Pride

He couldn’t stand their judgmental looks, the disappointment in their eyes, so he hid away in the guest room he had been given. The Deluminator was a bad habit. He clicked it on, and off, and on again, watching the lights advance and retreat hypnotically. He’d seen his dad do the same with an old metal lighter he’d been tinkering with. Ron had asked Hermione about it, and she said it needed fuel to work. Lighter fluid. The fluid of the Deluminator was light, but he had nothing to light except for himself and this spare room. 

The radio was on, but he wasn’t listening to it. Celestina Warbeck warbled through the speakers, grating to his ears, but her voice reminded him of his mum. The jumpers, the mince pies, how she always remembered to send something to Harry, who had no family left to look after him. 

He rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t think about Harry without thinking of his failures. Ron had left him. 

"You charmed the heart right out of me...Don’t need no broom, I’m flying free...I think by now it’s plain to see...I’m nothing without you..."

The song kept playing, horribly poignant. He had felt empty ever since leaving Harry, and Hermione. Abandoned them. As soon as he took off that locket Ron had known he was making a mistake, and knew one day Harry would stop forgiving him. He had tried to get back, but he couldn’t find them. He could barely apparate. Useless, rudderless, he’d done what Harry had suggested and ran back to mummy. Rather, his big brother. 

It was early. The sun hadn’t even risen. He couldn’t sleep. He could barely eat, even though he had more access to food than he’d had for weeks. It only drove the icy spear of guilt deeper into his chest.

“That was Celestina Warbeck with You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me. And that’s the top of the hour. Now, we have a special request this Christmas morning from…”

“...Ron…”

He sat up.

“...his wand…crashing the car…”

“Hermione?”

He looked around, but she wasn’t there. Another song came on the radio.

“...just borrow yours…”

“Harry? What…”

He stared at the Deluminator in his hand. Harry’s voice was coming from it.

“...keep watch…”

He clicked the Deluminator. The light went out in his room. Another appeared just outside the window.

“What the bloody hell?”

The light slowly floated towards him. He watched its approach, failing to rationalize what was happening. Dumbledore had made the Deluminator, so he doubted the ball of light was dangerous.

It touched his chest, and warmth suddenly filled him, filled the emptiness he had struggled to live around. And he knew, in that moment, where he had to go. He scrambled out of bed, grabbing everything he would need. 

“Bill! I know where they are!”

“Ron?” a sleepy voice called back. “It’s barely morning, what are you—”

Ron disapparated.

He knew they were here, somewhere on this snowy hillside. So he waited. They would have to appear sometime, when they packed up the tent. He could see Harry, explain himself, apologize…

He crawled into his sleeping bag and waited. He waited all day, eyes hurting from staring at the snow too long. He knew he was being stupid, but he was afraid that if he closed his eyes he would miss them, miss the right moment, miss his chance again. And again, and again…

Light fled the world. Despair choked him, his stomach cramped with worry. Bill was going to kill him. He’d never learned that patronus message thing. Maybe he could capture a wild owl…

He had the Deluminator. He pulled it out, and after fumbling it with his frozen fingers, he managed to click it again. A blue light appeared once more, piercing him through the heart. He rolled up his sleeping bag, forgetting he had a wand, forgetting he was a wizard, charged with the single-minded urge to get back to Harry. And Hermione.

Ron disapparated.

The woods he was in were unfamiliar. The trees had peeling white bark and bare branches laden with snow. Night fell heavier under the trees, dense shadows his bleary eyes failed to penetrate. He turned in a slow circle, wondering where Harry was. He was here, somewhere. Ron could feel it. 

Hours passed, and still he waited, running his fingers over the Deluminator, wondering what it was, why it did what it did. What it said about him that Dumbledore had given him this device. Was he so predictable?

There was a silver-blue light in the distance, too pale, too ethereal to be lumos, but magical nonetheless. He reached blindly for his bag and began walking towards it. It disappeared, and he started to run. 

A new light, brighter, replaced it. It was still so far away. It had to be him. It had to be Harry. 

