hot tea appeared at Ron's right hand, brewed black as Voldemort's soul and sweetened to a fare-thee-well. At least I can sleep through Divination, Ron thought grimly, taking the rest of the tea and knocking it back like a shot of liquor.

Ron got through The Hobbit in three evenings, and replaced it on the shelf before grabbing one of the copies of The Fellowship of the Ring, opening the cover: vellichor wafted up from the yellowed page sitting rough under his thumb. Bilbo was very rich and very peculiar, and had been the wonder of the Shire for sixty years, Ron read, and sighed.

Ron knew he should be cleaning out the Room of Requirement. He knew he should be going through the trunks in the back, right-hand corner of the room. But every evening he arrived so tired: tired of being Ron Weasley, tired of his endless quest to locate the Diadem – after all, hadn't Harry grabbed it off of the top of a stack, before? – and every evening, the edges of the room grew a little hazier until one day, Ron opened the door to find that all that was left were his books, his potions supplies, and a few squashy chairs that looked as though they'd been stolen straight from the Gryffindor Common Room.

"Look, I know what you're trying to do," Ron said, gazing at the ceiling, which seemed to duck low to hear him. "I appreciate it, even. It's nice to be looked after," he mused, hanging his head and allowing himself the luxury of feeling a bit sorry for himself a moment. "But I'd like all of the responsibility back anyway, if it's all the same to you."

With a rush of air that felt like a sigh, the Room withdrew to its former dimensions, and Ron tucked The Fellowship of the Ring into the pocket of his robes. "Thanks. Really," he said, heart breaking a little. He rolled up the sleeves of his robes and got back to work.

Chapter Text

December brought the thick snows and sleets of Ottery St Catchpole to Hogwarts. The castle and grounds seemed as though they were always under an onslaught of a queer mixture of storms that Ron felt as though he ought to have remembered, with thunder cracking through the air followed by sheets of thick snow and icy rain. The Durmstrang ship rocked in the Lake enough to make Neville clap his hand over his mouth when they passed it on their way to Care of Magical Creatures, and then grow greener yet as they passed Beauxbaton's horses and caught the strong scent of single-malt whiskey hanging on the air.

Ron was not at all pleased to re-acquaint himself with the marvel of the Blast-Ended Skrewt. He'd forgotten about them entirely, before his trip back in time – maybe out of some self-preservation instinct. Dwelling on the horror that was the Blast-Ended Skrewt, after all, was like to drive a man mad.

Looking around, the faces of his classmates were a study. Hermione looked disappointed but resigned to her fate, and Harry's features were mostly the same, only with a hint of that devil-may-care, bring-it-on lurking in the green of his eyes that had always worried and enticed Ron by turns. That mischevious gleam probably said family to the eleven-year-old who'd become Harry's best friend.

Malfoy, on the other hand, had a look of bored disdain plastered over pure horror, and Neville still looked like he might sick up.

"I'm not sure whether they hibernate or not," Hagrid was booming. "Thought we'd jus' try an' see if they fancied a kip…"

Surely someone had written about Blast-Ended Skrewts somewhere, Ron thought. He'd hung around Hermione long enough to know that people made studies of all kinds of mad things. He wondered if Hagrid had a library card.

Maybe Hagrid believed in discovery-based learning.

The Skrewts were now longer than Ron was tall, and most resembled fierce, fire-spitting scorpions. Ron reflected on the marvel that was Hagrid's ability to keep his job. He had to have something on Dumbledore. Ron entertained himself for a moment imagining what it was: sock fetish. Murderous rampage? Secretly casting Imperio on Cornelius Fudge…

He caught Malfoy shooting him an urgent, pleading sort of look; and that urgency was followed by something more guarded, like he still didn't know whether or not he ought to trust Ron.

"Er, Hagrid?" Ron blurted.

Hagrid looked startled someone had interrupted his monologue. The rest of the class turned to Ron in desperate hope.

"Maybe they're getting a tad too large to, er, experiment with," Ron put forth.

The rest of the class nodded enthusiastically, heads jerking up and down in unison.

"Nonsense!" Hagrid said, too heartily. "They're all right, Skrewts – misunderstood creatures. An' that's why we're here," he tacked on. "T' learn about those poor creatures, an' bring more open-mindedness to th'… th' study of 'em," he finished, gaze flickering between Harry, Ron, and Hermione appealingly.

Draco shot him a second, more emphatic look: you aren't falling for that, are you? You'd better not be, but Harry was nodding reluctantly and Hermione shuffled a bit and sighed.

"Of course, Hagrid," she said, bracingly.

"On my tombstone," Malfoy said, low but clear, "it will say Here lies Draco Malfoy: ended by a Blast-Ended Skrewt's end."

Pansy snorted, and Crabbe and Goyle laughed like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard in their lives. Ron remembered that he probably shouldn't laugh at the last minute.

"Hop to, now," Hagrid huffed, pointing the students to long, low boxes studded with pillows.

"Oh, Merlin," Neville moaned.

It was every bit the disaster Ron now vaguely remembered: the Skrewts took violent disagreement to being penned up in the tiny boxes. Perhaps they did hibernate, Ron reflected as he Stunned one, but how Hagrid had divined they might do so in December, or mightn't resent being forced into boxes barely large enough to hold them, was anybody's guess.

Most of the students, Malfoy in the lead, fled to Hagrid's cabin and barricaded the door. Not that Ron blamed them; his hand was singed and he was distinctly out of temper by the time they rounded up the last Skrewt. When he looked up, Dean and Lavender's robes were smoking lightly, Seamus's fingers were burnt, and Neville was limping – again. "Did you re-injure that?" Ron said.

Neville shuddered. "One of them stung my ankle," he replied.

"Lovely," Ron said.

"Our heroes," Malfoy said as he emerged from the cabin, his usual coterie snickering behind him, but Ron thought it was his odd way of thanking them, and queerly, so did Hermione.

"Anytime you need protecting, Malfoy," she loftily replied. "That's what Gryffindors do best."

"It's lucky, as you're good at precious little else," Malfoy replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Haven't you heard?" Hermione replied. "I'm bloody brilliant."

"Well, you're not the usual Gryffindor, are you?" he replied.

Ron scoffed, and looked up to see –

…Rita Skeeter. He glared at Hermione accusingly.

"Well, well, well," Rita said meditatively, taloned finger tapping at her rubied lips. "This does look like fun. Are you… well, dear?" Skeeter was saying, and for a moment Ron thought it was the special tone she reserved for talking to Harry.

But then he followed her gaze to Malfoy and all came clear.

"He's fine," Harry snapped in a sudden moment of fellow-feeling… or perhaps regretting painting Malfoy as a nutter in the first place.

As Draco stammered his way through a response, Ron eyed Hermione until she drew near.

"I couldn't very well keep her in a jar forever!" Hermione hissed. "I brought the jar to the Aurors and told them I was sure they'd want to chat with an illegally-registered Animagus!"

"Couldn't you have kept her a bit longer?" Ron whispered.

"I captured her in public, in broad daylight… so no!" she shot back. "I'd be in the worst sort of trouble!"

Damn it, Ron thought sourly, but she was right. Then, Hermione usually was.

"So, what? They just let her go?"

"Unlikely," Hermione replied, "since I provided incontrovertible proof. More likely she's out on bail until a trial, if the Wizarding justice system is anything like the Muggle one."

"Tell me about your apology to Miss Granger," Skeeter oozed, Quick Quotes Quill quivering with anticipation. "Do you feel let down by the school authorities, let down by Dumbledore? Do you," she said, eyes sparkling with prurient interest, "feel safe?"

Harry seemed at the point of apoplexy, gaze darting back and forth between Draco and Hermione until his features firmed with determination. "Come on, Hermione," he said, Dean and Seamus flanking him, "Malfoy has an interview to give. Besides, you don't want to get hurt again," and began to herd her away.

"Oh, yeah, er… class dismissed!" said Hagrid.

"I hurt her hair!" Malfoy shot off.

Ron shot a narrow-eyed glare back at Skeeter as he backed away towards the others. One more ingredient dumped back in the cauldron, he thought sourly, and trotted forward so as not to be left behind.

Ron suffered through Divination and ate dinner beside Harry, who kept messing about with something in his robes pocket – the clue to the Second Task, unless Ron missed his guess – without seeing Hermione.

It was only once dinner was nearly through that she burst in, dragging a near-palpable cloud of excitement with her. "Come along, you won't believe what I've found!" she whispered, dragging at Harry's wrist and jerking her chin from Ron to the door. Ron grabbed a sandwich and trotted after them.

"Steady on, Hermione," Ron chided her, mouth full, as she led them up staircase after swinging staircase. It seemed that she would take them to Gryffindor Tower, only she swung in a different direction entirely: towards the Room of Requirement.

Ron's heart sank. "Hermione – "

"No, wait until you see," she enthused, dropping Harry's hand and closing her eyes as if to centre herself before pacing back and forth before the room three times. "Come on!" she exclaimed, and disappeared inside.

Harry shrugged at Ron as if to say, well, there's no accounting for Hermione, but he had that spark of adventure in his eye when he strode through. Ron followed them, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets.

"Whoa," Harry said, pivoting on one heel.

"It's changed, you see?" Hermione burbled, bouncing on her toes. "I just asked for the curated room and it popped right up, only someone's clearly been here since our last visit... curating!"

"But who knows about the Room of Requirement besides us?" Harry queried.

"Well, I'm sure I don't know, but someone does," Hermione observed. "Just look at it all! There are books by topic, and potions by ingredient..."

"Potions?" Harry queried sharply. "Maybe it was Crouch."

But Hermione shook her head. "Don't you see, Harry? This was done with utmost care. The books are by subject – the person who arranged them knew the stories, or took the time to read their inside front covers, at the very least. The potions ingredients are all still fresh, I checked. The toys and stuffed animals are all on lower shelves, like someone expected them to be picked up again tomorrow. I don't know that it could have been Crouch: this was done by someone who deeply loves Hogwarts, and respects its past."

Ron couldn't help the strange sound that burst from his belly and up his throat just then, making his two best friends stare; but as they'd done since his arrival, they both seemed to reinterpret his behaviour in light of the Ron they knew.

"Well, Ron, I suppose you know better?" Hermione scoffed.

"Someone was looking for something," Ron heard himself say, "that's all. Maybe it was Crouch."

"Don't be silly," Hermione replied. "When someone is just looking for something, they don't leave it neat; they don't organize it. They throw everything around, even if it's just to place things in piles that show what they have and haven't looked through. This person wasn't looking for something, they were..." she shrugged, helpless. "They were making it beautiful. This was a labour of love, of devotion." She turned to Harry, missing the thunderstruck expression on Ron's face. "Just come on, you won't believe the odds-and-ends pile, it's just full of useful things."

Ron trailed in their wake.

"...you see?" she said to Harry, holding something aloft that Ron hadn't recognized, a flat panel the size of a deck of Exploding Snap cards, but with a few buttons on its face, and a thread linking it to a larger box.

"Is that a Nintendo. At Hogwarts," Harry said, seemingly delighted.

"Well, and I'm sure it doesn't work at Hogwarts," Hermione observed, brow furrowed, "and perhaps that's why it ended up here. There's all sorts of technology here, but it isn't all technology; it's clearly the pile the Curator didn't know what to do with, which is mostly things of Muggle origin."

"Which means the Curator's probably a pureblood," Harry said.

"Exactly what I thought!" Hermione exclaimed. "A pureblood who loves Hogwarts and sees the value in order and – and care," she said.

Meanwhile, Harry continued going through the miscellaneous pile. "I think I saw one of these on Dumbledore's desk, once," he said, holding aloft a tiny contraption with multiple gears, each whirring tunelessly.

"The Curator isn't finished though," Hermione continued, even though Harry was now elbow-deep in the pile of miscellaneous items. "The back of the room is just as it was when we first saw it. It's a huge undertaking, really – I don't think it could have been done by our Triwizard visitors. Not only would they be spotted as out of place wandering up here on the seventh floor, I'm not sure they could have devoted the amount of time without being noticed missing by their peers. No, it's got to be a Hogwarts student."

"Or professor," Ron said. "Maybe Dumbledore ordered someone to clean the place out."

But Hermione was shaking her head. "Definitely not, Ron," she said, nose in the air. "You may think that all a professor does is sit in the classroom and give you nasty looks when you haven't done your work to standard, but I know that a professor has to do lesson plans, grade tests, quizzes and assignments, has hall duties, and the list goes on. It only magnifies the issue if they also happen to be a Head of House. This is a monumental undertaking, and there's no way a full-time professor would be capable of it without..." Her brow furrowed, and she swept an idle finger along her collarbone.

"There are no more Time Turners," Harry said, "or so Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore said."

"Well, it's probably a student, in any case. It's probably a Gryffindor student!" Hermione exclaimed. "In any case, I certainly haven't seen any Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws or Slytherins hanging around the Gryffindor dormitories," she observed excitedly. "I'll bet whoever it is – or whoever they are – is coming here at night to work on it, or they'd be missed from classes. Harry, do promise you'll check your Map in the evenings from now on and tell me who it is."

"Why do you care so much, anyway?" Ron said.

Hermione looked at him oddly. "Tell me you aren't curious."

"I don't see what the big deal is," Ron huffed. "It's just a bunch of stuffy old books and stupid potions ingredients."

Harry laughed at Ron's pinched features. "Well, but there are a lot of pretty amazing things here," he said, the whirring item in one hand and a gem-studded flute in the other. "Who knows how useful they might be?"

This was just what Ron had thought before he'd fallen in love with the Room, so it was impossible to summon up another argument and present it naturally before the conversation moved on.

"Besides," Harry went on in his Boy-Who-Lived voice, "I've found it's best to keep apprised of mysteries at Hogwarts."

"Yeah, just be careful, mate," Ron said, finally locating the right lever to push. "Don't trust anything that you can't see where it keeps its brain. Maybe the Room is doing it on its own, somehow. And if it is a person, you don't know who last touched this stuff or who this Curator is. He could be dangerous."

"Who's to say it's a 'he'?" Hermione said. "I'm betting it's a witch, actually."

"What makes you think that?"

"Not sure; more of a feeling, really," Hermione said, turning back to the books. "Oooh, The Hobbit! I don't suppose either of you have read it." She snatched the exact copy that Ron himself had read; quite possibly it stuck out slightly further from the others on the shelf.

Harry actually looked wistful. "The Dursleys didn't keep a lot of books," he admitted with a shrug, "and my aunt told the librarian at school that I shouldn't be trusted, because I'd only destroy them."

Hermione whirled on Harry, eyes wide, lips parted. She shivered with indignation. "They kept books from you? How could an adult do such a thing to a child?" She couldn't have bristled more if Harry told her that Petunia Dursley had woken him with a slap to the face every morning.

"Well," Harry said, tentative, "I did destroy books when I was little. Not on purpose. Accidental magic."

"It won't do. I insist you have this!" Hermione exclaimed, slapping Harry in the chest with The Hobbit. (It was a hardcover, so it made a hollow thunk; "oof!" said Harry.)

"Gee, thanks, Hermione," Harry said, sharing a look of commiseration with Ron.

"It's the least I can do," Hermione said. "Keeping books from a child," she muttered. "Honestly, Harry, every time I hear about your aunt, she seems more and more depraved. It's a lucky thing you turned out so well as you did."

"Hermione, that's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me," Harry replied, struggling to fit the hardcover into the pocket of his robes.

"Hmph," Hermione said. "Oh!" she said, suddenly enough that she attracted Harry's and Ron's attention. "That reminds me. You won't believe who's working here at the Castle – it's Dobby!"

That happy fact occupied Harry and Hermione for a few minutes more before they were ready to go.

"Hang on," Ron said, making a show of searching his pockets. "I think I must've dropped my wand. You two go on ahead, I'll see you later."

"You want us to help you look?" Hermione inquired, bright-eyed and helpful as ever.

"Nah, you and Harry go on ahead. I'll catch up," Ron said.

Once the door closed, Ron looked around the Room and sighed. "Sorry old girl," he murmured, running a finger down the side of one of the bookshelves, "but I think it's gonna be awhile before we see each other again. I'll be back, though, I've just got to wait 'til they lose interest."

On impulse, Ron raided the shelves for The Two Towers and The Return of the King before he left, even though he wasn't done with Fellowship, yet. There was no telling when the coast would be clear, after all.

Ron fumbled for a place in his robes to put two such large volumes, when something crinkled: the letter from his mum.

Ron slumped to a seated position and dug it out, gazing at the cheap parchment; Ron curled on the front in his mother's beloved, familiar handwriting. He'd liked to pretend he'd forgotten it was there, but of course he hadn't.

A letter, written to that boy he used to be... it hadn't seemed as though it was for him. But now, torn between curiosity and sorrow, he tore it free.

Ron, it read.

It was wonderful to have you home with us a few days, dear. Your father and I miss you when you're at school.

You've had an adventuresome life so far, Ronnie. Far moreso than I might've wished.

Your father and I try and put on a glad face, but make no mistake: the War left its marks on us, too.

It's okay to be scared, or angry, or sad. It  doesn't mean you aren't brave.

(She had underlined this several times.)

The most important thing to remember is that you don't have to go through any of it alone. You've got me and your father. You've got Harry and Hermione. And you've got the professors at Hogwarts, too. Severus Snape seems to have taken a personal liking to you. I never thought I'd see the day! I am so proud of you.

Potions aside, I see your marks in History of Magic are still dismal. Maybe Hermione could tutor you for exams?

You could be a bit nicer to her, you know. Girls like Hermione Granger don't grow on trees.

Sincerely,

Mum

Ron stuffed the books into the back of his trousers to rest at the small of his back and stuffed the letter into a pocket.

When the door closed behind him and disappeared, sinking back behind the wall or into whatever extradimensional space hidden doors retreated, Ron sighed.

"Did you find it?"

Ron turned in a whirl to find that Hermione, at least, had waited for him after all. "What?"

"Your wand," she said, eyeing him with fond exasperation. "Were you able to find it?"

"Oh! Yeah, of course. Sorry, don't know where my mind is," Ron replied swiftly. "Think I'm just knackered."

"You've been tired a lot, lately," she said, falling into step beside him as they made their way back to the Gryffindor Common Room. "Are you all right? After..."

Ron blinked at her.

"Ron," she said, carefully, "Harry isn't the only one who's allowed to be... upset, about the Triwizard. We never really chatted about what Crouch said to you, or why your parents whisked you away, after. But we've been friends a long while, and I can tell when you're unhappy."

"Oh," Ron said, swiftly shifting gears. He'd been so sure that Hermione was about to proclaim that he was the Curator. "Yeah, 'course I'm upset. I might not have known Cedric so well, but he was a decent bloke. And it just goes to show that He Who Ought to be Maimed doesn't really care who he goes through to get to Harry."

"Harry would understand if you needed to step back," Hermione said. "Maybe not right away, but he'd understand."

Ron stared at her. "What? I'm not – you think I'm afraid."

Hermione blinked in surprise, then frowned. "Ronald! We're all afraid. I just mean – that if you wanted –"

"No one can step back, Hermione, it's a war," Ron interrupted her. "And it's not like we signed on the dotted line, you or me. We're just around when Harry needs help is all. And to not be around when he needs help – to step back – I'd have to walk away from him. I won't."

Hermione smiled up at him sadly. "I need to give you a squeeze just now," she said, and suited word to action.

He rested his chin against the top of her curls and took in a slow breath.

"I never did thank you for spiriting me away from the Tournament when I was concussed," Hermione said.

"You'd have done the same," Ron said. "And… look, about Malfoy –"

Hermione sighed as she drew back. "I've got to be the bigger person," she said, features hard with determination. "Besides, after his flowery apology, Malfoy's been civil. We'll never be friends, so I'm satisfied with that much."

"But," said Ron.

"But," she agreed, "Higgins and the other Gryffindors won't leave me alone. I've told them it's all right, that Malfoy isn't going to try anything again, but they don't believe me, or maybe they don't care. And they keep trying to scare me, saying how close it all was," she huffed. "I just don't want to think about it anymore, and neither does he."

"You want Harry to start speaking Parseltongue at Higgins and the others?" Ron queried. "I've got a strong feeling they'd scatter."

She laughed. "Have you got your Transfigurations essay done? It's a challenge. I can help you, if you'd like."

Ron accepted the side-step with a smile.. "Sure, thanks," he agreed, even though recalling what he ought to know about cross-species Transfigurations would be even more challenging than usual, with an audience.

But when they returned to the Common Room, something niggled at Ron, until he realized with a jolt what was out of place.

"I was in the middle of a game," he said, pointing out the chess board, which had been laid out afresh.

"I know," Hermione said. "It's been like that since after you went home. You didn't see that earlier?"

"I guess I must've forgotten to keep checking, with everything," Ron said, feeling an odd pang of loss. The Room barred to him, Severus pricklier than a niffler denied its gold, and even his mysterious opponent, gone. It was as though all his places of respite had been yanked out from under him at once.

There was no use in crying over spilt Potions, Ron thought, bracingly, but even he was surprised at how low the fresh board made him feel.

Chapter Text

"Potter! Finnegan!" shouted Professor McGonagall, so loud that everyone jumped. "If you'd kindly pay attention..."

Ron looked up to see that Harry was pretend-fighting Seamus with what looked like fake wands; slowly, it dawned in Ron's memory that they were prototype joke wands for the shop Fred and George would someday (briefly) run. Harry's had transformed into a rubber haddock, and Seamus's into a tin parrot.

They really were geniuses, Ron mused, resting his cheek in his palm; either the wands' creation had been somehow inspired by McGonagall's cross-species Transfiguration in the fourth-year curriculum, or the wands were made to resonate to what the caster was thinking about. A memory rose to the surface of Ron's mind like a Pensieve wisp: the twins cornered in battle, but throwing down their joke shop items left, right, and centre. They really had been something else –

"...Yule Ball is approaching," Professor McGonagall was saying.

Are, Ron thought, sitting up straighter. They really are something else.

"The Yule Ball is a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and an opportunity for us to socialize with our foreign guests. Now, the ball will be open only to fourth-years and above, although you may invite a younger student as your guest if you wish –"

A high-pitched giggle emerged from a student to Ron's left.

Oh, Merlin. It was Lav-Lav, who immediately noted his attention and winked – then flushed and ducked her head.

Ron's cheeks burned, and he whipped his attention back to McGonagall, as though her speech quite possibly addressed the easiest way to destroy all the Horcruxes in one fell swoop and end Voldemort for good.

"Dress robes will be worn," Professor McGonagall went on with an air of presumptive disapproval, "and the ball will start at eight o'clock on Christmas Day, finishing at midnight in the Great Hall. Now," she added, eyeing them with even greater warning in her eyes, "the Yule Ball is, of course, a chance for all of us to, er, let our hair down," she said.

Lav-Lav giggled a bit more; she pressed both hands to her mouth to stop herself, to no effect.

"But that does not mean that we will be relaxing the standards of behaviour we expect from Hogwarts students," she said. "I will be watching Gryffindor House especially, to ensure not only that my House understands the meaning of decorum, but that they remember the talk we had not so long ago regarding unity," she said, and the helpless grin dropped off of Lavender Brown's face as though it had been wiped away. "I encourage you to attend with students from other Houses as well as your friends in Gryffindor, or to consider inviting a student from Beauxbaton or Durmstrang," she added, and some of the Gryffindors looked thoughtful.

Class ended, causing everyone to scramble for their bags, but McGonagall asked Harry to hang back. Ron presumed that she was going to talk about his ceremonial role at the Yule Ball.

"Hullo, Ron," Lavender blurted as she passed him, then ran, giggling, to catch up to Parvati.

"Gosh, I can't stand her," Hermione said at his elbow, then froze. "I... er, said that aloud, did I?"

"She isn't so bad," Ron said, mostly because every time he saw Lavender Brown, his stomach flipped guiltily. He'd used her to get at Hermione, and sure he'd been young and stupid, but he liked to think he wasn't that sort of bloke.

"She isn't so bad," Hermione quoted dangerously.

"Er," said Ron. "I just mean..." He deflated. "I know you don't like her," he offered.

"You know I don't like her," Hermione repeated.

"Look, just because she isn't clever like you doesn't make her a bad person – that's all I'm saying," Ron said.

"Just because she isn't clever like me," Hermione said.

"You can stop that anytime!"

Luckily, at that moment Harry emerged from the Transfigurations classroom looking a bit green. "I'm to open the Ball... by dancing," he said, blinking from behind his glasses as though he'd been dealt a mortal blow. "In public," he added.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry," Hermione said with every evidence of honest sympathy. "We'll help you find someone, won't we, Ron?"

"Harry's a Hogwarts Champion," Ron said, and if 'Hogwarts Champion' were said in a bit of a poncy tone, he couldn't much help it. "I'm sure they'll be queuing up for the chance. Honestly, you've not got anything to worry about, mate. The question is, what'll I do?"

It was a good question, actually, and the only real answer was that Ron would have to go stag or find someone who was honestly just a friend. There was no way on this earth he was going to date a fourteen-year-old, or deceive a fourteen-year-old with hopes of romance by pretending to date her.

Harry's gaze flickered from Hermione to Ron, and back, as though the answer to Ron's dilemma were rather obvious. Hermione, for her part, shuffled in place, frowning at the flagstones. Perhaps she was recalling the last time Ron 'let her down easy'.

"Hey, Potter!" shouted an unfamiliar voice, and Ron slid a step closer to Harry instinctively. "Killed any Hufflepuffs lately?"

"Yeah, Potter!" shouted a second student in a gold scarf. They were wearing the old Potter Stinks badges.

"What on earth," said Ron.

Harry and Hermione turned to him, Hermione with an incredulous expression on her face, Harry looking carefully blasé. "It's been happening since the First Task," he said to Ron's unspoken question. "It's not important; let's head down to lunch."

"It is important, Harry," Hermione said. "Just listen to what McGonagall has been saying. We can't keep having strife within Hogwarts's walls – that Hufflepuff just accused you of murder! This time you've got to tell a professor."

"I still don't get it," Ron said. "I mean, they obviously don't think you killed anybody, Harry, or they wouldn't feel it was safe to be shouting at you in the halls."

Hermione sighed. "I'm sure they don't really think so," she said. "They just like the shouting, you know, in and of itself. Before he apologized, Malfoy started a nasty rumour that Harry..." She trailed off helplessly.

"He said that I killed Cedric so I'd be the only Hogwarts Champion," Harry said, "and that I'd kill the others off as well. He said that the whole thing about Voldemort being back was a lie."

Ron felt angry, but bafflement still kept trying to creep through. "But... do they think that Professor Snape, and Fleur, and Krum were all – what, hallucinating?"

"Shh!" Hermione exclaimed. "It still isn't widely known that Professor Snape helped anyone. I think he prefers it that way," she said with a small grimace. "And despite all this talk about international unity, most of the Hogwarts students still don't talk to Fleur or Viktor."

So as far as anybody else knows, Ron realized grimly, Harry and the other Champions disappeared and reappeared with a dead body. Sure, they probably didn't think Harry had actually done Cedric in, but Harry was, as usual, serving as scapegoat: allowing the students an outlet for their fear and uncertainty in these dark times, an outlet that wouldn't fight back or turn them in.

So far there had been a reading or writing assignment on the Defense Against the Dark Arts chalkboard every class written in Dumbledore's spidery hand, though Hermione was the only one to do it. Perhaps the others couldn't yet recognize the Headmaster's writing.

Today, as they approached, there was already a different feel to the room; for one thing, the door was standing open and the lights were already on. Ron could already hear the distinctive clack-and-drag of chalk being pulled across a blackboard.

Ron slammed straight into Harry's back when the other boy stopped suddenly in the doorway.

"Do come in, Mister Potter," came a dark, silky, very familiar voice. "You are blocking others' progress."

Harry seemed to regain the power of locomotion just in time to avoid further collision with Hermione, who was right behind Ron. Ron turned to watch Hermione's reaction: widened eyes followed by a pinched expression – Severus had never liked Hermione's book-smarts and eager ways, until suddenly he had – and finally a dawning expression of hope. "Perhaps we'll learn something useful for a change," she whispered, just loud enough for Severus to hear and softly enough to pretend he hadn't.

Ron watched the dark-haired man preen a bit, although he supposed only someone who knew him well could spot it: a lightening around the eyes, a bit of a lift in his stance. "Professor, have you been hired for the Defense position?" Ron asked.

Professor Snape eyed him dispassionately, up-and-down. "Perhaps Mister Weasley might find enough patience in his dwindling repository to wait until the rest of the class has arrived," he intoned.

Wow: full-on, Severus Snape silk and venom. Ron went to seat himself, somewhat cowed.

Hermione sat down and withdrew a fresh scroll, a fresh bottle of ink, and set to sharpening her quill, eyes shining. She dated her page before Severus even started speaking; Severus, watching her, sighed as though accepting his lot in life only with the greatest reluctance.

From Ron's position slightly outside this reality, the view was comical. Students invariably entered, paused on the threshold, and either gaped like a fish or said something unforgivably stupid, such as "am I in Potions?" or "what are you doing here?" from the unfortunate Mister Finnegan, who cringed at the look he received in return. Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle looked delighted, going so far as to offer one another congratulatory slaps on the back, as though they had arranged Severus's new position themselves.

"I haven't asked you to consult your textbooks," Severus said, seemingly directly to Hermione, who dropped her copy of the fifth-year textbook back into her bag and stowed the whole business under her chair; Ron guessed she recalled Severus's adage about anything being on the floor during Potions lab.

"You have had four teachers in the subject so far," Severus said. "Each will have had his own manner of teaching, his own view of the importance of each topic," he said, and his eyes snapped over to Hermione. "Leaving you woefully unprepared for your O.W.L.s," he said, making Hermione gasp aloud.

Ron shot Severus a censorious glare – he was just playing with them now, really – to which he did not respond nor indeed, appear to see.

"I note you are using Trimble's Dark Forces," Severus went on in that low, hypnotic voice, holding the textbook aloft, and all the students spellbound. "Which was also your text in first-year," he tacked on.

"Yes, Professor," Hermione said, "but if you please – we really barely scraped the surface of it in First Year with, er, Professor Quirrell," she said. "I read the whole thing, of course, but we only got to page one-hundred-twenty-three as a class."

Severus whirled to face her, rather dramatically. "Miss Granger. Did I call upon you to answer a question?"

"No?" she squeaked.

"Did I ask for additional information?"

"No?" she repeated. "No, sir," she corrected, when his eyebrows lifted but he did not speak.

"Did I ask you to list your accomplishments aloud?"

Hermione was used to Severus Snape by now, so it was only at this comment that she began to flush. "No, Professor," she said.

"When I ask you to tell me all you have done that goes beyond the scope of this class – then and only then can you waste class time by describing the frankly pitiful length and breadth of your wisdom, Miss Granger. And I assure you that I will never ask."

"You're the one wasting time," Ron said.

"Excuse me, Mister Weasley?" Severus hissed.

"You just wasted way more time than Hermione did," Ron repeated, clenching both fists under his desk. "Hermione's brain just works faster than most people's. She anticipated that you were about to ask what we'd covered and what we know. She answered your question before you asked it, and there's nothing wrong with that. I'd think you'd like to praise a student so keen to learn from you instead of mocking her enthusiasm."

Severus raised both brows. "Fancy words for a fourth-former," he growled. "And I would be delighted if Miss Granger were eager to learn. Instead, she is eager to show off what she already knows. As are you, it would seem, Mister Weasley."

Ron subsided.

"What, nothing more to say? Care to dazzle us with your talents at Defense?"

Ron glared at him. You said you wouldn't reveal me, he thought, deliberately projecting.

Severus's voice echoed in his head. Stop sticking your neck out, and I'll stop short of chopping it off.

Well; that wasn't exactly ambiguous, was it?

Ron sighed. "Sorry, Professor."

Severus harrumphed. "Can anyone tell me why Defense is such a challenging subject to teach, and such a difficult discipline at which to excel?"

There was absolute silence in the room; even Hermione did not dare raise her hand.

"Mister Longbottom?"

"What?" Neville squeaked. "Er..." He cleared his throat. "Um, because... because it's against a person, sir?"

"Explain," Severus barked, loudly enough that Neville jumped.

"People are... unpredictable," Neville said, quietly. "You have to anticipate them, judge their strengths and... and weaknesses."

"Speak up, Longbottom," Severus ordered.

"So to be good at Defense, you have to know people, sir," Neville finished.

There was a vast silence, in which Severus's mouth twisted. Ron had the feeling he found Neville's answer more than adequate but wasn't sure how to reply to save face in front of the other Gryffindors, but after a moment he seemed to have righted his world again. "Well, at least someone can provide a logical answer without consulting a textbook," he said, shooting one last, disdainful look at Hermione, who was ferociously scribbling down Neville's answer; on feeling Severus's gaze on her, however, she froze, hand twitching back to her parchment before landing awkwardly in her lap.

"Professor Crouch showed you the Unforgivables," Severus said.

"Professor Crouch," said Harry.

"He was your professor," Severus said, "no matter that he was also a Death Eater. Five points from Gryffindor for speaking out of turn."

Harry, fuming, fell silent.

"There are those who would say that the Unforgiveables are the epitome of Dark magic," Severus said, and his voice had gone from its usual, sibilant sound to a tone of quiet menace that had all the students leaning forward nearly against their will. "They would be wrong. Magic is either Dark or Light depending on its use. If you were to cast the Imperius Curse on someone to prevent them from, say, killing another soul, you would have done the right and moral thing. The true challenge in the Dark Arts is as Mister Longbottom has said: what you fight against is not the Dark magic itself, but the power and mutability of the human will. Moreover, you fight against a landscape that shifts and changes with every new day as new curses are invented that are not yet illegal," he said.

Hermione's hand darted into the air.

"Yes, Miss Granger," Severus said tiredly.

"Can you explain what you mean by 'not yet illegal'?" she queried, practically quivering in her seat.

"I might have, Miss Granger, had you let me continue," he replied. "The law is a slow-moving behemoth that cannot keep up with the regulation of new joke items," he said, shooting Ron a glance, "much less the creation of new curses. A dangerous curse might be years old before it is against the law to cast it on another intelligent being, and perhaps even longer before a Ministry-approved countercurse is developed."

Hermione's feather twitched as she watched Severus's face; he must've given her some signal invisible to Ron, or else she gave up on pleasing him, because she bent swiftly down over her parchment and everyone could hear the scritch-scritch of her quill against the page.

"Thus, the skilled practitioner of Defense creates a toolbox of attack and defence that is as flexible as the landscape of Dark Arts itself, including a variety of countercurses and maneuvers that are useful in a plethora of situations. Now, are there any questions?"

A somewhat stunned silence followed.

"Really?" Hermione whispered, but Severus heard her; of course he did.

"Really, Miss Granger."

Her hand rose tentatively.

He sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Does anyone else have any questions?"

"It all rather sounds as though you're telling us to shove a bezoar down their throats, sir," said Ron, feeling particularly suicidal.

"Did you just utilize a Potions metaphor, Mister Weasley?" Snape said, looking as though his surprise were genuine, this time around. "Mister Weasley," he announced to the class, "has just employed a Potions metaphor. What does a bezoar do if, as Mister Weasley so colourfully puts it, you were to 'shove it' down someone's throat?"

Hermione's hand, still in the air, waved.

"Mister Longbottom?"

The entire class swivelled as one; Neville, sitting in the back row, also had his hand in the air.

It was the first time Ron had ever seen Neville's hand in the air, except in Herbology. Neville turned pink and stammered when people asked him what he'd done over the summer.

"It's an antidote, sir," Neville said in a small voice.

"I still can't hear you, Longbottom," Snape said. "Would you like a Sonorus charm from now on?"

