Chapter 1
Ron Weasley sat quietly in the living room of the Weasley-Granger home, the warm summer air from the open window doing little to ease the knot in his chest. It was July, but the house felt emptier than usual. Rose and Hugo were both away at Hogwarts, their absence leaving the house still and too quiet. The Weasley family had always thrived in chaos, the constant noise, laughter, and debates that had been part of their everyday life for so many years. But now, even the clock on the wall, the one that pointed to where each family member was at any given time, only added to the emptiness.
Hermione had been Minister for Magic for five years now, a role she excelled at, of course. But it meant she was gone often, her duties requiring her to be constantly in meetings, diplomatic missions, and, of course, under the watchful eye of her assigned bodyguards. Their domestic life had shifted dramatically since her appointment. Ron had long since retired from the Auror Corps, having given up chasing dark wizards five years ago to help George manage Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Yet, no matter how far apart their responsibilities pulled them, their bond remained unbreakable. He loved her fiercely, and she him. Their marriage had weathered everything from political upheaval to life-threatening danger, and still, they found moments of laughter, stolen glances, and quiet dinners that reminded them of the early days when the world wasn't so complex.
Tonight, though, Ron couldn't shake the unease. The dark thoughts that had settled weeks ago still lingered, like a shadow at the corner of his vision.
Harry's voice had been uncharacteristically tense when he'd approached Ron in George's office, the faint smell of prank fireworks still lingering in the air.
"Ron, I need your help," Harry had said, his green eyes somber and steady. "It's... about that old case you were working on. The Voldemort sympathizers. We think they're active again and they are calling themselves neo-death eaters according to our latest intel".
Ron had stiffened. It had been years since he had worked on that case, tracking a group of disillusioned purebloods and Death Eater remnants who had slipped through the cracks after the Battle of Hogwarts. They had disappeared, gone underground, and despite his best efforts, Ron had been forced to close the case unresolved. The leader had always been elusive, slipping out of reach just as Ron thought he had him.
"Why now?" Ron had asked.
Harry had explained that the Auror Corps had reason to believe the leader of the Voldemort sympathizers was hiding out somewhere deep in rural Devon, far from the prying eyes of the Ministry. It was a remote, desolate area, perfect for someone looking to stay hidden. The region was known for its dark history, with rumors of old pure-blood families once using it as a safe haven during the First Wizarding War. But finding the exact location was proving to be a challenge. Their usual informants had either gone quiet or were too terrified to share anything of value.
“We need your help, Ron,” Harry had said, his tone serious. “You were close to tracking him down before you retired. You had contacts—people who would talk to you, who trusted you or knew you had leverage over them. We need those connections. Without them, we’re stumbling in the dark.”
Ron had paused, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. He had left that life behind for a reason. But the look in Harry’s eyes, the desperation mixed with determination, made it impossible to say no.
Despite his retirement, the itch to finish what he’d started came back in full force. "Where we find this scum, I’m coming with you," he had insisted, ignoring Harry’s protestations about him being out of the field for too long. "I’m not sitting this one out, mate."
The chime of the clock finally pulls him from his stupor, breaking the cycle of his troubled thoughts. He exhales slowly, pushing away the memories that have been weighing on him all night. Deciding there's no more to be done, he resolves to call it a night, hoping to find some semblance of peace. With a weary sigh, he climbs into bed beside Hermione, her familiar presence offering a small comfort. As he pulls the blanket over them, he hopes that, despite the turmoil in his mind, sleep might bring him some rest. After all, they have defeated Voldemort himself. Surely, they could prevail over some death eater’s wannabe were his final thoughts before sleep took over.
For the next several weeks, Ron threw himself back into his old world. He reached out to contacts who had gone into hiding or were living in the shadows, slowly rebuilding bridges he thought had long since burned. It wasn’t easy—many were suspicious, some flat-out refused, and others required favors in return. But slowly, bit by bit, information began to trickle in.
After weeks of dead ends and tense meetings, they finally catch a break. One of Ron’s old contacts had overheard whispers about strange activities in an abandoned mansion tucked away in the moors of Devon, a place long rumored to be cursed and avoided by locals. It was exactly the kind of place where someone like the leader would hole up, far from the watchful eyes of the Ministry.
The air is thick with tension as Ron crouches low behind an overgrown hedge, his heart pounding in time with the rustling of leaves around him. The raid is happening now. Harry is beside him, his jaw set, eyes focused on the dark, foreboding mansion that looms ahead of them. The place feels cursed—dark magic clings to the air, suffocating and cold, making every breath feel like a struggle.
Harry's squad consists of the two of them and a young, jittery Auror named Hernes. The rookie shifts nervously, his wand hand shaking ever so slightly. Ron glances at him, trying to offer a small, reassuring nod.
"Stay close," he whispers, his voice steady despite the oppressive atmosphere. "We’ve got this."