A lone owl hooted. He pushed that thought aside, he could capture it later. He didn’t know if wild owls could carry letters, but there was no harm in trying. Except, possibly, to the owl. 

A loud crack echoed through the trees. Scared something had happened, he ran harder. He could still see the light. It was still so far away. 

The light reflected something flat and white, and he saw a slim, dark figure dive into it. He kept running. Something moved in the corner of his eye, but he ignored it. It didn’t matter.

His heart slammed in his chest once he arrived at the edge of the frozen pool, dropping his bag to watch in horror as Harry, trapped under the ice, was strangled by that monstrous locket, beating helplessly at the ice encasing him. 

He didn’t stop to think. He jumped in the water, kicking himself desperately forward, the water so cold it burned. He grabbed Harry around the chest and kicked off the rocky side of the pool, propelling them back to the hole Harry had cracked in the ice. He clawed his way out, dragging them onto the snow, his wet clothes already freezing in the winter air. 

He reached for the chain still strangling Harry and with a jerk tried to rip it free, but it didn’t work. It only left Harry face down in the snow. 

He knew he had to destroy the horcrux before it killed them. He dove back into the pool, swimming desperately down to the sword he had seen, which Harry had dropped in his struggle against the locket. He grabbed the legendary sword and swam back up, crawling through the snow, hardly able to move. He wedged the blade between Harry’s neck and the chain, and with a twist the blade broke through it. He smacked the locket away, dropped the sword, and reached for the new scar forming around Harry’s neck. 

Harry was almost entirely naked, horribly cold to the touch, but he was breathing. He was alive. He was still alive. 

Harry must have left his clothes somewhere. Ron searched around, found a pile of jumpers at the edge of the pool. He lurched towards them, managed to carry some back to Harry. Harry was coughing, retching, shivering in the snow.

“Are you mental?” Ron demanded.

Harry’s brilliant eyes opened, focused on him. Ron found Harry's glasses and pushed them onto his face.

“Why didn’t you take that thing off before you dived?”

He handed Harry a jumper, and watched him pull it on, layering jumper after jumper, trousers, socks, every article of clothing he owned. 

Ron knew he needed to get warmer too, dry off, do something, but he was more concerned with Harry staying alive. 

“It was you?” Harry said in a strained voice, teeth chattering. 

“Well, yeah,” he said, confused. 

“You cast the doe?”

“What doe? Was that a patronus?”

Harry hung a mokeskin pouch around his neck, covered it up with a final jumper. He bent over to pick up a wand, then faced Ron again. 

“How come you’re here?”

He didn’t know what to say. “Well, I’ve, you know…I’ve come back. If…” He cleared his throat. “If, you know. You still want me.”

He blushed despite the bone-aching chill that permeated him. He hadn’t meant to say it like that. He busied himself with picking up the sword and the locket. Harry was watching him, he could feel it. 

“Oh, yeah, I got it out,” he said, holding up the sword. He felt like an idiot, which was nothing new. “That’s why you jumped in, right?’

“Yeah,” said Harry. “But I don’t understand. How did you get here? How did you find us?”

“It’s…a long story. I’ve been looking for you for hours, until I saw that light. The doe?”

“You didn’t see anyone else?”

“No, I…”  He had only cared about getting to Harry. He thought about how he had seen something move, but decided not to mention it. “Nothing.”

Ron turned around and spotted a rock. “Let’s find out if this is the real sword.” He cleared the rock of snow, then set the locket on it. It was twitching slightly. It had just tried to kill Harry. He thought the thing must be sensing its impending destruction. 

He handed the sword to Harry, but Harry didn’t take it. 

“No, you should do it.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because you got the sword out of the pool. I think it’s supposed to be you.”

“That doesn’t even make sense…” Ron started to say, but he was too cold, too tired, too scared, too incandescently happy to be near Harry again that it didn’t matter. Harry could say whatever nonsense he wanted, he would listen to it all. 

“I’m going to open it,” Harry said, “and you stab it. Straightaway, okay? Because whatever’s in there will put up a fight. The bit of Riddle in the diary tried to kill me.”