Someone in the back of the room, likely Malfoy, sniggered.

"No sir, it's an antidote to a lot of different poisons. You were saying we should search for defences that are effective against many different curses, just like a bezoar is effective against many different poisons, even when you don't know which one."

"Five points to Gryffindor," Severus said, and Neville went first red, then pale, and wavered on the spot.

"To ...me?" he whispered to Parvati, who shook her head in consternation.

Severus ignored this entirely. "Today, I will show you a very versatile Defense charm called Protego," he said, "otherwise known as the shield charm. Have you learned it yet in Charms? No? Very well," he said, looking irritated at Flitwick's inattention to the matter. "Mister Malfoy?"

Draco stood and walked to the front of the room, to the hoots and clapping of his Slytherin brethren.

"Mister Malfoy, hold your wand – thus. Good," Severus said, adjusting Draco's grip until his wand was held loosely in the hand and aimed at a forty-five-degree angle downwards.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione looked up from her notes, a smear of ink across one cheekbone.

"Miss Granger – kindly to the front of the room, please."

Hermione stood, working her way free of the desk, and stood opposite Malfoy.

"Mister Malfoy, you are familiar with Protego?" Snape said.

Ron wasn't liking the look of this, not one bit. He darted a look back at Harry to find that Harry was holding his own wand tightly under his desk, low enough that it wouldn't be spotted. Ron approved; he moved his own wand to the ready.

"I know Protego, Professor," said Malfoy, but his swagger had evaporated.

"I imagine you do," said Snape lowly, "as your curse last month would have taken Mister Potter's or Miss Granger's life, were it not for that selfsame countercharm."

A charged silence descended over the room.

"Well, here he is, Miss Granger," said Snape. "He aimed for your friend, but he nearly killed you. What do you have to say to that? Care to aim a Sectumpsempra his way? I feel certain – well, almost certain – that he can block it."

Hermione blinked a few times in confusion, hair flyaway today and giving her a general air of perplexity. "Professor?"

"You have an instructor-sanctioned moment of revenge, Miss Granger – you aren't even breaking the rules. Think of how blithely he nearly became a murderer. Grand gestures in the Great Hall aside, he doesn't even seem sorry, does he? He still struts up and down the corridors as though it matters nothing to him that he nearly ended you."

"Nearly!" Hermione blurted. "It was nearly, and I – I forgave him," she said.

Severus threw back his head and barked a laugh. "Did you! Did you, now."

"I did. I do!" she said, then turned to face Draco. "I know it was a mistake –"

"But Mister Malfoy has said, many times, that the life of a Mudblood means nothing to him," Snape said. "Haven't you heard him say as much, Miss Granger?"

"I – yes," she admitted. "I have, but –"

"But what?" Severus pressed her.

"Stop it!" Harry shouted suddenly, standing.

"Silencio!" Snape encanted, without turning to look, following it with a Protego of his own that slammed Harry back in his seat, followed by a wordless Sticking Charm. "Well, Miss Granger?"

Tears stood in Hermione's eyes. "But I supposed he wasn't truly cruel enough to mean it," she said. "That he was showing off for his friends, because he thinks that's the kind of talk they respect." She gazed out over the silent, gaping classroom, before shooting Professor Snape an icy glare. "The same way that you think this is the best way to convey your authority, even though it's not; and that's why I'll forgive you, as well. Eventually," she sniffed.

"Miss Granger is very level-headed," Severus said, turning to the class. "Very level-headed, and very logical. What do you think?" Professor Snape said, coldly. "Who lives through the war, then? Is it Mister Malfoy?... or is it Miss Granger?"

Lavender Brown clapped her hands over her mouth, and Parvati was surreptitiously wiping at her eyes with the trailing sleeve of her robes.

"If it were a just world," said Snape. "Good, open-minded, logical people such as Miss Granger would triumph. But it won't be Miss Granger," he went on, "because she cannot force herself to imagine a world where views like Mister Malfoy's are sincere. And because she cannot, she refuses to fight him. It's quite the gamble." He turned to Hermione. "Raise your wand, Miss Granger. If you won't, he will. Look at him. He despises you. Don't you, Mister Malfoy?"

Ron turned his attention to Draco Malfoy for the first time. He looked just as bewildered as Hermione did, and Ron knew immediately that Professor Snape had no more prepared him for this moment than he had prepared Hermione.

"Well, Mister Malfoy?" Snape said. "She's a Mudblood, isn't she? Standing in front of you with her wand low. Won't you strike first? You heard her – she's a fool, projecting her storybook ideals onto you. You know who's stronger, don't you? You know what strength is. What stays your hand?"

Malfoy frowned and blinked, as though even he wasn't quite sure of the answer to that question. He stared into Hermione's eyes across the classroom, and shook his head a few times.

"What, Mister Malfoy? You won't? You can't? Which is it?"

"I won't," he suddenly said, dropping out of stance. "I won't, I won't, I won't."

He kept staring at Hermione, trembling all over, and she kept staring back at him. A flush rose on both their cheeks, as though their upset were pressing down some invisible, synchronized scale.

Then, as if on cue, Hermione and Draco burst into simultaneous tears.

And Severus conjured them both chairs and pressed them down into them; Hermione flinched as he touched her, but he refused to give way until she was seated.

"Miss Granger," he said, in a very different voice. "Can you explain to the class why you're weeping?"

"He – he – he really won't," she said into her hands.

"Miss Granger is weeping because she did doubt whether or not Mister Malfoy would hex her," Severus told the class. "She made the choice not to hex him and gambled on Mister Malfoy's inherent good nature. And she won. Twenty points to Gryffindor."

Snape cancelled the Silencio on Harry. "Mister Potter, did it sound to you as though I were entreating Mister Malfoy to harm your friend?"

"Yes," Harry growled.

"Mister Malfoy respects me, doesn't he, Potter?"

Harry blinked. "Yes..."

"Yes or no, Potter, I'm curious."

"Yes," Harry said, but he sounded wary, now.

"But he refused an order to harm Miss Granger, even though it came from my lips."

Silence.

"Potter? Did he or didn't he?"

"Yes," said Harry, and turned to look at Malfoy.

"Today, Mister Malfoy refused an order with which he disagreed, even though it came from someone he respects, in a classroom: a setting in which he has been conditioned to obey orders. Twenty points to Slytherin."

Malfoy, like Hermione, seemed unable to look up, but he flinched when the points were awarded.

"We are not playing games in this class," Severus said quietly. "In Defense, we must be honest, as in Potions we must be precise. Without that honesty, you shan't improve. Without improvement, you will die. The war is here. We have seen its first casualty, and he was not spared because he was young, or kind, or popular. Your Defense professors up to this moment might be described as a joke," he said, lacing his fingers behind his back, "if the punchline weren't your violent and ignoble deaths. From this moment on, I intend to train you seriously. This is what 'seriously' looks like. Well? Are you prepared to try?"

There was a moment of dazzled silence.

Then, "yes," Hermione said through her tears, and the rest of the class agreed, though Pansy and some of the other Slytherins looked dazed while doing so, as though they weren't quite sure how things had turned around so fast.

"Ah, one more thing," said Snape. "You will find that the doorway has been painted with a very particular potion. As you passed through the arch on your way in, you were bounded to discuss nothing of what has occurred here, in either word or look or deed. I am afraid that, if you wish to discuss homework assignments, you will have to do so within the confines of this room. Nor will you be able to take your notes with you, Miss Granger."

Hermione was gathering herself, wiping under her eyes. "B-because what we learn here is a secret?" she said.

"Do you think it wise for everyone to know that Mister Malfoy would not hex you, even when a teacher importuned him to do so? You will learn things about one another in this class," Severus said, "that only comrades-in-arms ought to know. You will need one another if you are to succeed. No need to look quite so shocked, Miss Parkinson," Severus said. "I am told that the Deputy Headmistress gave a stirring talk about togetherness and unity. I am hardly interested in such abstracts. I am interested in whether you are able to work together to become a fighting unit, because whether or not you work well together will mean the difference between life and death someday. Someday soon. Isn't that right, Mister Weasley?"

Ron took in a sharp breath. "I guess so, sir," he said.

"You will not dissemble here, Mister Weasley," Snape said. "Try again."

"Absolutely it will, sir," said Ron, gripping his wand tightly. He'd seen people die in battle because they couldn't trust in one another.

Harry shot him a betrayed look.

"You will spend the rest of the period practising Protego," said Severus quietly. "Join together in pairs. Miss Granger, please stay with Mister Malfoy; you are both excused from participating. Ah! But you didn't even see the spell cast, did you?" he said, the first hint of warmth entering his voice as he gazed back at Hermione and Draco, looking wrecked and dazed and rumpled. "Watch me very closely, now: Protego," said Snape, and cast against the wall; a concussive force pushed forward, ruffling the parchment on Hermione's desk.

"Now," said Severus, "let's see what you can do."

When class ended, even the Gryffindors who hated Severus could cast a weak Protego, and the more intuitive students could slam each other backwards with abandon.

"Miss Granger, Mister Malfoy, Mister Weasley, Mister Longbottom, Miss Parkinson," said Snape as the other students trailed away, speaking in hushed voices; Harry stayed behind even though Severus hadn't 'invited' him.

"Miss Parkinson," Severus said, "hand me your parchment, please."

Pansy's eyes were wide with innocence. "Which parchment, sir?"

"The parchment in your left robe pocket, Miss Parkinson," Severus said, patiently – for him.

"I'm sure I don't know –"

"Accio Miss Parkinson's betrayal of her peers," Severus said, and to Ron's surprise, the specific appellation netted Professor Snape a small, neatly-folded bit of thick, creamy paper. "Miss Parkinson, if you cannot stick to the rules, perhaps you ought to find a private tutor. Think about it between now and next Thursday."

When she continued staring up at him hatefully, Severus's lips twitched. "You're dismissed, Miss Parkinson."

She stomped off, Severus staring after her impassively until she slammed the door behind her.

"Mister Weasley, Mister Longbottom. You seem to have mastered Protego fastest of all the class."

Neville looked nervous. "I'm sure other people did it better –"

"Are you questioning my judgement, Mister Longbottom?"

Neville shuffled his feet, then smiled shyly. "I guess not, Professor," he said.

"I expect you to tutor any Gryffindors who didn't quite manage. Particularly focus on Miss Patil and Mister Finnegan; Mister Finnegan's casting was strong, but went wild a number of times."

"Yes, sir," said Neville.

"Mister Weasley?"

"You know I will. Sir," said Ron.

"Very well. You're dismissed."

Ron eyed Neville, then turned his attention to where Hermione and Draco were loitering, waiting their turn.

"Did I stutter, Mister Weasley?"

"Er, no. Sir. But I'd like to walk Hermione out, and make sure Malfoy's okay, too."

"Stand by the door, then, like Mister Potter, if you cannot contain your concern," Severus said, making a shooing motion.

Ron retreated to the door and watched as Severus approached the pair, looking for all the world as though he were doing just as Ron wanted to, and making sure they were okay. He spoke in a voice too low for Ron or Harry to hear, but occasionally Hermione or Draco, or both, nodded. Once, Draco's features squinched up as though he would like to cry again, but he mastered himself and gave one last, sharp nod before barreling out into the hallway, shoving against Harry's shoulder and popping out of the classroom like a cork from a bottle.

"What did he say, Hermione?" Harry whispered as the three boys ushered Hermione from the classroom.

Hermione's features were dry, now, and oddly serene. "He asked if I'd make the same gamble with the other Slytherins. He made me promise I wouldn't." She sniffed, then turned to the other three. "I think – I think that was the best lesson ever," she said with a dawning, blinding grin.

"Mental," said Ron, "or else he's Legilimized you."

"He's whatted me?" Hermione queried, still grinning. "Oh, wasn't it marvellous?"

"Hermione, he humiliated you in public," Harry countered as they made their way down to supper.

"I think I get to decide whether I'm 'humiliated', thanks much," Hermione tartly replied.

"It looked really scary though," Neville chimed in.

"It was really scary," Hermione agreed, "but I suppose it wouldn't be a really good Defense lesson if it weren't, would it? Crouch was a Death Eater, but he had one thing right: to be good at Defense, you have to be a little scared, or you wouldn't take it seriously."

"What did he say to Malfoy?"

Hermione tilted her head to one side as though listening for something. "I wouldn't tell you anyway, but honestly I don't think I can say. What a very odd feeling...!"

As they turned the corner, they found that much of the Gryffindor and Slytherin fourth-years were standing around in a large knot. "What's all this?" Hermione said.

"Just checking to see if you were still alive," Seamus quipped, but the other Gryffindors seemed genuinely worried; Lavender threw herself at Hermione, who only barely managed to catch her with a whoomph.

"Oh, Hermione!" she wailed. "Are you all right?" she drew back. "Tell us you're all right!"

"I'm all right, I'm all right," Hermione assured Lavender as she pulled back. "Never better, really."

"For Snape to single you out like that!" Parvati sympathized. "To force you to face your attacker. It's got to be just terrible."

"Hermione doesn't want to talk about it!" Lavender exclaimed. "It was traumatic! Poor Hermione," she added, stroking Hermione's hair. "You've had such a rough year."

Hermione stepped back. "I've had a rough year," she repeated. "Goodness, Lavender, do you really think I'm the one having a 'rough year'?"

Lavender smoothed her robes-front. "My mother says that you can have a bad time of it without competing. I mean, it's allowed to be a hard year for you and for Cho, and for Cedric's dad."

Hermione's throat worked. "Oh. Well. Thank-you, Lavender," she said primly. "But I'm really quite all right."

"And my mother also says you don't always have to be all right," Lavender said.

"Oh. Well, thank you, Lavender," said Hermione, and it seemed suddenly she wasn't quite sure where to look; but then she said, "did you see where Malfoy went?"

"Down to Slytherin," said Blaise Zabini, emerging from the knot of students. "It didn't look like he was going to eat."

"Harry, Ron, Neville, you go on ahead," said Hermione.

"Are you seriously going to Slytherin right now?" Harry said. "After that? Malfoy might decide he's perfectly happy to hex you where there aren't witnesses."

Hermione considered this. "Lavender, Parvati, you'll come with me, won't you?"

"Lavender!" Harry scoffed.

"Yes, Harry, Lavender," Hermione said, hooking her arm through the other girl's. "Lavender was quite good at Protego, weren't you, Lavender?"

"I was," Lavender confirmed. "Fast, too."

"At least let some of the blokes go," said Seamus. "For protection, like."

The three girls turned identical looks of scorn onto Seamus. "Come along," Hermione ordered, and they disappeared down the hallway.

"Think we should follow them?" Harry whispered.

Ron shook his head. "I think they'll catch Malfoy before he actually gets to Slytherin, in which case it's three against. And I also think if we chase after them, Hermione will never get to have whatever chat she's got to have with Malfoy."

Harry eyed him. "In a perfect world, she'd be the one to hex him, now no one's looking," he said sadly.

"In a perfect world," Ron agreed.

Chapter Text

It was like Severus Snape was two entirely different professors.

Oh, his sour personality didn’t alter one jot, but his Defense lessons would have been the talk of the school – that was, if anybody could’ve talked about them.  Ron passed a gaggle of third-years outside of the Defense classroom the next day looking pale and jittery, saying,

“...did you see when he?”

“ – with the --!”

“ – when he,” said one, with a strange gesture of something flipping through the air.

“Could you?”

“Not yet.”

Then they sighed in happy, exalted unison.

But somehow, the spark of intrigue that Snape breathed into their Defense lessons remained totally absent from his Potions instructions: he remained irritable, easily exasperated, and bored by their mistakes.

The other hot topic was, of course, the Yule Ball.      

The truth was, if Ron had his pick of friends for the Yule Ball, he would’ve gone with Ginny.  She deserved one, glittering night of simple fun more than most; but going with his sister might imply that only someone related to Ginny would ever care to invite her.  His second choice was Hermione, but even Ron knew that going to a ball as ‘just friends’ with a girl you’d turned down was especially cruel.  Luna would have been ideal; she tended to take things on face value, and so if he told her that he wanted to go as friends, she would probably have believed him.  Unfortunately, he was pretty sure they’d not yet been introduced.

“Why have they got to travel in packs?” Harry murmured as a cadre of Beauxbaton girls swept by in their beautiful, caped uniforms.  “How’re you meant to get one on her own to ask her anything?”

“A girl doesn't want you to get her alone,” Ron offered absently, wondering if he should try and ask Fleur Delacour again.  After all, he knew she’d turn him down, and that would at least give the appearance he was trying his best.  “Any idea who you’re going to ask?”

Harry fell predictably silent.

“Seriously,” said Ron.

Harry sighed.  “I can’t ask Cho.  She’s crying all the time.  I guess she really liked Cedric.  I mean, I’d like to ask her anyway, just to be nice, but I don’t want to be insensitive.”

“Maybe you should ask her if she’d like to go as a friend,” Ron said.  “She could probably use a friend.”

“But that’d be a lie, because I really like her, and I don’t want us to just be friends,” Harry said, removing his glasses and rubbing at the bridge of his nose, and Ron was reminded again of how very young he was – and how very good.

Ron clapped him on the back.  “You’ll find someone, mate,” he said.  “I know you will.  Hogwarts Champion, remember?”

Harry gazed woefully at a bunch of yellow-scarved girls as they twittered past.  “The only Hogwarts champion left, anyway,” he murmured.

With the Room of Requirement closed to him until Harry and Hermione lost interest in the mysterious Curator, Ron focussed on the other Horcruxes.

It took surprisingly little to manipulate Harry into arranging a visit to Grimmauld Place.

“It’s Sirius’s,” Ron said.  “I found it in a book –”

“Will wonders never cease!” said Hermione.

“Hey,” Ron groused.  “Anyway, it should have all kinds of cool stuff to look at.  Let’s go out next Hogsmeade weekend – no one will know.”

“Ron, this is highly irresponsible,” Hermione protested.  “In case it had escaped your notice, Harry nearly was killed the last time he left Hogwarts.”

“This is an old Wizarding House, Hermione, and it’s Unplottable, anyway.  Perfectly safe,” Ron assured her, and then was put in the odd position of explaining what ‘Unplottable’ meant, to Hermione Granger of all people.

“I just don’t see what's got you so interested all of a sudden,” said Hermione.

Ron was already storyboarding a tale of how Harry really needed a solid connection with his godfather right now, but Hermione either didn’t see his speaking look, or was pretending not to notice it.

“I just thought it’d be fun,” Ron tried, aiming his story at Harry, instead.  “Let us think about something else for a change, you know?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, that spark of adventure kindling in his too-green eyes.  “I think it’s a great plan.  Let’s do it!”

“Wicked,” Ron opined, giving himself a mental high-five.

“All right,” Hermione said, predictably giving in once it appeared Harry and Ron were determined.  “I suppose a trip is a reasonable reward for doing well on our end-of-term exams.”

When Harry and Ron stared, Hermione’s eyes widened.

“Honestly!” she said.  “Next Friday is end of term?  All of our exams will be next week.”  She offered up her most censorious look.  “You will study with me until that time, Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley.  If you don’t work hard, I may just consider letting McGonagall know about your weekend plans.”

And although Ron knew that she would do no such thing, he rolled his eyes at Harry and acquiesced with good grace.

Exams were stressful.  This was also like saying that the sky was blue and water was wet.  But they were especially stressful for Ron.

He likely could’ve aced Charms, Potions, and Defense with one hand tied behind his back, but in Charms he had to be cautious about displaying the right degree of skill.  Charms were hard to do halfway – a Wizard either could perform, or he couldn’t – and it wasn’t as though Ron had been an idiot at Charms before.  He carefully flipped through his notes and chose three Charms that he would deliberately miscast if called upon to produce them.

Potions was another matter.  Though Hermione studied feverishly and insisted Ron do as well, it was a wasted effort for him.  His field experience coupled with his more recent grounding in Potions theory, reinforced by marking others’ papers and exams meant that Potions now made an inherent sort of sense to him.  Hermione’s insistence on memorizing every bullet point rather than treating the subject as a conceptual whole was a constant irritant.  Ron twitched with wanting to correct her.

“Honestly, Ron!” Hermione said, the third time he spaced out when the three of them were studying the subject.  “If you don’t focus... what are you even looking at?”

They were seated in stuffed chairs around the Gryffindor fireplace, a few other students listening in to Hermione with half an ear; she did always seem to know what sorts of questions each professor liked to ask, Ron supposed.

“Just – can’t we move on to History or something, anything else?” he murmured.

Hermione followed his line of sight to the clever spider who had been creating a web in the far corner of the room.  “Is that distracting you?” she whispered.

Ron sighed.  “Is what distracting me?”  Hermione had stopped he and Harry from talking Quidditch, Ron from playfully bending a paperclip, and Ron from turning rebelliously to his other notes three times.

“The spider,” Hermione said, and Harry whipped his attention over to the far corner of the room as well.

“I don’t like ‘em but I hardly think one can jump this far,” Ron said.

“But you’ve been staring at it this whole time?” Hermione said.

“She’s been building that web for about an hour,” Ron replied.  “She’s not bothering anybody,” he tacked on, defensively.  “I’m kind of over the spiders thing, to be honest.”

“Kind of over it?” Hermione said, eyeing Harry. 

One time, we were in a foxhole and there was a nest of them.  Hermione, you cast a really useful repelling Charm, good on you, but Severus could tell I was about to go into a panic.  He ploughed into my mind, found the memory of the twins Transfiguring my toy bear into a great spider, and yanked it out like a rotten tooth.

“I still don’t like them,” said Ron, which was true.  “But this far away, they don’t really bother me so much anymore.”

“Well,” said Hermione, “getting a D in Potions might bother you, or at the very least might bother Mrs Weasley, so how about you answer some questions for me before you go run off some energy on the Quidditch pitch?”

It was excruciating, but Ron made himself mess up three times before Hermione finally relented and acknowledged that this was as good as Ron would ever get at Potions.

When Harry and Ron reached the Quidditch pitch, however, the Slytherins were racing about gleefully, practising some kind of mid-air twist that made Ron’s stomach lurch to look at, their dark green robes whipping in the wind.  “Come on,” Ron said tiredly, not eager for a confrontation.  “Let’s do a few laps around the Lake, at least.”

Queerly, it was the most Ron had struggled emotionally since his first week in this time and place.

Deeply, intrinsically, he wanted to do well on exams.  He’d always wanted to do well on his exams, but never felt as though good marks were in reach, before.  Now he looked at his Herbology exam, realized that he knew three-quarters of the Latin names by heart because of wandering the wilderness with Severus Snape and because of Potions class, and had to stick his hand in his hair and give a sharp tug to prevent himself from answering them all correctly.

Care of Magical Creatures was easier – all the questions were on Blast-Ended Skrewts and were easy enough for Crabbe and Goyle to do well – but the practical portion required a pratfall or two so that he didn’t look too quick on his feet, or too clever.

Divination was the expected joke, but because Ron hadn’t been able to work at the previous two exams, he found himself devoting an inordinate amount of time to writing a detailed, symbolic analysis of tea dregs and moon signs’ influence on fate.  He knew he could get an ‘O’ and laugh it off as Trelawney’s madness, which was weirdly freeing.

“Three exams in one day!” Hermione said, looking refreshed as she met Harry and Ron at supper.  “Invigorating, wouldn’t you say?”

Ron was in a dark and foul mood and so only stabbed at his potatoes; Harry offered him an encouraging, sympathetic smile.

“How did it go, Ron, Harry?” Hermione said, cautiously.

“Fine,” said Ron.

“If,” Hermione ventured, “you aren’t satisfied with your scores, maybe remembering this will help you work a little harder next time.  You really can’t do well if you haven’t studied at least a few weeks in advance.  Not for every exam, you know, but for the term exams –”

Ron threw down his fork and stormed off, feeling as though if he remained, he would scream.

“...do you think he failed them?” he heard Hermione ask Harry before he was out of range.

Tuesday provided a bit of a break; they had Potions and History of Magic, both of which they also had on Friday – and even Snape was giving them the time to revise.  Unfortunately, Hermione insisted on continuing to quiz him and Harry, while Neville shuffled through his notes and issued occasional moans of despair.

“Come on, Harry,” she chided.  “It doesn’t matter how you feel about Snape personally.  If you want to be an Auror, you need to be able to pass Potions.”

“Maybe he doesn’t,” Ron said.  “I’m pretty sure that they’ll accept Harry as an Auror just ‘cause he’s Harry Potter, no matter what Snape says.”

Harry’s expression of boredom firmed into determination and he bent with new fervour over his notes.  When Hermione looked up at Ron, brows raised, he winked.

She looked startled for a split second, then returned the smile.  “Ron, what’s a bezoar for?”

“Dunno,” Ron said, flipping idly through his notes.

“Ron!” she exclaimed.  “You made a joke about bezoars last week!”

Ron blinked.  “What?  Oh, bezoars.  Yeah, from a goat.  For poison.”

“Are you even trying?” she hissed.  “Wake up!”

“Sorry, Hermione,” Ron said.

“You’re driving me batty, Ronald,” she growled.

“Sorry,” Ron said a bit more earnestly.  “Frankly, all this studying is driving me up the wall a little, too.  I don’t mean to be ungrateful.  I know you’re trying to help.”

Hermione’s expression of irritation smoothed.  “It’s all right, Ron.  Just ... try to focus, will you?”

“Sure,” Ron said.

“So, what is wormwood’s Latin name?”

“Artemisia,” said Ron.

“Artemisia what?”

It doesn’t really matter; most of the species are equivalent, magically and medicinally.  “Artemisia annua,” he said.

“See?” Hermione enthused.  “You really can do it... so long as you apply yourself.”

With Wednesday came Charms, and Ron was bound and determined not to succeed on the three charms he’d predetermined, no matter how hard Hermione worked to instruct him.

But Hermione seemed baffled that Ron, who was normally quite good at Charms, seemed unable to cast Silencio all of a sudden.  Ron had chosen it because it was a charm he knew he’d learned in fifth year, and perhaps it was a bit advanced.  But Hermione seemed to feel that, if she slowed the wand movement down enough, or came at her instruction from enough different angles, Ron would have no choice but to catch on.

So it was a battle of wills: Hermione Granger’s stubborn helping-people streak up against Ron’s determined ignorance.

Harry seemed to have mastered Silencio ages ago, and alternated between trying out other charms on their exams, and gazing at the pair of them in consternation.

Ron was beginning to realize that he was starting to look thick, even for him, but he couldn’t help but stick to the path he’d chosen.  Likely he was approaching burnout from all the stress, and had lost a little flexibility along the way – like a broken record that can’t help playing the same few notes. 

Or won’t play the same few notes... whichever.

“Look,” Hermione said, bewildered irritation colouring her voice, “you’re still holding your wand at the wrong angle.  Remember, we said like you’d hold a quill?  If you’d just listen to me –”

“When are you going to get that I just can’t do it?” Ron burst forth.

“All right,” Hermione said with would-be calm.  “How about we try some Cheering Charms?”

An insult on two levels: Ron’s determined study of what he should and shouldn’t know informed him that this was a third year charm, and a none-too-subtle hint that he needed to calm the fuck down.

“I’m going for a walk,” said Ron, and escaped the classroom, Hermione calling after him that it was the middle of class.

Ron broke out into a run and then withdrew his fresh bottle of Aequus aquas from his inner cloak pocket and took a small swig, waiting until his heart slowed down.  He looked up to find an out-of-breath Hermione just coming around the corner.

“I’m... really sorry,” she panted.  “I just... I only want you to do well.  You’re so clever, Ron, if you focussed you’d be almost as good at school as me.”

Ron tried very hard not to say something unwise.  “You just care about it a bit more than I do, Hermione.”

That wasn’t saying much.  Everyone cared less about schoolwork than Hermione Granger.

“I know, and I’m trying to accept that what you value and what I value is just as valid,” Hermione said punctiliously.  “But it’s hard.  Because it runs counter to what I value... do you see?”

“Yes,” said Ron, “and I’m not angry with you.”  Now go away, he thought bitterly, so I can mope in peace.

Poor Hermione seemed to hear the spoken as well as the unspoken words and slouched off, so that guilt churned in Ron’s gut, making him feel even more at loose ends than before.

The Transfiguration exam on Thursday had a very short, to-the-point series of questions that Ron would have been hard-pressed to misinterpret, and since his scores in Transfiguration had always been passable, he allowed himself to answer most of them correctly.

For the practical, each person was required to complete a species-to-species Transfiguration, and some were more successful than others; Hermione had Transfigured her dormouse into a fluffy chick perfectly, and Harry had done almost as well, only keeping the colour of the chick’s feathers a dusky grey.  Ron was the last to go up, and by the time he did, his heart was beating so fast he knew he needed his potion, but could absolutely not reach for it in public; and somehow through his shaking hands and his pattering heart and his dizziness, he had to do a feat with Transfiguration he had never managed as an adult: a cross-species Transfiguration improperly on purpose. 

Perhaps it wasn’t so difficult he shouldn’t just manage it perfectly; or he could pretend to be unable to do it at all.  Later, Ron would think of this, but just as before, his stress levels had gone so wildly out of control that all he could do was stick to his original plan: the plan he had made when he was a bit more clear-headed.

He approached McGonagall’s desk and cupped the dormouse between his palms.  Help me out here, he thought at it.  He drew his wand and thought very firmly of a strange, composite creature with a fluffy duckling’s head and body, and tiny, delicate mouse-feet.

Ron channelled this image through the wand with a strength and narrowness of focus so intense that the rest of the classroom ceased to exist.  Then, he fed that power delicately through the wand, because the dormouse was such a sweet-looking, tiny thing and he desperately did not wish to hurt it.

The now-chick peeped in dismay as it tipped over onto its beak, its queerly-shaped dormouse-feet unable to support it at the proper angle; it continued to chirrup in distress as it flailed helplessly.

“Oh, nearly, Mister Weasley,” said McGonagall.  “Next time, be sure you are picturing the whole animal.”

“Yes, Professor,” Ron said dizzily.  He carefully deposited the mouse into the witch’s hands and moved back to his seat as if in a dream.

“It’s all right,” Hermione hissed at him.  “It’s going to be all right, you did fine.”

Ron nodded and focused hard on the front of the room.

Ron woke to Harry jostling him, Neville eyeing him worriedly over Harry’s shoulder.

“C’mon, Ron, or you’ll miss the Defense exam,” Harry said.

It took a moment for Ron to recall that, after the Transfigurations exam, he’d told Hermione he was going back to his room to sleep until Defense.

“You slept right through lunch,” said Neville, “so I brought you a sandwich.”

Ron sat up and rubbed at his face, blearily.  “May Merlin’s power smile on you, Neville,” Ron said, and rolled out of bed to accept the sandwich, thick with roast beef, which he hated, but smiled through anyway.  Sustenance was sustenance.

“What sort of exam d’you think Professor Snape is going to give?” Neville asked, worriedly.  “We’ve barely had him for two lessons.”

“He said it’d be based on what Moody taught us,” Harry said, dubious.

“Yes, but what was that?” said Neville.

“I guess even Crouch probably made plans for an end-of-term exam,” Ron said.  “Maybe he’ll just use that.”

But Ron doubted it.

By the time they arrived, Ron was licking the last of the crumbs off of his fingers and everyone else was already seated, quills out; the exam papers were face-down at every table.  He and Neville scrambled to their seats, while Harry tried to look like he was sauntering casually, while simultaneously travelling twice as swiftly as he usually did.  When Ron sat down, the paper did not dislodge, stuck face-down to the table with what Ron could only presume was a Sticking Charm.

“Welcome,” Severus Snape said, with an appropriate air of drama, “to your Defense Against the Dark Arts end-of-term exam.”

Ron could swear he heard the entire class gulp simultaneously.

“Wands out,” said Snape, and Ron frowned, but complied along with all the other students.  “The first session will be written only, and will consist of three complete scenarios,” he said, walking around the classroom and collecting each student’s wand.  “Due to the... vigorous nature of a Defense practical, I will not call students up individually as some of your professors do.  You will have from the starting bell until the break to complete your written portion to the best of your ability.  After that, the papers will Banish to my desk.  At the next bell, we will commence with the practical.”

Ron was, as he often was in Severus’s presence, rather impressed in spite of himself.

 “Due to something of a wager between myself and the Deputy Headmistress, your exam papers have an additional Charm with help from both herself and Professor Flitwick.  An additional percentage point to anyone who can guess its nature before the exam is through.”

Ron and Harry eyed each other; so far as Ron knew, Snape had never given an extra credit point to a student in his entire history as a professor.

The bell rang and, with a whisper, all the papers in the room came unstuck from their respective tables.  Ron flipped his paper over and swiftly wrote his name at the top, then read the first question.

1. You and two of your friends approach a Whomping Willow. What is the best way to avoid a broken leg?

Ron blinked, looking around in consternation.

“Eyes on your own paper, Mister Weasley,” said Snape.

Ron frowned, but gamely dipped his quill in the inkpot again, and scribbled, The Whomping Willow on Hogwarts grounds has a special knot that stills its branches for a brief period of time, as you well know.  I’d aim a ‘Protego’ at the spot, or else a Tickling Charm.

Ron paused, then added, On second thought, I’d turn around.  The best way to avoid a broken leg is not to try to get past a bloody Whomping Willow!

He felt this was a better answer, actually, because the question had never stated that he and his friends had to get past the Willow, only that they were approaching it.  The question could be a kind of lateral thinking puzzle.

2. But presuming you did have to go past it, and used those spells to do so, and attained entrance to a secret passage, and found a convicted murderer inside the Shrieking Shack, what would be your next course of action?

Ron wrote This is an adaptive test, and there is a Charm on it that suits it to the pupil at the top of the page.

Then, he wrote, Seriously, Severus, is this where we’re going?  You’re not going to manage to convince me that you didn’t infuse your personality into the bloody page if you go on like this for much longer.

Anyway, I would cast ‘Expelliarmus’, in case he had a wand, followed by ‘Incarcerus’ and ‘Petrificus Totalis’, he wrote, then paused. Then I reckon I’d call for you, actually.  Provided my “two friends” could be convinced to see sense.

3. Excellent decision, Mister Weasley: here I am. Unfortunately, the convicted felon in question has started to protest his innocence. Your friends seem on the verge of believing him.  What is the best course of action?

Ron knew the bloody answer to this one. Call for backup before doing anything else, he wrote.  Dumbledore, maybe, or Nymphadora Tonks.  Then ask my Potions Professor if he happens to have any Veritaserum, or if he will consent to brew some.

4. Professor Snape has some Veritaserum in his possession; he appears to have been so overcome by rage that he did not recall it was in his pocket. When he administers it to the murderer, the murderer continues to profess his innocence. What is the best course of action?

Ron refused to be fooled. Bullshit, he wrote, somewhat gleefully.  Ask Severus to use Legilimency to be sure, and to look for mental tampering.  People who believe their lies are still wrong.

5. Professor Snape uses Legilimency and discovers that the man is a Death Eater Polyjuiced and Mind-Tampered in order to pass as the escaped convict Sirius Black. Just as you, your friends, and Professor Snape exit the Whomping Willow to deliver the imposter to justice, you hear the howl of a werewolf. What is the best course of action?

Ron flinched.  He was very glad that he hadn’t presumed that this scenario was an exact replica of his own, third-year experience.  To his surprise, as he pondered what to do next, a countdown timer appeared in Severus’s lacy handwriting in the upper, right-hand corner of the page.  Presumably, the imaginary werewolf was approaching. Silver, look for silver, he wrote.

You have nothing silver in your possession, appeared below his response.  The timer continued ticking down.

Does Severus have Wolfsbane? Ron scribbled.

