Yet He Shall Live by wwmrsweasleydo

Title: Yet Shall He Live
Author: wwmrsweasleydo
Main Pairing: Ron/Lee
Secondary Pairing(s): Harry/Ginny, Remus/Tonks, Ron/Hermione.
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angsty sad post-war gloom fest with a bit of smut in it.
Warnings: EWE, canon and non-canon character deaths, masturbation, explicit description of m/m sexual activity, sexual assault (non-titillating description), mental illnesses, drug and alcohol abuse, semi-public sex, strong language, four funerals and a wedding.
Word Count: 21,300.
Summary: At Fred's funeral, his family and friends look for ways to cope with their grief, and afterwards, to rebuild their lives.
Author's Notes: The title, chapter titles and quoted passages are taken from various versions of the Anglican funeral service. (Yes, that's how cheerful this story is). I am intensely grateful to my betas: rons_pigwidgeon and masteroftrouble, to glockgal for the artwork and also to the ronbigbang mods for running this big bang.



Artist: glockgal
Title: "In the Treehouse"
Rating: G
Media: photoshop
Artist Notes: YAY!



YET SHALL HE LIVE

CHAPTER ONE: Our Dear Brother Here Departed.

For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed: we therefore commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life ...

It should have rained on Fred's funeral. The sky should have shed the tears his friends and family held back. The sun blazed instead. His pall-bearers sweltered in the dragon-skin suits they wore in his memory, almost replicas of the ones he had designed for himself and George when they had first gone into profit, only with black bands circling the upper arms.

Fred's brothers and his best friend carried his coffin. Ginny had protested, but she was too short; the coffin tipped towards her when she tried to join them. She walked ahead of them with her parents. Arthur looked very old, as though he were being held up by the pale, damp-eyed women on either side of him.

Charlie and George were shorter than the others, but only by a few inches, it was little enough difference that they could compromise, accommodate, adapt. They were at the back. Ron was at the head end with Bill because they were the tallest. Both of them had attempted to defer to George, but he had said, "If it all tips over and he falls out, I want him landing on his feet not his head." Percy was behind Bill and Lee behind Ron.

"Charlie's strong," George had said, "I might need him to take over my share of the carrying. I pass out sometimes these days."

When it came to it there was a good chance that any one of them might have lost consciousness; Lee had shared out enough rum in the vestry to keep a pirate ship from mutiny. They needed it.

The service had been sombre and so heavy that it was a wonder any one of them had managed to push enough air off them to stand. But stand they had, watched by the packed, black-clad, congregation. All six of them had walked down the aisle, to the coffin in front of the altar — the box which couldn't really have Fred in it — and they had stood in their allocated positions and hefted it in unison onto their shoulders.

They had followed Molly and Arthur and Ginny out through the cool dark of the village church, and had been hit with the blaze of a hot summer sun in the graveyard. It should have rained; it should have been grey and cold and damp. The weather ought to have been as miserable as they were.

"At least you've got a good day for it," Mrs Figg said and Ron wanted to punch her.

Why was she even here? She'd never met Fred. Ron couldn't fathom why Harry had brought her along. The whole Wizarding world seemed to want to mourn the dead of the Battle of Hogwarts, to praise their heroism. Ron wasn't comforted by that; it just felt like intrusion.

"It's bad enough burying nephews, but one shouldn't outlive a great-nephew," Great Aunt Muriel complained. From her it sounded like a criticism of Fred.

"Can't hack any more of this," George said and he walked out of the wake, along with Lee and Charlie. Ron got Harry and then followed them.

"Can I take my mourning robe off?" Harry asked as they stepped out of the back door.

"Of course, mate. It's bloody hot." Ron looked round the garden and caught sight of the others climbing up into the treehouse.

"It's not disrespectful or anything, is it? I've never been to a Wizarding funeral before. Except Dumbledore's and that was different."

"Funny that. With all the deaths in the last couple of years." Ron shucked off his own dragon-skin jacket, but hugged it to him. "We did Cedric's, but then the Diggorys only live over there." He waved vaguely towards some hills.

"I don't know the etiquette."

"Sod that. Would Fred give a shit, or would he rather you were comfortable?" Ron was thinking about what Fred had said about weddings, about his own wedding and how informal he wanted that to be; it was never going to happen now.

They climbed up the wooden stepladder into the old treehouse they had played in as kids. Ron dropped his jacket near the door and took the bottle of rum which Lee immediately offered him. Harry struggled for a moment with pulling the heavy black mourning robes off over his head, then he came and sat beside his best friend in the silent circle of drinking men.

"You got some stuff?" George was asking Lee.

Lee looked nervously at the other men in the room.

"I can do what I like today, remember? Nobody's going to say anything." George looked pointedly at his brothers.

"Whatever gets you through," Charlie said sympathetically. "Bloody horrible day."

"Bet you can't wait to get out of the country." George pulled a pipe out of his pocket and tapped it against his palm. "Don't know," Charlie muttered.

"Don't know what I'm going to do."

"Stay." Ron surprised himself with the neediness in his voice. "Just for a bit," he added. "Mum would like it."

"I know," Charlie replied.

George pushed at Lee's knee with his foot. "Go on."

Lee sighed and pulled a velvet pouch out of the inside pocket of his jacket. Ron watched with interest, and then checked Harry for his reaction. He looked wary.

"Percy's driving me round the bend. I mean, all hail the prodigal son's return and all that ..." George took the pouch from Lee and started transferring something which looked almost like tobacco into the bowl of the pipe.

Charlie nodded his agreement. "If I have to hear one more time about how it was all his fault —"

"What was?" Harry asked sharply.

"Fred's death," Ron told him.

"But it wasn't!"

"We've all told him that," said George. The end of his wand glowed and he held it against the pipe. Smoke drifted out of it and Ron could smell something sweet and spicy — definitely not tobacco. George inhaled it deeply, then raised the pipe in the air. "To Fred!" he proclaimed.

Ron was holding the rum bottle at the time, so he lifted it up. They all repeated solemnly, "To Fred!"

George choked quietly, keeping his lips forced together so that the smoke spurted out of his nostrils. He took a deep breath. Then he put the pipe back in his mouth. "You look like a Norwegian Ridgeback," Charlie commented with a smile. "Does that stuff help?"

George shrugged and passed the pipe to Lee.