Ron remembered the twisted things the locket snuck into his mind. He didn’t want Harry to open it. He didn’t know what it would reveal. But he had the sword of Gryffindor. He’d got it from the bottom of a pond, where it had been placed for some inexplicable reason. The Hat said it knew where he belonged, and that was in Gryffindor. 

He tightened his grip on the hilt, then propped the sword over a shoulder. “Do it.”

Harry hissed softly to the locket, the sound sending shivers down Ron's spine. 

The locket opened with a snick. Two eyes stared out at him.

“Stab,” Harry said, holding the locket steady. 

He hesitated. 

“I have seen your heart, and it is mine,” the locket told him. 

“Don’t listen to it!” Harry barked. “Stab it!”

“I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have seen your fears. All you desire is possible, but all that you dread is also possible…”

“I know that,” he said through numb lips. “I already know that.”

“Stab!” Harry shouted. 

He knew he was weaker than the others, more susceptible to the locket. It led him around by its horrid chain, whispering things he knew, deep down, were true. 

“Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a daughter… Least loved, now, by the friend who prefers your…”

Ron stabbed the locket. “Keep your bloody mouth shut! I already know! I know!”

Harry threw himself out of the way, and Ron stabbed it again, and again, smashing it with the sword. “Fuck you! Get the fuck out of my head!”

The locket screamed at the night, rising up in a putrid cloud that had soaked in all of his fears, his insecurities, the things he couldn’t admit to himself. Ron smashed it again and again, cracking the rock underneath, until a hand grabbed his arm. 

“Ron? It’s okay, I think you’ve killed it.”

“Oh,” he said, breathing heavily. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Harry looked at him with concern. “Ron, what it said—”

He shook the hand off. “It’s fine. It’s nothing.”

The sword was shaking in his hand, so he dropped it in the snow. He fell onto his knees and wrapped his arms around himself, shuddering. 

A hand fell on his shoulder. 

“After you left,” Harry said softly, “she cried for a week. Probably longer, only she didn’t want me to see. There were loads of nights when we never even spoke to each other. With you gone…” 

He could laugh, he really could. Of course Harry had misunderstood, had never considered…

“She’s like my sister,” Harry went on. “I love her like a sister and I reckon she feels the same way about me. It’s always been like that, I thought you knew.”

Ron turned his face away, wiping his dripping nose on a wet sleeve. “I know. That’s not…”

He shook his head. He couldn’t explain. “I’m sorry I left. I know I was a…”

He couldn’t find the words. He bit his lip. Was now the right time? Soaking wet in the snow in the middle of the night?

“You’ve sort of made up for it tonight,” Harry said. “Getting the sword. Finishing off the horcrux. Saving my life.”

“That makes me sound a lot cooler than I was,” Ron mumbled, blushing. 

“Stuff like that always sounds cooler than it really was. I’ve been trying to tell you that for years.”

He laughed a little, and saw Harry now leaning towards him. His clothes were soaked, but Harry pulled him into a hug. His heart stuttered, then beat wildly. It was torture. 

“Harry,” he started. “I—”

“Now,” Harry said, pulling back, “all we’ve got to do is find the tent again.”

“Right, yeah. The tent. Listen, there’s something I…”

He looked into Harry’s eyes, momentarily struck by their brilliance. He'd always liked Harry's eyes. It was the first thing he had noticed about the scrawny boy on the train, how pretty his eyes were. 

“What is it?”

Ron smiled weakly. “It’s nothing. I’ll tell you later.”

“Crucio!”

Hermione started screaming again. Ron clenched his teeth. Harry was next to him, his face a portrait of agony. His scar was acting up now, of all times.

There was nothing Ron could do. Not for Hermione, not for Harry. No wand. Useless.

Dobby had appeared like a miracle, taking Luna, Dean, and Ollivander away.

Wormtail came down the stairs. It was their only chance. They sprung, but Wormtail caught Harry by his bruised throat. Wormtail choked Harry with his silver hand as Harry ripped his the wand away. 