He assures you that he does not carry every potion in the universe on his person.

Shitshitshit, Ron thought, then got an intriguing idea.

Can I see the werewolf yet? 

Yes; it is mounting the hill just now.

Wait.

Surely you’re joking, Mister Weasley.

Wait.

The werewolf is almost upon you.

Cast ‘Protego’ at the knot on the Whomping Willow.  Then, run.

For a moment, nothing appeared on the page; then all of Severus’s questions and Ron’s responses sank into the page.

Scenario 1 complete, despite the profanity, Mister Weasley.

Scenario 2:

6. You are alone in Hogwarts Castle late at night, save for the owner of a thin, high cry. What is the best course of action?

Ron stared down at the page.  This was different.  Ron was alone in all of Hogwarts Castle?  How did Severus even know that it was possible for the bustling Hogwarts Castle to be entirely empty someday, or as good as?  Or was the test a Legilimous object of some kind?

This was a seriously sophisticated spell.  It must’ve been some bet, to make Flitwick, McGonagall, and Severus work this hard, together.

Ron worried his lips between his teeth.

Use ‘Point Me’ to locate the source of the sound.

There is no such spell, Mister Weasley; - 3 points.

There is.  Hermione invented it this year; you heard her cast it.  You saw me cast it, at the First Task in the Triwizard.

The test did not reply anything at all for a moment; Severus cleared his throat, and when Ron looked up, the man was tapping his wand against a parchment before him.  At that moment, a response appeared.

7. ‘Point Me’ leads you down the hall, up three flights of stairs, and brings you face-to-ephemeral-face with a weeping ghost. What is the best course of action?

Ask it why it’s crying, Ron wrote.  Duh, Professor.

Believe it or not, Mister Weasley, some students would have said to exorcise the ghost straightaway.

Regardless, the ghost does not respond, only continues to weep, its head in its hands.

Look at the ghost, and look around.

The ghost continues to weep.  It was once a young man.  It is impossible to tell what colour hair he had in life, because it is now coloured silver; his face is hidden in his hands.  On the floor is a wand, a ring, and a cloak.  What is the best course of action?

Cast ‘Aurelius hexium’ on the three objects.

8. ‘Aurelius hexium’ reveals a Death Curse on all three objects.

Ron pondered a bit, and no timer appeared; this was not, apparently, a time-sensitive issue.

The ‘surface’ conclusion to draw was that the young man had carried these objects, and that the objects had cursed him to death.  But if that were the case, how did he reach the middle of the hallway before he was cursed?  Did he have some sort of protection charm that had worn off?  Was the curse on a time-delay?  What was the young man doing carrying them, anyway?  Finally, there was no body: just the ghost.  Ron supposed it was possible that the body had been carried away but the items left, due to their cursed nature.  But one would suppose that anyone thoughtful enough to carry the body away would have also put up some kind of warning.

It was all incredibly odd: the sort of locked-door mystery in a Sherlock Holmes novel, if Sherlock Holmes had believed in ghosts.

Don’t actually touch the objects, but reach towards the cloak, Ron wrote, wanting to see the reaction of the ghost.

Nothing happens.  What was that supposed to accomplish?

Okay, Ron reasoned.  The test was about Defense, and Defense was about knowing people.  If the scene didn’t make sense, perhaps that was because it was some kind of trick.  Maybe the wailing ghost’s sole purpose was to lure people to the cursed objects to kill them; if so, then walking away was the best course of action.

But something told Ron there was more to it.  If the ring, the cloak, and the wand were the Hallows, they were valuable objects and shouldn’t be left where they were for just anybody to find.  Moreover, something told him the ghost was not a mirage or a trick, but an actual ghost, and that if he could get it to talk – Defense is about people – then he would get full points.  Reaching for the objects didn’t seem to help distract the ghost, but maybe it wasn’t even aware he was doing so, if it had its head in its hands.

Tell the ghost a joke.

What on earth is wrong with you, Mister Weasley?

What do you call a Death Eater with one brain cell?

I’m going to regret this... what?

...gifted.

9. The ghost laughs. It lifts its head and it is clear for the first time that this is the ghost of Draco Malfoy. What is the best course of action?

Ron took in a shaky breath, raking his hand through his hair.  In some ways, chatting with a deceased Draco Malfoy was his speciality, and somehow the exam knew that a ghost Draco Malfoy was familiar to him, in the same way it had known that the puzzle of the convicted felon and Whomping Willow and werewolf was something he had encountered.  Why are you crying? Ron mouthed, and wondered if it were that simple.

Ask Draco why he’s crying.

“I don’t know, I don’t know, it hurts,” says the ghost.  “Why are you here, anyway, Weasel?”

It was one of the bad days, apparently, and the exam somehow knew Draco had those.  So Draco couldn’t tell him anything about the three cursed objects or why they were there, which was disappointing.  Ron surreptitiously checked the clock; they were three-quarters of the way through their normal classtime.

Suddenly, it came to Ron in a flash, and he wrote hastily.

Cast ‘Resolvere’ on the items.

10. Resolvere informs you that the Death Curse destroys the souls of ghosts. What is the best course of action?

Ron pumped his fist.  Just as he’d intuited, the ‘Death Curse’ was worded to make the reader assume it was a murdering curse, when in fact it was a curse that only worked on those touched by Death.  The items were a trap, but for Draco rather than for Ron.  His goal was now clear; he had to remove the items from the hallway, get them away from Draco.

Cast ‘Wingardium Leviosa’ on the items and remove them to the Room of Requirement.

Scenario 2 complete.  Shocking perspicacity Mister Weasley, simply shocking.

The words disappeared into the page, just as before, and now Ron’s page read,

Scenario 3:

11. You are standing in the middle of a field, curses flying every which-way; you do not remember how you came to be there. What is the best course of action?

DOWN! Ron scribbled swiftly.

12. You narrowly avoid a curse overhead. Congratulations, you are hugging the earth. What now?

Fuck it, okay, Ron wrote, heart racing.  Anyone I know around?  Do I at least bloody well know who I am?

You are Ronald Weasley, aged twenty, said Severus’s spidery hand, and seeing it in black and white gave Ron’s stomach a little jolt, like a missed step on the stair.  Neville Longbottom is at your left side, Ginevra Weasley off to your right.  Hermione Granger and Severus Snape are behind you, back-to-back.

Have I got my wand?

Wand intact.

Make my way to Severus and Hermione.  Lots of ‘Protego’ in every direction.

13. A Death Eater looms before you and raises his wand high over his head.

High over his head, Ron thought, there were only a few curses where a wizard would aim high.  He took a gamble.

Cast ‘Protego inimicum’ and ‘Protego totalis’.

14. The Death Eater’s Slicing Hex goes wildly awry and fells Ginny behind you, but she struggles to her feet a moment later. You have reached Severus and Hermione.

Ask Hermione for the Portkey.

Miss Granger does not have a Portkey.

Hermione’s always got a Portkey.

Just as the exam had when he suggested that he should cast ‘Point Me’, the paper said nothing for a long moment; Ron looked up to Severus who was clearly (somehow) tapping into what Ron had written so far.  Severus raised his eyebrows, gazed at Hermione for a moment, then tilted his head to one side and tapped the paper with his wand.

“It’s fallen out of my pocket!” she says, distressed.  “We can’t leave that way.”

Oh, please, Ron thought.  More like Severus didn’t like a deus ex machina ending like Hermione always being bloody prepared. 

If this challenge were anything like the other two, his companions weren’t really Severus and Hermione, or the Death Eaters weren’t really Death Eaters, or it was all a dream or something.  But just as before, Ron went with his gut: this time the scenario felt pretty much real.  The test went on to challenge his creativity in battle, describing a few tight spots that took some lateral thinking to come up with the right countercharms, but it really wasn’t anything like the others until the end of the battle.

15. Harry Potter emerges from the smoke of the battle, and jogs towards you. What is the best

PROTEGO, Ron scribbled swiftly, having a bad feeling about this.  Sure enough, Harry seemed to be possessed or under the Imperius Curse, which wasn’t likely considering Harry could resist it; Ron supposed that Severus wanted to know if he were willing to end his best friend on paper, but it was only an exam and didn’t have to mean anything.

Which made it funny that he kept trying to find ways around it.

Of course, the Imperius Curse was darned challenging to break from the outside unless you were the original caster, and when Ron tried to end the curse, the test replied,

Pull the other one, Weasley; it’s got bells on.

Lovely.

Ron cast Incarcerus, but Harry broke free; Petrificus totalis finally did the job, but the test wasn’t over. Ron knew it couldn't end so cleanly because Severus Snape just didn't think that way.  He chanced a glance up at the clock and there were only five minutes to the class remaining.

What if it wasn’t the Imperius Curse at all?  What if it was Voldemort himself, controlling Harry?  Ron knew that Voldemort had tried that on in fifth year, and if Ron knew, Ron was beginning to realize, the exam knew.

Ask Neville for the Sword of Gryffindor, and Severus Snape for some phoenix tears.

16. Neville hands you the Sword of Gryffindor. Severus Snape hands you a phial of shiny, silvery liquid. What is the best course of action?

Nick Harry with the Sword, not too deep, thanks.  Wait for the Horcrux to leave him.  Then, feed him phoenix tears.

Harry Potter screams as

At that moment the parchment disappeared off of Ron’s desk precisely as the clock struck the hour.

Ron felt pretty certain that he’d completed the last stage of the third challenge, but he wanted to read what happened next; it was like being presented with a good story and denied the resolution.  He set his quill down, hand cramping.

“You have ten minutes of break,” the true Severus said, at the front of the room.

“Holy shit,” Ron breathed, and stood; he had to press his hand to the table to prevent himself from falling over.  “Bloody hell,” he added, for good measure.

Suddenly, there was a buzz of consternation from every corner of the room.  “What was –?”  “Did you get a question about –?”  “How did it know that I –”

Hermione and Harry were making their way to him, post-haste.

“Are you all right?” Hermione whispered.  “That was... mad!”

“That was wicked,” Ron blurted, unable to help himself.  “D’you know what kind of Charms work that had to be?  What kind of Transfigurations work?  What d’you suppose the bet was?”

Harry’s lips formed a grim line.  “I overheard him talking to Professor McGonagall yesterday,” Harry admitted.  “She said that maybe he should stop blaming his students’ scores on his students and just admit he was a terrible professor.  He swore that we’d all do well if we stopped slacking just to spite him.”

Ron gawped for a moment and then burst into hysterical laughter, feeling as though something inside him had cracked open a little.

“Ronald, are you all right?” Hermione queried, sounding worried.

“It’s just – that sounds exactly like him,” Ron said, and even he wasn’t sure why that part was so funny.

“Anyway,” Harry said, eyeing Ron strangely before pressing on, “McGonagall told him to put his money where his mouth is.  She said she’d do Transfiguration work, and she basically volunteered Flitwick to help with Charms.”

“But what were they?” Hermione queried, her intellectual curiosity blazing.  “Now that we know what the test was like, how did they manage it?”

“One of the Charms had to be to make the material more interesting to the reader,” Ron said, “to make it apply to them, to things they’ve considered important in the past and challenges they’ve faced before.”

Hermione nodded.  “My first question was about the Sorcerer's Stone challenges, only they were much more difficult this time around.  But the familiar setting was engaging.”

Harry’s lips quirked.  “I’m pretty sure Ron’s more likely to have caught on to the other bit than you, Hermione.”

Ron shrugged.  “I thought the bit where the writing disappeared between sections was wicked, but that’s a pretty simple charm, I’ll bet even Malfoy could’ve handled that much...”

Harry frowned.  “No, no; I mean, when you decided you’d written enough, or the test was too hard, or you weren’t going to bother trying, anymore...”

“That never... I didn’t,” said Ron, slowly.  His plan to appear a bit dim hadn’t once entered his mind.  Sure, it was Severus, but he was writing things in public that no one should know he could knew.

“Exactly,” Harry said.  “I didn’t plan on trying that hard for Snape, to be honest, but I couldn’t put my quill down.  You really did have to show what you knew – no choice but full effort.  Don’t think it’s fair, really,” he added.  “Part of teaching is getting effort out of your students.  Snape has the interpersonal skills of a Blast-Ended Skrewt, so he’s got to resort to magic.”

“Well, I for one think it’s a marvellous idea,” Hermione said.  “We’ll see what you’ve both really learned, not what you think Professor Snape deserves to see.  Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face!”

“Cutting off Snape’s nose would be a favour,” Harry muttered.

A frightening thought drifted down through Ron’s consciousness.  “D’you think it’ll be the same for the practical?  D’you think the Charm’s on that part of the test, too?”

Hermione shook her head, but her words only unsettled Ron further.  “Not on the test itself, Ron, but likely on the room.  It’s probably time-delimited; I doubt that anyone could maintain a charm like that over a long period of time, even Professor Flitwick.”

What are you playing at, Severus?  Ron looked up to the front of the room, but Severus was sorting through the test papers, looking at the answers casually.  Well, if Hermione were right, there was nothing for it.

“Listen, er...” said Ron.  “There’s something I’ve got to tell you both.  You know how I’m... a chess player.  And.  I’m pretty good at it, yeah?”

“...sure,” Harry replied, exchanging a glance with Hermione.

“The thing is, if we’re really going to have to try our best on the practical – if the spell is going to make us – you’re going to notice that... well, the spells I can do...”

Hermione put her hand up to press against his arm.  “It’s all right, Ron.  It hasn’t been quite as much of a secret as you think.”

Ron blinked.

“I’m well aware,” she said, “of how students use the excuse of ignoring school and not caring very much in order to hide their perceived lack of ability.”

“What,” said Ron.

“It’s a confidence issue,” Hermione said lowly.  “If you try your hardest and still fail, that would feel awful; so it’s very important that you never try your hardest.”

The thing was, what Hermione was saying had been true about Ronald Weasley, aged fourteen.  Ron had felt small standing next to his famous best friend and the cleverest girl in school, and he was the youngest boy in his family, so it had always seemed to him that he was a hair slower and a step behind.  He’d protected himself from looking daft just the way Hermione was saying.

“Yeah, Hermione, okay,” Ron said, “but –”

“We’ll love you no matter what,” Hermione said, firmly.  “Pass or fail.”

Ron stared.  “Will you?  Okay.  Thanks.  Harry?”

“Yeah, er, mate, I’ll also love you no matter what,” Harry said with manufactured solemnity, light shining in his eyes.  Hermione elbowed him in the gut without turning to look, eyes smiling at Ron.

“Okay, well.  Okay,” Ron said, heart hammering in his chest.

The bell rang.

Chapter Text

"Miss Brown, please approach," Severus said.

Lav-Lav stood, looking woebegone. "Do I have to go first?" she whispered

"Since your surname is 'Brown', yes," Severus said dryly. "Show me your Protego, please."

Lavender raised her wand and cast at the wall.

"At me."

Lavender gulped, but knew better than to question her professor by this point. "All... right," she said, and aimed Protego at Professor Snape, who slid back a few steps.

"Do you know any other defensive spells, Miss Brown?"

"No," Lavender admitted.

"Please do sit down, then, Miss Brown."

Lavender sighed, but seated herself.

"Miss Bulstrode?"

And so it went. With their tutoring, all the students were able to cast Protego, and a few knew one or two other defensive charms as well.

When Severus got to Draco Malfoy, though, Malfoy cast Protego with insulting ease. After Draco demonstrated three defensive spells, Snape said, "do you duel, Mister Malfoy?" to which the young man responded, "yes, Professor."

"En garde," Severus replied dryly, and had taken Draco's wand before the blond could blink.

Harry merited the same treatment and showed his brilliant-white stag Patronus as one of his defensive spells; he also held onto his wand when Severus tried to take it from him, and they exchanged several blows before Severus managed to confiscate it. "Better luck next time, Mister Potter," he said as Harry fumed.

It was some kind of exquisite torture, awaiting his turn, Ron reflected, and when Severus finally called his name, he stood as if in a dream.

"Let's not play pretend, shall we, Mister Weasley?" said Severus, and saluted with his wand.

Ron did the same, and dropped his arm to hang loose at his side. A hissing murmur rose up in the students, but Ron paid them no heed.

"Expelliarmus!" Ron shouted, but Severus dodged; Ron circled around, then tackled him around the waist and grabbed his wand from his hand. "Seriously?" Ron said, holding both their wands in one fist.

But Severus wordlessly Summoned it back, and it was all Ron could do to keep his grip on his own.

"Confundus," Severus threw out, but Ron danced aside.

"Somnium valde," Ron returned, but –

"Protego!" Severus snarled, and the curse wheeled away harmlessly. "You're behaving, Mister Weasley, as though this is some sort of demonstration match. Let's see what you can really do."

"What I can really do," said Ron, and before the last words were out of his mouth, he was moving, battlefield-ready, using the slickness of the classroom floor to his advantage, sliding forward, taking Severus down with him and simultaneously casting Incarcerus followed by Silencio – why people didn't use that more in a fight, Ron would never know – followed by a Jelly Legs Jinx so that Severus went down like a sack of potatoes.

Severus blinked at him from the floor, then shifted his magical core like shrugging his shoulders, so that the spells fell away one by one.

Ron didn't alter his stance. He was under no illusions that the match was over until Severus said it was.

But apparently, Severus said it was; he saluted Ron again with his wand. Ron saluted automatically in return, and made his way back to his seat.

"Blaise Zabini," Professor Snape said.

"What. Was that?" Harry demanded the moment they were outside the room.

Ron eyed him and quirked a smile just as Hermione caught up to them, panting.

"What was what?" he inquired. "Did something interesting happen?"

"You know it did!" Hermione exclaimed.

"What?" Ron inquired, both brows lifted.

"Ooooh, Ronald Weasley!" she fumed. "You know we can't talk about it outside the classroom! That's not fair!"

"I can talk around it," Harry said grimly. "Snape knew," he said. "Snape knew you could do all that... stuff. And you never told us."

"It's chess," Ron said. "You sacrifice a few pieces at first, maybe, to look weak. Let your opponent think he's got you pegged. And then you change the game. Besides, you two said you'd love me no matter how I did. I heard you."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a baffled glance, and followed after Ron down the hallway to supper.

History of Magic went about as badly as Ron suspected it had the first time; all he knew was that goblins really seemed to like rebelling. He couldn't claim to know the difference between Oddwyll the Oddment or Jorah the Jubilant (though he seemed to recall the latter bathed in the blood of his enemies – or was that Anghrid the Ankle-Biter?) and he'd always found it difficult to focus on subjects in which he struggled to discern a use in everyday life.

"Well, that was... er, bracing," Hermione said as they departed. "You didn't ace this one like you did Defense, did you, Ron?" she asked, suddenly suspicious.

"No chance of that," Ron assured her, and she looked relieved, and then a bit guilty about being relieved. It was all Ron could do not to muss her hair.

Charms, thank Merlin, was a breeze: Ron had hammered it so thickly into his skull which spells he should and shouldn't be able to accomplish that he moved through the entire exam with only half his attention. He, Harry, and Hermione all finished swiftly, so they walked the halls for a bit before lunch and then ate before removing to Potions, Hermione chattering a mile a minute:

"He always gives the worst exams!" she moaned, hand to her heart.

"It's because he hates us," Harry said solemnly.

"...with impossible questions," Hermione went on as though Harry hadn't spoken, "that appear open-ended but he'll only admit to one right answer..."

"Hermione!" Ron laughed. "You'll be fine. You know he's full of hot air. What have you got in his class, an O-plus?"

Hermione grumbled something inarticulate.

"What?" Harry said, the light of mischief in his eyes. "I didn't quite catch that, Hermione."

"I said," she repeated through clenched teeth, "it's an E-plus."

"That's just wrong, that is!" Ron exclaimed, indignant on her behalf, even while part of him acknowledged his silent rivalry with Hermione in Potions was at its end. He had an O-minus, which meant that it was Malfoy who had the highest mark in class. "You work twice as hard as anybody –"

"And he never gives me a chance," Hermione confirmed. "It's always 'oh, Miss Granger puts herself forward' and 'if anyone would like to raise her hand whose first name isn't Miss and second isn't Granger,'" she huffed, and Ron and Harry laughed just as they entered the classroom; Severus, looking up, gave the tiny flinch of a man for whom overheard laughter had only ever meant one thing.

Ron, seeing it, wanted to smile reassuringly. But who was he to reassure Severus Snape? More to the point: what if the other students wondered who he was to reassure Severus Snape? He shuffled in place, scowling, before moving to find a seat beside Harry and Hermione; then he noticed that they had paused, staring at the board.

There was a seating chart chalked there, with Ron in the back, left-hand corner, Harry up front, and Hermione in the middle. Ron harrumphed and sat at the very back bench, feeling a tingle shoot through him as he rested both hands against the slate top. His gaze darted up to Severus, who must have been expecting this very thing, because he smirked at Ron before continuing whatever preparation professors did before an end-of-term exam.

Harry slung his bag noisily below his chair, huffing like sitting apart from his friends was a terrible injustice; Ron resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It wasn't like Hermione would allow them to cheat off of her anyway; she never did, no matter how younger Ron had begged. Hermione primly made her way to the centre table with studied calm, removing her quill and ink with overly-precise movements and arranging them symmetrically on her desk.

Neville came in looking harried. "Ron!" he said, hurrying to Ron's side as Severus still shuffled papers up front. "Antidotes, it'll be antidotes, won't it?"

"What?" said Ron, still focusing on the queer feeling running up both arms and out his toes, like an electric current.

"It's to be antidotes, I know it is," Neville repeated, breathless. "He emphasized it all this past week."

So he had, Ron realized. "Good on you, Neville!" he said, and a loud crack rang through the room.

All the students who had gathered jolted their heads up to find Severus Snape staring them down coldly from the front of the room. "You will be making the Panacea ultimatuum potion," he said, and the room settled into an abrupt and chilled silence. "Instructions on the board: begin."

When Severus said begin, the instructions appeared instantly behind him.

There was an immediate rush for the Potions cabinets; Ron preferred to start by reading the instructions as a whole before he began, all while doing his best to recall from where he'd heard of the potion, which was ringing a few bells.

About halfway through the ridiculously convoluted explanation, a flash of memory struck Ron:

Severus was paring the horseradish root expertly, barely having to look at it, to make a warming muscle balm to take the edge off of their exhaustion; they'd been running nonstop for days, and Ennervating charms could only go so far. They'd found him a cave with a convenient, mostly-flat spot to brew, and Hermione had teased him endlessly about bats until he'd smiled. "Is it hard?" Harry had said, pacing, wary, jittery on his feet like they all were. "Will it take long?"

"It isn't a bloody Panacea potion," Severus had muttered, and Hermione had scoffed. On seeing the others' blank expressions, Severus patiently explained, "a devilishly difficult potion that would accomplish almost the exact same thing as one of its ingredients entirely on its own. I think in my Potions book I once wrote that someone ought to 'shove a bezoar down their throats' instead," he added, and Harry twitched, like a horse shaking a fly free. "At least to me," he went on, quietly, "it means complicated for no good reason."

Ron shook himself free of the memory and blinked.

That bastard. He probably thought it was funny.

Ron thought of Neville – Neville who had worked so hard this term – being faced with a potion like this one because Severus thought it was funny and he saw red. For a moment, the blackboard blurred away with the force of his rage, and he was sorely tempted to slap a bezoar on Severus's desk and storm off. But the other students were muddling through, and Ron had to remind himself that showing not only knowledge of the potion but knowledge that Severus was laughing at them, setting them an impossible task on purpose – again – would give away the game entirely.

He gathered up the ingredients for the first few steps, and followed them carefully; by now he knew what 'mince' versus 'chop' meant, and how to sprinkle ingredients widdershins, and what a light stir felt like as he performed one versus a blend. Neville did, too, Ron realized, and calmed a bit as the zen of brewing overcame him. For a moment, it was as though he had his little world back: Severus up front, grading some dunderhead's paper, and Neville beside him prepping ingredients or doing extra work, and everything inside of him still and soundless but for the snick of the knife and the movement of his hands, and the Room's books and silence a hazy promise nestled at the back of his mind like a friendly cat before a fire.

Ron reached the end of the first stage of brewing without problems and looked up surprised to see that about half of the class had left, stations clean. Since there was no way that they could have completed the potion in that time, he supposed theirs must have exploded or congealed or been rendered otherwise unusable. Harry, Hermione, Draco, and Neville were all still around; Neville gave him a goofy thumbs-up.

Ron went to the cabinet for the second set of ingredients, and returned to his station, watching the potion turn from seashell pink, to blue, to a vibrant blue-green before continuing with Berberis root, which turned the entire contents from green to green-gold, and the aforementioned Artemisia leaf, which lent a distinctly silver sheen. As they dissolved, Ron began to combine the ingredients for the next part together in a mortar-and-pestle, placing a clop of fragments of dragonhorn, quartz, and rendered kneazle fat onto the surface, watching it plop satisfyingly down inside.

Ron stopped stirring immediately; the kneazle fat had to dissolve slowly throughout the mixture or it was likely to become inert. He looked up to find that only he, Hermione, and Draco remained in the room.

Hermione gazed at him blankly for a moment before issuing a harrumph and obtaining the last set of ingredients. Ron retrieved what he needed and returned to his seat.

The last stage of brewing was the most finicky of all, requiring the use of a Charm to finish it off – so much for there being no 'foolish wand-waving' in his class, Ron thought, snorting, as he shaved the unicorn horn onto the top of the potion in thin slivers. It shuddered a little, but when Ron tilted the cauldron to the side, creating more surface area for the slivers, it settled right down. Probably this would've been better done in a size 6, Ron thought, squinting accusingly at the instructions on the board.

Ron withdrew his wand and cast the first of the Cooling charms, still stirring with his non-dominant hand to prevent the mixture from clumping; he lightly touched the side of the cauldron with the inside of his wrist and cast again, gentler and gentler until the potion was cool to the touch, and finally decanted it into a bottle.

Ron looked up; the classroom was empty but for Severus Snape, who was leaning against the back of his desk at the front of the room, staring at Ron.

And smirking.

"Finite incantatem," said Severus, and Ron shuddered.

Ron looked around at the empty classroom, suddenly aware – with a wash of horror – that everyone had seen him stay last. That the strange look Hermione had given him earlier read, what are you still doing here? That the tingle up his arms meant –

"I told you I would no longer allow you to dissemble in my class," Severus said.

Ron trembled; his fists curled. All the insults of the past weeks bubbled up inside of him. Ending up in the wrong time and place. Unable to find the Diadem. Cedric. Being barred from the only two places where, for just a moment, it was all right to drop his sword and shield and just be Ron. Losing his chess partner. Pretending so hard to be stupid Ron Weasley, little-dim-but-at-least-he's-funny Ron Weasley, good-thing-he-has-such-important-friends Ron Weasley, and in Ron's mind Hermione's condescending voice played again and again, the voice of someone to whom he never had to prove anything in his own world, and there Severus stood, just so smug and so self-righteous, and –

Ron's temper finally snapped.

"Did you think this was funny?" he bit off, whipping his hand to his empty cauldron. "The potion you said to my face was stupid and complicated and bloody useless."

Severus parted his lips to reply, but Ron steamrolled him.

"You set me up, Neville too, and he's worked harder than anyone. You set Hermione up to botch it because you think she ought to learn her place. And you set it up because of me, because last time around, it was a regular antidote potion, I remember it was, now. And then you set a Charm on the table so I couldn't fail on purpose! What are you even trying to do? What do you want from me?"

"Mister Weasley," Severus said.

Ron swallowed. "You know, never mind." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "I can't find the Diadem, and I can't get into the Room. I can't do anything right."

"Mister Weasley," Severus repeated, more gently, and Ron looked up, suddenly trying desperately hard not to cry.

It was just – being stuck in this too-small, too-awkward body. It was having to check and double-check everything he thought to say before he opened his mouth. It was being near Snape and Draco and Hermione and Harry and Ginny but simultaneously missing them all terribly and hopelessly: alone amongst those who Ron's heart insisted he ought to be able to rely on. It was the Triwizard and the Diadem and knowing – knowing – that he needed to trust them enough to believe him when he finally got to the part about Horcruxes and destroying them all at once, but manoeuvring them meanwhile and hoping they'd all forgive him in time.

Ron half-turned, scrubbed his sleeve beneath his eyes.

"Are you sleeping?" Severus said.

Ron shrugged, feeling small and young and useless. He looked up to find that Severus's features were arranged in that selfsame sympathy they'd been when he'd first encountered the man here, in this time, and it was still as incongruous now as it'd been, then. "I'm out," he said. "I've been out since the Triwizard."

Severus rustled around his desk and withdrew a phial with a sigh.

Ron realized he had to have brewed it on his own time, and echoed his professor's sigh. "Ta, Se... er, Professor," he said. "And sorry for yelling."

"Sleep," Severus repeated dryly, keeping hold of the phial until Ron met his eye.

"Yessir, I will," Ron said, gesturing with the new phial of Aquuas.

"And Mister Weasley," Snape said.

Ron looked up.

"We will talk about all the rest later on."

Ron nodded wearily and slipped out of the classroom.

Only to find Hermione Granger awaiting him in the hall, her brown eyes big.

"Hermione," Ron said, quickly tucking the phial out of sight. "Uh, hullo."

She gripped him by the arm, hustling him down the hall. "We've obviously got to talk about you failing classes on purpose, Ron, that's – that's insane, why would you?... I know, strategy, you said, but still, failing classes... and I should hope you know you don't have to be strategic with me... You're serious about this strategy stuff. How serious are you?" she said, and danced to land in front of him so that he could no longer stride on. He knew she didn't do it to look coy on purpose, but she had her hands clasped behind her and she leaned just a bit forward on her toes, like a 20's advert for something wholesome like milk-soap or brightening cream, and he could hardly look her in the eye.

So, "don't tell Harry," he said.

"Oh, don't tell Harry," Hermione parroted, brow furrowing. "It's all right for you to be clever at Defense – that's a proper boys' subject, isn't it? – but not all right to be good at bending over Potions fumes like some swot?"

Ron flushed, because that sounded very like something fourteen-year-old Ron would believe. But he'd been pushed to wit's end and then just a little past, so "no," he blurted, "I'm not some little boy who thinks war is a game and classes are torture."

Ron really was rather... fond of Potions, actually, was the thing. Bending over a potion was one of the only times his mind emptied of plans, stopped whirring and settled into an effortless, meditative hum of white noise. Defense reminded him of the War, in all its blood-soaked misery, but Potions made him think of those brief times they'd been safe enough to stop running. And no small amount of that fondness was wrapped up in the warmth of grading third-year essays, while Neville prepared ingredients and Severus tutted over his lesson plans in the background. Of being himself, performing for no one.

Hermione, for her part, rocked back on her heels and coloured, an expression of horror overtaking her features. Then, before Ron could say anything, her features pinched and she thumped him on the shoulder, rougher than her usual playful swats.

"Hey! What was that for?"

She pointed at him dramatically. "You played thick as I quizzed you. For hours," she said. "You humiliated me!"

"You didn't know about that then," Ron protested, then realized how weak an argument this was when Hermione pushed his shoulder with one palm again. "Hey! Violence never solved anything," Ron said.

Hermione tucked her hands under both arms, as though to prevent them from flying after Ron again. "How long did you suppose you'd keep this up?" she demanded. "How long were you planning on lying if no one found you out? And what's so bad about being clever anyway, that you'd have to hide it?" Her face went pale. "That's what you meant when you said I wasn't ready for you. You meant I wasn't clever like you're clever. Omigod."

"What? Hermione, no, don't be –" Ron stammered. "It's not like that at all."

"Or that I didn't actually know you," she said, and she was so close to guessing everything that Ron held his breath. "Because you're hiding who you are from everybody, and that's me as well. So you felt bad because who I like isn't you... is that it?"

Ron swallowed.

"Oh, that is it," said Hermione. "Well, I suppose I'm glad you said 'no', then," she said in a small voice. "I'm glad you're noble enough to refuse to accept on false pretences. But maybe you could do me the honour of trusting me, like I asked you to the first time. You're still the boy who helped me knock out a mountain troll and escape a werewolf, no matter what." She reached out her hand, and Ron instinctively met it with his own; she gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"I don't know what I ever did to deserve you," Ron said in a moment of pure honesty. "It must've been something pretty impressive, though."

"Hush, I'm still angry with you," Hermione replied, but she squeezed his hand again, and he squeezed back.

Chapter Text

Hermione would not be convinced to sneak out to Grimmauld Place, Ron discovered that evening. Maybe it was because she was still stewing over her revelations about Ron, or maybe it was just her typical refusal to engage in shenanigans without some serious prodding.

"Come on, Hermione, it'll be fun," Harry urged, smiling his most winning smile and leaning forward out of his favourite overstuffed chair.

"No it won't," Hermione protested. "It'll be creeping about an old, cobwebby house for no good reason."

"What if they've got good books?" Ron tempted.

She paused, clearly arrested by the thought of piles on piles of delicious old books, before shaking the thought free. "Cursed ones," she countered, "that'll make you get boils or worse if you open them without pure blood."

"Ugh, can they do that?" Harry wondered, looking worried. Sometimes, even Ron forgot that his mother had been Muggleborn.

Ron snorted. "Not likely. Nobody's got 'pure blood' – it isn't a thing. There're just newer families and older families."

"No, I'm staying here," Hermione insisted. "There are some things I've got to take care of, anyway."

Harry slumped; it was clear it wasn't really an adventure without Hermione at their side, exclaiming that they could get killed – or worse, expelled!

Ron was inclined to agree. Moreover, with the two of them alone, it'd be even harder to locate the Locket without being spotted: without anyone to distract Harry, the other boy would stick to him like Spellotape.

Ron meandered over to the chessboard, where Neville was staring fixedly at the pieces, though so far as Ron could tell, they were still set up for a new game. "Hey, Neville, want to go on another adventure?" he said.

Neville looked up. "The last one twisted my ankle."

Ron raised his eyebrows, shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on both heels.

"All right, yes," Neville said with a tiny grin.

I've created a monster, Ron thought, with a little grin of his own, and nudged Neville with his shoulder.

Ron had forgotten you had to know where it was in order to get there, until they were already well on their way. He made sure to mention its location to Harry and Neville as they tromped across the frozen Hogwarts grounds early, before most of the other students had awoken for their Hogsmeade weekend so as to avoid notice. They made for the Three Broomsticks, where they were greeted by the quiet atmosphere of a pub in early morning, the warmth of the two, large, fireplaces, and the warmth of Madam Rosmerta's grin.

"Should you boys be wandering off-campus?" she inquired when Ron asked to use her fireplace.

"Just letting off some steam after end-of-term exams," Ron said winningly, grinning up at her. When her expression remained dubious, he added, "besides, my older brother Bill is meeting us there."

"Well, if Bill's looking after you," Rosmerta said with a twinkle.

"How'd you know to do that?" whispered Neville as they tumbled out a fireplace in Diagon Alley.

"Bit of a crush on Bill, has Rosmerta," Ron said with a wink.

"Speaking of which, have you asked anyone to the Yule Ball yet?" Harry asked Neville, once they were out onto Diagon Alley and approaching the barrier. The three stopped to remove their robes and roll them neatly before emerging into Muggle London.

"Have, yeah," Neville said with a bright smile as Ron led them forward. "Going to be such fun."

"Who've you asked?" Ron wondered. He didn't recall who Neville had gone with the last time.

"Oh, I asked a third-year named Luna," Neville replied. "She's... different, but nice."

"Oh, Luna," Ron said. "I know her. Ravenclaw, yeah?"

Neville nodded eagerly. "Bit nuts but loads of fun," he said. "We're going as friends," he added unselfconsciously, where another boy might have bragged or blustered a bit, first. "What about the two of you? Bet you've got them lined up."