"Why is he blaming himself?" Harry asked.

"Percy?" Ron clarified. "Because he was talking to him when he was hit, thinks he distracted him."

Charlie lay down to ease his hand into his too-tight trouser pocket.

"It doesn't matter, Harry," Ron muttered.

"Look, if he wants to feel guilty, then let him," Lee said, in words of smoke. "We all know that's not really what the guilt is about." He looked at Ron questioningly, turned the pipe round and offered the mouthpiece.

Ron didn't know what to do. He was curious, but scared, too. He looked at Harry for a lead, but Harry hadn't noticed his predicament. He was too busy worrying about Percy. Ron nodded and took the pipe; Lee smiled.

"Better?" Charlie asked George.

"'Course not," George replied.

"Try this." Charlie pulled a small glass vial out of his pocket. He pulled out the cork with his teeth and then inhaled the contents sharply. He passed it to George.

"If anything, it's my fault," Harry mused.

"Not this again!" Ron sucked in smoke and closed his eyes. It tasted like it smelled, but it was hotter than he'd expected. He could feel his tonsils. He breathed the smoke in his mouth down to his lungs. He didn't know if it was his imagination — his expectations — which made everything a little blurred round the edges when he opened his eyes again. Harry stood up. George was sniffing at the glass vial and Charlie watched him carefully. Lee stretched to take the rum bottle from between Ron's knees.






"Fuck!" George said in a small, awed voice.

"I'm going to go talk to Percy," Harry said, picking up his mourning robes.

"There's no point!" Charlie called after him.

Harry went away down the ladder.

Ron offered Charlie the pipe. He seemed to know what he was doing with it. Ron hadn't known about any of these substances. He'd never known his brothers were playing with fun stuff like this.

"Fucking immense!" George said to Charlie.

"Not too much at once," Charlie cautioned.

"Whatever gets me through," George answered and took another deep sniff.

"Let's have a go!" Lee took the vial. "What is it?" he asked Charlie after he'd inhaled it. "Oh, fuck!"

Charlie shrugged, passing the pipe to George. "I only know the Romanian name. Good, though, isn't it?"

It was hot in the treehouse; Ron was aware that he was breathing in stale air. His head was feeling light and he couldn't judge whether that was the weather, the drink and drugs, or just a reaction to the stresses of the day; probably it was a mixture. He thought about Harry and then forgot about him. Lee offered him the vial. It looked very small and pale in his big, dark hand. Ron hesitated.

"Not the kid!" Charlie said quickly. "Come on, Lee. Give it back!"

"I'm not a kid!" Ron snapped back, taking the vial. Lee let go slowly, sliding their fingers over each other. "I've done things this year ..." He lifted it towards his nose. He was scared to inhale, though.

"You should have been around more, Charlie. Ron grew up." George slurred the words together.

Ron breathed in. It smelled like putrid pears, and he had a moment to think about that before it hit. Then colours flashed across his vision and he could hear his heart thundering — too loud and too fast. He thought he was going to die.

When someone took hold of the thing in his hand, he realised that the slipping sensation he had been feeling had been the glass falling slowly from his grip.

He felt sick, and blackness was seeping over him, so he loosened his limbs and let his heavy head fall to the floor. Somewhere, distorted, someone was saying, "I told you. Look. He's a lightweight." The sound was blurred and rang with an unnatural clarity all at once. He lay on his back with his eyes closed and let the sickness wear off.

Suddenly he was awake and full of energy. His mouth was parched. He rolled his head, not trusting himself to sit up. The grey light coming through the door reflected on a bottle; he wondered when it had got so late. He put out his arm and then drank deeply from a Firewhiskey bottle which he couldn't remember being there.

"Oh shit." Ron looked around until he saw George. He looked pale, sick.

"You alright?" Charlie asked him.

George groaned in reply. Then there was a shuffling sound and he lurched to his feet. Ron sat. He watched his brothers.

Charlie was looking like he felt guilty. "Where are you going?" he asked George.

"Bed," George mumbled.

"Not down the ladder! Hang on, mate," Lee said.

"I've got it. I'll take him down, get him to bed." Charlie took hold of George, gently lifting him up before they both disappeared into the evening.

"You feel ok?" Lee asked Ron. "That's some weird shit, the Romanian stuff."

"I don't think I like it." Ron took another mouthful of Firewhiskey.

"It's a buzz. Yeah, I'd do it again. Like at a party, I reckon. Wears off quick, though, doesn't it?"

"It's funny." Ron lay back on the dirt floor with his eyes closed. "Hearing your voice."

"My voice?" Lee took the bottle from Ron's hand. "How is that funny?"

"Keep talking," Ron replied. The bottle was replaced and he drank from it without looking.

"I don't know what you want me to say." After waiting for Ron to say something and hearing nothing, Lee spoke again: "I miss Fred, but, I don't know, I don't want to talk about him really. I know it's his funeral; he's supposed to have the spotlight, but ..." His voice trailed off. It was a little slurred, but so familiar that the drunkenness didn't matter much. "Do you think we should go after George?"

Ron had been so intent on Lee's voice that it took him a while to realise what his words had been, that they needed an answer.

"Charlie's got him. Keep talking. Please. Makes me feel safe — your voice."

"Safe?"

"Always did. Tuning in, finding it. All well with the world."

"Oh!" Lee sighed with understanding. "Potterwatch."

"Reminded me of school Quidditch matches. Something ordinary. Not dark."

"Ok." Lee paused. "You were a pretty good Keeper in the end. Better when the twins weren't watching you. Funny that. They raised their game when you were watching, tried to impress you. Too much for you, though, wasn't it?"

"Mmm hmm." Ron drank. His stomach flipped. Enough alcohol, he didn't want to throw up. He put down the bottle on the ground, near where he thought Lee was. He didn't look to check, though. He wanted to doze off to a radio voice the way he had done so many times before in the last year.

"In every group of three friends you always have times when there's a couple and a single. I've watched it happen with you and Harry and Hermione. The thing was, though, with me and the twins, well ... they were always the twins. I was always the extra. Sometimes you and Harry go off on one about Quidditch, or Harry and Hermione talk about Muggle stuff, y'know? Then you and Hermione — I don't know. Whatever. But it switches. Not with us. I was always the extra one."