He kept hitting and hitting the ratty man until Harry called in the life debt Wormtail owed him, and the hand turned back on its owner.

They left Wormtail dead on the cellar floor.

They crept through the dark passageway until they reached the drawing room door. They peered through the crack. Hermione was at Bellatrix’s feet. Griphook held the sword of Gryffindor in his hands. 

“Well?” Bellatrix said to Griphook. “Is it the true sword?”

“No. It is a fake.”

They watched her add another cut into Griphook’s face. 

“And now,” Bellatrix said triumphantly, “we call the Dark Lord!”

She pressed her fingers to her dark mark. Harry keeled over at his side, eyes staring at something Ron couldn’t see. 

“And I think,” Bellatrix said, “we can dispose of the mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her.”

“No!” 

Ron burst into the drawing room, dragging Harry along with him.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry roared, and the wand flew out of her hand. 

Ron grabbed it out of the air, and swung it towards Lucius Malfoy. “Stupefy!”

They threw themselves on the floor as spellfire was returned. 

“Stop or she dies!”

Bellatrix had grabbed Hermione by the hair. A knife was at her throat. They dropped the wands. Draco picked them up and retreated. 

Bellatrix’s next speech was interrupted by a loud grinding from above. Dobby was on the chandelier, and it began to fall. 

Harry ran forward to pull Hermione out of the way. Ron leapt over an armchair and wrestled the wands from Draco, aimed all three at Greyback, and shouted, “Stupefy!”

He threw one of the wands at Harry, then bent down to pull Griphook from under the chandelier. He hoisted him up, sword and all, and ran for Dobby’s hand. As they spun to disapparate, he saw the silver gleam of Bellatrix’s knife flying through the air. He’d kill her himself if it hit Harry. 

HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF

He read the words carved on Dobby’s headstone. Harry’s grief was suffocating. How many more losses would he have to suffer?

How could he have been so callous? His parents, Sirius, Dumbledore, Dobby. Harry was running out of people to lose. 

His eyes never left Harry. Conversation washed over him, drowned in the susurrus of the sea breaking against the cliff. 

“...Death Eaters know Ron’s with you now, they’re bound to target the family…don’t apologize…”

“Fidelius…Dad’s Secret-Keeper…”

He watched Harry talk to Griphook, heard his insane plan to break into Gringotts. It was all they had. 

“So young,” Griphook said, “to be fighting so many.”

He watched Harry crumble when Ollivander told him his holly wand couldn’t be repaired. 

He handed the wands he had stolen to Ollivander. 

“Walnut and dragon heartstring…belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange…hawthorn and unicorn hair…this was the wand of Draco Malfoy.”

“Was?” Ron asked. “Isn’t it still his?”

“Perhaps not. If you took it, it may be yours.”

He looked at the wand. He hadn’t used it much, and that it was Malfoy’s made his skin crawl, but he hoped it would work as good as the one that had been taken from him. 

“You ask deep questions, Mr. Potter. Wandlore is a complex and mysterious branch of magic.”

“So, it isn’t necessary to kill the previous owner to take possession of a wand?” Ron asked.

“Necessary? No, I should not say that it is necessary to kill.”

“There are legends, though,” Harry said. “Legends about a wand…”

Harry was hiding again. 

Ron knew it was because the cottage was crowded. Too many people, too many expectations. You-Know-Who had got the Elder Wand from Dumbledore’s cold, dead hands.

He could see the doubt in the set of Harry’s shoulders, where he stood on the cliff overlooking the sea. The wind tousled his hair, made his cheeks red. He joined Harry on the cliff’s edge, and felt the wind steal his breath away. 

“Harry, I need to tell you something,” he said. He could feel it, the sand running out, things coming to a head, a close, the end. He couldn’t keep doing this to himself. 

“If it’s about me breaking into Dumbledore’s tomb, we’ve been over it,” Harry said shortly, eyes turned towards the open sky. He probably wished he had a broom, something to get away from it all. 