Harry coughed and coloured, and Ron shrugged. "Haven't really asked anybody," Ron admitted.

"Really?" Neville exclaimed. "I could've sworn you would already've –"

Harry coughed something like ix-nay on the Ermione-hay!

Neville blinked but gamely changed the subject. "So what're we looking for?" he inquired, bouncing a bit as they strode along.

"Looking for?" Ron echoed.

"Yeah," Neville said, gaze darting between him and Harry. "It's like the Aecaspus nigrus, right? You've got to get something, but you need our help."

Harry pinned Ron with a curious look.

"We're just going to visit a – a friend's house," Ron said.

"It's all very covert to visit a friend," said Neville.

"Well, it's because that friend is an ex-convict," Ron replied.

"Ron!" Harry exclaimed.

"It's all right, you can trust Neville," said Ron.

"That's right," Neville replied, wide-eyed. "You can trust me."

Harry shot Ron an exasperated look. "Well. All right," he said, and began regaling Neville with stories of Sirius Black, starting with Buckbeak, and making so many wild gestures with his arms and dramatic intonations with his voice that Sirius seemed a cross between Jean Valjean and Davey Jones. All the while, Neville's eyes shone with excitement.

They arrived at Grimmauld after walking for the better part of an hour; Ron didn't want to risk Apparition in broad daylight, or Neville wondering how he was able to perform such advanced magic, and the Knight Bus just made them more visible to anyone who might find a young Harry Potter off on a day trip an opportunity for kidnapping or worse. It was chill out, but the combination between warming charms and a brisk pace kept them warm until they reached the great old monstrosity.

"I don't get it – it should be here," Harry said, confused. "But look, it goes from eleven to thirteen."

Ron winced. If Hermione had been here, he would have been able to say that loads of Wizarding homes were hidden until you approached. With pureblooded Neville at his side, though, that lie was unavailable to him. "I've seen it before; watch," Ron said, and as they approached, eleven and thirteen sidled away to reveal Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Ron felt a sudden fondness ignite in his heart for the old wreck; it had been his home for a few months after the fall of Hogwarts, before the Death Eaters found that, too, and set them on the run.

They entered the old, dilapidated building and Ron was shocked at the level of disrepair. He'd forgotten that they would clean it up for the first time this summer; it was only now that realized just how much his mother had done on her own before they'd arrived to help. The floor was layered in nearly an inch of dust and (eurgh!) cobweb. One of the windows had blown out, and so there were leaves and animal droppings in the dining room off the foyer. The floor, once of dark, rich wood, was warped and swollen for several feet around the smashed window, and bits of glass still littered the floors.

Ron just had time to discern all of this and feel the beginnings of a plan blossom in his mind before the portrait of Sirius Black's mother began to screech, giving Harry and Neville quite a fright:

"BLOOD TRAITORS AND HALFBLOODS IN THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS! OH, THE SHAME!" she screeched at the top of her voice, and Harry whipped out his wand.

That was what they'd done the first time, of course, but Ron wondered if another approach would've worked better all along. He put his hand atop Harry's.

"Hullo," he said.

"THEY WILL SULLY MY HOME WITH THE –"

"Hullo," Ron repeated, more forcefully, and rapped on the wall beside her like knocking on a door to gain entry.

She cut off mid-screech to peer at him more closely. "A Weasley," she sniffed. "Blood traitors, the lot of them."

"Yes," said Ron. "How are you?"

She blinked.

"I'm wondering because it seems you've been left all to yourself for a long time," he added. "Years, it looks like."

She peered down at him with beady, suspicious eyes.

"Must be rough," Ron went on, "watching your once-great House fall down about your ears, and no one to help, nor even any company to talk to."

"Ron, what -?" Harry whispered, but Neville seemed to catch on more swiftly, perhaps because of his familiarity with cantankerous, old-fashioned relations. "Hullo, ma'am, I'm Neville."

"A Longbottom!" the portrait said, peering at him. "Old, respectable family."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Neville.

"And this is?" she inquired, leaning close to Harry.

"Potter, ma'am," Harry filled in. "Harry Potter."

"The Boy Who Lived," she said.

Ron blinked in surprise – he had thought, somehow, that she'd been dead by the time Harry was born – but, he realized, he had no real reason to think so – and Harry shuffled in place.

"Yes... ma'am," he said, the polite nothing clearly forced and unfamiliar.

"What a tiny thing you are, to have overturned my world with one hand," she sighed.

"Mrs Black," said Ron, "what do you think of us clearing all this dust out, and repairing some things? We'd need your permission, of course."

She stared. "That would be... agreeable." Her eyes narrowed. "But why would you bother? Why should you care?"

Ron turned to the other two boys, but Neville made a go-on motion and Ron turned back to face the portrait. "You – you loved your sons, Mrs Black? Both of them, I mean."

Mrs Black's face went white. "I only have one son," she hissed.

That's what Ron had been afraid of. "That's true, but not how you mean," he muttered, then realized he'd better back off unless he wanted to explain how he knew that Regulus was dead. Mrs Black heard him, though, and interpreted his words correctly: she clapped both hands to her mouth and tears streamed down both of her cold, white cheeks.

Ron drew closer to the portrait. "Sirius is alive, and he owns this house, now. I think because it's Unplottable, he'll live here."

"It's – what?" said Harry.

"Unplottable," Neville explained. "I thought so too, because it's so well-hidden." He frowned to himself, puzzling something over.

"What I'm saying is, if you haven't got Sirius, you haven't got any family left. We're his friends; we're cleaning this house up for him." He paused, gauging her teary features. "Even if you aren't sure you want to welcome Sirius home, how bad could it be to straighten things up a bit? Don't we have your permission?"

She sniffed, but inclined her head, regally.

"Thanks," Ron said.

"It'll be an honour," Harry contributed unexpectedly, and Ron could have sworn that, above those hands still clapped to her mouth, Mrs Black's eyes crinkled with something like pleasure.

"Whew!" Harry exploded once they were safely down in the basement to re-group: the basement, which had always been Ron's favourite part of the house. It was their larder and meeting-room and worktime water-cooler and, well, kitchen, too: often Hermione could be found chopping some Potions ingredient up according to Severus's exacting instructions, though when it came time to cook, the instruction went in the opposite direction. Harry had been known to cook a few things there as well; Ron recalled with a strange pang that Harry had worked assiduously to make them all a sort of cheesy pasta dish with chopped bacon and fresh herbs stirred in and breadcrumb on top that had made Severus Snape shut up for a full hour. Hermione had joked that it had to be some sort of record, and Severus had made that face where he wanted to be angry but couldn't, quite, and besides, his mouth was full of pasta, making the mock-angst even harder to take seriously, and they'd all laughed.

It was a year before they'd be married, but he was already softening to her then.

There were precious few times where they'd all laughed; that evening quite a few of the Order had gone on a raid never to return, and it had been ages before any of them laughed again.

"Ron?" Neville whispered, and the kitchen-as-it-was came back into focus, dingey and dark and scuttling with insects; he shook the memory free.

"Gross," said Ron. "Evanesco!"

The dust cleared, but in a choking cloud that made the other boys quickly raise a sleeve up over their mouths and noses. Ron opened the basement windows high up along the wall and sent the dust up and through.

"Well, that's a bit better anyway," Ron said.

"Scourgify," Harry added in the general direction of the table, which then lost its veneer of grime to reveal an old-fashioned scrub-wood table that looked like you could easily get splinters from it. Neville applied an obscure smoothing charm and the room already looked a million times better.

"You really think we could get this ready for Sirius? You think he'd like it?" Harry asked, looking tentative. "We didn't even ask if we could go into his house and start messing about with his things."

Ron swept his arm across the kitchen. "You think he would've liked it better before?" he quipped. "Trust me, Sirius'll be thrilled, especially if we get rid of some of the Darker stuff." He paused. "Don't get rid of anything Dark on your own, always get someone to spot you. That's what Mum always says."

They spent a companionable few hours clearing up the basement, first – Ron suggested it probably had use as a kitchen, and discussed some small details about the room to support his 'theory' – and then Ron suggested splitting up for the bedrooms. "They're probably too small and we'd just get in each other's way," he said, and the boys agreed so readily that Ron actually felt the tiniest bit guilty.

"Wonder where Kreacher is in all this," Ron muttered to himself. "Hiding, if he knows what's good for him."

But that gave Ron pause. Suppose he was lurking about somewhere, and would steal the Locket back if Ron tried to take it? The slimy little git knew more about the ins and outs of the grim old place than Ron did, and could likely spring out of the veritable woodwork at any moment. Ron cast a few Silencing and Protection charms around himself, just in case.

The cabinet was old, of dark, almost black wood. Grotesquely huge and chock-full of Baroque flourishes, it covered an entire wall of the dining room. Ron ran his wand along its seams and, sure enough, there were a half-dozen old, Dark spells hanging about it like cobweb. Their tendrils tangled together such that, beyond the simple locking charm, preservation spell, and protection spell – all of which Ron knew well – it was well-nigh impossible to tell where one Charm ended and the next began.

He set to unravelling them, slowly, patiently. The locking charm would have to be last of all; release the thing too early, and it would launch all the others at Ron's face.

Like a rotten tooth he couldn't help but keep tonguing, Ron wished fruitlessly for Hermione's expertise, or Severus's. Harry had always been best at Defense, not the tricky and fiddling work of Charms, and Ron had always been someplace in between. Hermione would've found this an interesting challenge, and Severus would've dismantled it in a twinkling. Ron was left fumbling forward, straining for the lean of the magic in the air.

But eventually, with time and with patience – all the while sweating because he could hear Neville and Harry moving about the house, creaks and thumps and curses or laughter from some far-off room – he finally unlocked the Cabinet. Sure enough, there was the blasted Locket, sitting on a glass shelf like any other pretty trinket, chain spilling artistically over the side. Ron pocketed it just as Harry walked in.

"What's that?" he said.

Ron didn't freeze through a monumental force of will. "The cabinet was Cursed, I think, but I got it. Didn't want Sirius to brush up against it and get hives, or something," he babbled as the Locket shifted and settled, chain pooling at the bottom of his pocket.

"No, I meant, what have you just put in your pocket?" Harry inquired, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ron had to remember that apart from Defense, Harry's other speciality was ferreting out the truth, no matter how well it was hidden. It would be no use pretending, now, so he drew the Locket out of his pocket and shrugged. "I figure that Sirius doesn't have much use for it, and I thought – I thought," he said again, scrambling about for some explanation. "...that Hermione might like it?"

Harry eyed him with startlement that slowly bled into respect. "Well done, Ron!" he exclaimed, and clapped Ron on the shoulder. "I was wondering how long it was going to take you to catch on. Honestly, as Hermione would say."

"What?" Ron blurted, shoving the evil thing back into his trouser-pocket. "I just – she seems right sensitive lately, and I only thought –"

"Don't lead with that, Ron," Harry solemnly advised.

Ron kept his features bewildered only through sheer strength of will. "I only thought it might make her happy, that's all."

"Go with that," Harry said, grinning. "Anyway, come and see what I've found!"

What Harry had found was Regulus's old rooms, complete with the Tojours Pur family motto, and all the trappings of a teenaged life cut short. Ron's first, dark thought was that he'd seen it all before, in the Room of Hidden Things and in the Castle in general, but he dusted those thoughts away like clearing cobwebs off a shelf. Really, the 1970s garb in all the pictures and posters was kind of wicked, and the Quidditch paraphernalia was just different enough to be interesting.

"R.A.B.," Neville read under his breath, and Ron realized that they'd never have to solve that particular mystery. Merlin, he might've saved Sirius's life just now – just by pocketing this Locket.

Don't get overconfident, Ron sternly advised himself. He thought of Cedric and of Severus's advice.

"Are you and Hermione still waiting for that Curator bloke?" Ron wondered aloud.

"What's this?" Neville queried from where he was sprawled out on the bed, peering through a photo album.

"We were in the Room of Requirement," said Harry.

"The what?"

Ron and Harry exchanged a glance, but Ron jerked his chin forward: well, go on, then.

"It's a special room that can be whatever you'd like it to be," Harry explained, that Weasley mischief flashing in his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. "You walk past it three times, and enter, and whatever you want is inside."

Neville's jaw dropped and his eyes glazed over just a bit; Ron wondered what it was that Neville envisioned would be there if he asked.

"The Room of Hidden things is one of the Room's... guises," Harry went on. "If you walk past really wanting a place to put things, it shows up. There are loads of things there: piles on piles of stuff. But the last time the three of us went, a bunch of it was all organized, like someone had been sorting through everything and putting it in its place. It was strange."

Neville's brows raised. "Can I help?" he said.

"Help," Harry repeated, turning to face them from the bureau he'd been going through.

"With the organizing. I'm sure there's a lot of stuff there that's dull, but I'll bet there's more that's... wicked," he said, with the slow tongue of someone trying out a new word. "Besides, I might be slow, but I'm very good at putting things in their proper place."

"I don't think," said Harry.

"Yeah," said Ron. "I've been meaning to go back, anyway. I'll leave the mysteries to you and Hermione, but I guess Neville's right and it'd be a good idea to see what else is stored there."

"I thought it was just a bunch of stuffy old books and stupid potions ingredients," Harry said, sing-song, and Ron realized Harry was quoting him.

"Might be some old-fashioned Quidditch stuff, like here," Ron said slowly, the words sticking in his throat.

"Besides, Ron loves Potions," Neville said absently, thumbing through the photos. "I mean – oops." He sat up, eyes wide as saucers.

Luckily, Harry took it as some kind of good joke, or maybe a sign of Neville's general cluelessness, because he rolled his eyes Ronward and turned back around to dig in the bureau.

"Anyway, Neville, I'll go with you and show you where the Room is," Ron said. "Who knows, we may find something we like. Most of the stuff looked really old, anyway; nobody's looking for it, or anything."

"Like that necklace," Harry interjected smugly.

"What necklace?" said Neville.

And Ron, despite his twenty-two years, turned scarlet.

Ron hung back after the others slipped out the front door, saying something about closing the wards behind them, but really he wanted to have one, last chat with Mrs Black.

She eyed him beadily as he approached and, crossing his fingers, he withdrew the Locket to show her.

Her painted brows climbed. "My Regulus tried to destroy it."

"I know, Mrs Black," Ron said, and tucked the wretched thing back into his pocket. It was as though he could feel it pulsing against his leg, sending out tendrils of Dark magic. "I wanted to let you know I was removing it from the house. It's too Dark to stay here. Too Dark for anyplace. I know how to get rid of it, but I can't have... anyone... coming after it, thinking they're protecting their family's legacy, or protecting – me." He clutched at the metal in his pocket.

"Yes, I do see," she replied. Paused. Ron watched her throat work as she swallowed, but then she drew herself up, a slender blade in a wooden frame. "Very well, then. I will ensure no one follows you to reclaim what is the House of Black's. You will ensure that this thing is obliterated. And," she said, "you will come back and finish what you've started. You haven't even begun clearing out the library."

"Yes, ma'am," Ron said, and bowed as best he was able.

"Begone, now, before your friends suspect you are at more than wards."

Ron vowed he would visit again soon, and escaped from Grimmauld Place, his pockets one Horcrux heavier.

Chapter Text

Luckily, Hermione was busy elsewhere, or he would have had to give her the Horcrux on the spot.

As it was, Harry poked some gentle fun at Ron as they gathered around the fire to tell the other fourth-year boys of their adventures – Harry might have his faults, but he wasn't generally the twitting sort, unless it was all rather wry and well-meaning. Still, he couldn't seem to escape mentions of Ron's lady love, and a few Romeo and Juliet references were dropped in for good measure.

"Well," Dean said, with a twinkle in his eye, "at least Ron's on the right track. Haven't you asked anyone to the Yule Ball?"

Harry blanched.

He blinks like a lemur, Ron thought affectionately.

"Well, Ron hasn't either," Harry protested. Ron shot him a betrayed look, and Harry replied with an every-man-for-himself sort of shrug.

"But Ron's working on it," Dean stressed, and Seamus nodded. "So who are you going to ask, then?"

Harry sighed. "Padma and Parvati are all right, I guess."

"You might want to separate them into two before you accidentally ask the wrong one," George observed, coming up to the younger boys and leaning against the loveseat where Harry tended to perch. "And if you can't tell the difference, you're in for a world of trouble," Fred told them, leaning on the opposite side of Harry's favoured seat. His eyes went faraway. "I dated twins, once. Only I thought I was dating one of them." He sighed with a certain world-weariness and shook his head.

Harry laughed, but the look in his eye told Ron he'd absorbed the lesson and might be re-thinking his choice.

"And what about you, Ronniekins?" said George. "Haven't found anyone to tuck into your ginger side?"

"Funny, as we're each as ginger as the day is long," Ron said. "I suppose I'll go ahead and ask someone tomorrow, then."

"Is that when you'll be giving someone a necklace?" Neville innocently inquired, and the other boys laughed.

"I'm not going to be asking Hermione," Ron said, perhaps a bit more sharply than he intended, if the looks the other boys shot him were anything to go by.

"Sure," Fred said, backing away with his hands in the air, eyes wide with counterfeit fear. "Whatever you say, Ronniekins."

Ron felt reasonably confident that Harry was no longer checking the Room of Requirement for the Curator, and had laid the groundwork for his presence if Harry happened to glance at the Map at an inopportune moment. So he crept away and entered the Room of Hidden Things.

Once the door closed behind him, Ron tried to relax. He was pleased to be here, he was. Out of sight of the others. Out of performance range. But now that Hermione and Harry knew something of the room, now that they suspected that someone was looking after it, part of him knew that they could waltz into the Room at any time and ask what he was doing there. It wasn't a problem, he had his excuses readied. But the peace of the place had melted away.

Ron withdrew the Locket and painstakingly Transfigured a bit of lint into a reasonable copy to present to Hermione later on; too many of the boys had heard him swear he intended to give it to her, and Harry had seen the Locket itself. He placed the Horcrux within a potions-pouch at the top shelf of the Potions cabinet, too high for anyone to reach if they were just snooping around, and put the copy in his pocket.

Then, he began to sort the hope chests and school trunks that he'd shoved to the back of the room, the place he'd figured the Diadem to be, all along.

Ron worked late into the night, and so he'd have totally forgotten his vow to ask someone to the Yule Ball if Fred and George hadn't waltzed past him at breakfast and ostentatiously tweaked his robes and tie into better order. "Best prepare yourself," George said. "...Because you'll need all the help you can get!" crowed Fred. "That's enough," Percy opined from further down the table in a sort of would-be forbidding tone; but that only made Fred do a full-on silent Percy impression, down to his shoulders tossed back and his nose raised snootily into the air, while George muffled his giggles into his hand.

Ron muttered and picked at his eggs with hothouse basil and some kind of crumbly white cheese, and twitched when George kindly sent him a breath-freshening charm once he was through.

Ron pushed himself up from the table and stormed away, but once he was out of the Great Hall, he pressed himself to the wall to grin stupidly into nothing. He'd missed his brothers.

Just then, he saw a flash of white and blue-stocking blue, and realized that Fleur and her coterie were about to sweep through the door to the Great Hall, chattering brightly. Ron thoughtlessly slid out of their way before remembering...

"Fleur, could I talk to you for a minute?"

Fleur looked up at him curiously, and waved her friends inside the Great Hall ahead of her. A few of them shot puzzled glances behind them, and a sweet-faced brunette lingered, looking a little worried, before the others chivvied her along.

Fleur wouldn't change much before he never saw her again, and somehow that made it all easier: she already had a womanish sharpness to her cheeks, and the mark of cleverness in her grey eyes and on her brow, wrinkled, now, as she studied him in turn. She would always be middling height, but the way she carried herself gave the impression of an unspoken magnitude within her, a wellspring of strength. In Ron's eyes, she was still a war hero; it was only the schoolgirl uniform that seemed out of place.

"I was wondering if you already had someone – that is," Ron said, trying again, "if you had a partner for the Yule Ball."

She cocked her head at him. "I don't."

"You don't?" Ron blurted. "How is that...? Huh," he concluded, scratching the back of his head.

"Your incredulity is very flattering, Monsieur Weasley," she said in that lovely accent of hers.

"Reckon no one's got up the courage to ask you," Ron observed.

"That's very sweet. Will you?"

Ron blinked. "Er... what?"

"Get up the courage to ask me," she replied, crossing her arms over her chest and lifting one brow.

Merlin, Ron thought, if she wasn't the very image of young womanhood at its most wry and gorgeous. "Er... the thing is," Ron said, and her features fell, as though she thought even for a moment he might have been teasing her, "I don't have a girl I'm – uh, there isn't anyone I like, just now. That way? But I thought, if you didn't have anyone either, you might like to go with me? As friends."

Both her golden brows climbed up to her hairline, now – even her expression of polite shock was charming. "You aren't asking me as a date, Monsieur Weasley. As friends?"

"Yes, yeah, that's the idea," Ron said in a rush.

She eyed him up and down. "That's an intriguing proposition," she said, but she still looked rather more taken aback than not. Then she laughed, and her features warmed. "I'm sorry, I thought – but that's very silly of me, non? You like Hermione Granger. But for some reason, you cannot ask her. Has she – does she go with someone else?"

Ron gawped, before catching himself with a wince.

Her grin widened. "Yes, I am very, very clever. People do not see it around the clouds of blonde hair," she said, and flipped her golden locks over one shoulder demonstratively.

Ron was startled into laughing aloud. "You are. I do like Hermione, and I can't ask her."

Something strange flickered across her features, some little misgiving. He could see her feeling it and dismissing it, in the manner of strong women and girls everywhere.

"What is it?" he said. "Don't you want to go?"

Her grey gaze flickered up to his. "Oui! It is just... I wonder why you did not ask one of your classmates, an older friend – to go as friends," she stammered.

Ron grinned, fondly. "Well, McGonagall is encouraging us to cross lines we wouldn't normally cross. Houses – schools..."

"But that is not why," she checked.

"Well, my friends challenged me to ask someone today, and I picked you 'cause I really didn't want to go with someone who – who got the wrong impression 'bout why I was asking. Since I thought for sure you'd say no, it wasn't a danger you'd get the wrong idea. But I also asked because you're – impressive," he said. "Brave and clever and confident. I honestly like you – that's why. As a – person."

Fleur blinked up at him, features incredulous. "Oh!" A flush crept up her neck to make its home in her cheeks. "Well," she said, recovering swiftly, "and that is why I'll say yes – I think the same of you."

"Well," said Ron, taken aback.

"Not what happened last time, is it?" Fleur interjected wryly, and for a moment Ron struggled to place the context. Last time I asked a girl – Hermione, or so she thinks, he realized.

"No," Ron said. "I still can't believe I was the first bloke to ask."

"You were not," she replied. "Instead, you are the first 'bloke' to whom I've said 'yes'."

"Oh," Ron said.

She tilted her head up at him again and smiled, kindly. "Come, let us discuss what we shall wear. I am quite sick of blue, you see, and I was thinking on red; but that will not do with your hair, not at all. So now I am thinking white, and a warm, apricot-gold."

"You'd know better than I would," Ron avowed.

"Because I am a girl?" she inquired, archly, but Ron could tell she was teasing when she slipped her palm into the crook of his arm.

"Because you always look perfectly put together," Ron replied, and she laughed, delighted.

"You and I are going to get along à la perfection, Ronald Weasley. Let us discuss this after breakfast at the library," she said, and pecked him on the cheek before flying off towards her friends.

Ron rubbed away her lipgloss. "Huh," he said. He had the strange feeling that he and Fleur really were going to be great friends.

Fleur was a hair less friendly after Ron described the dress robes that his mother would indubitably be sending any day now.

"Non!" she exclaimed, a look of disgust painted across her pretty features. "But this will not do at all!"

Ron sighed. "We don't have a lot of money, the Weasleys," he said. "In case word didn't reach you, around the school."

"But that's no matter – I've plenty for both of us!"

Ron's lips twitched. "What, will you buy me my dress robes?" he laughed.

She scoffed. "Well, I don't see why not! I heard Viktor presented his date with a lovely gown. If you'll say it cannot go the other way, then I will say that you are old-fashioned. How-do-you-say...? Literally and also figurely."

Ron considered this. His teenaged self never would have allowed it. He would have blustered and maybe even raged and stormed off. He would've thought that the offer impinged on his honour; he would've thought (rightly) that it would make him a laughingstock to some of the other boys.

A Ball, Ron thought. A ball, with all the attendant glitter and everyone on their best behaviour and dancing and all happy, for once. And maybe it's all right if that's me, too. "Why not?" he said. "I'm a modern sort of gentleman, you know."

Fleur made a bit of a silly face at him. "I want to go to France," she decided.

"You what?" said Ron.

"For my gown – to France," Fleur repeated, as though Ron had actually misheard her. "Come, let us go now. Let us escape this frozen place and go to Bordeaux for the afternoon, or Paris."

Suddenly, Ron was seeing how she ended up with Bill, with his long hair and dragon-fang earring: Fleur Delacour was a bit of a rebel, wasn't she? "All right," he agreed.

She leaned back against the library's hard, wooden chair and peered at him with challenging eyes, arms folded. "You only follow me to Bordeaux because I am so pretty," she observed.

"I follow you to Bordeaux because you have promised me dress robes that don't make me look like your great aunt," Ron returned, to Fleur's wild giggling.

"How shall we, then?" she wondered aloud, when she'd mastered herself. "Shall we steal one of your half giant's hippogriffs?"

Ron got the distinct impression she was testing him to see how far he'd go before chickening out. "Don't be silly," Ron said. "We'll trudge off the grounds and Apparate in a few jumps."

Her eyes widened. "I cannot Apparate."

"I can side-along," said Ron, boldly, then winced. "I – don't tell anyone I can, though, yeah? Even joking."

She frowned. "Non, I will not if you don't wish it. Shall we go?"

"Now?" said Ron.

"I want my dress," Fleur said haughtily.

"Well," said Ron. "All right, dress warmly and meet by the statue of the witch – you know the one?"

"Oui, the hideous thing by that tapestry with all the snakes?"

"That's the one," Ron said.

Fleur eyed him warily for one more moment, but in the sort of exaggerated, warm fashion that meant she did not distrust him in the slightest. The look was ruined when she broke out into a grin, suddenly looking lighthearted and young. "Parfait! I will meet you there in fifteen minutes."

Ron wasn't sure what ice cream had to do with anything, but he waved as he watched her go.

What followed – Ron couldn't describe it, the joy that suffused his whole body, that lit him up from the inside.

He was in a gorgeous place with a beautiful girl on his arm; they were in Bordeaux, France, just to buy a gown, like people of Quality. Everyone looked at the pair of them with a distinctly indulgent expression on their faces; the ice cream parlour gave them an extra scoop after Fleur had, laughing, explained the meaning of the word parfait. Ron thought, we look like young lovers; we look like we belong here. Ron offered up his entirely untutored opinion on every dress Fleur held up before her.

"It's just not special enough," Ron said eventually, with an exaggerated, solemn shake of his head. "Haven't you got anything in the back?"

The dressmaker took them entirely seriously, however, and briefly disappeared, procuring a gown of apricot and cream silk. "Nous l'avons cousue pour une duchesse," she said, "Mais la Duchesse préférait les fous sur la Rue de la Course, et elle ne payait jamais."

"Did I just hear the word 'Duchess'?" Ron gawped.

"Oui," Fleur replied. "Yes, I shall take it."

"It's really something," Ron said. Even to his plebian eye, the dress was a thing of beauty: all slippery lines and fluid grace. He thought she'd be gorgeous in it.

Together they strolled out, Fleur clutching at his arm, dizzy with happiness. They managed to find Ron dress robes that were not too hideous, and a few apricot accents - a pocket handkerchief and bow tie - that made his hair look less vibrantly orange and complimented Fleur's choice. He and Fleur watched the sunset over the Gardin Public and he tried to etch every detail into his memory. All in all, it was a dream of a day, Ron thought – one that he could scarcely imagine belonged to him: to plain old, war-worn Ron Weasley.

The day of the Yule Ball, Ron settled his new robes about his shoulders, ran a comb through his hair and a bit of light gel to hold it in place, and went outside to the greenhouses to gather a few flowers to ensure that Fleur knew he was glad to have her at his side. She met him by the statue of the Hunchbacked Witch again.

"Well," she said, eyeing him, "you are almost making me wish you hadn't invited me as a friend," she said with a lascivious grin.

She was beautiful, of course, Ron thought – gorgeous and modern-looking, with her hair piled atop her head in a series of looping braids, the lightweight fabric of her new robes billowing out behind her as she moved. "Well, I'd say so, too," Ron said, "except I don't know we'd have had so much fun together, if we hadn't decided on that part straightaway."

She tilted her head to one side. "That is wise," she allowed, and tugged his arm close. "Shall we?"

"Yes," said Ron, and he led her down the stairs and to the Great Hall.

"I did tell you that the Champions are to have the first dance," Fleur said.

Somehow, he'd forgotten that.

"Now you see how clever I truly am," Fleur proclaimed. "Already dressed, already nearly at the door, I announce your doom – when you can only escape through great guile."

"You're a devil, you are," Ron informed her, and together they swept into the Great Hall.

The stop-and-stare was dramatic, and off-putting. Insulting, too, as students' heads swivelled between Fleur and Ron as though they didn't trust their eyes. But Ron would be lying if he said that Fred and George's twin expressions of utter incredulity didn't warm the cockles of his heart.

But then, Ron turned to see Hermione coming down the stair behind them, and froze.

The dress she was wearing now wasn't the same as the one that she'd worn in his own reality, brown and pink and full of warmth; instead, it was a luminous white, diaphanous number that made her look as though she were encased in ice. Pale blue beads were stitched about the neck and hem, and her makeup was pale; it all had the effect of darkening her hair and her eyes, making her look beautiful and cool and untouchable.

But then his gaze broadened enough to take in the boy beside her and his jaw dropped.

"Oh, Ronald," Fleur whispered, and squeezed at his arm.

"Do close your mouth, Weasley, it's uncultured to catch flies," Malfoy said.

"We agreed you wouldn't," Hermione hissed, and he looked briefly abashed.

What was it with Hermione, anyway? Did she have a thing for bad boys that she would've outgrown if Snape hadn't snatched her up at nineteen? Ron thought in a haze of angry jealousy that knocked him sideways.

"And now," McGonagall was announcing in a booming, carrying voice, "the Triwizard Champions will lead us in dance!"

Sorry, Hermione mouthed, just before Fleur tugged him away. Fleur met his gaze with a fierce, determined expression that snapped him back into her orbit with an almost physical tug. Her eyes were battle-steady, and he nodded at her. He could keep it together; he would.

The decorations were lovely, the orchestra was fabulous. The girl on his arm was maybe the prettiest and probably the second-smartest in the room. She was witty and charming.

But somehow, Ron had stopped having a good time.

When they finished their dance, Ron wandered over to slouch beside Harry, who looked just as unseated as Ron felt. "She says they're just friends," Harry confided, ignoring Fleur entirely. "She says it's a statement."

Ron took this in, slowly. "...oh," he said. It sounded Hermione-all-over. What was weirder was that Malfoy had gone along, but perhaps that wasn't so strange after all – not after Snape taking over Defense… not after Draco's very public apology in the Great Hall. Draco and Hermione were saying they refused to be enemies. Ron felt suddenly a bit impressed at their bravery, even while his stomach still churned at the thought of the two of them on a date. He imagined Draco's father would hear about this.

Fleur squeezed his arm again, and he smiled at her: a thanks for being a super-understanding, awesome date smile. She patted his arm and strode off in the direction of the punch.

"I just don't get it," Harry said. "What made her wake up one day and decide to date someone like Malfoy?"

"I thought you just said they're only friends," Ron protested.

"That's what she says," Harry intoned, darkly. Then he did a double-take. "Aren't you angry?"

"I guess it's not my business what she does, or with who," Ron said. "Who she dates, who she marries –"

"Wait, who said anything about marriage?" Harry exclaimed, panicked.

"Nobody," Ron swiftly replied. "Oh, look, here they come, now!"

Hermione was very twitchy underneath her classy, understated makeup, and Ron couldn't say that the expression on Draco's face was much different. Or – well. If you knew what to look for it wasn't, anyway. The haughty expression painted across his features kept flickering to uncertainty. He wasn't quite wearing his vicar's robes this time, Ron noted, but something with a rather Muggle cut, and dove-grey dress gloves to match Hermione's white-and-grey gown. Together they looked elegant and mysterious, straight out of a tale of princes and fairy queens.

"H-hullo," she said, chin hitched up.

"Hullo," Ron said politely, wondering where this was going. He and Malfoy might have something like an understanding in this world, but it wasn't like Harry or Malfoy had anything to say to each other.

"Weasley," said Malfoy, with careful neutrality. "Potter," he tacked on, with anything but.

"What do you think you're playing at, Malfoy?" Harry said grimly.

"Well, I can see how you might've missed out on certain social constucts, growing up as you did, Potter," Malfoy said, with cold, exaggerated civility, "but this is called a Ball. People dance, drink, eat snacks, and socialize. That is what I am currently playing at."

"You know what I mean," Harry spat.

"So, so rarely," said Draco.

"Hello, still here," Hermione interjected. "Ron, how... how are you?"

Fleur returned with a glass of punch for herself and for Ron. "Oh, 'ello!" she brightly exclaimed. "You are Draco Malfoy, yes?"

Draco flushed under her gaze. "I... am, yes."

"Ron?" Hermione repeated.

"I'm good, Hermione," Ron said, trying to project supportive-friend with every bone in his body. "It's good. Thanks, Fleur," he said, taking his punch.

"So we're all just... okay with this," Harry said, with faint horror. "With a Death-Eater-in-training dating Hermione."

Ron bristled, but Hermione spoke up before he could manage, which was probably all for the best.

"Draco isn't a Death Eater, Harry," she said, then lowered her voice. "As you would well know, if you paid any attention in Defense."

Harry's green gaze hardened. "I know what he wouldn't do in front of a bunch of witnesses, that's what I know."

"Merlin, Harry," Ron said. "D'you really think Malfoy is that good an actor? You saw what happened."

Harry stared at him. "I don't know what's wrong with you lately, but –"

Parvati whirled off the dance floor to end at Harry's elbow. "Harry –"

"Not now," Harry said, raising his hand in the air and not so much as meeting her eye.

"Well, fine," Parvati muttered, and went off to stand by her sister, shoulders slumped.

Ron frowned. "Harry –"

"Don't bother, he's impervious to good sense and good manners," Draco ordered, in his poshest voice.

"Not helping," said Ron.

"Like that," Harry said. "You order him about like you think he'll actually listen –"

"I don't take orders from anyone," Draco said in his coldest voice yet. His gaze darted briefly to Ron. "And I never will!"

"Really not helping!" Ron exclaimed, and Draco subsided with a scoff.

"Oh, look! Teacakes. Teacakes sound good about now," Hermione suggested desperately.

"This was a mistake," Draco muttered, gaze cast down.

Both of Harry's brows climbed. "You think?"

Tears were gathering in Hermione's eyes. "If it's a mistake at all, it's because of you!" She whirled on her heel and stomped off.

"Fuck you very much, Potter," Draco snapped. "She was just – we were only trying to –"

"I know what Hermione was trying to do," Harry supplied. "I want to know what you were up to. Trying to use her as a stepping stone, making it seem like you're all right with Muggleborns -"

"Oh!" Draco exclaimed, throwing his hands wide. "Right, Granger as a stepping stone on my way to fame and fortune. Makes perfect sense!" He stomped off in the same direction as Hermione.

Ron shot Fleur a second look, this one you are the best woman in the world, I'm so sorry.