Lee fell silent. After a couple of minutes, Ron wondered if he'd fallen asleep. He looked over to where he thought Lee was. He jolted when he opened his eyes, because Lee was much, much closer than he had been. He was staring intently into Ron's face.

"Er, all right, mate?" Ron asked. He swallowed. Lee looked weird. Pissed, yeah, but something else as well.

"Ron." Lee's voice was thick and cracking.

"You're just pissed, mate." Ron suddenly felt vulnerable and exposed, lying there on the floor. He remembered where his wand was: by the door, in the pocket of his dragon-skin jacket. He tried to sit up.

Lee moved fast. His hand pushed against Ron's shoulder, forced him back down. "I am pissed," he said. "But that's not it. Years. Years of thinking." His face was deathly serious.

Ron's heart hammered. His gorge rose. Adrenalin born of fear forced sobriety into his brain. He tried to scrabble up to a sitting position at least. Lee got his other hand onto Ron's skinny hip, holding him down, and then his knee was on Ron's chest.

Ron froze at first. He just stared at Lee's looming face.

"Come on," Lee pleaded. Ron didn't know what he was pleading for, but he didn't think he wanted to give it to him; this felt bad. He shook his head. He felt helpless the way he had done as a kid when one of his big brothers had held him down and taken something from him. He couldn't even shout for his Mum here. Everyone else was back in the house. It was only a few hundred yards away, but it was beyond shouting distance and that was suddenly all that mattered.

Lee lay down on top of him, knocking the wind out of him. One hand held Ron's head now, and the other was at his fly. Lee licked his neck.

"Yes, yes, yes ..." he was saying. His breath was hot and stank of alcohol and something rank.

"No!" Ron shouted with what little breath he had.

Lee's hand forced its way into Ron's underpants at the same time as his mouth descended onto his in an obscene parody of a kiss. The twin shocks were enough to energise Ron's struggles. This was wrong and bad and evil, just like the Death Eaters had been. Ron might not have been able to fight off his brothers when he was a kid, but he'd been fighting bad men for years. In a rush he believed he could escape the situation and it was done.

Ron lifted one knee, aiming it for Lee's crotch. He missed, but he hit his thigh and knocked him off balance. The momentum allowed Ron to roll over, knocking Lee off him. Ron sprang to his feet. Shakily, Lee followed him to standing, and Ron punched him hard in the mouth.

Then he ran. Picking up his jacket on the way, he scrambled down the ladder at a speed which wasn't safe and ran to the house, holding his waistband up, no time to zip up. He was thinking that he would tell his parents, he would tell George, he would tell Charlie ... only they had enough to be worrying about today. Harry. That's who he would talk to. He could tell Harry anything. Only, when he lurched, panting, into the room he was supposed to be sharing with his best friend, it was empty.

He locked himself in by magic, turned the Muggle key and then shoved his chest of drawers against the door. He pulled a bottle of mead out from under his bed to swill his mouth, to get rid of the taste of Lee's mouth. He forgot to spit it out though and once he'd swallowed one mouthful he wanted another, and another. He lay on his bed with the lights on full, drinking and staring down his demons.

CHAPTER TWO: In the Midst of Life We Be in Death.

In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour?

George's frame was seized and shaken by another overpowering convulsion. While it lasted, he could feel nothing but the contraction of his guts, heard only his own blood roaring and saw a red-shot blackness.

As it passed, he became aware of a strong smell of bile, then cold hardness against his brow and, finally, Charlie's voice:

"You'll be alright. I told you to take it easy."

George hoped that Fred was feeling as rotten as he was. He must be; he wasn't taunting. He opened his eyes and found he was looking into the abyss of the toilet bowl. It was full of something bubbly and nasty. He closed his eyes again.

"If I got you a Pain Potion, do you think you could keep it down?" Charlie asked.

George's belly immediately imagined thick liquid hitting it. It contracted defensively and he retched again. Very little came up — just a trickle of stomach acid which burnt his throat. His eyes watered. He wondered whether Fred had taken any Pain Potion yet, he would have asked, but he couldn't speak. Maybe Fred was still sleeping it off. Lucky Fred.

Charlie's bare feet made sticky noises against the bathroom floor. They had a wooden floor in their flat over the shop. This sounded like he was at home — the Burrow. He and Fred were always correcting each other. Wheezes was their home now. What was Charlie doing at their parents' place?

George's mouth was dry, sore and tasted of regurgitated rum. He didn't trust himself to take a sip of water, though. He remembered the rum from the treehouse. Lee must have been there, he was the one who drank rum. It had been his weed, too. Then there had been that stuff Charlie had.

George remembered the heightened distortion of the high that had given him. And then in an overpowering rush, he remembered everything. They had gone to the treehouse to get away from Fred's wake, because Fred had been buried, because Fred was ...

His body convulsed and his mind closed down. He tried to drag air out of the room, pulling hard, but his ribs were too tense, too close and he was smothering. Then he felt himself pulled upwards. He opened his eyes but all he could see was a blurred, white dazzle. He was being held from behind. It was a firm, reassuring hug. Charlie was saying something — he couldn't make sense of what it was, but it was Charlie's voice and that was a comfort. A sob took over his body. It was dry and silent, but overpowering. It was followed by another and another.

Tears arrived eventually, then Charlie turned him round so that they faced each other and sat them both down on the edge of the bath. Time had lost meaning. George wept onto Charlie's shoulder. It smelled of clothes which had been slept in. There was a scent of stale ganja smoke in it, too.

When his crying had calmed to the point where he could speak again, George choked out, "He's dead."

"Yes. Yes, he is," Charlie replied.

"Fred," George clarified.

"Yes. Fred. Are you ready for that Pain Potion now?"

George noticed how much his head hurt; he nodded.

"Is everyone else alright? Ron?" George asked. He'd just remembered telling Charlie that Ron wasn't a kid, and then Ron's reaction to one snort. If Ron was ill now then that would be George's fault.

"I followed you," Charlie said. "You looked like you were about to tumble down the ladder. Lee was with Ron."

George sighed with relief. "Oh. He'll be fine, then."

They sat in silence together until they both felt strong enough to go back to bed.

They started the next day with lunch. Ron lurched in, still in his pyjamas, half-way through the meal. He looked warily round the table before entering the room. Then he sat down next to Harry. He looked at least as bad as George felt.