“No, it’s not that.”

“Is it about you and Hermione? 

“No.”

Harry turned to him, frowning. “Did something happen? Did someone else—”

“No, no one died,” Ron said quickly. “It’s…” He swallowed nervously. “I care about you.”

Harry looked at him quizzically. “I care about you too.”

Ron squeezed his eyes shut. “No, I mean, I have…feelings…for you.”

He opened his eyes slightly to see Harry still looking up at him in confusion.

Ron wasn’t a coward. He took Harry’s hand. “Now do you understand? Do I have to spell it out?”

Harry looked at their joined hands, then up at Ron, and blushed. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Ron said roughly. “Is that okay?”

Harry looked at their hands again. “Ron, I…”

Ron felt a hot rush of shame and tried to detach himself. “It’s alright, just forget it. I’ll—”

“Ron, shut up.”

He clamped his mouth shut. Harry wasn’t letting go of him.

“You…I thought…explain!” Harry demanded. “I thought you fancied girls?”

“I fancy both,” Ron admitted. “I just…I know you were raised by muggles. Bill’s told me stories…”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Harry asked, scowling at him. Ron felt like he’d collapse into a puddle.

“I was afraid how you would react,” Ron said. “I didn’t want to stop being friends.”

Harry’s scowl deepened. “You’d have to do a lot more than fancy me for that to happen.”

Ron covered his face. Harry still hadn’t let go of him. “It’s more than that.”

Harry reached up and pulled his hand away. “How long has this been going on?”

Ron mumbled something.

“What?”

“Since fourth year…”

Harry lunged at him and suddenly Ron was pulled into a neck-breaking kiss. Stunned, it took him a moment to respond.

He could feel Harry smiling against his lips before he pulled back.

“You should have said something,” Harry said. “We could have done that ages ago.”

Ron looked at him, dumbstruck. “But, I thought, Ginny…”

Harry got a dark look on his face. “That was a mistake. I don’t feel good about that. It’s pretty bloody awful, honestly. I knew…I knew after Cho attached herself to me like a leech that girls didn’t do it for me. All I could say about that kiss was it had been wet. It was a real eye opener.”

Ron had felt sick seeing Harry with his sister. Jealousy, intense, pervasive jealousy. He thought he never stood a chance. He’d die still wanting Harry all to himself. He’d be crushed under Hermione’s overbearing attraction. Fooling around with Lavender had been a defense mechanism, in addition to staving off the daily torture of the quidditch changing room.

“So,” Ron said, swallowing again, “are we…”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes, you complete berk. We are.”

Ron didn’t have time to respond as Harry was pushing his tongue into his mouth.

The days passed by in a haze. Everything was brilliant. They couldn’t do much sharing a room with Dean, and with a full cottage, but Ron took every opportunity to push Harry against walls and paw at him, or hide behind a bush in the garden, or sneak down to the beach late at night, or that one time in the shower…

A river of burning gold, Imperiused goblins, a stolen dragon. Ron had his arms around Harry, Hermione clinging on behind him, and Harry was alive, alive, alive…

“Fuck, I love you,” Ron said into his ear.

“What?” Harry shouted back. “I think we need to jump! Now!”

Ron struggled out of the reeds and swam for shore, battling through mud to reach dry land. The dragon landed on a distant bank.

He collapsed next to Harry, who was amazingly standing and casting spells to protect them.

“Bloody hell,” Ron gasped.

As they talked about what to do next, Harry clutched his scar and collapsed. Ron drew him into his arms.

“He knows already,” Ron said. He looked over at Hermione. “We’re fucked.”

The screeching Caterwauling Charm still rang in his ears as they climbed out of Ariana’s portrait and into the packed Room of Requirement. Harry was swarmed. Their friends, the ones who had remained at Hogwarts, all showed signs of heavy abuse. It was appalling.

Harry swayed next to him. Voldemort must have found a horcrux missing. They had to hurry. It was mad.

More people showed up. Luna, Dean, Fred, George. Ginny.