"I think I see Roger Davies over in the corner all alone, non?" Fleur said, gently.

Ron patted her hand. "Have at 'im. And ta." He headed Hermione-and-Dracoward, Harry tossing after him, "Ron, you know it's true!"

But when he emerged into an anteroom that led upstairs, Hermione was sitting all alone on the steps, her snow-white gown spread out around her legs like a deflated balloon, Draco nowhere to be seen.

"Hi," he said.

Hermione looked up, and he could see tear-tracks cutting through the makeup on her cheeks.

"I'm really sorry about what Harry said," Ron told her, gently. "You know how much he hates Malfoy."

"Y-you aren't a-angry?" Hermione said through a sob.

"No! No," Ron said, kneeling in front of her at the base of the stairs, she perched a few steps above. "I know what you were both trying to say. I was right proud of you, and surprised and pleased for Malfoy. I guess he's grown."

"Not even – a little?" Hermione whispered, features pinched.

"No," Ron reiterated, taking her hands in his. She still looked dubious, so he searched for the words to explain. "Something important happened that day in class," he went on, "and everyone saw it. But it was in the Defense classroom, where information doesn't leave. You took that moment and brought it into the light. It was very brave. That day you went after Malfoy with the girls, that was what you asked him, wasn't it? If he'd go with you to the Yule Ball?"

"You aren't... the least bit... jealous?" Hermione inquired, peering up dubiously through her lashes.

"No!" Ron denied immediately, all the more because it wasn't quite true. Then paused. "Wait. Jealous? Wait a minute." Ron dropped Hermione's hands to rake his fingers through his hair, rising from his crouch. "You didn't do this because you were making a statement, or not only because of that. You were doing it because – because you thought taking Malfoy would make me jealous? Hermione."

"You don't," she said, breath hitching again, "you don't like me, even a little? Not even the slightest bit, like that, you don't. Oh, how could I have been so wrong about it?" she wailed, burying her face in her hands. "I thought – I thought – for ages – 'he just needs time!'"

Ron felt horrible. "I –" What, he thought, you do like her? Is that what you're going to say? You don't see Hermione, your Hermione, when you look at her. You see a photograph, a memory, a childhood dream. And if you saw any different, you'd be the worst sort of man. Don't lie by swearing you can put it all aside, for her. You can't.

"People mightn't think so," Hermione said, rising to her feet, "but I've felt foolish before. Coming to Hogwarts was hard, with all its new rules and different metrics of success. But – Ron Weasley," she said, and she was clearly steeling herself to say something horrible, and Ron swallowed past the lump in his throat. "You're the only one who can make me feel this stupid."

"But – you're not. You're not – Hermione," Ron said. "Please don't – I think the world of you, you don't even understand –"

"Oh no, I definitely don't!" she said, and, with a swipe of her hand, "how could I possibly?"

"Hermione," Ron said, then paused. "You'd be just this upset if I had gotten jealous."

Her eyes flashed. "No, I would not!"

"You would," he shot back, dropping several steps back. "You were infuriated when I did make a fuss and this time you're infuriated that I haven't. That isn't fair, Hermione."

"Oh, so you know me better than I know myself, now!" she shouted.

"It looks like it!" Ron returned, fists clenching. "D'you know how selfish it is to invite Malfoy just to make me upset? Didn't you wonder how he'd react if he found out? This is a big deal for him! He's defying his family, his upbringing –"

"Well, you don't have to wonder," said a voice from the shadows; Ron whirled to find that Malfoy was leaning up against the stone wall, party going on behind him, gaze hooded. "Not when I'm right here to ask."

Ron took in a shuddery breath.

"Have your potion on you, Weasley?" he said.

Ron shook his head.

"What potion?" Hermione demanded.

"Oh, she doesn't even know that much?" Malfoy said. "Colour me surprised."

Ron wasn't sure whether or not Malfoy was coloured surprised. It was hard to tell from his flat tone whether he was sarcastic or genuine.

"Well, as much as I'd like to stay for Madam Pimbernacky's Mystery Hour," said Draco, "I figure I'm off to bed. G'night, Granger. Weasley." He nodded, and whirled.

And then he went out at the knees.

Ron jolted upright in direct opposition to Malfoy's downward slump, argument with Hermione forgotten. Hermione was at his side in an instant; they'd perfected their routine from Harry's many collapses and Dark-Lord-induced seizure disorder over the years. Hermione dropped to the floor in her pretty gown to take Malfoy's pulse straightaway. "Thready," she pronounced. "D'you think someone put something in his cup?"

"Sounds Slytherin," Ron replied. "Did anyone come close enough to the two of you just now?"

Hermione lowered her lashes, thinking; but her eyes flew open a moment later. "Pansy," she said. "Pansy Parkinson draped herself over him and talked about how he should've asked the right girl –"

Draco's eyes flew open and he began to twitch.

Ron looked up to pin her with his gaze. "Go get Pansy Parkinson and bring her back here as fast as you can and with as little fuss as you can. We've got to know what she slipped him. And – and Hermione!" he exclaimed when she would've dashed away. "Did you drink anything?"

Hermione shook her head. "T-too nervous!"

"Good. Good," Ron said, and whirled back to Malfoy, casting every diagnostic spell he knew. "Hey, Draco, hey," he said as he worked. "You're gonna be all right. You're gonna be fine..."

The runes for poison and memory and family lit up and Ron wanted to retch.

This wasn't a Pansy Parkinson special.

It was his father's work.

"Okay, okay, doesn't look like it's meant to kill you," Ron babbled, trying everything from Episkey to Impedimenta to try and stop Draco's seizing, but nothing seemed to help. "Just hang on, then, will you? It's just a warning shot, that's all..."

"R-R-Ron," Malfoy managed, through clenched teeth, grey gaze latching onto Ron's own.

"That's right! Hullo, there you are," Ron said, squeezing Malfoy's hand in his own. "This is what you get for consorting with Gryffindors, am I right? A little too much derring-do for a Ball... it's in poor taste."

Malfoy made a horrible noise, and after a moment Ron realized it was laughter, or something like it. "Her," he choked.

"Parkinson? We're fetching her right now," Ron assured him.

"My," said Malfoy, urgently.

"They're coming," said Ron. "You're going to be all right –"

It was then that Harry appeared, and Ron supposed it was only a matter of time before he went looking for his two best friends. Ron had never seen a more welcome sight. "Oi! Harry, get Snape."

Harry stared at Malfoy twitching on the floor.

"Anytime would be great," Ron growled, and Harry scarpered.

Hermione returned a moment later, empty-handed, but then tugged at thin air to reveal Pansy under Harry's Invisibility Cloak. Clever, Ron thought. Hermione cast Finite, and Pansy slumped in her pretty dress clothes, gaping at Draco's twitching form.

"But he said -!" she blurted.

"Go on," Ron growled. "What did Lucius Malfoy say this'd do?"

"Bring him back to us!" Pansy blurted. "He told me it wouldn't hurt!"

Poison. Memory. Family. Some kind of potion to use memories of family to manipulate or poison the victim?

"Do something!" Pansy shrieked, and "Silencio!" Hermione swiftly incanted; the last thing they needed was more of an audience.

It was a criminally long while before Snape and Harry returned, and Malfoy shook through all of it, his gaze fixed at first on Ron's, and then on a spot of wall, faint furrow at his brow as though he were hanging on to consciousness with both hands. His gaze was shifting in and out of focus when Severus finally arrived.

"Tell me you carry an antivenin or something!"

Snape strode forward. Draco was trying to focus on Snape and failing, gaze going faraway before an expression of determination crossed the Slytherin's face and he tried again. Snape immediately began casting countercharms – "I've tried all those!" Ron shouted, "and that too!" when Snape cast a basic diagnostic spell. "It was poison, memory, family, that order," Ron blurted.

Snape shot him a glare. "It doesn't narrow it down," he spat.

Doesn't narrow it... Fuck, Ron thought, purebloods.

Snape was using more advanced diagnostic spells, now, and after a strange spell Ron had never heard of went blue-white over Malfoy's twitching form, Snape rocked back on his heels, and sighed.

"We're going to have to wait this one out," he announced.

"Wait?" Harry echoed faintly, looking down at Malfoy. Malfoy's eyes were closed, now, and his twitches were coming more and more feebly, and fewer and further between.

"Once he loses consciousness, the spell will release him," Snape announced. "Let go as swiftly as you can, Mister Malfoy," he advised. "The sooner you let yourself rest, the sooner it will be over. You are..." His lip curled as he took in Parkinson and the Gryffindors. "Well, not among friends, but I shall not let anything befall you if you choose to –"

As if all Draco's body was waiting for was permission, he went suddenly and eerily still.

Pansy waved her arms about until Hermione cast Finite on her. "I didn't," Parkinson's breathing hitched as she began to sob. "I didn't mean –"

"That is enough, Miss Parkinson," Snape barked, drawing a hand down his face. "Your fate will be decided later on."

"But it isn't fair!" she exclaimed. "He made me! Lucius Malfoy!" Pansy blurted.

"Miss Parkinson," Snape snapped, then darted his gaze around the barely-isolated little nook, the party still in full swing just beyond the doorway, the gaping Golden Trio. "How is it that you, about as subtle as a brick to the brain, landed in my House? Do you not think that you might have saved that information for a less public venue?" Hermione and Harry tsked as though they had either already guessed, or in general expected such insane behaviour from the Malfoy patriarch.

"But he did!" she persisted, beginning to sob in earnest. "I wouldn't've hurt Draco! I c-care about him!"

Snape sighed. "I'm sure you believe you do, but sweethearts do not go poisoning one another, even Slytherin sweethearts," he said, with a damning gentleness.

"Look, everyone's really clever and Slytherins are generally a lot subtler. Now would someone like to check on Malfoy?" said – against all odds – Harry Potter.

If Severus had the grace to feel abashed, he didn't let anyone see it; but then, he didn't disagree with Potter, either. "We do not yet know what the spell has accomplished," said Snape. "If Mister Malfoy raises his wand, allow me to handle it. Are we perfectly clear?"

"Crystal," said Harry, fingering his wand and generally looking like the exact opposite of agreement, but Hermione's "yes, Professor," sounded like she was worried enough to do as Snape asked. Ron fingered his own wand and made a quiet gesture to Potter, to show he'd cast on Potter if he looked like he was about to interfere.

Severus was right: he should handle this.

Chapter Text

"Ennervate," Severus cast. Ron tightened his grip on his wand, and so did Harry; Hermione was clutching a tiny white drawstring purse that Ron suspected held hers. Pansy finally stopped sobbing to wring her hands and hold her breath.

Malfoy's lashes fluttered, and he groaned. After a moment, he turned to the side and slowly levered himself up into a seated position, looking around. "W-what happened?" he said. "What's going on?"

Something in Severus seemed to relax a hair, if a garotte can be said to have relaxed. "You were poisoned, Mister Malfoy, by Miss Parkinson. Luckily for you, a pair of Gryffindor do-gooders were nearby to run and fetch help."

Draco's grey gaze darted nervously around the small crowd.

"Do you recall any of this at all, Mister Malfoy?" Severus inquired in as gentle a voice as he possessed.

"I," said Malfoy. "I was talking to Weasley and Granger? It's... the Yule Ball," he said. "What was the poison?"

"I find myself uncertain," said Severus, sounding unseated. "Miss Parkinson, do you have any leftovers to analyze?"

Tears spilt down each of Pansy's cheeks again. "Mister Malfoy told me to throw the bottle into the Lake," she confessed.

"It was a blood spell," Ron supplied, despite his vow not to interfere.

"But then – only," said Malfoy, and fell silent.

"Only... what?" Hermione blurted, also unable to stay silent after Pansy and Ron had both contributed information.

"Only a blood relative can brew it," Severus replied. "This one relied on shared memories and experiences –" he began.

But Draco had darted to his feet, swift as a snake, and aimed his wand at Harry while everyone's attention was on Snape. "Avada ked—"

"Silencio!" Ron cast, and "Stupefy!" shouted Severus.

The words died on Draco's lips and he slumped over, eyes rolling up into the back of his head.

"It wasn't his fault, it wasn't his fault!" Parkinson was wailing, a constant background to the group hurtling up to the Hospital Wing at the speed of sound.

"It doesn't matter if he meant to!" Harry shouted. "He's cursed, he's got to go to the Wing – Merlin's sake, Pansy, stop clawing at me!"

"They'll kill him!" she wailed. "They'll send him to Azkaban and they'll kill him!"

"Nobody is killing anybody save you, if you do not cease that infernal racket!" Snape shouted as he directed Draco's unconscious body with his wand.

"Come on, Pansy, hold it together," muttered Hermione, "it's not doing Malfoy any good just now, is it?"

"Everything's gone so wrong!" Pansy sobbed, and slumped to her knees, her face in her hands.

"We do not have the time for this –" Snape muttered.

"I've got her," Hermione said from the floor, where she settled in a pool of skirts to comfort the disconsolate Slytherin. Pansy shrieked and shook her off, but Hermione was persistent, and on the third try Pansy turned into Hermione's embrace and began to sob in earnest.

Ron turned to find that Severus was already striding down the hall again, but he caught a contemplative look on the older man's face: the beginnings of respect for Hermione Granger?

Maybe.

Then they reached the Wing and Severus was guiding Draco down to a bed and explaining the situation, insomuch as he could, to Madam Pomfrey, who began running her wand over Draco's still form. Harry and Ron hovered just inside the doorway to the Hospital Wing.

"Don't you two have a Ball to get back to?" Snape accused.

Ron merely raised a brow at him, and he turned back to look at Draco.

"Why doesn't he ever take points from you?" Harry muttered.

"Severus," said Madam Pomfrey, gesturing to a faint wisp of red hovering over Draco's prone body.

Ron staggered closer in shock. Now there was something he recognized: a sign of severe energy depletion, typically the result of numerous sleepless nights. A result like that meant that Draco hadn't been sleeping well for weeks, or hadn't slept at all several days running.

"Finite incantatem," Madam Pomfrey whispered, wand directly over Draco's face, and –

Dark, dark bags appeared underneath each eye, and a white pallor chased away all the flush from Draco's face, like an overexposed photograph. Probably if Ron saw Draco like this, he would have thought he'd had a few rough nights in a row, but the juxtaposition between the glamourie Draco had maintained – even while unconscious – and his actual well-being made it shocking.

"Okay," Harry said faintly. "I officially feel sorry for Malfoy."

Ron stared. "He... just tried to kill you, mate," he felt honour-bound to point out.

"Yeah, but something's clearly gone wrong," Harry said with a frown. "Just look at him. And – it was like last time, d'you remember how scared you said he was, after he cast Sectumsempra? I think – I think someone's trying to use Malfoy to kill me," he said. "I think they've been trying for awhile now, and – and I've got to admit he looks like maybe he's fighting it." His lips pressed together in classical Harry-determination. "Didn't you hear him say it? That he doesn't take orders from anybody?"

"'Someone'," Ron quoted, darting a glance to Malfoy's bedside just to make sure they weren't about to be overheard; Severus and Poppy were too absorbed in caring for Draco to pay them much mind, and they weren't close enough to overhear by accident. "You mean Lucius Malfoy."

Harry shook his head. "Look, it's got to be someone who hates the Malfoys just as much as they hate me, or near. Because each time Draco's attacked me, he's done it in full view of witnesses."

For all his experience, Ron hadn't put it together the way Harry was doing, now. "Someone who wants you dead and Draco Malfoy in Azkaban," he said, slowly. "Someone who'd be pretty happy either way? Or both ways: he kills you but he gets caught."

Harry nodded, grim-faced, and for a moment he looked to Ron just like the Harry he knew, so determined to do it all right, and Ron wanted to cradle him and insist it wasn't all up to him, that he had friends who could help him end Voldemort once and for all.

"D'you think it's He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Ron whispered.

Harry shook his head. "I just don't think he'd care about Draco one way or the other," he replied.

Ron thought on this. Sure, he probably wouldn't have cared one way or another – up until Lucius Malfoy failed or defied him, and then, sure, Voldemort would think it was a laugh to pit two schoolboys against one another, and may the best man win. It was his style all over.

"Maybe we're looking for someone who'd like you to be a martyr," Ron mused. "Someone who is on the side of the Light but finds you inconvenient, and who'd love to frame an old, pureblooded family for the death of an innocent."

"Dark, Ron, dark," said Harry, but he didn't look unconvinced.

"Mister Malfoy will have to stay here until we determine what sort of suggestion has been planted and how we can best remove it," Severus announced. "He will be under Incarcerus meanwhile, Potter, so we need not fear for your precious life."

Harry fidgeted, then blurted, "who do you think did it, Professor?"

"Are you teaching him logical reasoning skills, Weasley?" Severus inquired. "More power to you; nothing has stuck in his skull since I first clapped eyes on him at the age of eleven."

"Is Ron teaching me logical reasoning?" Harry echoed, which Ron found more than a little insulting.

"You do not think it was Mister Malfoy who aimed the Killing Curse at your thick skull?" Severus spat.

"Merlin's sake, Professor," Ron groaned. "None of us think it was Draco's doing."

Severus stared for a moment, then sighed. "Perhaps not. All we know for certain is that a family member must have placed the curse."

Bellatrix Lestrange? Ron wondered. He didn't put it past her, setting up her own nephew for a lifetime of imprisonment and getting into Voldemort's good graces by offing Harry... but then he recalled that Bellatrix only escaped Azkaban in their sixth year. It was hard to believe she was well-organized enough to engineer such an event to come to pass from within the Wizarding prison. "We need Draco's family tree," said a voice.

Ron turned to find Hermione standing in the doorway, half-supporting Pansy.

"That's brilliant, Hermione," Ron said, encouragingly.

She tsked. "Always the tone of surprise."

Ron flinched, and tried to hide his flinching; but Hermione's clever gaze always spotted everything. She raised an eyebrow in his direction, challengingly.

"I'll leave the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew to determine that," Severus said, tiredly, and Ron wondered how well he'd been sleeping.

"I always preferred the 1920s version of Nancy," Hermione said.

Severus snorted, seemed to debate whether Hermione was worth answering, before finally lifting his head to meet her gaze. "No one," he said, "is ever giving you a handgun, Granger." Then, he swept out the door.

Ron trotted after him, leaving Harry and Hermione chatting in low voices at Malfoy's bedside. "Are you brewing him something? Can I help?"

Severus turned to face Ron, visibly struggling with himself, which meant he did, in fact, need assistance.

"I'll only follow you anyway," Ron said staunchly.

"Then come along," Severus ordered, and together they began to make their way down to the dungeons.

"What are you going to try? It's not mind-magic, or not exactly," Ron said. "We've got to be aiming for a neutralizer, right? Something that will undo the whole business, or – once you told me – tease everything apart, so that each aspect of the poison can be addressed one by one."

"Exactly how much did I tell you?" Severus muttered. "I must've been mad."

"I picked it all up, didn't I?" said Ron. He fell silent. "To be honest, we had to. Once, Harry was poisoned by someone we thought was a friend; you had us collecting twenty healthy trifold –"

"I don't want to know," Severus snapped, yanking his cloak close as he strode forward almost faster than Ron could follow.

"You just asked –"

"Well, I don't want to know," Severus said, then held up his hand.

Ron paused. "Should we call Neville in to help out -?"

"Hush!" Severus ordered, and in the pindrop silence of a dungeon where everyone was dancing merrily upstairs, Ron could hear it: a faint hum coming from the Potions classroom.

Severus wasn't foolish enough to try and send Ron away. Instead, the pair drew wands, eyeing each other, and strode swiftly for the classroom door.

Ron had an inkling of what he would see before he entered, but told himself he was imagining things – that the stress of the evening was playing tricks on his mind – that there was no way he was going to open the door and see what he thought he would see...

"My young love said to me," came a clear, sweet voice, " 'My mother won't mind..."

Severus thrust the door open but the voice continued on:

"...and my father won't slight you for your lack of kind...' "

It was, in fact, Hermione, though not the Hermione they'd left in the Hospital Wing.

"...And then she stepped away from me and this she did say..."

Snape brought his wand to bear, but then she noticed them, and turned. Ron's heart gave a stuttering spasm at the sight of her. He'd almost forgotten the way that Hermione's clothes hung off her more slender frame, the way her hair snarled, the wild emptiness of her eyes.

"There you are, Severus." She turned back to the table where she was working without meeting Severus's eye; Ron could make out a steaming cauldron and a pile of chopped potions ingredients. "I've been brewing that finicky one you like to have on hand, the healing salve with the – the dittany in gaseous form," she said. "I've tried something new, come see, come see."

"Miss... Granger," Severus said. He eyed the ingredients on the table around her, gaze flickering lightning-fast. Something he saw must have concerned him, because his brow furrowed and he glided towards her.

"You only call me Granger when you're flummoxed by me. What on earth have I done, now? Well, never mind it," she said, eyes still averted. "This potion needs my attention, now, so if you don't mind –"

And then her easy grace stuttered as Severus's hand darted forward to squeeze her upper arm – preventing her from dropping something into the potion, Ron realized... and Hermione gently placed the bottle again on the bench with a thick clunk... and for the first time lifted her gaze.

Ron watched her draw back, blinking. Saw Severus's face as he connected two-and-two. No one could ever accuse Severus Snape of being slow on the uptake. He dropped her arm as if scalded.

Hermione's eyes grew wilder. She reached out and palpated his face with both hands, ran one, tremoring hand down his hair, and landed with both hands pressed to the top of each of his shoulders; she squeezed the muscles, there, reflexively, before her right hand slid down to press over his heart. Severus's features were doing something unrecognizable, flashing between emotions too swiftly to see, settling on horror.

"You're," she said, and a bright light flared in her face, hope and love and wonder. "Here? You're here." She turned with her body, small, pointed chin lagging behind as though magnetized to Severus's face. "Ron, is he actually...?"

Ron nodded, mute.

"And Ron, you're so small," she observed, but her husband was too much of a pull; she turned back to him. "Severus," she whispered, as though a loud noise might banish him. "Are you really here?"

"I," said Severus. "I am."

"Are you sure?" she said, with a hint of her old, belligerent persistence – don't fudge your explanations on that essay, Ronald Weasley.

Ron could see Snape's throat work, from where he stood. "Ask me again, and I'll start to question it, myself."

"Oh, you're halfway there already," she said, slyly. "But if I'm really here, and you're really here... that means we're both really here, together." She grinned, and it was like the sunrise. "Isn't it marvellous?"

"But how are you?" Ron breathed. "You're your own self, Hermione – did you alter the spell after I'd gone?"

"Mister Weasley," said Snape, without taking his eyes off of Hermione's. "If you could explain."

Severus didn't need an explanation. Ron could tell. "I thought I wasn't to talk about the future, Professor."

"Weasley."

It wasn't Snape's demand, but the dazed good fortune on Hermione's features that made him relent: "You and Hermione were married in the year 2000. That's your wife."

"Ron," Hermione said, turning to face him, her features bright and open and her eyes still a little mad, and wet, and warm. Her hands never left their position on Severus, shoulder and heart. "Could you excuse us?"

Ron must've fallen asleep, because Severus had to shake him to get him to come back inside the Potions classroom.

Hermione's face was tear-stained. As Ron watched, her gaze darted to Severus and he went to stand beside her, unasked; she reached out to squeeze his robe between her fingers and then let him go, satisfied.

Ron looked up into Severus's face, but it was hard to read without its usual palimpsest of fury and disdain: so far as he could tell, the man was holding on to his composure by the thinnest of threads.

Finally, and through obvious effort, he moved to speak: "my wife has something for you," he said.

Hermione dug in her pocket and presented the Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw with both hands. It shimmered and shone in the low light of the Potions classroom at night.

Ron's jaw dropped. "It... it was missing. How long have you...?"

She shrugged, dropping the Diadem to her skirts. "Quite some time."

"Hermione, seriously," said Ron, striding up to her and taking her hands in his to ground her. "Can – can you tell me when you arrived here?" A sudden thought sparked to life. "Long enough for a game of chess?"

Hermione looked up, eyes shimmering with delight. "I think I've finally got the knack!" she exclaimed, in an almost-normal-Hermione sort of voice. "It's all just thinking a few steps ahead of your opponent, isn't it?" Her features turned sombre, and she averted her eyes. "Just thinking ahead..."

"Games of chess?" Severus echoed. "Mister Weasley, you asked me about chess earlier..."

Ron sighed. "She's been here as long as I have, or near," he announced.

She shrugged. "I needed the time to work on a few things; I was so far behind!"

"Like changing the spell to be sure you were still yourself. Like… getting the Diadem?" Ron checked.

Hermione fumbled into her pocket a second time and withdrew the Cup.

"Hermione!" Ron growled.

She shrugged. "I was careful to be quiet," she whispered after a moment's thought. "No sirens or alarms, you know."

"Well, I've got the Locket, then," Ron admitted. "We couldn't have gotten so far without you..."

Hermione fumbled in her pocket again.

"Wait, Merlin's sake, are you –" said Ron, before she withdrew a small key.

"It's for the Sword of Gryffindor. I decided to wait to kill the snake," Hermione announced, meditatively. "For one thing," she said, looking up at Severus, "I was thinking about the rarity of the poison. All the experiments you'd like to do!"

"That's... thoughtful," Severus said, faintly.

"But also, we don't want to tip him off, do we?" Hermione went on, intent. "So we need to lure the snake and him, don't you see? And destroy all the things at once, at the same time. For it to work out well. Better."

"Yes," Ron said, "that was, uh, my plan."

"Was it?" Hermione looked up, surprised. "It doesn't seem like you've gotten much of it done. Have you been procrastinating again?"

Ron sighed. "I was looking for the Diadem; I couldn't have known you'd already taken it."

"Visits home. Balls and dances," Hermione said, in a sing-song sort of voice. "Trips to France."

"Hermione."

"Triwizard Tournament Tasks," Hermione added, a mean twist to her lip. "Forgotten all of us, hadn't you?"

"I hadn't forgotten you, or anyone," Ron returned, stung.

"Dumbledore destroyed a cursed ring last evening," Snape contributed unexpectedly.

"Ahead of schedule," Hermione said, thoughtful: successfully diverted. "He probably knows something. He usually does."

"So... we lure He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And his snake," Ron said, shuddering.

"That or we just wait," Hermione countered.

"Wait," Ron repeated. "Wait for what?"

"For Severus to be Summoned, of course!" Hermione said, in that isn't-it-clear-yet voice straight out of Ron's childhood. "Doesn't that sound less complicated than luring the Dark Lord someplace he doesn't want to go?"

Severus flinched at Hermione's appellation, but said nothing.

"But what about the Horcrux in Harry?" Ron demanded. "Was the exam right? Did we already destroy his Horcrux via the basilisk fang and phoenix tears?"

Snape stared. "Mister Potter has a...? Of course he does," he muttered, dragging his hand down his face.

Hermione reached out and petted him absently; he flinched. "We'll deal with that last of all," Hermione said, looking troubled as she peered into Severus's face. "After Voldemort's primary body is destroyed, he won't be able to make more Horcruxes, and we'll be free to destroy the rest."

"Destroying the rest should be simultaneous," Ron said levelly. "I'm not taking any chances, this time around."

"Fine," Hermione said. "Fill a vessel full of basilisk venom and dump them in." She raised her eyebrows in Severus's direction.

"Basilisk venom is a Class A Hazardous Substance," he said, inflectionless.

"I know you saved it," she said, clucking her tongue. "In a large tub marked 'bubotuber pus' – which, by the way, is incredibly foolish. Children brew here."

"Children do not go into my Potions stores," Severus snapped.

"Children steal from your Potions stores," she said, cutting her eyes to Ron.

"Hardly my fault, then, if they are poisoned for it."

Hermione snorted, and shoved his shoulder with hers.

Severus went white again, and averted his eyes.

Ron cleared his throat. "So," he said. "We'll need to be ready on a moment's notice. Neville would help, I'm sure. So would Draco, if he weren't in the Hospital Wing," he added, and told Hermione about the attempts on Harry's life.

She tilted her head to one side, thinking. "Lucius Malfoy or Bellatrix Lestrange or Narcissa Malfoy or Sirius Black or –"

"Sirius doesn't want to kill Harry," Ron protested.

"The problem is that nearly everyone in the Wizarding World is related," Hermione concluded. "Suppose someone peripherally related wanted to frame someone closely related."

"Merlin on a pogo stick, how related to you have to be to use a Potion like that?"

"Second cousins," Severus supplied.

Ron would find it in himself to be worried over how pliant Severus Snape was being, shortly. Meanwhile... "Second cousins is everybody," he hissed. "I am Malfoy's second cousin!"

Hermione shrugged. "It rules out the Muggleborn and most of the halfbloods."

"We're presuming that they knew they'd be caught," Ron interjected.

"Both of Mister Malfoy's attempts were in broad daylight," Severus offered. "Presumably, the perpetrator thought it likely he would be caught. Knowing that I would investigate, they must have presumed that someone would find out about the poison. Knowing my level of skill, they would have to guess that I would discover its nature."

"And knowing that everyone in the Wizarding World is related to some degree, they must have realized a family-spell would give us few clues," Ron realized, frustrated.

"Does it matter?" Hermione wondered, aloud. "You've stopped him."

"Of course it matters," Ron protested. "Whoever it is won't stop just because Malfoy's down for the count. They'll find some other way to get at Harry. Maybe Malfoy himself might give us some clues."

"Waking Mister Malfoy is inadvisable at this juncture," Severus said. "He is clearly unaware as to why he is behaving this way, and there is no telling what the Potion might do to him if he is unable to carry out his task."

Ron had to agree. Just before he'd cast the Killing Curse, Malfoy had seemed confused, and frightened: he'd had no clue what he'd been about to do, that much was clear.

"Only once we brew the antidote, then," Ron said. "So it's time to bring Neville in, reckon," he added.

Severus looked pale. "What? Why? He is a child," he said, gaze darting to Hermione and away.

"Someone is going to need to go with you when you're Summoned," Ron said. "You can't kill Him and Nagini in the same breath. Even if you do succeed, there's no way you'd make it out alive," he said, keeping a cautious eye on Hermione. "So we'll need someone back here, destroying the Horcruxes – don't see why it shouldn't be Neville."

"I won't let you die, again," Hermione said, fiercely. "I'm going with you."

"You do not understand," Severus said, voice so even that he could only be keeping it so through great effort. "He can only Call Death Eaters – through their Marks. No one without a Mark can be Called. No one even knows where they are, once they arrive, and the Dark Lord is careful to pick locations that are nondescript: a clearing in an unfamiliar wood –"

"So give me the Mark," Hermione announced, "I don't care."

Severus stared at her, hands trembling in his lap. "I," he said, then visibly shook himself. "As selfless and Gryffindor an impulse as that is, only the Dark Lord himself can confer a Mark."

"Well, it's temporary, isn't it? He'd be dead soon enough," she said absently, twirling her hair. "Fine. So you'll need something on you – a true love's token – to call me to you. Once you're there."

"A true love's token wouldn't work," Severus scoffed.

"And why not," said Hermione.

"Because we're not in love," Severus hissed. "Surely, mad as you are, you know I'm not your husband. You know you're not my wife!"

"That's temporary, too," she replied, unfazed. "We have ages between now and then."

Severus stared at her, wild-eyed. "You're completely insane," he announced.

"Yes," she replied, serenely. "I loved you very much and saw you killed before my eyes, unable to act in any way to save you. Come, now, Severus, you know just what that's like."

Ron saw Severus swallow.

"And it was very hard," she said in that same, faraway voice. "I know a hawk from a handsaw, you know, but it was very hard."

"You were mad when you married me," Severus muttered, and Ron was surprised into barking a laugh.

"Sorry. Sorry," Ron said at Severus's face, someplace between shock and a glare. "Hermione are you – are you sure you could make something like that work?"

Hermione's gaze darted to Severus's face; she examined him, swift as thought, before her gaze flickered back to Ron's. "Yes," she said.

"Okay," Ron replied, while Severus sputtered. "Hermione will help you, then, Severus. She might even be able to Apparate others to your location. So it's time to finalize our list of allies and align everything in its place, so that we can be ready."

"As few as possible," Severus opined, and Hermione nodded.

"Seriously?" Ron pressed. "Come on, we need the whole Order protecting you two!"

"The whole Order arrives, the Death Eaters will scatter," Severus protested. "The Dark Lord and Nagini will escape in the tumult. Worse, if there is a mole within the Order – and the likelihood is high – they'll get wind of our plans. One extra person can be hidden in a crowd, especially since it is likely that some of the Death Eaters have perished since the first War. A dozen extra people, and the day is lost."

Hermione bobbed a nod. "Do you want the snake, or the Dark Lord?" she inquired cheerfully.

Severus turned to stare.

Ron had the feeling Severus was going to spend the next several days wearing out his incredulity on Hermione Snape.

"Fine," Ron said. "I'm going to go talk to Neville."

"Tell him nothing about –" Severus began.

"I know," Ron said, holding one hand in the air. "Nothing on time travel or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, just... we've got some dangerous artefacts, is all, and they've got to be destroyed, only it's at a very particular time."

"Precisely."

Ron turned to go, but some impulse made him pause at the door. When he turned, Hermione was leaning into Severus like a flower to the sun. As Ron watched, she tucked her arm in the crook of his, and rested her frizzy head gently against his shoulder, as though she feared he might shatter, or disappear.

Severus's lip trembled again and, after a moment, brought one arm up to her shoulder. She sighed, and snuggled closer; he held himself stiff and unyielding as a stone wall.

"Don't forget the antidote," Ron said, and Severus glared at him until he closed the door.

Chapter Text

Neville agreed that destroying the cursed objects was very important, and that he would be happy to help out. Ron extemporized about the destruction needing to be at a particular date and time, but a spell would alert them 'when the time was right'.

Not, strictly speaking, a lie.

"One of them is in that Room I was talking to you about, before," Ron confided. "Someday you may have to run and fetch it, quickly."

A few days later, Ron awoke to a clarion sort of cold, the sort that makes a deep breath hurt but works as a whetstone on the mind. The other boys were either roused or rousing, odd for Ron's habitual early rising, and when Ron gazed about, Harry grinned at him from pulling on a pair of warm, woollen socks. "Are you still asleep?" he laughed. "It's Christmas!"

Christmas.

Ron hadn't gotten anyone anything for Christmas. He'd been too preoccupied to even realize it was coming.

There was the replica of the Locket for Hermione; he hadn't presented it to her, yet. That'd do. But for Harry, there was nothing.

Ron made a fruitless mental search through his trunk, but there was nothing that wouldn't be positively insulting as a Christmas gift. He flew into his clothes and exited through the Fat Lady's portrait just as Harry said, "Ron!", spilling into the hall still tugging on his trainers, and made for the Room of Requirement.

"C'mon, c'mon," Ron said, trotting back and forth before the Room, thinking of the Room of Hidden Things, with all its objects neatly codified and displayed, now, and managed to slip inside the room before anyone from Gryffindor could peek out of the Portrait-hole and see what was the matter.

Just being in the Room infused Ron with a sense of peace and quietude. Here was a place with everything in its place, a place he had hollowed out for himself. He walked up and down the Room's library. "Hey," he said, in sudden inspiration. "What do you suppose Harry might like?"

Light shone down from the torches to cast a distinct glow on the bildungsroman section, and Ron ducked his head to laugh. He looked up with a grin. "Oh, you think so, too?" he said, before choosing a mostly-new-looking copy of The Giver. "I don't know this one," he muttered, and had the now-familiar urge to burrow into one of the abandoned blankets and read, cushioned from his responsibilities by the warm embrace of a meaningless, fictional realm; but Harry was waiting, and so was Hermione, and they were still... sort-of-fighting... about Draco Malfoy, and seemed to need him for a buffer.