The mansion is everything they feared—crumbling stone, thick shadows, and an unmistakable sense of something lurking in the dark. It feels like the walls themselves are watching, waiting for the intruders to make a mistake. Ron tightens his grip on his wand, every instinct honed from years of fieldwork screaming at him that danger is near. Harry signals the squad forward with a sharp gesture, and they move as one, slipping through the front gates and towards the entrance. The door creaks ominously as they push it open, the faintest light flickering inside the mansion. Every footstep echo, unnervingly loud in the dead silence.
Ron, Harry, and the young Auror Hernes moved swiftly through the main hallway, their spells precise and calculated. The Neo-Death Eaters fought back fiercely, but they were outmatched by the combined strength of the Aurors, many of them falling to stunning spells and an array of semi-lethal charms. The clash of magic echoed through the halls as the sounds of shouts and spells being cast filled the air. Despite the chaos, it seemed like victory was within reach—the enemy was being subdued, driven back into the dark recesses of the mansion.But then, as they neared the heart of the mansion, the atmosphere shifted. In the chaos, the leader of the Neo-Death Eaters, cloaked in darkness and moving with unnatural speed, appeared from the shadows. His wand flicked faster than anyone could react, and before anyone could process it, he sent a flash of green light—an unmistakable Avada Kedavra—hurtling directly toward Harry.
In that split second, everything slowed. Ron saw the curse heading for Harry, instinct taking over as he lunged forward, shoving Harry out of the way. The Killing Curse hit him squarely in the chest. Ron’s body crumpled to the floor; his eyes wide with the shock of what had just happened. The world seemed to stop as Harry, horrified, turned to see his best friend fall. The mansion echoed with the finality of the spell as the leader, taking advantage of the chaos, disappeared into the night, using a Portkey to escape, leaving nothing but silence and the weight of Ron’s sacrifice behind him.
Hermione sat in the quiet of their home, her fingers absentmindedly turning the pages of a book she wasn’t reading. Her mind was far away, focused only on Ron. She had been told she would be updated as soon as the raid was over, but the silence from the Ministry was stretching on too long. Her unease grew with each passing minute. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly in the stillness of the night, each second amplifying her restlessness. She paced for a moment before settling back in the armchair, her eyes fixed on the door. Something in her gut told her something was wrong. When the knock finally came, sharp and insistent, her heart leapt into her throat. Hermione rushed to the door, already knowing it wasn’t the update she had been anxiously waiting for. As soon as she opened it, she saw Harry standing there, his face pale and haunted, and her blood ran cold.
Harry stood there, his face pale, tears already streaming down his face. He collapsed to his knees as soon as she opened the door, his sobs choking his words.
"Harry...?" Her voice was tight, trembling. "Where's Ron?"
Harry couldn't answer, his grief so raw, so consuming. "I'm so sorry, Hermione... I'm so sorry."
The world seemed to tilt, the words sinking in, each one tearing through her like shards of glass. "No..." Her voice cracked as she stepped back, shaking her head violently, as if denying the truth could undo it. "NO!"
She fell to her knees beside Harry, her hands clutching at his robes, sobs wracking her body. She screamed at him, her words unintelligible through her anguish, but he held her as she crumbled, as her whole world shattered.
They stayed there, on the steps, holding each other and crying until there were no tears left.
The day of Ron's funeral dawned overcast, the sky a fitting backdrop for the grief that hung thick in the air. The entire Auror Corps had turned up, their faces somber, their respects paid to one of their own. The Weasley family stood in a huddled mass of red hair and broken hearts, George’s face a mask of devastation, as if he had lost Fred all over again. Hermione stood silently beside the coffin, her eyes hollow, her tears spent. Rose and Hugo clung to her, their cries wrenching and endless. Harry stood off to the side, his face expressionless, his soul hollow. Ginny, beside him, held his hand tightly, but even she couldn’t reach him in his grief. Hogwarts had sent its delegation—Professor McGonagall, Hagrid, Neville—each paying their respects, each heart heavy. Luna Lovegood stood quietly beside Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, her normally dreamy expression replaced with one of quiet sorrow. Even Draco Malfoy had come, standing at a distance with his wife, Astoria, and their son, Scorpius, out of respect.
As Ron's coffin was lowered into the ground, the Weasley family wept, their collective grief too much to bear. George turned away, as if unable to watch, and Hermione buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The world had lost one of its greatest, and those left behind would never be the same.
Ron woke suddenly, gasping for air, his heart racing as he scrambled to his feet. The sea breeze whipped around him, the familiar sound of waves crashing against the shore filling his ears.
But something was wrong.
He looked around in confusion, recognizing the familiar landscape of Shell Cottage but unable to place how he had gotten there. The last thing he remembered was leaving Harry and Hermione during the hunt for Horcruxes...
How had he ended up here?
And why did it feel like something crucial was missing?