They split up and it killed him. He and Hermione raced to the Chamber of Secrets, and he hissed convincingly to the sink. They slid down and ripped fangs out of the basilisk’s desiccated jaw. He didn’t dwell on its size, on Harry fighting it when he was twelve. He grimly watched Hermione stab the cup, then they raced back to find Harry.

“I know you are preparing to fight,” a monstrous, high-pitched voice said, reverberating through the castle. “Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood.” 

He had to find Harry. 

“Give me Harry Potter.”

Over his dead body.

“You have until midnight.”

Ron found him, finally, turning around a corner. He wanted to drop his armful of fangs and brooms to grab him, steal him away, hide him somewhere Voldemort would never find him. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Harry shouted at him. 

After they explained about the Chamber, and more people joined them to fight—Neville’s gran, Tonks—Ron remembered others in the castle. 

“Hang on a moment! We’ve forgotten someone!”

“Who?” Hermione asked.

“The house-elves, they’ll all be down in the kitchen, won’t they?”

“You mean we ought to get them fighting?” Harry asked.

“No,” said Ron seriously, “I mean we should tell them to get out. We don’t want anymore Dobbies, do we? We can’t order them to die for us—”

Hermione dropped her armload of fangs and launched herself at him, flinging her arms around his neck. He turned his head so her kiss landed on his cheek. 

“Hermione,” he said awkwardly.

“Is this the moment?” Harry asked, his voice strangely level. Ron looked at him desperately. “Oi! There’s a war going on here!”

Hermione finally released him, an odd look crossing her face, and Ron stepped away. 

The walls were shaking, people were screaming. They ran for the Room of Requirement. Deeper and deeper they went, searching frantically for the diadem. 

Then Draco Malfoy showed up, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. They began to fight amongst each other while Harry tried getting the diadem that lay just out of reach. They tried the Cruciatus, the Killing Curse, not caring who or what they hit. Ron was amazed Crabbe and Goyle could even pronounce the spells. Malfoy lost his mother’s wand. Stacks of forgotten items tipped over. Crabbe called up an immensely hot, out of control fire, and they all ran. They found brooms, they rescued Malfoy and Goyle. Crabbe died consumed by his own flames. 

They crashed in the hall, Harry amazingly having hold of the diadem. It leaked a thick, bloody tar. Crabbe had summoned Fiendfyre, and it had destroyed the horcrux. 

Death Eaters were inside the castle. Ron spun around to see Percy of all people dueling one, side by side with Fred. 

“Hello, Minister! Did I mention I’m resigning?”

“You’re joking, Perce! You’re actually—”

The air exploded. Fred was crushed under a pile of rocks. Ron watched numbly as Percy screamed over the body of their dead brother. Fred was still smiling. 

Snape’s last words echoed in his head.

Look at me.  

Ron shuddered, at seeing Snape die, at the bodies. So many bodies.

The acromantula had turned on them, betraying Hagrid’s long friendship with Aragog. The spiders dragged some of the bodies away. Remus, Tonks, Lavender. Fred. 

One hour. Voldemort had given them one hour. 

Ron pulled away from Percy and looked around for Harry. He wasn’t in the Great Hall with them. 

Ron’s mind whirled. The memories. Harry must have gone to Dumbledore’s office. 

“I need to go check on something,” Ron said, hugging Percy tightly. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

He walked slowly out of the Great Hall, breaking into a run when he was out of sight. Harry missing was a bad sign. Ron knew, fundamentally, how Harry operated. He knew what he was thinking. 

The gargoyle was already standing to the side. Ron stormed up to the office, stumbling into an empty room. Not even the portraits were in. The Pensieve stood there, glowing with tantalizing memories. There was a chance Harry was caught in them. Ron ran for it and plunged in.

Snape’s childhood, while interesting, was of no real import. Ron didn’t care that he had been friends with Harry’s mother, or how awful Snape’s father had been. There was a countdown to Harry’s death. Who cared what house he’d been sorted in, or Lupin being a werewolf, or bullying? It was shit, sure, but his brother was lying dead in the Great Hall. Snape himself was dead in a shack. And Ron was wasting time watching a twenty year old memory of Snape calling his friend a mudblood. 