"Alright?" Harry asked him. His voice rang oddly in the room, drawing attention to its previous silence. That wasn't right — Weasley meals were not quiet times.

"Bit hungover," Ron muttered.

Molly shuffled listlessly to her feet. "I'll get you a potion."

"I've taken one. It'll kick in in a moment."

Molly should have been telling Ron off for getting drunk, not accepting it and offering him a cure. It was all wrong.

"You going to be up to it this afternoon?" Harry asked Ron.

"What's this afternoon?" Arthur asked.

Harry paused, looking awkward.

"Colin's funeral," Hermione supplied gently.

George hadn't noticed that she was there. Every ginger head in the room dipped, their freckled noses pointed towards their plates. Another funeral. Too many.

"Colin?" George found himself asking. "Colin who?"

"Creevey," Ron said. "Annoying little shit with the camera. He was in the D.A."

"I remember." George pictured him. He was so young. "From the Battle?" He felt stupid as soon as he had asked. Of course he'd died in the Battle. Though, there was just a chance that he had been killed before that under Death Eater rule, or even that his death had been natural, the timing could have been coincidental.

It was hard to think that some normal things like drowning, illness or accident could have been happening at the same time as the Battle of Hogwarts. They must have happened somewhere, though. Somewhere in the world at the same moment that Fred had fallen down, somebody would have been giving birth. And somebody else would have been eating a toasted cheese sandwich. "He was in the grounds. He snuck back from Hogsmeade to take part ... he ... the body was ..." Harry stopped talking and his face took on the frozen, haunted look he got from time to time these days. "I came back from the dead, I wish that ... that they all could ... that it hadn't been just ..." He looked round the table. Then he swallowed and stood up. He nodded crisply and left the room.

Hermione and Ginny both stood to follow him.

"Give him a minute first," Ron said.

"I bet he got a few of them before they got him," Ginny said. "Colin. He was a bloody good hex thrower."

"I remember him in the Room of Requirement. He hexed Angelina off her feet, threw her against the wall." George smiled.

Ron nodded. "Really pissed her off." He rubbed his hand over his face. "Wish I could remember which spell that was."

George thought about Colin, tried to remember as much as he could about him. "Who's going this afternoon?"

"Me, Ginny, Harry, Hermione," Ron replied. "Loads of other people, too, of course." He took a deep drink of pumpkin juice. "Then we're going to St Mungo's to see a few people."

"What time's the service? I'll get dressed, come with you."

His brothers all looked at George. It was Molly who spoke: "Are you sure? Another funeral, so soon after —?"

"I'm a big boy, Mum. I'll be fine."

"Well, I know I couldn't cope. Not the day after," she admitted.

"It won't be the same ceremony," said Ron. "His parents are Muggles."

It was evidence of his state of mind that Arthur didn't even react.

On the bus journey out to the cemetery, George sat next to Ron who seemed jumpy and pre-occupied.

"Got any plans?" George asked, for something to say.

Ron stopped whatever he had been thinking and focussed on George. It was un-nerving. "I did have an idea, actually," he said.

"Yeah?"

"I was thinking, you know, if you needed some help getting the shop open again —"

"No! How could I do that? Without him? No!"

Ron looked surprised. "I just thought you were going to ..." he mumbled. "Never mind, then."

They got off the bus at the cemetery. Ginny and Harry walked together in front of them, holding hands through the dreary place — huge and full and grey like the housing estates and tower blocks they had passed to get to it. The chapel at its centre was featureless and modern.

As they walked towards it, Ron asked, "So what will you do, then?"

George shrugged. "Don't feel up to anything," he replied. "Not coping," he added quietly.

The Creevey family sat in the front row. They were all short and mousey-haired like Colin. George recognised Dennis, the younger brother. There was a tension around his eyes which looked familiar. His hands were clenched against emptiness, too. Just like George.

George shuffled along a bench and sat next to Ron. Ginny sat on his other side. He patted her hand, grateful to her for being there — unlike Fred and Colin who had left their brothers and wouldn't be coming back. Poor Dennis had no sister, no more brothers; he was the only one left.

After the strange, dry ceremony which ended with curtains coming round the coffin instead of a burial, the mourners all made their way out into the colourless gardens. It was sunny again. The sky's bright hope was unbearable.

George shook Mr Creevey's hand as he stepped out of the door.

"Who are you?" asked the drawn, bony little man.

"George. I was at school with Colin. A few years older."

"I hardly know anybody here." Mr Creevey shook his head. "I never got to meet his friends, what with it being the sort of school it was. I never really understood. I was happy for the boys, though. That they'd found something special. I left school at fourteen, became a milkman. It's not much of a life. I thought that place would offer them ... I don't understand. What sort of a school has battles going on? You'd think they would have stopped the fighting, wouldn't you? Rather than let my boy ... I don't understand. Dennis tries to explain things, but it doesn't make any sense to me. I thought they'd be safer, happier, with the magic."

"He died a hero, Mr Creevey," George found himself saying. He didn't know why; it was no comfort to him when people said that about Fred. Mr Creevey sighed.

"So they say," he said. "I don't know. I'm more one for a bit of give and take, though. It shouldn't have to come to blows. Not ever. Somebody should have been negotiating or something. I don't know."

George didn't know what to say. There was too much this man didn't know. Poor Dennis was the only one who would ever understand; he would never be able to make it right for his parents. George shook Mr Creevey's hand again and walked on.

At least he understood what Fred had died for. Fighting had been the only option and they had all known the risks. He still wished that it could have been him who had died and Fred who had been forced to live on. It could have been so much worse, though. He could have been poor, pale Dennis Creevey.

George was incapacitated by the depth of his pity for the boy and so he just waved to him from the other side of a crowd of wizards. There was nothing he could have said to him.

Mrs Creevey led the way to a little pub where they had hired a room. As they crossed the busy road she pointed up to one of the angular concrete blocks of flats in the area. "

That's our place," she said quietly. "That's where our Colin was brought up. Sixth floor."

Inside the pub there were curling sandwiches, bowls of stale crisps and gooey little pork pies cut into quarters. Ginny caught George's eye. They both looked back to the food. This was no way to see off the plucky little photographer. Ginny nodded at him.

George slid his wand down his sleeve. Ministry be damned. Let them turn up and Obliviate all the Muggles here. It couldn't make things any worse. He muttered a few words in Latin. Making food was impossible with magic — freshening it up wasn't.