Not about Draco's attempt on Harry's life – about his supposed attempt on Hermione's virtue. Which part of Ron found endlessly hysterical. Not that he could laugh, though, not with Hermione shooting him betrayed looks all the time.

Just a little longer, he told himself, but then the long rows of books gave him an instant's pause.

Hermione – the older Hermione, that was – had to be bored out of her skull, didn't she? She'd been skulking about for ages, he presumed, and hadn't been able to curl up with a book the way she loved. If Ron had been starving for the written word when he'd arrived, Hermione had to be dying for the lack.

When Ron had first arrived, he'd made for the Diadem straightaway, only it hadn't been where Harry had described. So Hermione had gotten there before he had; so Hermione had never seen the Room organized. She wouldn't know there was a library here.

On impulse, Ron made his way to the natural sciences section and withdrew the heftiest, illustration-rich herbal he could find.

Mind made up, Ron strode out of the Room and back to the Gryffindor Common Room. "Ron! Presents!" Harry exclaimed, but Ron nodded and grinned and promised to be right back and climbed the stairs to the dormitory to pocket Harry's Map again. He didn't suppose it would be easy to find Hermione, and he wanted to be able to locate her to give her his Christmas gift later that evening. He was able to scrounge together some leftover wrapping paper to make his last-minute gifts look less... improvised... and then he made his way back down the stairs to the Common Room.

Hermione opened the Locket replica, and all the boys hooted as one entity. Sorry, he mouthed, but she accepted the strange circumstance with equanimity, fastening the locket around her neck and smiling crookedly at him. Harry's reaction on being presented with a book was to look to Hermione, who shook her head, only to look at Ron with both brows raised.

"The Giver," Hermione said, leaning forward. "That's one of my absolute favourites!"

Harry blinked and Ron realized all at once how uncharacteristic a gift it was, from him. Stupid, he thought, flushing.

"Thanks, Ron," Harry said with an awkward smile. As he read the back, though, the smile began to look more genuine. "Interesting," he muttered, and tucked the book at his side.

"Your turn, Ron," Hermione said, warmly, and Ron tore into the eco-friendly paper Hermione had chosen.

It was, predictably, a book. "Self-Efficacy and You," Ron read. "Errrr, thanks, Hermione."

She blushed. "I bought it before your mid-year exams? Sorry," she mumbled.

"I will take it in the spirit it was meant," Ron said, "which is to say that I ought to be a totally different person with a completely different frame of mind."

She rolled her eyes – "honestly!" she said – and Ron thought, we're going to be okay, maybe.

The gift from Harry was a Chudley Cannons hat. "Wow, thanks, mate," Ron said, trying to sound enthusiastic. He'd rather grown out of his love for the Cannons before the War, but it was the thought that counted.

Harry seemed to sense that he'd misstepped, and quickly turned to his gift from Hermione. "It's Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland!" he announced, the grin breaking across his face like the sun, and Ron exchanged a very familiar look with Hermione that was impossible to describe in one word.

It was: Harry is happy – pure, uncomplicated joy sprung from Harry's.

It was: Harry is a bit of a nutter – a shared fond exasperation at the way Harry always overreacted to any kindness.

And finally, it was: Let us destroy all those who have made him view a simple act of kindness with such surprise. This was by far the subtlest part of the exchange, but could be viewed in the murderous glint in Hermione's eye; it was that same murderous glint that had signalled the entrapment of Rita Skeeter, and a million less-than-advisable ventures ever since.

Ron opened a pair of violet socks and the usual Weasley jumper from his mother, only to discover that the jumper was weighted oddly in the middle. He shook out a slim paperback entitled Dealing With Trauma the Wizard's Way: a Transformational Guide to Magical Meditation, Mystical Mourning, and Mind-Healing, by Triana Grawuf.

"What's that?" Fred wondered, and snatched it up; Ron worried his lower lip between his teeth, not even trying to grab it back. He was seated; Fred was standing. He wasn't going to win the book back without a fight.

Better to let things play out, take his licks.

"What's this?" Fred repeated, in a rather different voice.

Ron looked up. There was a strange line between Fred's brows – so strange that it took Ron a moment to place the look as concerned.

It wasn't a look he'd seen on that particular brother's face, before.

"Give it back, please," Ron said evenly and – wonder of wonders –

Fred did, without comment, and wandered back to where George and Lee Jordan were sharing a box of Lee's mother's famous Christmas candies.

"She's just worried," Ron explained to Harry and Hermione. "She saw me just after Cedric and Crouch and – she's worried."

"Of course she is," Hermione said, feelingly. "If my parents knew half of what goes on at Hogwarts, they'd never let me come back in the fall!"

Harry ducked his head. "I know it's because of me," he said, lowly. "I'm sorry."

"No, Harry!" Hermione said, fierce. "It's because of Voldemort, not because of you! It's not something you can control."

"She's right, mate," Ron replied. "You can't help it that He's obsessed with you 'cause of what you did as a baby. It's not your fault."

Harry smiled with one half of his face, and picked up Hermione's book. "Want to read the section on the Cannons?" he inquired, nudging up to Ron's side.

Ron smiled and Harry opened the book; together, they read side-by-side, Hermione beaming on them benignly, Ron basking in the warmth of their closeness, revelling in his chance to be near them again.

After an hour of pretending interest in the Cannons, Ron noted Neville eyeing him with, Ron thought, more subtlety than he'd have been capable before getting to know Severus Snape.

But still Neville enough that Hermione rolled her eyes and said, "go on, then. See what he wants."

Ron launched himself up off the floor and walked over to Neville's nervous little smile.

"Here," Neville said, thrusting a messily-wrapped package forward. "I got you something this year. It's all right if you didn't for me."

Ron laughed, scratching his head. "Merlin. Well, wait here," he said, and retrieved his own package for Neville.

"You first?" Neville queried.

The first tear revealed the cover of Potions Puzzles, a book with a matte black cover and golden lettering that shimmered until Ron gazed at it head-on. He opened it swiftly to read:

A potion composed of a water base in a golden cauldron includes hellebore, condensed dragonsbreath, and _._._. to produce an alternative foundation for Invisibility Draught, Nameless Sleep, or Shrinking Solution.

Ron looked up in confusion.

"See, you fill in the blank with what you think, and you see what happens," Neville explained. "Watch." He took his quill and wrote moonstone into the blank. And suddenly, what Ron had taken for a static illustration showed an animation of unpowdered moonstone dropped into a golden cauldron.

It exploded with a real bang and flash.

"Wicked," Ron said, reflexively.

"And that's just page one. It gets more complicated as it goes. It helps you invent," Neville explained. "Gran says it's based on calculations, a real Arithmancy and Potions Master collaborated to create it. So it might be wrong about what'd happen but it'll usually be right."

Ron blinked hard at the cover. It was the perfect Potions set for someone without a Galleon to their name. His heart hurt. "But this must've cost a mint," he said, slowly.

Neville sighed out a laugh. "It's worth it, Ron. You love Potions," he said. Neville struggled for words a moment, gaze drifting over to Harry and Hermione, laughing sweetly together before the firelight. "You shouldn't have to hide it when you love something so much."

Well, but it wasn't like it was Potions itself that Ron loved. He just liked the way his busy brain went all quiet before a cauldron, where each step was a choreographed dance. The twinge of joy he felt on a Potion's completion, the final steps of an act of creation, when everything settled finally into place.

It was just that this was the most excited he had ever been about a book in his life, he admitted, looking down at the black matte cover. It was just that his fingers itched to open it again.

It looked like he was going to have to rethink himself. A little.

You could still do that at twenty-two... right?

"Open yours," he compromised, and Neville only reluctantly disengaged, tearing at the paper.

He let out a ragged gasp. "Ron. This is a Wichtl."

"Yes?"

"A Wichtl. An original..." When Neville looked up, he gulped. "Seriously, where did you get this?"

"The Room," Ron admitted.

"Then I'll have to give it back!" said Neville in despair.

"You don't. No one's missing it," Ron insisted. "Besides," he said, smiling. "You love Herbology."

Neville didn't even spare him a dirty look. He clambered off into a stray armchair with his prize and didn't move until it was time for bed.

Ron crept away once it was lights-out. It took awhile, because there were always stragglers on Christmas playing with their new things, but soon enough he managed.

"Oh, it's you, again," the Fat Lady said sleepily.

"Sorry, I'll only be a few minutes," Ron promised, and continued to sneak down the hallway. He used the Map to avoid Filch and Mrs Norris, and found Hermione in the Potions Classroom as he'd half-suspected.

"…that might work," he heard Hermione say, "if you could locate some Gallium in the dead of winter. And don't tell me Sprout has it planted in the greenhouse; it's too commonplace. Why not something from the shelves?"

"Mister Longbottom mentioned some was growing in the greenhouses, regardless," Severus's voice rang out. "As a weed."

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Well, that's all right, then."

Ron poked his head into the classroom and Severus flushed as though he'd been caught with his hand up Hermione's skirt, when they were only debating Potions as they usually did.

Hermione was standing in new robes, and her wild hair was piled atop her head loosely, a broken wand-end holding it in place. Her face was fresh-scrubbed, and her eyes were bright.

Never once had it occurred to Ron that Severus should care a whit for Hermione's well-being, and that was unjust of him. "Hullo, Hermione. Severus. Merry Christmas."

Severus didn't even try that Professor-Snape-to-you nonsense, and Ron felt the warm kindle of triumph.

"Christmas! Is it?" Hermione said, looking up to Severus, who inclined his head. "How marvellous!"

"I've got a present for you," Ron offered, and Hermione clapped her hands. "Come with me."

"She cannot be seen," Severus hissed. "I forbid it. Can you not bring the gift here?"

"Oh, you silly," Hermione pronounced, and kissed his cheek. "No one's about; it's gone nearly midnight. Curfew was ages ago."

Severus shuddered; he didn't seem to know what to do with Hermione's affectionate gesture. "I suppose," he said. "But we will put a Disillusionment charm on you, and if anyone asks, Mister Weasley, you had a late detention."

"On Christmas?" Hermione wondered. "For what?"

Severus paused. "Very well – I've caught you wandering about after curfew."

"Fair enough," Ron said, and led the way to the Room. He walked back and forth to set the Room and beckoned them inside; Severus cancelled the Disillusionment charm with a Finite once they were within. "I thought you might like this part, Hermione," Ron said, pointing to the rows and rows of sorted books. "They're by subject, and then author. And Severus – there are Potions ingredients here, too. I threw away the things that were out-of-date, and I..." Ron turned, then, because part of him was aware of the utter silence that had fallen.

Hermione and Severus were standing side-by-side, blinking in identical surprise.

"I," said Ron, fumbling. "I only thought that you might like... no one really comes here but me, so it's... private, and... I know how much you must miss books, Hermione – oof!" Because Hermione had crushed him to her.

Ron shuddered. It had been ages since Hermione – this Hermione – had willingly embraced him. She clutched at him. "How good you still are," she murmured, petting his hair. "This is splendid. Thank you."

When Ron looked up, Severus was standing several aisles down, by the Potions stores; and he made such a strange, strangled noise, that Ron broke free of Hermione to find him. His eyes were wide. "But," he said. "These are mine."

Ron looked at the handwriting on the bottles and realized that it could, in fact, be the forbearer of the more sophisticated scrawl he saw on the board in Defense and Potions. "I should've realized," Ron said. "You must've hidden your things here when the Marauders –"

"You do not know that," Severus whispered, whipping his head to stare at Ron. "I did not tell you that!"

"No," Ron said, cautiously. "Not exactly. Harry spied on your Pensieve in fifth-year."

Severus brought both hands up to massage at both temples.

"Sorry. He had to give us some reason as to why... well, it doesn't matter, anymore. He only told me and Hermione and he swore us to secrecy." Ron didn't add that from an adult perspective, it was quite clear that Severus had been bullied mercilessly as a child, from his behaviour alone.

Hermione came up behind Severus and snaked her arm about his waist. He leaned on her unthinkingly a moment, still staring at the shelves, before shaking himself free of his abstraction and once again imitating a giant, unyielding oak on which Hermione could lean.

"I thank you Mister Weasley," Severus said plainly, turning to Ron. "It is... not something I had ever hoped to find, again."

"You gave me a library," Hermione tacked on, eyes wide. "I only thought that was for Disney movies."

Ron shrugged; he had no idea what Hermione was talking about, half the time. "It's just a few rows..."

She squeezed him again, and for just a moment Ron's head rested between Hermione's shoulder and Severus's. Severus was every bit as much stone as he looked, his muscles unyielding where Ron's cheek pressed, and then Hermione released him, her grin Christmas-bright.

"Well," said Ron, awkwardly. "I should be getting back, you know? Happy Christmas."

He was to the door before Severus's voice stopped him. "Ron."

Ron looked back to find Severus and Hermione standing in the centre of the Room where Ron's makeshift organizational system divvied it into rows like hallways off a central corridor. Hermione's arm was still wrapped around Severus's waist, and she swayed into him like a tree in a high storm. Ron waited for Severus to say something else, but he didn't; instead, one shoulder hitched uncertainly, as though words had failed him.

"Happy Christmas," Ron repeated with a softer smile, more contented than he'd been in months.

Chapter Text

Ron's mid-year exams came back more or less as he'd expected. His average score on his classwork this year was so far an Exceeds Expectations, with a Dreadful in History of Magic, an Acceptable in Transfigurations, an Exceeds Expectations in Herbology and Divination and the presumed Outstanding in Potions and Defense – Severus Snape giving him little choice in the matter.

Draco Malfoy returned to the Great Hall for breakfast after several days' brewing yielded the antidote, which was administered with a minimum of fuss, all before classes resumed. No one but the trio and Pansy Parkinson knew about the attempt on Harry's life, and it appeared that Professor Snape wanted to keep it that way. Draco, for his part, did not appear to recall the incident at all, even after Severus administered Veritaserum, so the idea of him working under his own power was dismissed once and for all. Harry made a point to tell Malfoy – in full view of several other students and cautiously polite – that he didn't blame him in the slightest.

Draco's reaction was amusingly baffled enough that it prompted Harry's continued civility; after all, Harry was a stubborn cuss who tended to do the opposite of what was expected of him.

So the winter snows continued through January, and everything settled into the uneasy sensation of sitting poised over a long drop. For Harry and Hermione, it was the puzzles of the Second Task that occupied their anxious minds; for Ron, it was when Voldemort would finally call his Death Eaters to him, and he, Hermione and Snape would enact the final steps to their plans, including the manufacture of a love token that Ron knew better than to mention. Harry and Hermione researched spells that enabled the user to breathe in the thin air at high elevations, and Ron steeled himself to be taken away for the Second Task – any day, now; any moment.

Ron remembered the Second Task well: one moment he'd been minding his own business in the hall, and the next he was sputtering cold lakewater, Harry's pale face above his, Harry's eyes wild with worry, a crowd roaring approval. Ron had nightmares of drowning for weeks after: the cold water, the fingers of algae sweeping his cheeks, in a world where Harry never came.

It wasn't so much that he was worried over the water closing over his head again – though he was, he was – but that, if past was prologue, the Second Task would take him out of commission. He'd be unable to act, unable to help. And what if Voldemort were to call Severus then? The creature seemed to prefer arranging his salvos around significant events in Harry's life, as though he viewed their battles as part of growing up, or an important, formative experience.

And Ron would be lying if he didn't admit that he was having those nightmares, again; though this time all Ron could do was watch, immobile, as the last bubbles slid from Harry's lips, as Harry died while Ron watched.

Ron found himself relying on the Aequus aquas more than ever, until he was taking a pre-emptive dose every morning when he woke up, and every evening before bed. He might still have nightmares, but at least he didn't wake up screaming.

It wasn't long after Malfoy rejoined the land of the living that one of the older Gryffindors – the young man who'd made eye contact with him after he'd returned from the Burrow, Ron thought – appraised him again in the Gryffindor Common Room. He gestured with his chin, and several of the other upperclassmen rose with him and made their way over to where Ron and Harry were seated by the fire.

"Weasley. Potter," said the young man.

"Boothe," said Potter, inclining his head, but Ron was taken aback by the juxtaposition, even if Harry wasn't… Ron's name seldom came first, when the two were addressed at once.

"Listen," said Boothe. "Me and some of the mates were wondering about all this pro-Slytherin sentiment we see floating around lately. Younger years look up to you; we wanted to hear what you had to say about it."

Gryffindor wasn't exactly subtle about listening; across the room, where Hermione, Lavender, and Parvati were braiding one another's hair, all three girls' hands froze mid-motion, and the perpetual game of Gobstones that had been going pretty riotously in the corner quieted.

"House Unity is all well and good," began one of the younger boys, but Boothe held up his hand.

"Enough. Let's see what Weasley and Potter have to say."

Ron risked a quick look at Harry, whose expression wavered between mulish and conflicted. "I think," said Ron, "that Harry made his feelings on House Unity pretty clear."

"And I want to know what you think about it," Boothe repeated, staring at Ron, now. "What you think of some filthy Slytherin nearly killing your girl, and then pretending he did it by accident."

"Hey," said Hermione, standing up, hair half-braided, half-wild down her back. "Boothe."

"I think it was nearly a tragedy," Ron said, standing. "Lucky it wasn't."

Boothe nodded. "Guess we've got our answer, gentlemen. Gryffindor, of all places, full of cowards…"

"We're not cowards," said Lavender, firmly. "You tell them, Hermione."

Hermione was trying very hard to appear fierce with only half her wild hair tamed, and with Lavender's bolstering support, but her lip kept twitching. "Boothe, we've talked about all this. I can stand up for myself." She straightened. "It's time to stop pretending this is about chivalry. You don't want to protect me; you want to despise them."

"Seems pretty spot-on, that," said Ron, turning an unfriendly eye on the group of older boys. "But then, Hermione's usually right."

Then, Fred and George moved to stand beside Ron, and Ginny stood from her position by the fire. Harry remained seated, but looked up at the group with an amused smile, twirling his wand idly.

Boothe smiled himself, a baring of teeth. "Easy," he said, putting his hands up in mock surrender. "You don't see it. That's fine. You can thank me later."

"Well, that wasn't ominous," Hermione said, drawing close. Lavender reattached to the side of Hermione's head and resumed braiding, following the other girl a stumbling half-step behind. Fred and George evaporated from Ron's side before he could even think to thank them, which he thought was probably intentional.

"I'll keep an eye," said Ron, twirling his own wand with narrowed gaze.

"You do that," Ginny said, ruffling his hair, and Ron ducked his head to laugh at the snap of the tense mood.

The Second Task was just a day away.

The Second Task was just a day away, and so far Hermione and Harry hadn't figured out where it was to be, or what the challenge beyond that it was likely at altitude. So Ron turned to researching in the library on his own, where his cross-referencing abilities would not be questioned, late in the evening, where no one would be around to do the questioning.

He was meandering the library stacks in search of a particular book on alpine magical creatures when he felt someone was watching him. He turned to see Malfoy standing in the shadows, a book clutched in his hand, looking as though he hadn't expected Ron to be there.

"Hey," Ron whispered, not wanting to startle the other boy, who still looked as though he hadn't slept in days. "All right, Malfoy?" Ron took a step forward, and Malfoy slid one, automatic step back; then his features creased in anger – if Ron knew him well, at himself. "I'm just fine, Weasley – and I'm not any of your business, anyway. Last I checked, I didn't have an older brother."

"Yeah, I know," Ron protested. "But –"

"Look to yourself, you look like you've been dragged backwards by a Hippogriff," Malfoy said, irritably tugging his robes into place. "Just how much sleep have you been getting?"

Ron thought this would be Malfoy's parting shot, but to the contrary, the other boy appeared to be awaiting his answer. "Well... with the Triwizard..."

Draco sobered. "You really worry about him."

"Every other moment," said Ron.

The other boy eyed him, then sighed. "Listen, you didn't hear it from me... but powdered dragonscale makes it easier to breathe at altitude."

"What?"

Draco looked at him as though he'd gone daft. "There's got to be some leftover on the pitch from the previous Task," he supplied. "You don't even have to steal things like you usually do."

"Hey!"

"You stole Professor Snape's potions ingredients," Draco returned.

"Well," said Ron, raking a hand through his hair. "Well, you have me, there." He eyed the other boy. "Thanks, Draco."

Draco shrugged, looking down. "So tell Potter and get some sleep..."

But then the hair stood up on the back of Ron's neck, sharp and sudden, and he whirled, wand in hand. "Behind me!" he barked, and Draco spent no time doing just that, drawing his own wand with that characteristic flourish that'd get him killed, one day.

"What? What is it?" Malfoy demanded, and then the spell came rocketing down the stacks, straight for Ron, who cast a Protego that slammed forward into the unknown spell with a great, explosive B O O M! The concussive force blew out in waves on waves, ruffling the pages of books, scattering scrolls, and rattling the shelving.

But when Ron blinked, the spell was still there, whatever it was: blue and glowing, shivering, shaking off Ron's Protego like a great lake disturbed by the toss of a stone.

"Protego!" Ron shouted again, panic rising in his throat, in his chest.

The spell split like a river around a rock, darted on either side of the concussive blast, and sped for Ron and Draco unhindered.

"Protego totalis!" Ron boomed, and a magical barrier sprang up around them like a pair of crystalline jaws, the world beyond dreamlike, distorted.

"A locator spell?" Malfoy said, panting lightly at his side. He still hadn't cast, but his wand was aimed at the blue light, which had coalesced once more into a single entity.

"A... locator spell," Ron echoed. "A locator spell."

"That's what I said!" Malfoy shouted, because the blue ball of energy was pushing forward, burrowing through Ron's Protego totalis.

The Second Task. This was the spell to identify Ron as the most important thing to Harry Potter and carry him away. He didn't recognize it because he didn't remember it slamming into him; it had hit him in the back the last time. He'd never seen it coming.

Soon, someone would be coming around the bend of corridor. Soon, someone would be entering the stacks, trying to find out where their spell had gone.

Soon, they would find him here, staving it off, Draco Malfoy at his side.

Lower your wand, Ron ordered himself. Lower it. Lower it, now. You're about to be discovered. Lower it, for Merlin's sake. For Harry's. You don't want to be discovered, now, do you? Not when you're so close... With great force of will, he began to lower his arm.

"What – what are you doing?!" Draco shouted. "Protego totalis!"

It was clear by the odd wand movement that Draco Malfoy had never cast Protego totalis in his life; his Protego formed beneath Ron's, rose to meet it, then popped like a soap bubble.

"It's only the Second Task," Ron explained. "It's not here for you."

Draco's eyes went wild. "People died in the last task! Protego totalis!" This time, his spell narrowly avoided popping when it met Ron's, nestling within; the blue spell paused as if sensing this new magic, before delving with yet more ferocity. Malfoy didn't turn to look at him; his expression was narrowed to his fledgeling spell, barely holding the barrier in place. "I saw your face, Weasley; you don't know where this spell is from! You're guessing!" He scoffed. "And you'd rather let yourself be hit by some unknown curse than give away the game...!" Their joined Protego jolted a half-meter inward, and Draco winced under the increased weight.

Malfoy was speaking to Ron's darkest thoughts; Ron's heart, already racing, picked up speed. Suppose Malfoy was right? Suppose this was a curse, sent to Ron or Draco by the same person who wanted Harry dead by Malfoy's hand? Maybe they'd changed tack when they couldn't accomplish their initial goal, and they'd be perfectly happy with murdering Draco instead of framing him?

"Protego totalis!" Ron shouted... but then the little blue spark went wild, darting around the Protego totalis in a spherical path at greater and greater speeds.

Through the whizzing glow, Ron could just make out a white-silver shape, growing as it moved down the stacks towards Ron and Draco... broad shoulders... a delicate muzzle... the rolling clop of ephemeral hooves... Harry's Patronus!

Panic seized Ron, then, with wild fingers. He sent all of his magic upwards, and he and Draco were encased in what looked like a block of ice... Harry needed him... he had to stay safe, for Harry... Harry was in trouble...

Draco was saying something, but it seemed to Ron that the world around him had bled of sound, until the Patronus galloped through Ron's barrier as though it did not exist, cantering around the pair of them before eyeing Ron soberly.

The world had gone dizzy and dim, so Ron had to reach atop its silvery head – a feeling like running his fingers through a wheatfield brushed gently up against his senses – and encounter no antlers – before he realized.

Not Harry. Severus.

Voldemort was calling his Death Eaters home.

Just as Ron had half-suspected he would, Voldemort would be using the hectic distraction of the Second Task for cover.

Ron's heart gave a second jolt, as though the library floor had jerked down under his feet, and wobbled.

"Weasley!" Malfoy shouted, shaking him at the shoulders. "What the fuck is that?"

And Ron knew in that moment that the spell would claim him, sooner or later. He had no choice. He had no choice. He could feel it, incontrovertible as the spell that had brought him to this place and time, pressing down with the weight of the inevitable. His adolescent magic was learned, but not powerful enough to hold it at bay.

So, "Draco," Ron said, clinging to Draco's shoulders in turn, more to keep himself upright than to make Draco mind him. "Listen. It's time. They've called Severus. You've got to get to Harry. Keep him out of the Triwizard. Get Neville. Get Hermione. I don't care what you have to do. This is for the whole Wizarding World, everything you love, everyone you care for. Don't waste a minute on me, don't waste a second. I'll be all right. Do you hear me?"

There was no time for posturing, and the other boy didn't bother. Instead, Malfoy searched his gaze. Ron had never seen his clear, grey eyes so very up-close as they peered, sadly, into his own. Malfoy jerked a nod and backed out of the Protego, which clung to his shoulders a moment as though unwilling to let him go. The Patronus followed Malfoy, docile, trusting him to lead the way.

With Malfoy's departure, Malfoy's Protego shuddered then dissolved, the spell collapsing in on Ron... for a moment, it seemed the adrenaline alone would sustain him... that, and sheer force of will... but then he felt a queer sense of something inside of him cracking, giving way... like iced-over lakewater under an enormous weight...

When Ron woke, it was to pain and the faint sense that something had gone terribly wrong. He shifted groggily in the dark; the press of cool tile against his cheek jolted him back to awareness, breath caught. Ron held prey-still for a long moment, listening for a hint of sound; after a moment he could make out reverberations of scraping, shuffling, if he strained, the susurrus of faint conversation below, with his ear pressed to the floor: Slytherin. But the library itself was dark, and empty.

Ron was alone.

All the same, he crawled over until a bookcase rested reassuringly to his back and drew his wand, feeling as though something within him had fragmented and now the jagged pieces shifted against one another like broken glass. Catching his breath, it came to Ron, suddenly, what the Triwizard verse must've meant by being above the wisdom of all mortal men. The spell had come for him in the library after all. He strongly suspected that the Second Task was on the top floor of the library, or perhaps in the air far above it, and felt a momentary flood of triumph at solving the riddle.

But the warmth of triumph made way for a creeping horror. He'd been out for Merlin knew how long. Why had no one come to claim him for the Second Task?

There were two, equally chilling possibilities:

The first: something so terrible had become of Harry or the managers of the Second Task that he had been quite thoroughly forgotten.

The second: the spell hadn't been anything to do with the Second Task, had been some kind of diversion or attempt to take him or Malfoy or both out of commission.

Had Malfoy been in time to keep Harry out of the Triwizard, or had he been waylaid? Had Hermione managed to create the love token in time to accompany Severus to the Death Eaters? Ron fingered his wand, magic shifting uneasily under his skin, prickling at his fingertips and toes like pins-and-needles. "Expecto patronum!"

The feeling of broken glass grating against his insides rose so sharply that Ron doubled over. For a long moment, he could do nothing but ride out waves on waves of pain, shaking with the force of it. A string of bloody spittle hung from his open, gasping mouth to trail lazily down before a single drop separated from his lips and spattered on his shoe, but there was no time to wonder what the curse had done to him.

Ron fumbled in his pockets and unfurled Harry's Map with shaking hands. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good," he burst forth.

An ache speared through him, not so acute as trying to summon a Patronus, but tender all the same. The Map stayed stubbornly blank, the cream of unmarked, aged parchment.

A terrible suspicion arose in Ron – suddenly, chillingly.

It was clear as a Lumos, there was no Second Task, yet. That was tomorrow. They'd no reason to come for him tonight. What if a loss of magic wasn't a side effect of overexertion but the original intent of the blue spell? What if someone figured they had to get Ron out of the way, first… before they could go for Malfoy?

And Ron had sent him away.

He was wrong. He was wrong, again… and if he didn't think fast, and he didn't manage to get to an ally as swiftly as he could move, hand over the Map, Malfoy could die. Somehow, Ron managed to lurch into a run towards Gryffindor Tower, his insides screaming at him to stop, his vision sparkling and narrowed, blackness encroaching. He didn't care, he didn't care… if someone were after Malfoy, if someone hurt him, Ron would – Ron would –

He'd kill them. He'd kill them, himself, with his bare hands if he had to, magic or no…

Shouldn't you know better by now? Ron's darkest self asked him as he panted up the stairs. Merlin knows the War should have taught you the worth of promises like that.

When Ron rounded the corner at the Seventh-floor corridor, for a moment he felt as though his heart should stop: three bodies were strewn about the hallway, and he saw blood, eyes open and unseeing, before he blinked and blinked... there was no blood… there was no green tinge to the air… Memory, it's just memory… Ron saw both images, knew both, and with a great wrench, forced reality to the forefront.

Ron might not have been able to cast a spell to save his life, but when he dropped to the floor, he was able to find that the nearest boy had a strong pulse: he'd been Stunned, only Stunned. He gazed about and realized every boy's chest was rising and falling. Ron was glad he was kneeling when he felt his legs go watery and useless with sheer relief.

It was only then he recognized their faces: the upperclassmen, the Gryffindors who had threatened Malfoy.

Could it be that they'd cast the spell together, to try and remove him from the picture? It had been a powerful spell, but working together -

"Young adventurer!" cried a voice.

Ron's chin jerked up to see Sir Cadogan within his frame, waving his arms for Ron's attention.

"They were after him – the pale Slytherin…" Cadogan sputtered. "Young Harry helped fight them off…"

"Where are they now?" Ron barked.

"Thataway, my lord!" Cadogan announced, leaping up and down as he pointed down the Seventh floor hallway. "Towards the secret door!"

The Room of Requirement. Getting the Locket?

"I'm right behind you, valiant sir!" Cadogan exclaimed, raising his sword in the air and waving it.

Ron reached the Room and staggered back and forth to summon the Room of Hidden Things and blessed his lucky stars that it bothered to admit him at all.

Ron crept forward, wand held before him, the crackle of dying magic within him giving him no faith he could cast so much as a Wingardium unaided; who knew if there were more assailants, if Harry and Draco had defeated them all. The darkness of the Room pushed from all sides, the once-friendly rows on rows of shelves Ron had so painstakingly arranged now menacing in the number of hiding places they made, the shadows they pushed across the floor. Ron turned the corner and the edge of one of Harry's trainers peeked out from behind one bookcase as he moved forward; a sudden sense-memory emerged, Harry's feet were sprawled out in front of him as though he'd been knocked backwards and hadn't bothered to rise again; his wand was drawn, but his hand was curled only loosely around it. The two images, one laden with sorrow, one tinged with pure alarm, coursed through him with such a jolt that it took another moment to see Draco Malfoy, standing over Harry's unconscious form, wand drawn, ready to cast.

Chapter Text

"Draco!" Ron shouted, lurching forward.

Draco whipped the wand around to him. There was no sign at all of the flourish, the grand hesitation that marked Draco Malfoy's wand movements. There was only competence in his stance, now... in his wand hand, in his narrowed eyes. "You should've stayed unconscious, Weasley," he said. "You're not supposed to be here. Stay back; that wand in your hand is as good as a twig to you just now, and you know it."

Ron eyed him: his stance, his fierce gaze. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"And the other shoe drops," Malfoy said. "Though you've been thinking of me as two people for awhile, now, haven't you? Ron Weasley," he sighed, "always knowing without knowing."

Ron shook his head. "I don't know who's controlling you, or how, but you can fight it, Malfoy. You have, before."

Malfoy frowned, then rolled his eyes in a move that was so like him that it made Ron wince. "You still don't know who's been controlling me? Really, truly?"

"Malfoy –"

"I'm the Draco Malfoy you played chess with," he said, evenly. "The Draco Malfoy who knows you think in Pottercentric circles. The one who's dead, if all of that wasn't cue enough, Weasley. Honestly."

There was a blaze in Ron's mind for a moment, as though a flash-bang had gone off in his brain. Malfoy came home with me after all.

But.

Malfoy hadn't contacted him, hadn't spoken to him, hadn't trusted him. Had watched Ron and Harry out of his fourteen-year-old self's eyes, and stayed silent.

"Okay," Ron said in his most careful voice. "Okay, you're... you. I – I can see how this, the school, everyone... being young again... would be very confusing. But the Vanishing Cabinet isn't here, Malfoy. You're not letting the Death Eaters in..."

Draco's gaze clouded, then focussed again on Ron. "I know that," he said, for a moment petulant, looking no older than his fourteen years. But then his features grew pained. "I'm really sorry about this," he said, and he seemed suddenly, wholly in earnest. "You were supposed to stay asleep a lot longer…"

"Yeah," Ron said, "all right. You didn't trust me enough to let me in on the plan. I get that." He knew he should be making eye contact with Malfoy, but he had to keep glancing over at Harry, watching Harry's chest rise and fall. "What about now?" he added, managing to rip his gaze back to the Slytherin's face. "Try me. I'm a captive audience, right?"

"Don't you need your potion?" said Malfoy, head tilted. Considerate. Kind.

Wand still extended, still trained on Ron.

"Uh, no. No, I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're shaking. Your magical core is destroyed. He saw that much."

"He?"

"Draco Malfoy, aged fourteen," Malfoy said, slowly. "You're doing it too, right? Thinking of your younger self as someone else entirely? I've been dying to ask."

"Death jokes. Classy," said Ron, pulling the Aequus aquas from his cloak pocket very cautiously when Malfoy jerked the tip of his wand forward with a lashing motion, keeping his other hand in the air. "Just the Aequus."

"There were enough stories about you even I heard them. In the War. And I've seen your reflexes for myself, when you're startled," Malfoy said. "So forgive me for being a bit jumpy."

"You said, 'Draco Malfoy, aged fourteen'," Ron prompted, heart hammering. "You… possessed him? Does he know you're here?"

"What do you think?" Malfoy said. "I want to hear what you think. I want to hear how well we played the game."

"I think no? Not consciously," Ron said, uncorking the Aequus and taking a careful sip... sighing when the potion began its work. Ignoring, for now, the we. "I think... you're the one who cast Sectumsempra... I think you," Ron said, in dawning certainty, "cast the family-curse... on yourself..."

"With a bit of help. That was a stroke of brilliance if I do say so myself," said Malfoy. "The Carusciae – based on family-shared memories... nowhere would Draco Malfoy find anyone with more shared memories than with himself. He was proving more resistant to control than I thought, but the potion did the trick... finally allowed me to get through."

"Well, you should've anticipated that," Ron said, grief-stricken. "Draco Malfoy never was a killer, was he?"

Malfoy tsked. "Should've been," he said, peering over his shoulder at Harry, just a flicker of his gaze, wand still trained on Ron.

Ron felt as though he was facing a chess board mid-game against an unknown opponent, seated at the board when he was already backed into a corner and three moves from 'mate, and meanwhile the clock was running out on other boards. How long had it been since Severus sent his Patronus for help?

"Every moment we stand here is a moment Snape doesn't have the backup he's counting on," Ron said. "We have to destroy the Horcruxes, Malfoy. No matter what else is going on in your head."