Seeing Dumbledore so cold and cruel was a surprise. The contempt in his voice as Snape begged him to protect Lily Evans, not a care for James Potter or their unborn child. 

Snape promising Dumbledore anything to protect them. 

Dumbledore extracting a promise from Snape to protect Harry. 

A promise that never extended to his life with the Dursleys. Or inside the school. From Snape himself. 

“Keep an eye on Quirrell, won’t you?” Dumbledore asked. 

Ron frowned. That wasn’t right. A memory from first year nudged him, Dumbledore showing up at the last minute, already knowing what had happened. 

Dumbledore putting on a cursed ring, sorely tempted by something. Ron moved closer to see the ring. The mark of the Deathly Hallows. His eyes widened. Had he wanted to see Ariana?

And Dumbledore had been dying anyway? He knew about Malfoy, ordered Snape to kill him. It was all a set up 

Then it got worse. 

Harry was a horcrux, and Dumbledore knew. He had known for years. He led them on this merry chase only for Harry to die at the end. 

“I have spied for you and lied for you,” Snape said, “put myself in mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to be to keep Lily Potter’s son safe. Now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter…”

Ron watched Snape’s patronus, a silver doe racing around the office. Lily Potter. That would be him, twenty years from now, clinging onto his memory of Harry, a silver stag the only thing left of him. 

He ripped himself out of the Pensieve, into the silent and empty office. 

Ron started to run. 

Harry would do it. Harry would walk into that forest, stand there, and die. Die on the word of an old man who’d decided all this for them. There had never been any hope for Harry, no future, nothing past his time suffering between Killing Curses.

They could let Voldemort win. They could run, they could hide, let him have Britain, who cared? Why should Harry have to lose everything, over and over and over again? Why him? Why was this the only solution? It was madness. It was cruel. And for Snape to know that and never tell them. Let them starve in the woods for a year. Let them think there was something beyond this, when there never had been. 

Ron sprinted through the castle. He had to find Harry. He had to stop him. 

He found Neville carrying bodies, ran past Ginny comforting an injured girl. Dementors swarmed the forest, but Ron was determined. They couldn’t take that from him. 

Ron slowed down when he got under the trees. He knew Harry had that bloody cloak on. He’d never find him if he didn’t stop, focus, think. 

Ron saw him on the edge of a clearing, firelight flickering against the dark trees. 

“I thought he would come,” Voldemort said. “I expected him to come.

Something small fell into the dirt. Ron’s eyes tracked it. The Cloak of Invisibility slipped from Harry to pool onto the ground. Ron pressed forward. He had to stop him. 

“I was, it seems…mistaken.”

“You weren’t,” Harry said, his voice ringing through the clearing. 

Ron’s heart stopped, and he watched Harry step into the light. 

He kept moving forward, to the spot Harry had been. He picked up the cloak and threw it over himself. It was a Deathly Hallow, shouldn’t it stop death? He searched around and found a small stone, bringing it up to his eyes. It was the one from the ring. It must have been in that snitch. Ron clenched it in his fist and slowly walked forward. 

“Harry, no!” Hagrid shouted over the jeering of the Death Eaters. He had been tied to a tree and struggled against his restraints. 

“No! No! Harry! What’re you—”

“Quiet!”

Bellatrix was practically salivating, looking eagerly between Harry and Voldemort. Ron moved closer. He wouldn’t let Harry die. Not here. Not like this. 

Voldemort had a sick smile on his lipless face, tilting his head as he examined Harry with his blood red eyes. 

“Harry Potter,” he said softly, in that awful high pitched voice of his, the voice he knew Harry heard in his worst nightmares. “The Boy Who Lived.”

Voldemort raised his wand.

“No!” Ron shouted, running forward. 

“Ron!” Harry exclaimed. “Run! What are you doing here? Go!”