Ron was organising a round at the bar, dealing with some of Hermione's Muggle money to pay for it. George hung around and helped hand drinks out, waiting until Ron was less busy.

"Brandy was it?" Ron asked him, flustered.

"Rum. It doesn't matter."

Inexplicably, Ron blushed and his eyes darted sideways. Before he could get contemplative again, George said, "You know what you were saying about the shop?"

Ron made eye contact. He nodded. Half of his mind was still clearly elsewhere.

"I've changed my mind. What else am I going to do? Sit around feeling sorry for myself? Things could be much worse." George looked over at the Creeveys. "Waste of his time and mine if I just let the shop go."

Ron was fully engaged in the conversation now. He nodded enthusiastically.

"So thanks for the offer. I'd love some help. It'll be a big job, mind. Don't know what happened to the place after we moved out. You'd have to move in to the flat with me, I think. That ok?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it'll be brilliant. Need to keep busy. Things are going to get to me otherwise." Ron nodded. "Perfect."

"Excellent!" George patted his baby brother on the back. "There'll be three of us, 'cos Lee offered to help out yesterday. He was the one who suggested that all the staff ought to live on site. Three lads in a bachelor pad — it'll be a laugh!"

If Ron didn't exactly look like he was about to start laughing, then George put that down to the fact that they were at a funeral.


CHAPTER THREE: Thou Knowest, Lord, the Secrets of our Hearts.

... shut not thy merciful ears to our prayer; but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour, thou most worthy judge eternal, suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from thee.

Lee didn't know why he had woken up. George's sofa was pretty uncomfortable and it was airless in the little sitting room above the shop. The sun was half-heartedly beginning to push its way through the un-curtained window. Perhaps he just wasn't tired any more. Or maybe it was because of the aching erection rubbing against the inside of his pyjama bottoms.

He glanced over at the bedroom door. It was definitely closed. He should lock it probably, but he was too sleepy. He shuffled about on the lumpy cushions and slipped his hand under his waistband, between the warmth of his skin and the scratch of the over-washed cotton. He gasped out when the side of his hand touched his cock; he wished he could remember what he had been dreaming about.

He closed his eyes and something pale brushed against his memory, then was lost.

He spat onto his other hand and pushed it down, too. Wet fingertips made contact with his foreskin: his nerves sent jolts throughout his body. He looked down himself — a smooth plane of toned muscle from his head to his long, brown toes, with his erection jutting out from it. He bit his lip then eased his elasticated waistband down over his jutting hipbones. Belatedly he checked George's bedroom door again; it was still shut. He pulled the bedspread over his head anyway.

His dark, thick cock rose from a mass of black hair, shining with sweat in the sparse light. He let go of it for a moment, but his hips jerked upwards into the air, missing the contact. He wrapped his right hand tight round the base, while his other hand went searching under the bed. He'd kicked the incriminating tube under there the day before when Arthur had popped round for an unexpected visit. It wasn't too far under. He glanced over at the bedroom door again, then at the door down to the shop — not that anyone would be coming in that way at this time of the morning.

He squeezed himself and released a deep sigh, which he had to bite back. Harry knew some kind of muffling spell; he must get that off him. He squirted the lube onto his fingertips and tickled his foreskin again.

"Mmm, sweet Merlin!"

He watched himself as he pulled down his foreskin, exposing the head of his prick to the air, and then to his moist fingers. The lube shone on the tip like pre-come in the light coming through the thin fabric. It wouldn't be long before it was joined by the real thing.

While one fist set up a gentle, firm rhythm of strokes, the other hand kneaded his balls. He watched himself as best he could for a while, listened to the slurping sound and his own heavy breathing. He pressed one finger back onto his perineum — and his eyelids fell shut. He could picture his hand moving, only after a few strokes it wasn't his own hand, it was another, paler hand: a remnant of his dream, but still just out of focus.

He was sweating and panting now. His mouth was open, rasping air over his throat. The repeated scratch of the rough cotton of his pyjama top over his inner arm suddenly became unbearable. He didn't want to let go of his cock, to stop stimulating it, but he wanted to enjoy this sensation wholeheartedly, without distraction. He fumbled about, trying to remove his top with one hand, without interrupting his rhythm, but it was useless.

He opened his eyes, freed his hand and yanked the shirt off over his head. One dreadlock bounced off his cheek. He lowered the bedspread and looked at both of the doors. Still safe. The day was breaking now. Orange light played over his dark, shining skin. His belly looked ok: the curves of muscles in all the right places. He looked a little like one of those posters of Quidditch stars advertising shaving potions. His chest, what he could see of its shape under all the hair, looked alright, too. The hair cleared round his two peaked black nipples.

He ran one palm over them, lightly glancing over their tips and making himself whimper. His eyes closed and he hid back under the bedspread and took himself in hand again. Behind his eyelids he saw another hand — a white-skinned, freckle-backed hand — on his chest. He followed its movements with his own fingers: pinching, rubbing, rolling.

The thumb of his other hand brushed over his tip, collecting the pre-come which was forming there, sliding it over his over-heated, over-sensitive skin. He pictured a mouth, made a mouth out of his hand. He pulled up in tight, small movements and in his head there was ginger hair over his waist — bobbing up and down in the morning light.

He left his nipples and pressed two fingers against his scalp, then grabbed hold of a wiry dreadlock and pulled hard.

He cried out, a grunting sound which might have been a name, grabbed hold of his nuts instead of his hair and squeezed. Then the lights and rainbows danced inside him and he came with five hard sprays of hot come into the hair on his belly.

He stroked gently a few times and then let go. After looking down at his own sticky mess, he checked the doors again. Still safe. He would need to get up in a moment, the others would be awake soon. He recovered his breath, lying back and listening to the in-and-out of the air, trying not to think.

Another image from his dream resurfaced. Who had he been trying to kid? Of course he knew who he'd been dreaming about. Again. It was pure pointless torture and he wished his subconscious would give it up. Not that he didn't deserve torture and worse.

If he'd ever had a chance with Ron — which he probably hadn't — he had lost that after Fred's funeral. He had thrown away any respect the boy might ever have had for him. He couldn't help wondering how far he would have taken things if Ron hadn't punched him. If Lee had still been stronger than the younger man, would he ever have stopped himself? He wasn't capable of rape, was he? He'd never thought so. But he didn't know at what point his body would have felt sated enough to halt. He felt sick again. What trigger other than Ron's fist would have brought him to his senses?