Draco's expression flickered. "You always do understand more than anyone gives you credit for," he said, softly. "But still somehow I have to be the one to remind you that there are two people with a doe Patronus at Hogwarts?"

Ron frowned. Well, sure; that stood to reason: Hermione Snape was in love. Which meant…

…it was she who had distracted Ron for a crucial moment, allowed Draco to escape from the clutches of the spell in the library, forced Ron into allowing the spell to take him for what he thought was the greater good…

Ron remembered how desperately he passed the message on to Draco… placing his faith in the other boy, believing that he'd carry that desperation with him, know Ron's sacrifice was important, necessary…

No.

She wouldn't have.

This was just Malfoy, playing with him one, last time. The way a cat plays with a mouse when it's already injured, already doomed.

"You're stubborn as always," Malfoy observed. "I can see I'll have to go through you to kill him," he said flatly, and Ron startled.

It was so strange to hear him say it aloud, and stranger still to hear it without inflection, as though killing someone were like essay-writing or mucking out the Owlery: a distasteful but necessary chore.

"And I don't want to," Malfoy said. "That's why we wanted you well out of this. So I'll make you a deal. I can share my memories with you," Malfoy said, making the lassoing Pensieve-memory motion in Ron's direction.

"Yeah, all right," said Ron – anything to give someone time to notice Harry Potter missing in action, or stumble across the Gryffindor boys in the hallway. It was late, probably past curfew or near, but there was still hope the young Hermione might come looking… hope the boys might've woken up and reported the punch-up instead of slinking back to Gryffindor with their tails between their legs...

"On one condition," Malfoy said, and paused until Ron made eye contact. "No attacks… no attempts to call for help… nothing. Nothing until it's done." Malfoy took a deep breath. "And, after that... if you think I'm wrong... logically wrong, Weasley, not morally wrong... then I'll turn my wand over peaceably. I'll even leave little Draco Malfoy alone. Do we have a deal?"

There was no question. "Yes, Malfoy, on my honour."

Draco peered into his eyes warily, but after a moment he seemed satisfied with what he found there. "All right, Weasley. Remember that you asked for this. Accio closest Pensieve."

And just as Ron had known it would, one of the several Penseives that he'd organized flew to Draco's hand. Draco gave him one, last look before beginning to remove memories, one after the other. They slid out of his forehead like tiny, silver worms, wriggling desperately. And Ron thought: I could rush him. He's busy, I could take him.

But Malfoy had the use of his wand; Ron didn't. Malfoy was prepared for an attack. And Malfoy appeared to have been planning this for a long while.

If Ron broke his end of the deal and was unsuccessful at wresting Malfoy's wand away, Malfoy's promise of eventual surrender was moot.

And, Ron's racing brain told him. You need to see, don't you? You need to know what could have driven him to this.

"You're a chess player after all," Malfoy said with a crooked, bitter smile, when Ron held his position. "Now, come – carefully! – and claim the Pensieve. You go first."

Ron cautiously approached the bowl as Malfoy sidled back, closer to Harry's unconscious form; Ron could still see his chest rise and fall with comforting patternicity. Darting one last glance around the Room for inspiration and finding none, he dipped his head into the glimmering bowl.

Ron cast about.

It was immediately clear to him that he was at Hogwarts. He recognized the alcove straightaway, though he couldn't recall where in the Castle it was located. Nighttime: the open windows reflected darkness punctuated by thin streams of cold starlight. At a clatter, he leapt back: Draco Malfoy was running up the stairs.

The boy's face was a study, darting so quickly between fear and horror and elation and a sort of numb hopelessness that it made his features almost unrecognizable... that he looked mad...

"Go ahead. Follow him," said Malfoy, suddenly at his side, and Ron startled. "Follow him," Malfoy repeated. "Up the stairs... Go on."

Ron followed Draco, Malfoy surreally shadowing him like the ghost he was.

Draco slowly opened a familiar door, and slipped through; Ron realized, then, where and when they were... where they must be...

"Good evening, Draco," said a very familiar voice. Dumbledore was waiting atop the Astronomy Tower. Draco's body was one, tense arrow, wand trained on the Headmaster. "How are you on this fine, summer evening?"

Ron had expected Dumbledore to reason with Draco, to beg for his life, or evince sorrow at Draco's choices. Instead, the old man's voice was calm and mild.

"Who else is here?" Draco demanded, shaking his wand. "I heard you talking."

Ron parted from Malfoy to stride up to the young Death Eater. Watching him gesture, Ron suddenly knew: that dramatic flourish, that shake, was hesitation. And Draco only shook his wand that way when he was threatening violence, because...

Because violence would always make him hesitate.

A stab of doubt ran through Ron, then, as he allowed... for just an instant... the possibility that Draco was no longer hesitating now because...

But that meant he'd finally gone mad.

"I often talk to myself," Dumbledore observed. "Old men do, you know."

"Look at you," Ron said, head tilted up, drawing yet closer to the young Death Eater, closer than the real Draco would ever allow. "I knew it was bad, but. Just look at you."

Malfoy, hanging back, shrugged. "He got himself into this. Through his own actions, his own choices."

"...I find it extraordinarily useful," Dumbledore was saying.

"Don't you feel any pity?" Ron said. He'd never seen such a conflict play out on someone's face, before.

"Have you been whispering to yourself, Draco?" said Dumbledore, lowly.

Here, Ron turned to gaze at Malfoy; what had Malfoy been doing, after all, but whispering to himself? His younger self…

But Malfoy wasn't looking at Ron or at his young counterpart. Instead, he stared at Dumbledore, lips parted.

"Draco, you are no assassin," Dumbledore went on, imploringly.

Malfoy took in one, shaky breath and shook his head. "No one is an assassin at seventeen," he muttered. "It's hardly an endorsement of my character, old man."

At the same time, Draco blurted, "how do you know what I am? I have done things that would shock you!"

Ron swallowed, feeling his throat click. "Malfoy... what are we doing here?"

Dumbledore was talking about the terrible things Draco had done... cursing Katie Bell... poisoning the mead...

"He trusts me!" Draco burst forth. "I was chosen!"

"You little moron," Malfoy said to him fiercely, though past-Draco could not hear. "You little moron; you ought to jump off that Tower right now, do us all a favour; you little fool."

Draco's wand jolted down as he displayed the Mark, in such a way that Dumbledore ought to have easily disarmed him. Then he looked up, trying to prove what a terrible creature he was, looking for the condemnation that would no doubt appear on the old Headmaster's face...

"I shall make it easy for you," Dumbledore said, quiet, and threw his arms wide.

"Malfoy," said Ron. "I don't..."

"Hush," Malfoy ordered, waving his hand. "We're almost there."

"...there are others?" Dumbledore whispered, and Draco explained how he had used the Vanishing Cabinet and the Room of Requirement, the whole while teetering on the verge of a terrible crime, wanting/not wanting to, with a near-equal desperation that balanced him on the knife's edge.

"Years ago," said Dumbledore. "Years ago, I knew a boy who made all the wrong choices. Please let me help you –"

"I don't want your help!" Draco shot back, features twisting with disgust, but then they shifted to pleading, sorrow. "Don't you understand? I have to do this. I have to kill you... or he's going to kill me. My mother. My father. Everyone I..."

A clatter on the stair; Ron whirled to find Bellatrix Lestrange striding towards him and he fell back, reaching for a wand that wasn't there... Greyback... Ron fumbled in his pocket for the Aequus aquas... but it was an ephemeral pocket... there was nothing to be gained from taking imaginary potion...

"Back here, wait," Malfoy said, yanking him out of their way... "they're not really here, remember they're not here..."

"Evening, Bellatrix," Dumbledore said, congenially; but there was another note to his voice, now: resignation.

"Well done, Draco!" Bellatrix whispered. "Good boy, very good. Like a hound dog, our hound dog, treeing a very, very old and very wily fox. Good, good boy."

Draco seemed to gain courage from the presence of his fellows. His wand hand barely trembled, now, with the increased support. But his face was still a study in rage and sorrow.

"Well?" Bellatrix said. "Do it!"

"That's right, boy," said Greyback. "First blood is always the sweetest. Go on," he added, almost kindly. He moved to stand behind Draco, bracketing his fighting stance, running his right arm down Draco's, until he gripped Draco's wand hand in his own. "Need a bit of support at first, do you? That's all right. Come, now. You can do it. For your family."

"Draco," said Dumbledore. "Draco, please." He was backing towards the parapet, away from Draco's wand.

"No," said a new voice, and Draco startled and might have stepped away, but that Greyback was holding him in that parody of a lover's embrace.

"Severus," breathed Ron.

Snape was striding forward. "No, Draco – listen to me –"

"For your family," Greyback was whispering into Draco's ear. "Surely you're man enough to do that much."

Malfoy at Ron's side made a strange noise at the back of his throat, his fingers still clutching the ephemeral Ron's robes.

Draco raised his wand, eyes squinting past his own horror, and opened his mouth...

...and Albus Dumbledore cast himself over the side of the parapet.

"...did the old fool just slip?" Bellatrix muttered to herself. "Ha! That's a brilliant joke, isn't it, Fenrir? And all because of wittle baby Draco – cast himself off the Tower rather than face your wand, didn't he? You've done well!" And then she began to laugh, little, mad giggles at first, then louder and louder until her voice rose into a shriek... and she cast the Dark Mark into the air, turning all of Hogwarts grounds Avada green... and Draco, horror-struck, was swept away in their retreat.

"Follow him," Malfoy said. "Hurry!"

And Ron followed, sick, running as fast as his legs would carry him; but Draco stumbled and fell, tumbling down the stone stair; and when he finally stopped, he was sprawled out, face-up. But he didn't move.

"Is this how you," died, Ron was about to say, but then he saw that Draco was blinking up at the ceiling, stunned or horror-struck.

"You!" a new voice shouted, and Ron whirled to find Harry careening down the stairs after Draco, who rolled to his feet and backed away. "You killed him! You killed him even while he begged!"

Draco said nothing, just brought his wand to bear.

"He talked to you about a boy who made all the wrong choices... that was Tom Riddle, Malfoy! He was saying that if you made this choice, you were no better than Voldemort!"

Draco said nothing to defend himself. There was no light behind his eyes. It was as though words were beyond him. His motions were a strange, robotic parody of his usual, studied grace.

"Do you know what would've sorted this?" Harry said, gaze darkening. "Do you know what someone ought to've done with Voldemort when he was just dreaming of taking over the world? Do you know what would've saved my mother and my father, and Cedric, and Sirius, and – and Dumbledore, too?"

Still, Draco didn't answer. Ron wasn't sure he'd even processed the question.

"Avada kedavra!" Harry shouted, and Ron whirled.

The bolt of green struck Draco in the chest and he crumpled. What struck Ron at once was that the look in his eyes hadn't changed a jot.

"What?" Ron said. "No. NO." He ran to Draco, but of course, there was nothing he could do; even if he'd been physically present, there was nothing. "No, no." Ron dropped to his knees beside Draco's corpse.

"Ron," said Malfoy, quietly, standing behind him. "Ron."

Ron looked up at Malfoy. "He didn't. He couldn't've." He turned to find Harry staring at the body with such cold rage painted on his features that he recoiled. He only realized a moment later that the memory had frozen; obviously, Malfoy didn't know what happened after his death, so this was the end of –

Wait. No... the walls were dissolving... there was a sound... a shhhh sound, like...

Ron was still kneeling when Draco's floating corpse passed through his head.

He scrambled backwards, and Malfoy helped him to his feet.

"Were you still alive?" Ron demanded.

"No," said Malfoy. "My ghost saw this. Come on," he said, and yanked Ron away.

For a moment, Ron said nothing, struggling to process that they were back in the Room of Hidden Things, Harry sprawled out against the wall, unconscious. A Harry that didn't look much different from the one who'd just murdered the boy in front of him. "You always told me that you died at the Battle of Hogwarts," Ron said when he found his voice again. "But you wouldn't say how. Every time I asked, you told me some new story."

Malfoy dipped his head and peered up through his lashes. "I died when I faced Harry Potter and I lowered my wand. Avada Kedavra. He meant it."

Hearing it aloud, the Room seemed to sway beneath Ron's feet.

"He'd gone a little mad already by then, I suppose. And he was grieving. Maybe the Dark Lord's soul did it to him; who can say?"

Ron's heart kicked against his ribcage in utter defiance of the Aequus.

"And then he went off with his do-gooder Gryffindor friends and had a funeral for poor Headmaster Dumbledore and he said not a thing."

"We... never found a body," Ron stammered. "Where was he d-dragging you?"

"He dumped it in the Chamber of Secrets. Sometimes I returned there, without meaning to. As a ghost."

"If this is all true, w-why d-d-didn't you -?"

"I knew if I told you where the body was, you'd know it was Harry who'd done it. So I pretended not to know," Draco said, matter-of-fact.

Ron shook his head. "No. You would've told us."

Draco paused. "You underestimate my capacity for empathy, Weasley. Harry Potter was long dead by the time you settled at Hogwarts. What good would it have done to tell you your dead best friend was a murderer?"

"That's..." Ron said, raking both hands through his hair. "Okay, that's... understandable. That you'd do this. That you'd... want to not die, of course... that you'd want to stop your younger self from making terrible decisions... doing terrible things. But this Harry hasn't killed anybody. You c-can't prove he would."

Malfoy frowned. "I know that. I'm not stupid, Weasley. I don't hate Harry Potter. I barely anything him, anymore. Except. Well, that's not the end of it. It's barely the start of it. I'm sorry. But it gets worse. Are you sure you want to know? I could just kill him now. I'll say you tried to stop me. I'll say you were very brave."

"That's really thoughtful of you, Malfoy!"

Malfoy took a deep breath. "Fine," he said, shortly. "Look in the Pensieve again."

Ron chanced a look back at Harry and quickly looked down at the floor. Was it... did he see Harry's eyes open, just a hair? Was Harry awake – was he listening? He needed, desperately, to check again. He couldn't check again, or Malfoy would notice. And maybe, maybe then he'd decide his deal with Ron was moot, that he had better go ahead and kill Harry now.

Harry, who Ron looked at, now, and thought: murderer.

"You don't have to," Malfoy reminded him.

Ron only transferred his stare to Draco.

The twisted smile fell off of young Draco Malfoy's fourteen-year-old face, and he sighed. "Yes. All right," he said. "Go on, then," he tacked on, twitching his wand to Ron. "You, first."

And once again, Ron leaned to the Pensieve.

Ron startled when he was faced with his own mirror image, years older. He squawked and leapt out of the way, because twenty-something Ronald Weasley was moving fast, Harry at his side; they were in that network of caves, the one Severus went back to now and again, when they had to pause long enough to replenish their Potions stores.

"...the Wireless is saying there are Death Eaters to the North and West, but that Hogwarts has turned into a kind of sanctuary," Harry was saying, wand tip lighting the way ahead, Ron scrambling behind him to catch up. "Maybe we can make our way there."

Harry paused, and turned, and Ron gasped.

He'd forgotten. He guessed he must have – the gauntness of Harry's face, the features of someone on the run for years, someone who'd lost weight he couldn't stand to lose. In his shocked silence, he could hear Hermione and Severus chatting in the background. They didn't even sound anxious; he could hear Hermione's laugh, warm and low, and the huff of breath that meant Severus thought something was funny, too. He almost wished he could go be with them, but Malfoy had brought him here for some reason; he couldn't go be with Hermione and Severus, happy together for a brief flash of time.

"Yeah," Harry said. "Time to stop running, I think."

His previous self clapped Harry on the side of the shoulder and offered up a brave smile. "I know it looks dark, now, mate," he was saying, "but we're going to make it through this. You'll see." But then something in his friend's face or stance seemed to cause him concern. "All right, Harry?"

"It's all right, Ron," Harry said, blank-eyed, clapping a hand to Ron's shoulder, in turn. "I'll be all right."

"You just don't let this get to you," Ron called after him. "We're fine; we're doing fine."

But Harry didn't seem to hear.

"Hey, d'you know what's up with Harry?" Ron's counterpart asked, thumbing over his shoulder when he reached the others.

"Harry has been a ball of angst since he was eleven," Severus said, dryly, and Ron blinked in surprise: strange to hear Severus call him 'Harry' after months of 'Mister Potter' again.

"He seems really upset," Ron muttered.

"Can't imagine why," Severus added. "Could it be the lodging, or the company?"

"Yes, well," said Hermione.

"Yeah, sure: everything's coming up roses," said Ron, and Ron could hear the relief in his own voice. Sure, things were bad – was it any wonder that Harry was acting so strange? "He's gone for a walk."

"He knows we've got to stick together. I'll go and look for him," Hermione said with a sigh, drawing herself to her feet and dusting off her tattered skirts.

"No," Severus said, one hand in the air. "Perhaps a former teacher can talk some sense into his thick skull. You two stay here," he ordered, then stomped off, grumbling under his breath.

Ron watched Severus leaving and could no longer help himself. "No. Severus? No, stay here. Damn it!" He trailed after Severus, who was still muttering imprecations as he worked his way through the caves. "Please don't go, it's not safe..."

But then the scene changed.

Ron suddenly stood side-by-side with Hermione Snape, peering through a rather wild hedge on a Death Eater gathering in a barren field in the far distance. She was panting with panic, muttering no, no, no... under her breath, and Ron looked more closely. Yes, there was Harry, tied to a wooden post, the Death Eaters milling around him.

But… that didn't make sense. His chat with Harry was right before the Battle of Hogsmeade… wasn't it?

This wasn't Hogsmeade.

Hermione's eyes were wild and full of tears, and her lips were moving, now, to form words. Could she have cast a spell to hear what they were saying?

Ah, who was he kidding? She was Hermione; of course she had. And he could hear it, too: the Death Eaters' murmurs.

Go, Ron told himself. Go on, you need to hear this. You need to see it. But still, he stood.

Go, Ron insisted, with greater urgency. Please, come on. Move, you've got to, and then he was finally marching forward despite himself, pulled forward as though through some terrible dream. He screamed aloud when someone grabbed his arm.

It was Malfoy, who stared at him intently out of colourless eyes. "I never intended you to see this," he said. "I was going to take care of this for you." Malfoy ducked his head and shook it as though he'd posed an argument in his head, only to counter it. He looked up into Ron's face and blurted, "It's going to kill you."

"I've been through worse," Ron said, but looking off in the distance towards the post where Harry hung ... he could see, now... at an unnatural angle... he wasn't so sure.

"I can tell you, if you must know!" Malfoy said, holding fast.

Ron ripped his arm away. "No," he said. "You can't." And he continued making his way toward the Death Eaters, even while every part of him was begging him to stop, even while his face felt numb with shock and his knees went liquid under him.

Malfoy trembled at his side, and then his hand fumbled for Ron's, and Ron... didn't protest, just let his hand go slack, because he was standing closer than he'd ever been in his life to Voldemort, the Dark Lord; to Bellatrix Lestrange, which was somehow almost more disturbing; and to Fenrir Greyback. Ron might've thought that the Death Eaters would be jeering, throwing things at Harry, or taking turns with the Cruciatus Curse, but they were silent as Voldemort made his way through the crowd and to Harry.

Harry was tied with his hands over his head, the loop tossed around a chunk of metal – a railroad spike? – feet dangling far above the ground. Blood dripped down the side of his face from a head wound, and his lashes fluttered in a way that implied approaching consciousness.

"Harry," Voldemort said, and Harry Potter opened his eyes.

They were dull green, flat.

"I must say," Voldemort went on, meditatively, "that I didn't expect this."

"The world is full of surprises," Harry replied, "isn't it?"

Voldemort didn't reply, at first. Then, "you think to gain something by giving up your life? I've made other Horcruxes, you know." The monster strode up to Harry and reached up to caress his face, drawing the blood down one cheek. "You are far from the last."

Harry didn't flinch away from the intimacy, staring straight ahead. "I figured," he said.

"Then why end our game this way?" said Voldemort, and he actually sounded disappointed. "Why come to me?"

"Because I don't belong here," said Harry, and he looked suddenly so weary that Ron broke forward and reached out to him... but of course, there was nothing Ron could do but stand beside Harry, as though they were facing the evil man, together.

And so he did, Malfoy at his shoulder.

"You belong here," Ron told him.

Voldemort still had his head tilted to one side, consideringly. Ron knew the man wasn't staring at him, but it seemed as though he were. He drew closer to Harry and pulled Malfoy to him.

"I was supposed to die," Harry went on, calmly, "as a baby. But because a Potions genius fell in love with my mother, I didn't."

Ron's gaze skittered up to Harry's features.

Harry's gaze was direct, empty of fear. "He tried everything he could think of to save us, he told me. Dozens, maybe hundreds of times. But no matter what, the only thing fate would cough up was me."

"What a shame," Voldemort said, evenly.

"I know," Harry agreed. "Gypped, if you ask me. I'm wrong – an abomination. I've done things..." Briefly, emotion returned to his young face, and he squeezed his eyes shut in pain for a moment, before opening them. "I don't belong here."

"There are easier ways to die, than by my hand," Voldemort observed.

"I don't deserve any better," Harry said, and it was with the same lack of inflexion as before.

And something terrible broke open in Ron's chest and erupted as a sob.

"Well," said Voldemort. "This is incredibly disappointing. You've destroyed yourself neatly for me, Harry."

"I haven't, though," Harry said. "Not for you. You'll go, like every villain goes. But it'll be Neville – like, I guess, it always should've been." He smiled: slow, genuine. "I was just the wrong one, d'you see? That's why the prophecy didn't work out. That's why things are so bad, now. And once I'm gone, it'll be better for everybody."

"I – I can't," Ron said. "I can't watch this, I can't listen, I can't do this –"

A flicker. Ron was back at Hermione's side, because she, too, had stopped listening. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and Ron realized –

"Her memory," he said, aloud, because of course Draco was already dead by this point in the timeline, and there was no way for his ghost to leave Hogwarts Castle. This wasn't Malfoy's memory, it was Hermione Snape's – at some point, she had conferred this memory to Malfoy...

"Hermione!"

Ron and Malfoy turned to see Severus, and against all rationality, Ron felt a reflexive relief: here was Severus, and he would make everything right. Hermione seemed to think so, too, because she flew into his arms and wept. Ron could see his face hooked over Hermione's shoulder as he examined the situation across the field... saw the hopelessness of it take hold, followed by a strange and uniquely Severus-Snape-shaped determination: a wry and bitter twist to his lip, a firming of his chin.

He extricated himself from her embrace and pressed his lips to hers: lovingly, fiercely, passionately, and Ron had to turn his face away. Then, he stood. He turned to Hermione. "You stay here, Miss Granger," he said gravely, and Ron watched the appellation hit Hermione like a bolt. Her face went white, and she trembled.

"Severus!"

"Do as I say!" he growled, and spun for the field.

"I know what happens," Ron said. "Don't make me..."

But Hermione was reactivating her spell – of course, of course – and Ron had no recourse but to hear.

"I know what happens," Ron protested, to Malfoy directly, now.

"You don't," Malfoy said, and claimed Ron's hand again.

"Stop it!" Ron shouted, yanking his hand free. "Let me go! Don't you think I know how this ends?"

Draco wrested him forward, dragging him closer to the centre of the field, where Harry hung from that post, ready to give up his life for, for nothing. He muttered I'm sorry, and just awhile longer and please, please, until Ron stopped struggling, stopped protesting, went numb.

"Severus Snape," Voldemort said, raising a hand when Bellatrix growled and would have attacked. "How fortuitous. Did you truly do as Harry implies and try to save the life of that accursed redhead I killed so long ago? In that case, it would seem you have a type, replacing one Mudblooded bitch with another."

"Come, my Lord, cut the boy loose," Snape said, evenly. "Give him a wand. Make the battle worth a story, at the very least; this is hardly the glorious end that you envisioned for your greatest enemy."

And Ron, who'd been scrambling to discern Severus's plan realized: he didn't have one. He was hoping for a miracle: he still believed in the prophesy, even if Harry didn't. And Severus didn't even know that Harry didn't: only Hermione knew. Severus might even believe that if Voldemort were foolish enough to give Harry a wand, Harry would finally defeat him, even if both he and Severus died in the attempt.

Voldemort appeared to come to the same conclusion. "Brave Severus," he said mockingly. "Of course, it isn't very exciting to murder a boy tied to a stake, no matter how prettily he screams. Very well... Barty, cut the boy loose."

Severus's eyes widened as the Kissed Barty shuffled forward, and Ron instantly saw how it would go: they'd cut Harry down, but the fight had gone out of him. He wouldn't fight for his own life, much less Severus's. And then Ron would watch two of the people he cared most for in the world be killed, the sight that had driven Hermione mad.

"Barty, give him your wand," Voldemort ordered. "Come, Harry, let's duel as you've always wanted. As you once thought you were meant to. Come, at least fulfil that much of your purpose."

"Severus," Harry said, slowly, rubbing the feeling back into his arms. "Are you the only person who knows about that spell... you told me about?"

Ron could tell that Severus's thoughts were whirring behind his darting eyes. Ron didn't miss that his gaze flickered to where his wife was hidden, but then, Ron was looking. Severus must've thought Harry was sending him some kind of message or thinking up a new plan, because he jerked his head in the affirmative. "Yes, I –" he began, and Harry's wand swung towards him.

"Avada kedavra!" Harry shouted, and then, he turned the wand in his own hand. "Avada kedavra!"

And then he toppled backwards, going out at the knees – suddenly, not Harry anymore. A body. A too-young body, with forever-open eyes. Severus crumpled mere steps away from him, that uncharacteristic expression of hope frozen on his features.

A scream split the air, and Ron whirled to where Hermione was hidden. He'd never heard a sound like that, not in all of the war, an animal sound of despair, and it went on and on until it sounded raw, bloody, and –

Malfoy jerked him backwards, and they were suddenly in a library, or – not a library, the Room of Requirement – no, the Room of Hidden Things, and –

"Easy. Easy," Malfoy said. "Breathe, Ron, breathe."

"No!" Ron shouted, shoving him away. "What did – how – what made -?" and he stopped, because he wasn't making any sense, and because he found that he understood perfectly well... Harry had done as he always had, exactly what he thought was right, only there was nothing Ron could imagine that was more terribly wrong.

And then there was movement in the corner of the Room, and Ron whipped his wand around, and it was Harry, slowly standing, rubbing the back of his head... he must've broken through whatever spell Malfoy had placed on him... just like Harry Potter to do that, Ron thought.

"You see?" Malfoy said, quietly, his own wand raised alongside Ron's. "You see?"

"Yes," said Ron, and he was in earnest; he was ready to do it, what had to be done... he was trembling and horrorstruck... Harry had killed two people, and then himself... Harry was mad, or if he wasn't, yet, he would be... he would hurt people, he would drive Hermione mad, too. Harry was right... he didn't belong in this universe, and Ron would excise him.

"Ron?" Harry said. "Ron, what're you doing?"

"He's an abomination," Malfoy blurted, words tripping over themselves in his haste to say what he had clearly been wanting to tell Ron all along. "A walking black hole. He doesn't belong here; he shouldn't exist. He's not the Boy Who Lived."

"Ron," said Harry, looking genuinely alarmed, now, one hand extended. "Ron, whatever spell he's got you under, you – you've got to fight it!"

"I just," said Ron, wand hand trembling. "Oh, Merlin. I just need a second."

"You haven't got one," Malfoy said. "We've wasted enough time already. How long do you think it's going to take before someone notices our golden boy missing? Severus? Neville? Granger?"

"...Hermione! Hermione wouldn't want you to –" Harry said in such a small voice that Ron's wand hitched.

"Don't you say her name," Ron growled, and ignored Harry's flinch. He raked his free hand through his hair. "There's got to be a way out of this," Ron said.

"Don't you think we tried?" Malfoy countered, voice hard. "Hermione drove herself to distraction with trying!" Malfoy shook his head. "Granger kept going back to try and restore the original timeline. But eventually," he said, and shrugged. "Snape outmanoeuvred her – found something he could do that saved Harry, no matter how she tried to counter it. Not that he knew who he was battling… thought it was all fate…"

Hermione smiled at him. "I've never had the head for chess, really."

"That's funny," Ron said, moving his queen's pawn to D4 with a tap of his wand; it scuttled forward importantly, forming a united front with its fellow pawn. "You think so far ahead."

"Ron," Harry said. His voice sounded as shattered as Ron felt.

"It's got to end somehow," Bartemius shouted as Snape dragged Ron away, "the killing! Do you plan on doing it yourself, with your own hands? Can you?"

Even he'd known. Bartemius had remembered –

"Please, Ron," Harry urged. "Just – stop and think –"

But then his wand arm darted up, he was casting something wordless, knocking Ron and Malfoy backwards, and before Ron could scramble to his feet, Harry had darted away.

"Fuck," said Malfoy, and took off after him.

Ron knew all too well what might happen if Harry were to reach an authority figure – or even Hermione – and swear that his best mate was trying to kill him. Ron let loose a choice selection of his foulest language and darted after Malfoy who – he hoped – still had Harry in his sights.

Ron chased after the pair through the night-darkened corridors. His heart had begun to pound, and he could feel the panic rising over his head to cover his eyes and stopper his ears. He pressed a hand to the stone wall beside him when the corridor tilted around him, but he only used it to push off, continuing to run... he would run until his legs would no longer support him. In lieu of balance, he used his vision to determine whether to veer left or right.

When Ron stumbled around the corner, he found a third figure beside the other two – Hermione – had joined the battle, and some instinctive tick of relief for Hermione's logical brain burst through Ron… but then he saw her draw her wand on Harry, flanking Draco, and he knew her just moments before she turned to show him the pale streak in her hair... and the Diadem nestled there.

Harry's gaze found Ron's, green and wide with panic behind his spectacles, and Ron's gaze darted between the two. Harry was his heart's yearning, the focus of all his childhood love. Draco and Hermione were his charges, his responsibility. He could no more choose than tear himself in two.

So he stood beside the one who needed protection the most.

"He's just a boy," Ron said, and slid to block their access to Harry.

Hermione's gaze was blank, but Draco's face was painted in lines of distress and remorse. "This is why I shoved you aside," he said, voice breaking. "I could've spared you this. I'm the one who's a murderer – so I didn't really care what happened to me. But I could've fixed this for you, I could've –"

"Draco," said Ron, "nothing can fix what happened to me. It will always have happened to me. Nothing you can say or do now would make it otherwise."

It flashed through his mind all of an instant, the darknesses of his life: losing Hermione, their romance over before it ever began; the loss of Harry and Severus, sharp and sudden as the amputation of a limb; the slow, toothache pain of losing contact with each of his family members, one at a time. The bitter shame of knowing he'd startle at little noises, unexpected touches, forever – the flood of adrenaline for no reason, for no reason at all, making him irrational and prey-small. Fixing the past didn't mean he could erase all the faultlines that life and time had embedded in his bones: those crumbling cracks that only grew with time. Nothing he did today could change who he was, what had become of him.

"You're a murderer," Hermione told Harry, calmly. "I tried and I tried but you're a murderer, and you're the end of the Wizarding World, and you always will be." She raised her wand hand, with intent. "Ron, move. Please."

"Take off the Diadem, Hermione," Ron said, steady. "Put it in your pocket and have a real think about this."

"I have thought about it," she insisted. "I have, Ron – from every possible angle."

Nothing would change what had become of Hermione, Ron realized, breath catching in his throat. Not anything Ron could ever say or ever do. No matter how many times he or she or Severus reached backwards to right things.

Harry's free hand reached for and clasped onto Ron's own, and squeezed.

"No," said Ron, and squeezed in return.

"I'll kill you both, if I must," Hermione said. "I've thought about it beforehand, and I can. If not doing it means the end of everything."

Ron swallowed. The hallway was wavering, now, and he could barely hear Hermione's words over the pounding of his heart.

"We didn't agree to that," Draco snapped, and swung his wand on Hermione.

"Honestly," Hermione said and, with a flick of her wand, Disarmed him. With little jerks of her wand, she indicated that Draco should move to stand beside the others.

"Shit," said Malfoy, succinctly.

"What is… happening?" said Harry.

Ron didn't reply. Dark spots were dancing in front of his eyes; they outnumbered the swaths of corridor he could actually see. Harry still clasped one of his hands, and Malfoy reached up to squeeze one of his shoulders, and he knew that, without that support, he would slide to the floor. His breathing rattled.

"Listen, Potter – as we're about to die and all," Draco said, swiftly, "I really, honestly want you to know that despite appearances, my attempts to kill you were never personal."

"Ha," said Harry, which was so Harry that it brought pricks of tears to Ron's eyes.

"Sorry," Ron said, wondering if it was the last thing he'd ever say. "Sorry I couldn't fix it." The hall was shining with sparkles of silver. "Pottercentric circles. You were right. It doesn't matter what he is, what he might do, someday: I love him."

"I know," Draco said. "That's why… hey."

Through Ron's narrowing vision he could see a silvery light drawing near.

"Hermione," said the silvery doe, in Severus's voice. "It's time."

Her name drew and pulled like taffy, the oh drawing out slow and dark.

Ron fell away from reality like a traveller through time.

Chapter Text

"Silently," Ron heard, in Severus's most strained voice.

He blinked awake without making a sound. The corridor was still dark, Ron noted, but the loss of consciousness had obviated his internal chronometer: it could have been six hours or ten minutes. His heart thumped in his temples, at his ears. Ten minutes, then – the adrenaline was still thrumming, plucking at Ron with insistent fingers. He tried to roll over.

"Stay down," said Severus, and Ron let himself go limp. "You'll only disappear on us again."

Ron blinked up at the stone ceiling, which moved like ripples on water and conceded this was probably true.

"Potter is still alive," Severus said. "However temporary that situation might be."

Ron blinked at him.

"Draco, too," Severus added. "And we already know how good Missus Snape is at looking after herself."

Ron muttered something, careful, to the best of his ability.

"Yes, I'll be forever jealous she held Harry Potter at wandpoint; you've managed to pinpoint my contention to the situation with razor-sharp accuracy."

In his mind's eye, Ron saw Harry's face as he killed Draco, as he walked to his death, as he ended Severus Snape.

He began to cry.

"Oh. Oh, no," said Severus.

Ron shook his head. The world was dark and spinning fast, as though it wished to shake him off.

"You're going to lose consciousness again, and we don't have time for that. Do you hear me, Weasley? Ron. We don't have the time."

Ron took a few hitching breaths and focused on Severus's face. It looked more like the face he remembered: worry etched semi-permanently into the lines there, concern softening his usual sharpness.

"There we are," said Severus. "The Dark Lord has called me. As it appears my wife anticipated he might, this night."

Ron's eyes went wide – a tear slipped down each cheek – he wiped them away and sat up.

Severus caught him as he wobbled. "Easy."

"Easy," rasped Ron, incredulous.

"No, perhaps not. Very challenging, then. Here; I've brought your potion."

Ron took the Aequus. The room steadied, but with enormous reluctance. Ron felt as though he were hanging onto equilibrium by the barest of threads.

"Pepper up," said Severus, and gave him a phial.

Ron took it, and warmth shot through him. "Where are the others?" he said.

"Oh, my wife ceased her threats the moment she saw my Patronus and knew of the Dark Lord's plans," Snape growled. "I hope you understand by now she used hers to fool you. Potter stayed, rather than dashing away in the name of self-preservation, for… Potter-like reasons. And Draco Malfoy is in the Hospital Wing. Again. He followed you into unconsciousness - as he has followed you everywhere, it would seem."

Ron blinked.

"I sent Potter to awaken Longbottom. It's time to fetch the Horcruxes and finish this."

"Hermione is… doing that?"