Ron still had Malfoy’s wand, the hawthorn and unicorn he had won. He raised it to Voldemort. His hand was steady. The cloak had fallen back around his shoulders, rippling gently against him. The stupid stone was still in his fist, the useless thing. 

Voldemort stared at him. “And who are you to defy Lord Voldemort?”

“Ronald Weasley,” Ron said, staring back at him. He wasn't afraid anymore. “And you’ll have to go through me before you get to Harry!”

“Ron, move!” Harry said. “You don’t—”

“I understand perfectly,” Ron said bitterly, not looking away from Voldemort.

“Step aside, Ronald Weasley,” Voldemort said. “I have no wish to spill more magical blood.”

Ron laughed at that. “Too fucking bad! You’ll have to kill me first!”

“You think Lord Voldemort won’t?” he said. “Move, you silly child!”

“Ron, please,” Harry begged. “You have to let me do this.”

“I love you,” Ron said. “I refuse to let this happen.” His hand tightened on the wand. “Snape and Dumbledore can piss off, and so can this snakefaced git.”

“Move!” Voldemort screeched at him. “Avada Kedavra!”

“Expelli—”

Ron couldn’t get the spell out fast enough. He saw a flash of green light, and he was gone. 

Ron woke up face down on a floor.

“The bloody fuck happened,” he groaned, pushing himself up. “Thought I was dead for sure…”

His jaw cracked as he yawned, and he looked around. He was in some kind of bright, misty place. The floor was white, everything was white, and he was starkers. 

“This doesn’t look good,” he said, standing up. “Maybe I am dead. Kind of dull so far.”

Having nothing better to do, he started walking. As the mist cleared, he found himself in a familiar garden, drained of color. He wished he had some clothes, and a set of robes appeared out of nowhere. Bemused, he put them on. 

“Well, this is unexpected,” a creaky voice said. Ron spun around to see an elderly woman sitting on a bench. Behind her, in all its improbable architecture, rose the Burrow, all in white. 

“Great-aunt Tessie?” Ron asked, walking up to her. “I thought you were dead.”

“She is,” the person said. 

Ron paused at that. “That’s…so, you’re not my great-aunt Tessie?”

“No, Ronald, I am not. Why don’t you have a seat? I think we need to have a little discussion.”

Ron hesitated, but sat beside the creature wearing his great-aunt Tessie like a suit. 

“As you have postulated, you died, Ronald,” the thing said. “Through a series of frankly absurd events, you came into the possession of three powerful objects intended for Harry Potter.”

“Sorry?” Ron said. “I didn’t want him to die.”

“It’s fine,” the being said. “Or it will be. You see, Harry was meant to disarm Draco Malfoy, who had disarmed Dumbledore. In that manner, Harry would have gained possession of the Elder Wand, and be the Master of Death.”

“Okay,” Ron said. “What does that even mean?”

“The horcrux attached to his scar would have been destroyed by Tom Riddle himself, and Harry would have continued to live. Among other things.”

“Right. And I’ve bollocksed that up?”

The entity sighed. “You sacrificed yourself for him, in much the same way Lily Evans did.”

“So it worked!” Ron said. “He gets to keep living!”

Something terrible looked out of great-aunt Tessie’s eyes. “He’s just seen his boyfriend die in front of him, Ronald.”

“I’m not really dead, though, am I?” Ron said. “I’m having a conversation right now. I’ve got clothes on. Just send me back, we’ll do the horcrux thing…”

“No, Ronald, you are very much dead right now,” the eldritch horror informed him. “But, you can fix this.”

“I can?” Ron asked. “How’s that then? Harry’s sort of in a bad spot right now…”

‘Great-aunt Tessie’ stood up, and Ron followed her shambling puppet body through the garden. “I think about here is fine,” she said. “Go on, lay down.”

“And this will get me back to Harry?” Ron asked, doing as she instructed. He frowned, looking up at the blank white expanse of sky, but wormed his way into the papery grass.

The beast leaned over him, two eyes like eternal chasms boring into Ron. He looked back, alarmed. “Are you sure this is—”

“Go to sleep.”