Yes, he had been drunk and stoned and high; yes, it had been a horrible and unnatural day; yes, he'd finally found himself alone with the subject of his obsessions. But there was no excuse.

He had waited for Ron to tell people. Specifically, he had spent two days on edge, braced for George to attack him. When George had owled him to say that he wanted to talk, he was sure that he was going to be shouted out, hexed and that his remaining best friend would be lost to him forever. Instead, George had wanted to take him up on his offer to help re-open the shop. When he had happily told him that Ron would be moving in here, too, Lee had realised that Ron was keeping their secret. It didn't mean he would be silent forever.

Neither of them wanted to let George down; they both cared for his happiness too much. So they had found themselves in this impossible position. It was dreadful for Lee, he could only think that it must be worse for Ron. The lad kept shooting him wary glances. Lee had apologised, of course. It had been the first thing he'd done, the first time George had left the room. This went way beyond an apology, though. There were no words to make it right. He had promised that nothing like that would happen again — but he could see Ron was reluctant to believe him. Why should he?

Ron was sleeping in Fred's old bed. It was natural enough that the brothers would be the ones sharing the bedroom. They all had to negotiate the one small bathroom, though, and the stockroom, the shop floor. There was only so much space Lee could put between himself and Ron.

He could see Ron getting worried when alcohol appeared. George wanted to drink, though. Neither of them had told George, so they had to both drink with him. Lee had started buying vodka. He didn't think either of them would ever be able to swallow rum or Firewhiskey again.

The guilt and the carefulness were bad enough, but the desire refused to go away. It mingled with his contrition and broke free in his dreams. It had been bad enough at school. He had shocked himself by noticing how handsome Ron was growing. He'd fancied boys before, it wasn't that. He'd never mentioned it to anyone — there'd been no point; he fancied girls too and he could talk about that for hours. He was glad he didn't play Quidditch — there was barely a member of the House team who didn't turn him on. Well, apart from the twins. Ok, sometimes even the twins did.

What had surprised him — that first time the candle light had shown up the hairs on Ron's arm and Lee had lost his breath — was that Ron was only a kid. More than that — worse than that — he was the baby brother of his best friends. Lee felt protective enough about him and Ginny; he couldn't imagine just how angry their own kin would be if they knew he was lusting after one of them. He was glad that Percy had left school before it had all started because Percy noticed everything.

Ron grew quickly, he developed muscle, his form filled out. Every tiny change captivated Lee. He had worked hard at not touching Ron then. He hated Lavender, tried not to watch them snogging, but at night his dreams would replay him every moment. Only with himself replacing the silly, curvaceous girl. When he turned his face from the couple, he had invariably seen Hermione, watching too and hating it all as much as he was.

Then Fred and George had flown away. He had been driven mad with loneliness and boredom for those last months of school. It could have been his opportunity. Only, Ron was still too young then, and even Lee could see that it was Hermione he really wanted. It still was, as far as he could tell. She liked to describe their wedding plans to anyone in earshot. There was no way Lee would ever have had a chance to be with Ron; now he had no chance of his friendship either.

A door creaked open and Lee started guiltily. It was only George; he lay back down.


CHAPTER FOUR: Subdue all Things to Himself.

... our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile body that it may be like to his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.

Bare wood was scraping against his skin. He was in the treehouse again, but this time he was naked. He was small and weak and he could hear the monster breathing heavily in the darkness. The monster was bigger and stronger than him and it was coming to get him. Ron was terrified. It felt like he whimpered, but he could not hear himself.

Then it pounced; it pinned him down with its weight and its tentacles wrapped round him, burning into his skin. Dark, lust-glazed eyes were in its face, staring at Ron's naked body. Ron was helpless and afraid as he was licked and kissed and then he was twisted round and his face was pushed into the rough floor. He was bent and penetrated. The pain was intense.

Ron woke, sweating and breathless, biting back a scream. He lay in the dark and let the world solidify around him, concentrating on George's snores to anchor him. His heart was hammering; bile burnt his throat.

He lived on the edges of his nerves — scared to be left alone with Lee. He couldn't explain why to George. Sometimes he didn't even believe in it himself. Lee seemed to be the same courteous, reasonable person that he always had been. He didn't laugh as much as he once had, but then none of them did. Some days they would be engrossed in mending windows, counting stock or cleaning shelves, and Ron would start to doubt himself.

He would wonder if maybe it had never happened. Perhaps he'd just hallucinated Lee's mouth on his neck and his hand scrabbling about in Ron's underwear. The Lee he saw at Wheezes was the Lee he had always known, and he just didn't seem like the sort of man to...

Then Ron would look over to seek out clues, and when Lee saw him looking he'd duck his head to hide his eyes quickly behind his dreads. Ron would see the fear and guilt in his posture and then he would know for sure that it really had happened.

George needed them both, otherwise neither one of them would be staying here and they both knew that. They tried to avoid each other, but it was a small place full of cramped cupboards and they both had to do whatever George asked them to do.

George needed Lee. He had lost his closest friend in Fred and Lee was the nearest thing he had left. Ron couldn't tell him what Lee had done. He couldn't force George to choose. He was just a little bit afraid that George would side with Lee; and Ron needed George.

The shop had been a mess when they first arrived there. On that first morning, Lee had already been standing by the front door when George and Ron had approached down the grey and damaged Diagon Alley. He had been facing away from them, his back hunched and his dreads falling forwards. His bare arms were covered in muscles and Ron's stomach clenched. Lee looked strong.

He had fought him off before, though. He was going to be fine. His heart was hammering, nonetheless, and he felt as scared as he had done in the Battle — but with no fight to take his adrenaline to. Then Lee had heard them, turned and Ron saw from his shocked expression that George hadn't told him that Ron was going to be joining them.

As George had talked — excited now, fired up just as Ron had hoped to see him — Lee had looked at Ron and Ron had seen that he was scared, too.

"You two wait here," George said. "I'm going in on my own first. I want to see what I'm up against."

Silently, Lee and Ron watched him as he ran his wand around the seal of the door, then carefully pushed it open. They both looked through the cracked front pane as he picked his way over the rubble into the dark centre of the shop.