"My wife knows her priorities. She has left the Horcuxes under a wave of protections keyed to you in the Potions classroom – including the accursed Diadem. The room is locked; here is the key," Severus said, pressing the key into Ron's hand. He scanned Ron's form cautiously. "I have retrieved the Sword with Dumbledore's knowledge. Are you up to finishing this? Are you able?"

"Yes," said Ron, even if it kills me.

"The Basilisk venom is marked bubotuber pus, but just in case you can't recognize it, it's warded to the nines." He frowned. "Neville will be along to help you. And now," he said, wincing, "I must go."

"Sir," said Ron. "Severus."

Severus stood, and looked back. "It will be well," he said. "It will turn out well, this time. I shall be sure of it."

He swept down the corridor and out of sight.

From previous experience, Ron stood cautiously, waited for the corridor to settle, took a few steps and waited for that discombobulation to die down before cautiously making his way to the Potions room.

"You were hiding things all along," Harry said when Ron finally it down the seven staircases and, huffing, pulled himself within. "I knew you were."

"Get the barrel labelled bubotuber pus," Neville ordered when Ron didn't respond straightaway and, after a pause in which Harry grew used to the novelty of Neville giving orders, Harry moved into the Potions storage cabinet.

While Harry was out of earshot, Ron reached for the other boy's sleeve. "Neville," said Ron, "can you run up to the Room of Hidden Things? There's a Locket in the Potions cabinet there, top shelf, looks just like Hermione's. I'd get it myself, but I'm still a bit shaky on my feet."

Neville nodded, eyes on Ron's. "Right away."

But that left Ron and Harry alone with a mess of magical objects – the Cup, the Diadem, the barrel of basilisk venom – and a charged silence.

"I'd really like to hear some of what that was all about," said Harry, tightly. He kept his wand in hand.

"Let's just get through this, first," said Ron. "I, I can't -"

"What," said Harry, evenly. "Tell me without passing out?" He paused. "Or without wanting to kill me again?"

"Please, Harry," said Ron, pressing his hands to his temples. "Just – wait, will you?"

Harry reached out, tentatively, before allowing his hand to fall. "How did this happen? Is this what you were hiding when you went back to the Burrow?" His gaze darkened. "Is it because of Crouch?"

Ron looked up into his worried features. "Post-traumatic stress," he said. "I take a special potion for it, Aequus aquas. I carry it on me. Malfoy found me in the middle of an attack in the hallway, and took me to Snape, against all odds. Neville was there doing his Potions work, and the rest is history."

Harry's gaze lowered, and Ron watched his hands clench and unclench, but he was nodding, slow, then more sure – putting it all together in that way only Harry Potter could. "I'd say you saw someone else when you held your wand on me," said Harry. "I know you can see things that aren't there, when you – when you've seen terrible things," he went on, slowly.

And it occurred to Ron that Harry was speaking not from something he'd seen on the telly, but from experience.

"Except you called me by name," Harry said, looking up. "You knew me –"

Neville slid back into the room, holding the leather Potions bag aloft, and moved to the bench. "Gloves," he ordered.

"Ron," said Harry.

"Gloves," said Neville.

Harry transferred his wariest gaze from Ron – reluctantly – to pull on the dragonhide gloves Neville proffered. Ron did as well, and he and Neville carefully poured the basilisk venom into the stone cauldron.

"How will we know it's time?" said Neville.

"I don't know," said Ron, and the door to the Potions room swung open again.

"Hermione!" Harry exclaimed, and drew his wand, assuming a duelling stance.

Ron jerked his head up from the cauldron, but it was only Hermione – young, innocent Hermione with her wild hair and wide eyes. He'd know her gaze anywhere, and it didn't hold a hint of madness. Besides all that, he could see the false Locket glinting at her neck.

"What -? Harry, what are you doing?"

"Wand down," ordered Ron, in the sort of wartime voice that snuffs out the very thought of debate like a candle in a high wind – such that Harry's wand hand drooped, even though Hermione had threatened to kill him mere moments before.

"Yes, wand down," said Hermione fussily, advancing into the Potions room and ignoring Harry. "What are you all doing here? I checked for the Map but it was gone; it's taken me ages to find you… If Harry hadn't mentioned he'd caught you hanging around the Potions lab at night, Ron…"

Harry blinked a few times and pocketed his wand, never particularly slow on the uptake. "Sorry," he said, "but someone who looked like you tried to kill me just now."

"Someone – what?" said Hermione.

"Look, Professor Snape is depending on us –" Neville broke in.

"What?" said Hermione.

"Welcome to the club," Harry said, with an expansive gesture – as if to demonstrate to Hermione just how tits-up everything had gone.

"Ron?" said Neville.

"Yeah, okay. Okay. Just – everyone let's… do our jobs," Ron huffed.

"What's wrong?" said Hermione, taking a few more, mincing steps forward.

"Ron has a panic disorder!" Harry shouted.

"And that isn't especially helpful," said Neville, "raising your voice. At someone in a panic. Wasn't sure you knew."

Ron took a breath in the ensuing silence. "We're destroying magical objects important to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. If we manage to destroy them all, he'll die – permanently."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a vexed glance. Then their gaze slid, from unspoken agreement, to Neville, who was using a levitation charm to lay out the cursed items in a neat row, and his brisk professionalism seemed to make up their minds.

"Okay," said Hermione, playing with a chain around her neck – Ron figured she'd clapped eyes on 'her' Locket. "What do you need us to do?"

The wave of relief was so strong that his vision sparkled warningly. "We're still not entirely sure how long it takes to create a Horcrux – all we know is that it requires a murder," said Ron, gripping the edges of the Potions table desk with whitened fingers to ensure he stayed upright. "So it's important we don't give him any warning."

"So if you can use a Levitation charm," said Neville, "and aim the items over the Basilisk venom, we can release our charms at once and they'll all go in together."

"But we have to wait for Severus to," said Ron. He stopped, shook his head. "We have to wait for a signal."

"Ron, you're in no condition to be casting anything," Hermione announced. "Here, I'll grab the Locket. Harry?"

"Cup," said Harry.

"Diadem, then," announced Neville.

A silvery doe erupted from the blackboard and cantered over to the table. "Ready yourselves," it said, in Hermione's voice.

Hermione stared.

"Go, go," Ron urged, and they all cast Levitation charms. Hermione was so badly shaken that her Locket wobbled before her jaw firmed and her gaze steadied to forbidding, daring the Locket to disobey her.

"Wait, Merlin," Ron gasped. "Wait, what if it – splashes, or…?"

"Should we move them back?" Neville queried, voice strained.

"No, no," Ron said, "I can… I can do this." He brought his wand to bear and focused on wardcraft, weaving a barrier over and around the Horcruxes and cauldron; the slashing-knives sensation held, but so did his magic. "When you drop your Levitation charms," Ron said, voice strained, "immediately layer your protection charms over mine. Are we ready?"

There were nods around the circle, and after what seemed an interminable silence, the doe said, "NOW," and Ron watched, as though in slow-motion, as Hermione yanked her wand away and then wove her charm around his with alarming speed. Neville and Harry were slower, beginning to weave just as the Horcruxes tipped into the venom…

And the cauldron exploded.

Shrieks rose into the air, He Who Must Not Be Named's voice layering over multiple iterations of itself into a panicked and enraged babble of incomprehensible threats, taunts, and supplications. Ron planted his feet and held, as if for battle. His vision narrowed and his arms shook; he could hear his heart pounding at his temple, behind his eyes, at the tips of his fingers and toes. Conscious thought fled, supplanted by the methodical, insistent weave of magic dancing at his fingertips. His magic was weak, so weak that it barely held, but his technical expertise and speed – and the ballasts of Hermione's and Harry's and Neville's magic layering, layering, layering on top saved him… and he could feel, after a moment, Hermione's magic tentatively weaving through his own, and then Neville's, forming a basket of indomitable strength, Harry's raw power the hard, outer shell around it all…

And then it was over, just so suddenly as it had begun… the shrieks cut off, leaving a ringing silence behind… and the Basilisk venom ceased bubbling, hissing, and spitting, settling down to a pitch-black, viscous sludge that looked like crude oil.

Ron released the charm to settle over the cauldron and staggered.

Neville propped him up on one side and led him to a chair… the world fuzzed alarmingly.

"Do you need your potion?" Neville inquired. "Do you need anything?"

"A glass of cold water, Neville," Ron rasped. "I just took the potion – it can't make miracles."

Neville nodded, but it was Hermione's white hand that reached out and pressed cool water on him. Ron quaffed it and sighed, looking up. "Reckon… I owe you all… an explanation," he huffed.

"Yes," said Harry, evenly. "You do."

But that explanation was held in abeyance by the appearance of two, familiar figures at the door to the Potions classroom, one heavily burdened with the weight of the other. Neville rushed to help, then flinched back when he caught sight of who supported Snape.

Hermione and Harry drew their wands together and aimed at the wild-haired figure, who paid them very little mind as she settled Severus into a nearby chair. Severus's lids flickered and then he peered at them through slitted eyes.

"It's all right, Miss Granger," he rasped, sounding resigned. "Mister Potter. Mister Longbottom. Glad to see you've managed to survive each other up to now."

"Don't call her that," his wife snapped, and Severus looked up at her, expression surprisingly placid.

"And what am I meant to call her, then?"

She huffed in response.

"Mister Weasley?" Severus said.

Ron approached, trailing his fingers along the rough stone wall to keep his bearings. "We're all alive?"

"Yes," Severus confirmed, with the air of a drunkard attempting to focus.

"And he's dead?" said Ron, unable to believe it.

"I killed Nagini, and Hermione managed the Dark Lord for herself," said Severus.

The younger Hermione's gaze darted to her counterpart's face.

Missus Snape smiled tremulously.

"Do you need a Potion, sir?" Neville queried anxiously. "Only you seem, er, a little…"

"Drugged," said Severus. "We both are, a bit. Hermione panicked and cast something to calm us both down after it was all over. We were going rather to pieces."

"It seems to have affected him a bit more than me," she replied. "Something to do with constitution, or gender, or age, or time travel."

Hermione blinked up at her older counterpart. "All right," she said, slowly. "I think I'm beginning to understand."

"Bully for you!" Harry exclaimed.

"But why did you try to hurt Harry?" the younger Hermione demanded.

"I thought he meant the end of the world," Hermione replied tranquilly. "And Draco and I knew Ron would never be able to kill him, even knowing the truth. So I took it on myself." She frowned. "Quite… frustrating… that it didn't turn out to matter."

Ron turned to stare. She'd gone back in time to attempt to end Harry's life so many times she'd probably lost count, and he wondered how she'd feel about it when she wasn't so… compromised.

"End of the… what?" said Harry. "And what does Malfoy have to do with any of this?"

"We're all safe," said Ron. It was dawning on him, like a light kindling at his breast. "We're all safe?"

"As houses," said Severus.

"That's a Muggle expression," his wife observed.

"Well," said Severus, with deep concentration. "Yes."

"There are other Death Eaters left alive," she went on. "We'll hunt them down and kill them one at a time. But the bulk of the danger is," she said. "Is…"

"Past?" said Hermione.

"Yes, dear, that's the word: past," Hermione replied, and laughed.

Ron's legs went out from under him and he found himself seated on the floor, everyone peering down at him worriedly. His magic was burning under his skin with the effort he'd expended, and he had the prickling feeling that it would never be quite the same. That he would never be the same. It was all in the open, now, or shortly it would be: who he was, what he'd been doing here… how long he'd been lying to them.

But they were all here, in the Castle, alive: Severus and Hermione and Ginny and Dobby. Draco.

Harry.

His whole family, returned from the dead. His mum, his dad, his brothers.

And it was permanent, now.

It was real.

Was it – could it be?

He looked up and found Severus seated across from him, Hermione – the older Hermione, streak of white chasing its way down her head – clambering down beside them.

"It's over," he said, looking into Snape's coal-black eyes. "It's over?" Not for Ron; never for him, but… for the world…?

"Yes, Ron," Severus said, quiet. "I think so."

Ron shook his head, dazed. "Can't be."

"Really," Severus confirmed, with that calm certainty that Ron knew so well.

"What about Malfoy?" Ron said, suddenly, realizing who was missing and chiding himself ferociously for the oversight. "He's in the Hospital Wing, I've got to –" And he would have lurched forward, but for Severus grabbing onto his arm and yanking him roughly down again.

"Madame Pomfrey has got him," Severus said.

"But what if he's lost himself again?" Ron pressed. "I've got to see, I let him down; we all let him down –"

"Mister Weasley," Severus barked. "Enough."

Ron was so startled that he laughed aloud. "Yeah," he said, raking his hands back through his hair. "Yeah, uh, sorry." But his body kept thrumming with the need to do something, to be somewhere – do triage, tend the wounded, look after… who? His gaze flickered upward to find Neville looking on in warm sympathy, Harry and Hermione still worn and worried, and dazed at the edges.

Ah, there they were: his responsibility.

"C'mon, you lot," Ron said shakily. "The party's down here."

And after a few uncertain glances, they all sat together, Hermione by her counterpart's side; after a sidelong glance, the older (slightly taller) Hermione opened her arm and wrapped it around her younger self's shoulders. Harry kept glancing warily at his Potions professor, but Snape, sitting on his wife's other side, didn't seem to notice. Hermione's hand snaked out and claimed her husband's, but he did not protest. Neville sat beside Ron and squeezed his shoulder.

Ron gazed about the little circle, all united in baffled silence at their shared good fortune.

"Accio the best whiskey in the house," said Ron, "and Accio six tumblers."

Ron was unsurprised when whiskey came dancing out of Snape's offices, but the cups took a bit longer; he supposed someone like Snape had no earthly reason to keep six tumblers on hand.

He poured with a shaking hand until Neville took over the job, passing glasses around in a circle until everyone had a shot of the shining liquid in hand. "To making it out alive," said Ron. "To survival."

Harry held Ron's gaze, tipping his tumbler in Ron's direction before lifting the glass to his lips.

"To survival," they echoed, and drank.

Chapter Text

Ron pressed the door open to the Hospital Wing and eased inside; even at the door he could hear Malfoy arguing loudly with someone who kept on speaking in hushed tones, early-minted sunlight shining through the high windows and spilling across the tiled floor.

"I'm perfectly fine," he was growling to Madam Pomfrey. "I feel fine, and I remember –"

"Mister Weasley," said Madam Pomfrey, and bowed.

Ron, brought up short, froze.

"Weasley," said Draco, gaze darting from Ron to Madam Pomfrey and back. "What are you doing here?"

"Checking up on you," Ron said, striding the rest of the way forward as Pomfrey retreated to her office. "How do you feel? Are you all right?"

Draco gazed into his eyes before leaning back on the pillows. "Maybe not," he said, slowly.

Ron pulled a chair up to Draco's bedside, now truly concerned. "What do you remember?"

Draco stared. "How did you know I was forgetting things? Does this happen a lot? It is still fourth-year?"

Ron sighed in relief. "Yes, it's still fourth year. Merlin, Malfoy, I thought you were back to the Vanishing Cabinet again."

"I… don't remember a Vanishing Cabinet," Draco said, in a small voice. But then he looked up at Ron, and his expression cleared. "But I do remember something odd," he said.

"Yeah?" said Ron. This careful picking his way forward through memory was a familiar game with Draco Malfoy.

"You told me," said Draco, frowning. "You told me I was having nightmares about what would happen if Potter didn't win." His gaze clouded over. "I was," he said. "Having… nightmares. Potter. Potter was… strung up. Death Eaters everywhere. And he… he killed Professor Snape. And I knew, I knew it was… the end. Of everything." He looked up at Ron again. "Am I going mad?"

"No," said Ron. "No, you're right. It would've been… very bad if he won. But hasn't anyone told you? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead."

"Dead!" Malfoy echoed, incredulous. "Dead."

"It's hard to believe."

"But I trust you," said Draco, warily.

"Shocking," said Ron.

"Last I checked, I didn't have an older brother," Draco huffed.

Ron laughed wetly, and reached out to ruffle Draco's hair. "So, you remember that much," he said.

Draco warily smoothed it back, but he didn't even try to slap Ron's hand away, and something in him seemed more settled at the casual affection. Ron would have to remember that; it wasn't as though he'd been able to toussle Malfoy's hair when he was a ghost.

"Did I take Hermione Granger to a dance?" he blurted.

"Yes," said Ron.

"What the fuck," Draco whispered to himself and Ron couldn't help but laugh again.

"Sorry Malfoy," said Ron, grinning so hard his face hurt. "It's just that I'm pretty sure you're going to be okay." He suspected that much of it would emerge over time… or at least the parts where Draco had been at the helm.

"That makes one of us," Draco grumbled.

"But maybe Madam Pomfrey's right, and it's best you stick to the Hospital Wing until your memories have settled a little," Ron suggested.

"Huh," said Malfoy. "Er," he added, staring at where he'd suddenly reached out to grip Ron's sleeve.

Ron looked down at where Malfoy's hand clutched at him.

"Pottercentric circles," Draco said, suddenly.

"What?" said Ron.

"Maybe," Malfoy said, frowning in thought. "Maybe… it's only when what we do is centred around the people we care about… that we end up doing the right thing, in the end." He looked up at Ron, eyes focusing again. "Does that make any sense to you?"

Ron brought his right hand up to close over Malfoy's. "I think it does," he said. "Thanks, Malfoy."

But Draco was blinking. "Did you just say something?"

"Just that you should probably sleep, some," Ron said, quiet. "You've got a lot of memories to accommodate. I'm sure when you wake up, everything is going to be clearer."

"Merlin, I hope so," Draco muttered, and closed his eyes.

Ron gazed down at him for another moment or two as his breathing evened out; it took mere seconds, as though Draco were only waiting for permission to surrender consciousness.

What did they say? That a ghost only stuck around when it had unfinished business – and unless Ron missed his guess, Draco Malfoy's business here was (finally, finally) finished.

So Ron said a silent goodbye to his chess partner, his reality check, and his best friend of the past three years – the friend who had nearly become a murderer so he wouldn't have to. He should have been an expert at saying goodbye; it shouldn't hurt so much, anymore. But as he watched the boy's features relaxed in sleep, lashes fluttering from untroubled dreams, Ron felt bitter and cheated, although he thrashed against it: a sour selfishness that wanted Malfoy to stick around, even if his fight was finally over and he should have been welcome to his rest.

What was left that was his? Ron thought. It seemed he'd fixed things for everyone but himself.

"Mister Weasley?" Madam Pomfrey called.

Ron looked up to see Madam Pomfrey standing at the Hospital Wing doors, hands held close to her chest, looking poised to… something. And the figure of Albus Dumbledore stood at the aperture.

Severus and Hermione Snape were busy when Ron knocked, but a harried Hermione still let him in through the door to their personal quarters. Suitcases stood open on every flat surface: the coffeetable; the couch; the hearth rug. Books danced into an open case, clothing into another, and Potions ingredients into a third.

"Going somewhere?" Ron inquired.

"Oh, hullo, Ron," Hermione said distractedly, as though she were not the one who had greeted him at the door; as though she had not pointed her wand at him a mere handful of hours before. "Yes, we're moving."

"Moving?" said Ron.

Severus turned. "Ron," he said.

Ron felt a smile stretch across his face at the familiar greeting. "Severus."

"Yes, we're moving," Severus said, raking his hair out of his eyes with one hand as he leaned down to scoop up a book with the other, peering at its cover contemplatively before gazing back up at Ron. "We cannot stay here," he said, glancing surreptitiously at Hermione out of the corner of his eye.

Without looking to her husband, Hermione added, "you mean to say that there are more Death Eaters to kill; and besides, you hate it here, and now there is no more reason to stay."

"True enough," Severus said, slowly, "I can leave, now. And I wish it."

"Ah," said Ron. "Well, you've done your duty, Severus, and then some. You could always leave the Death Eaters to the Ministry." He stuck out his hand.

Severus took it in the standard manner, but then clapped his other hand to cradle Ron's, dark eyes narrowing. "Will you be all right?" he said.

Ron withdrew and stuck both hands in his pockets. "Yes," he said. "Being all right is what I'm best at."

Severus's lips thinned.

Hermione emerged from a broom closet to stand beside Severus, wrapping her arm around his waist. "Goodbye, Ron," she said. Her expression clouded over, suddenly, and she said, "I'm sorry… I thought the Diadem would help me do better, see more clearly, I thought I could fix it, but… I'm sorry I'm like this," she blurted. "I don't mean to be."

Ron walked over to her and kissed her cheek, and when he withdrew, her eyes were wide and blinking. "I know," he said, warmly. "C'mon, Hermione. I know that."

He clapped Severus on the shoulder one, last time, only to be pulled forward as he'd been at Christmas, tucked snugly between them.

"Run far," Ron said, pulling back. "And run fast. I hope to never see either of you again."

"That's a terrible thing to say!" Hermione chided him.

"He means because you may be wanted for attempted murder, Hermione," Severus said fondly, then flushed.

"Look after yourself. Look after each other," said Ron, but Severus was still staring at Hermione as though it were the first time he'd ever clapped eyes on her when Ron quietly closed the door behind him, where the Headmaster was waiting.

"Finished, Mister Weasley?"

"Not yet, sir," Ron said. He paused. "Thanks for your patience."

"Not at all, not at all," Dumbledore said, serenely. "After all, we owe you a great debt."

"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed when he stepped through the portrait into the Gryffindor Tower Common Room. "Where have you been all morning? We've been…" She brought herself up short at the look on Ron's face. "What is it? Are you all right?" Her brown eyes widened and she clasped her hands together.

"Yeah," Ron said. "I'm ready to explain. If you could get Harry? And Neville, too."

"We've guessed some of it, but… yes, all right," Hermione said, and fetched the boys.

Together, they traipsed to the Room of Hidden Things. Ron strode back and forth three times and let them in. Ron breathed in the scent of books and must, the smell of thousands of students' secrets.

Of his own.

Then, he began.

"First of all," he said quietly, "I'm the Curator."

Hermione clapped. "I knew it!" she exclaimed. "You were just too nervous about it…"

Ron smiled weakly. "I was looking for the Diadem – the crown we destroyed last night. And the other Horcruxes." He explained, as best he was able, what a Horcrux was, how Voldemort had made them, and how they all had to be destroyed in order for Voldemort to be defeated.

"But how did you find all of this out?" Harry demanded. "Did Snape tell you?"

Ron looked to Neville, who shrugged.

"Go on," Neville said. "We know a great deal of it, anyway."

"All right," Ron said, then had to think carefully about how to begin. "I lived through Voldemort's War once," he began. "And I had a chance to go back to try to change its course." He paused to let that sink in. None of his friends looked as though they disbelieved him; but then, they had a lot of evidence, already.

"Did you use a Time-Turner?" Hermione blurted, shattering the silence.

Ron shook his head. Leave it to Hermione to want to know the mechanics straightaway. "No," he said, "they were all destroyed during the... uh, they would have all been gone by next year. There was a spell. That probably won't happen, now."

"How far back?" Hermione demanded. "How much older are you, really?"

"Er, just under ten years," Ron said. "Uh... eight. And a half." He cracked a smile. "Gin decided it was my birthday just before I left... But it was arbitrary. We hadn't been counting the days that close in awhile." That sounded really sad said aloud, actually. "So we made a cake and had a little celebration..." Worse. He subsided.

"And I died?" Harry said. "Because you came back, and I didn't."

Of course all three of them would've gone together if that were possible… and if the spell were limited to one person for some reason, Ron and Hermione probably would have waved Harry goodbye with tears in their eyes. They were so used to him taking care of things.

"And Snape died protecting him," said Neville, suddenly; and it was so close to the truth that Ron felt himself pale. "When you're not thinking straight, you call him 'Severus'. So you spent time with him – a lot of time. And I know him well enough that if one of us were in that much danger, he would jump in to save us."

Ron's breathing hitched, and he turned to face one of the long, warmly-lit bookshelves of the Room. "Yes," he finally said through a tightening throat. "Little good it did us."

"But Malfoy survived," Harry pressed, as though it were some kind of personal affront.

"Draco died at seventeen," Ron said, pushing it out of his mouth as fast as he could. "His ghost was at Hogwarts. That's how I know him," Ron tripped on. "We played chess and shouted at one another a lot once I settled there. For awhile he was – my best friend, though neither of us would have admitted it, I think." Ron scratched his nose. "It was Malfoy who insisted on coming back to save the world, and it was Malfoy who made it happen. He thought you had to die for that, Harry, but obviously that's not true." He smiled. "It was Snape's Defense exam that let me know it, actually, that even though you were made a Horcrux, it ought to have dissipated long ago."

Harry's gaze went faraway. "Malfoy," he said. "Draco Malfoy was willing to do all that?"

Ron frowned, but Harry didn't elaborate, falling quiet instead.

"For my part," Ron said, "I wanted to thank you."

"For what?" Hermione queried.

Ron thought of Hermione's sweetness, Harry's stubbornness, Neville's determination. His brothers, his sister, his parents, his Professors, his classes, the Great Hall, filled with food. The fresh white snow against the earth. "For helping me to remember what it was like – even if it's not the same, even if you're more like little brothers and sisters just now –"

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed, blush climbing her neck and finding a home in the apple of her cheeks. "You're eight years older than me," she said.

Ron huffed a breath and smiled. "Yes, Hermione, eight whole years."

"But that's like kissing Bill!"

"Wait, whoa, you kissed?" Harry sputtered.

"I kissed him," Hermione clarified primly, "and he let me down very, very, gently, and Ron Weasley I could slap you right now! Do you know how much I cried?"

"I'm really sorry," Ron said again.

"And you tried to tell me!" Hermione groaned. "You said I wasn't mature enough, and you meant it literally?"

There was a beat of silence.

"I'm mortified," Hermione announced, drawing her knees to her chest and burying her red face there.

"Don't be," said Ron. He blinked, trying to sort out what to say. "I think – I mean… Ronald Weasley, aged fourteen would have been, er, more than flattered."

She poked her head up, blink-blinking. "Really?"

"Yes," said Ron and Harry in unison.

"Well," she said, staunchly. "I do feel a bit better, then." She blinked rapidly. "But I'm still mortified. I may be mortified forever."

"Well, we're on the same page, then," Ron said. "And I was trying to say what I've wanted to say to each of you since I arrived here three months ago. How much I missed you."

"Oh," said Hermione, faintly.

"We… can't say the same," said Harry.

"Ha bloody ha," Ron replied.

"Is the danger past, then?" Hermione wanted to know. "If you were here to prevent He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named from rising again… If that's it, if you were successful…"

"Am I going back?" Ron asked, gently.

She bit her lip, but didn't gainsay him.

"I understand," Ron said, forestalling Harry when he would have spoken. "I'm not exactly who you remember." He pressed his own roiling guilt flat and forged ahead. "I've spoken with Dumbledore, and the thing is…" He cleared his throat. "The thing is, we don't know what happened to Ron Weasley, aged fourteen. To his consciousness. Malfoy was a ghost who possessed himself; it's not the same. Suppose I try to go back to my own time. What then?"

"Then if you go back, everything should be the way it would have been if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was defeated?" Neville said.

"Well, then I'm tossing out that bloke's consciousness," Ron pointed out. "And even beyond the moral considerations, the past eight years would be a blank. I wouldn't know how things had gone in the interim." Part of Ron exulted at being able to use in the interim without checking his vocabulary, his intellect rising up and stretching like a cat. "The worst thing is, what if I – displaced teenaged Ron's consciousness instead of taking temporary occupancy?" Ron said, lowly. "I could go, and you could be left with nothing at all."

Hermione's eyes widened and filled with unshed tears.

"That puts me in something of a moral quandary," Ron finished. "I can't stay, but I also can't go."

His friends fell silent, Hermione frowning and eyes dancing as she sought the way around the problem, Harry gazing off pensively into the distance, Neville reaching out to squeeze Ron's shoulder.

"You've already found a way," Harry said, evenly. "I can see it on your face."

Ron looked into Harry's beloved features: sombre eyes, snapping green, narrow nose, faint freckles high on his cheeks, madman's hair. "Right as usual, Harry," he said. "I've got to leave without going, don't I? So you'll get your own Ron Weasley back."

Harry and Neville frowned, but Hermione gasped.

Quick as always, he thought, fondly.

"You can't do that," she said, hysteria building behind her words. "You can't. You could damage yourself permanently, Ron Weasley! I won't let you."

"It won't be that bad. It'll be Dumbledore doing it, not some third-year with a broken wand," Ron said.

"That's like an elective lobotomy!" she shouted.

Understanding kindled behind Harry's green eyes, and his face went grim.

"Enough," said Ron. "It's no such thing, Hermione. And it's my final decision."

"But," said Hermione, desperately – "the things you know… so much will be lost!"

"We all have to face our futures without a guidebook," Ron said. "I won't be any more disadvantaged than you."

"I don't like it," said Harry.

"I sure as Merlin don't, either," said Neville, "if you're talking about Obliviation. And I think you are."

"Has anyone, no matter how skilled, ever removed this many years from anyone's memories?!" Hermione shouted, voice going shrill. "You do this, Ronald Weasley, and I'll never speak to you again!"

"But Hermione," Ron said, gently. "I won't even know why you're upset."

She stared at him, features frozen, for a long moment. She blinked. "I," she finally said. "I'll be infuriated with you anyway. I don't care if you know why, or don't know why! I have a right to be angry!"

"This is what's fair," Ron said. "To his family. And to you."

"I can wait!" Hermione said, and Harry averted his eyes. "I'll be seventeen in three years, Ron! You're right, I'm young now, but I won't be forever! And if that's why you're doing this –"

"It's not," Ron said, though he felt as though his throat were closing, and his eyes burned. "I've done what I came here to do: the changes I've made here will outlast me. And Hermione," he said. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't wish you had the Ron you knew at the start of the school year. The boy who was falling in love with you, who was awkward and didn't know what to say to you, but stuck by you. Tell me you don't miss him. Go on," he said, mercilessly. "Tell me you like me better like this."

Hermione's eyes filled with tears, and spilt over. "I hate you," she said, passionately.

Ron stood. "If you have to, I understand that," he replied. "I get it. I do. But I've got to say goodbye, now."

Ron squirmed under the ringing silence that followed. He'd just barely put his weight on the back foot to leave -- accepting, achingly, that this was the last he'd see of them -- when Neville clambered to his feet and stuck out his hand to shake, eyes shiny and features squinched.

"Neville," said Ron.

Neville blinked at him, then said, "I think you were my favourite Professor," suddenly, then coughed and withdrew his hand.

"Thank you, Neville," Ron said, thunderstruck.

Harry stood with a strange half-smile and shook his hand as well. He didn't say anything more, though.

Ron thought: of course.

Harry Potter would understand sacrifice better than anyone.

Hermione continued to weep and couldn't say goodbye, and Ron didn't blame her even a little, even as his heart broke.

On the threshold, Ron turned back to the Room of Hidden Things that had kept his secrets so well. He thought of evenings organizing and reading and sorting, Potions and novels and childhood toys. "Thank you," he said, patting the doorframe warmly, and closed the door behind him.  The sound of Hermione's weeping muted as he joined it to the jamb.

"Are you ready?" said Albus.

Ron tried to say that he was, but when he opened his mouth the words wouldn't come.

In the end, he could only nod.

"Are you absolutely certain, my boy?" Dumbledore inquired. "The knowledge you have gained, the person you have become… your experience has been awfully hard-won."

Ron looked up and found his voice, finally. "Thank you sir," he said, "but on the contrary. The past eight years have been a heavy burden, and I'll be grateful to lay them down and finally rest."

Ron Weasley awoke to the bright whiteness of the Hospital Wing, the scent of disinfectant charms wafting through the air. He turned in bed, vision resolving to…

Draco Malfoy.

That couldn't be right.

Ron blinked, and blinked again; but Draco Malfoy remained in place, seated at Ron's bedside, arms crossed, looking his usual elegant, posh self.

"Oh good, you're awake," Malfoy said, in precisely the sort of bored tone Ron would've expected of him – though of course, Ron wouldn't expect Malfoy to be at his bedside in the first place.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Ron growled, struggling into a seated position – but then the Hospital Wing began to spin.

"Easy. Easy!" Malfoy ordered, and pressed him back down. "Not so fast. You've been here days, everyone began to wonder if you were going to awaken at all."

Ron gazed about the Hospital Wing, but it was empty. He looked up again at Malfoy, warily, to find that his studied nonchalance had been replaced by worry.

Ron swallowed. Could Malfoy have cursed him? Was he checking to see how successful it had been? Or Malfoy had gotten in trouble, maybe, for hexing Ron so badly? That could account for the seeming concern…

"You don't trust me," Malfoy said, slowly. He leaned back in his chair, features smoothing to blankness. "At all."

Ron lay there, aware that if he moved, the Hospital Wing was going to start spinning again, pinned in place by illness and circumstance; but his heart hadn't picked up its pace and he hadn't thrashed when Malfoy had pressed at his shoulder. He hadn't demanded to see Harry or Hermione or to know what was going on.

He just… didn't understand it.

Malfoy must've seen the conflict on Ron's face, because he huffed a breath and one side of his lips quirked, and Ron thought that might've been a relieved laugh in anybody else. "I know you won't know why, but I'm glad you're all right," he said.

"Why're you here?" Ron pressed. He wasn't sure what was going on, but it was entirely possible that Malfoy had Charmed him to stay still, or not… shout at him, or to… put up with him for undisclosed reasons.

Malfoy's features sobered. "Apparently, we played chess together, and kept each other company. They tell me you looked out for me and I won't forget it, no matter what else happens to my memories," Malfoy said, fiercely. "And listen," he added, suddenly intent.

Ron struggled upright against a wave of dizziness and pressed himself back against the pillows, gazing at Draco Malfoy keenly. Everything felt strange, like the scene before him was passing through water, or as though echoes pressed into the walls and bounced away, but Malfoy's eyes were strangely steadying, and Ron held.

He held.

"The Dark Lord is dead and you were the one most responsible. Professor Snape has disappeared and your memories of the school year so far are wiped and mine are full of holes," Malfoy said, the rhythm of his voice even and resolute. He swallowed. "Do you believe me?"

"I," said Ron, because he did – but that was mad.

Malfoy's lip quirked a second time. "You do: good. I'll summon your coterie, then. They've been waiting." He folded a tiny paper crane and breathed onto it and it flew out the cracked Hospital Wing door. He caught Ron's stare and said, "clever, isn't it?" with a cheeky, practised smile.

"Somehow, in the past few…?" said Ron.

"Months. It's February," said Malfoy.

"Somehow in the past few months, we buried the hatchet," said Ron, slowly.

"I think so," said Draco Malfoy, features squinching as though he were trying to picture it. "It feels that way."

"Yeah," said Ron. He paused. "What's this about you and me and chess?"

But then the door to the Hospital Wing was flying open and Harry and Neville Longbottom were spilling through.

"Ron!" Harry exclaimed, and wrapped him up in a strong embrace; startled, Ron clapped him on the back a few awkward times. When Harry pulled away, he was grinning and his green eyes were damp. "We're so glad you're all right!"

Ron looked up to see that Neville was exchanging a significant look with Draco Malfoy of all people, and that afterwards, Draco relaxed back into aloofness, folding his arms across his chest. Neither Harry nor Neville seemed surprised to see Malfoy there with Ron.

"Me too," said Neville. "We were all so worried in Gryffindor."

Neville stood strangely taller, and was clearer-eyed than before: confident, Ron thought. Like he'd gone and grown up.

"So," Ron said, arranging himself carefully on the pillows and readying himself to watch for gaps and half-truths. It couldn't hurt to listen to Malfoy, and just see if he were right. Just this once.

"What did I miss?"