They did not look at each other. They both kept their hands in their pockets.

Quietly, Lee said, "I'm so sorry."

"Let's not —" Ron started to say. He wanted to ignore it all.

"It won't — I need you to know that. I'm not like that. It won't happen, nothing like that. Never before, I don't know what — I'll keep away from you as much as I can. I feel so bad about —"

"Ok." Ron took a step back, further away from Lee.

"Just need you to know that I'm sorry."

"Got it," Ron snapped.

And he could see that Lee did feel terrible, but as for whether it would happen again, he couldn't see how Lee could be so sure. If Lee didn't know how he had lost control the first time, then how could he stop it from happening again?

Ron worried about whether he should tell George, whether he ought to warn him. Because the more he thought about it, the more he felt like Ron had been a substitute that night. It made sense. It was the twins Lee had been close to; it had been Fred that Lee had been grieving for. If Lee had found himself alone with George that evening...

George had emerged from the shop, looking grim but determined. "The Pygmy Puffs have been eating each other," he said.

The shop had clearly been ransacked. Someone had got through the wards. There was something dark smeared across one of the walls. Even the display cases which hadn't been knocked over had products on them which had expired, and they smelled bad, or bubbled menacingly, or — in one case — had burned through the shelf beneath.

George insisted on taking on the cull of feral Puffs himself. Only a few could be saved; they were put in individual cages, cleaned and fed. Lee was put to righting the furniture, Ron to locating and isolating the stock which could still be used.

The stench was so strong that to begin with they could only work for half an hour at a time before going out to the street to breathe properly. George and Lee would have a smoke with their fresh air. Ron tried to time it so that he and Lee weren't outside at the same time.

Late on the first day, the three of them dragged themselves up the stairs to the flat. Ron scourgified the bathroom, thinking longingly of his parents' nice, clean, cosy soap-smelling bathroom. He thought for a moment that he would Apparate back there.

He was too tired; he couldn't face splinching himself again. The Floo network hadn't been stabilised yet. He had to stay. Anyway, that was what George had asked him to do.

After his bath, he had walked out (fully dressed again) into the little sitting room to find George and Lee sharing a bottle of mead. He had looked warily at Lee and the bottle and he had seen from Lee's apologetic face that they were both thinking the same thing.

"Got any food?" Ron asked.

"I'll go out and pick something up."

"Don't know how safe it is out there," George had replied.

Ron didn't know how safe it was inside the flat.

I KNOW that my redeemer liveth, and that I shall rise out of the earth in the last day, and shall be covered again with my skin, and shall see God in my flesh: yea, and I myself shall behold him, not with other, but with these same eyes.


The silence was heavy on the shop floor as they worked: clearing, cataloguing and laying out stock. The spaces between the three men grew larger and at the same time more claustrophobic. They worked and ate together for several weeks.

There were occasional visitors. Angelina was the first. The look of horror on her face was repeated by everyone else who came into the shop.

"Somehow I was thinking of it as still being here, still being the same," was how Seamus put it.

"It will be," George said with determination. "It'll be even better."

When Angelina came in, she hugged Lee and George, then hesitated before Ron; they didn't know each other well enough for that. He hurriedly offered to make a pot of tea. When he saw Alicia approach a few days later, he made himself scarce before she came in.

When the Patil twins dropped by on their way to the Owl Post office, George made the tea. Harry was the same with all of them: miserable and short-tempered. Everyone else seemed to belong to either Lee and George or to him. It made Ron feel even more isolated. He questioned why he was there at all.

Harry had withdrawn into a silence which Ron suspected was full of self-recrimination and grief. He wouldn't talk to Ron about any of it; Ron hoped that he was talking to Hermione or Ginny. Girls were supposed to be good at dealing with that emotional stuff. He and Harry never had been. Ron would have liked to have told somebody about how it felt to be working and living with Lee now. Even if he and Harry could have broken through their awkwardness and he had managed to discuss it with him, Harry was struggling with too many demons himself. Ron feared that he wouldn't have listened anyway.

Hermione came every other day, though, and every time she came in and greeted Ron with a hug, Lee would back off to the stock room upstairs and wouldn't appear again until she had gone. Ron looked forward to Hermione's visits.

Most of the time, it was just the three of them. Nobody else wanted to spend long in the messy dirt and odd smells.

One sullen lunch time the three of them sat on the dusty floor, eating sandwiches Molly had sent in to them and staring out into their own individual empty spaces. George said, "You should have said something. One of you could have mentioned it. I had no idea you didn't like each other."

Ron and Lee both turned away from him, looking guilty. Neither said anything.

"Any time one of you decides to tell me what this is all about, then I'll listen," George continued with a sigh. "And if one of you chooses to leave, I'll get it. The atmosphere here is... Well, you know." He stood up and brushed the crumbs from his lap. "I'll be up in the workshop making dung bombs."

Ron wasn't about to leave. George needed him; it wasn't about having a laugh, it was about rebuilding a joke shop. He wasn't going to tell his brother how scared and angry he was either, not when George needed Lee, too. So, the silence grew and the secret swelled. Then suddenly one morning George stood back from his Violent Creme and Turnfish Delight display and announced, "I think we should open tomorrow!"

Lee jumped up, dropping the pricing gun which sprayed out five for a Galleon tickets like an indoor firework. "Is it ready?" he asked, incredulous.

"We can finish the rest off with the punters in here. Diagon Alley's starting to wake up. It's time."

Ron nodded. "There was actually a queue inside Gringott's yesterday. First time in months."

"I'll start on the publicity, then," Lee said, a little nervously.

George grinned. "Go on Jordan. This is what you're good at. The Prophet, then WWN, The Quibbler ..."

"Not the fucking Quibbler! We want to sell jokes, not become one. Leave it to me, Weasley. This is my area." Lee ran his wand over himself to shake off the dust.

"That's what I just said. You look gorgeous, get out there. He looks fine, doesn't he, Ron?"

Ron tried not to look at Lee, but George was watching him. "Fine," he mumbled. Now that he was finally looking right at Lee, he didn't want to see how good he did look. He wanted Lee to be the deformed malignant thing of his nightmares — not a clean, handsome, good-natured man.

Yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.


The next day a few customers did come. A few more the day after that and pretty soon the paying public filled up the spaces and the silences that had been building in the store. Ron was too busy to worry about Lee during the day. They were all too occupied with taking money and catching up with people they hadn't seen for a while. The Wizarding World was beginning to come back to life.

George greeted most customers with a broad smile. His eyes were less bright than they had been when Fred had been alive, but he was getting some of his humour back — at least during shop opening hours. It was a surprise, therefore, one brisk mid-morning to hear him shout angrily, "Out!"

Everyone stopped to see who he was shouting at. Ron and Lee excused themselves to the people they were dealing with and both of them edged towards their boss. In the doorway of the shop stood a stooped, thin, pale figure. If it hadn't been for the very fairness of his hair and the pointiness of his nose, Ron might not have recognised Draco Malfoy. His characteristic arrogance had disappeared and there was a haunted shiftiness about him instead.

"Get out!" George was scarlet with rage. "I'm not having your sort contaminating our shop! Fred died to get rid of cunts like you! I'm not having you here, fouling what he made."

Malfoy said nothing; he just shuffled backwards out of the shop.

I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.

The next day, as Ron was cashing up at the end of the day, alone in the dark shop, Lee came sprinting in, panting and agitated. He looked round frantically.

"George?"

"Not here."

"Where is he?"

"Not here," Ron snapped. "You'll have to make do with me."

They stared at each other for a few seconds which were full of the things they never spoke of.

Lee nodded. "It's your dad. Come on."

They raced down Diagon Alley at top speed, pushing through the last of the day's shoppers. Ron saw his father long before he reached him. It felt like he was running at dreaming speed, like the journey would never end. Arthur was standing at the top of the steps to Gringott's; his face was upturned towards the sky and he was howling. His pain was beyond language. He pulled at his robes, ripping them, with tears soaking over his face. A hesitant crowd was gathering as Ron forced air into his burning lungs and pounded on the ground with one foot and then the other.

When he was within touching distance, it all ended. Bill and George reached the disintegrating man just before Ron did. They moved together, wrapping him in a cloak and the three of them disappeared. The crack of Apparition rang through the next few seconds. Ron leaned forwards with his hands on his knees and drank in breaths.

When he straightened up, he saw Lee beside him, doing the same thing.

"St Mungos or The Burrow?" Lee asked breathlessly.

Ron thought about it, shook his head, swallowed. "They won't let Mum see him like that."

"You alright to Apparate?" Lee asked. "You want a Side-Along?"

"Fuck off!" Ron spat before spinning into his journey. He made it to the Mediwitch on the front desk before Lee did. There was a grim satisfaction to that. He felt patronised and belittled by the offer — but also he had no intention of ever allowing himself to be touched by Lee again.

"Yes," said the bony blonde Mediwitch slowly. "He's just been admitted to the Janus Thickey."

Ron turned for the stairs instantly, to see Lee jogging towards him. He stopped long enough for the Mediwitch to call him back.

"He's got two family members with him already," she said. "You'll have to wait."

Ron spun, his worry making him angry. "What?"

"You'll have to stay in the waiting area until one of them leaves." She pursed her lips. "Don't start with that attitude young man; it's a sensitive ward. There are issues around new admissions. You'll be fully informed in due course."

"But I'm his son."

"I don't make the rules. Which are all developed using sound clinical criteria. What's more, if you don't calm down, you'll be ejected from the hospital."

"Come on," Lee said gently.

Ron wanted to tell him to 'fuck off' again, but he bit it back and ignored him instead. He knew exactly where the Janus Thickey ward was. It had expanded since Voldemort's defeat and now covered two floors. He had known plenty of people who had passed through there while they tried to cope with the trauma of the battle and the grief of bereavement. A few of them were still there. At least Neville was with his parents now.

He knew the little waiting area, too. He tried to damp down his irritation as he explained to the Mediwizard on duty up there who he was and who he wanted to see. As the brittle blonde downstairs had predicted, he was shown to the waiting room and told nothing.

He sat heavily on a hard chair and glared at the grey wall as the image of his distraught father played itself over in his mind.

Then Lee Jordan walked in.

"You should go back and lock up the shop," he growled. Lee was the last person he wanted to be stuck in a small room with now.

"I just did that." Lee stayed near the door, leaning against the wall.

"What's the news? What's wrong with Arthur?"

"How the fuck should I know? Nobody tells me anything."

An icy silence followed.

"What are you even doing here?" Ron snapped eventually.

"He's not your dad. You're not family, you know."

"I know," Lee replied quickly. "I like your dad; he's been good to me. I want to know that he's alright."

"Of course he's not fucking alright. His son just died."

"I know," Lee said softly, sadly. "Fred was my best friend, remember?"

"Yeah," Ron sneered. "I remember how choked up you were at his funeral."

He recalled carrying the coffin, with Lee directly behind him. He had wondered sometimes in the dark sleepless hours of the night, whether Lee had been concentrating on the man in the coffin, or watching Ron's back view. It was a sick thought he knew; worse than sick if he was right.

"I was!" Lee took a step into the room. "It hurts, Ron! You can hate me all you like, but never doubt how bloody much I miss Fred! Don't bring him into this!"

Ron finally looked at Lee, faced him with the full fire of his eyes. "You thought he'd want you to sexually assault his younger brother? Was that in memorium?"

"Don't," Lee warned or pleaded.

Ron rose to his feet and let all his frustrations pour through him and shoot out at the young man standing shakily in front of him.

"Don't what? Don't talk about how bloody terrified I was? What would have stopped you if I hadn't managed it, eh?" he shouted. "How far would you have fucking gone? You expect me to believe you cared about Fred at all, when that's what you did as soon as he was in the ground? And now you want to hang around the Lunatic ward waiting for my dad like you give a shit? You're a fucking animal, Jordan!"

"No," Lee protested weakly. "I know what I did. I don't..." he shook his head. "It's not..."

"I don't want you here. I don't want you around my family when we're vulnerable."

"I'm not going to... I never... That one time, I wouldn't..." Lee sank down to kneel on the floor with his head in his hands.

"So why then? What was so special about then?"

"I was so miserable and I got off my head and..."

"You're blaming Fred?" Ron shouted.

Lee just choked out a strange sob and shook his head.

"Why me, then? Why did I have to suffer that? Why am I the one with the nightmares? It's not like I didn't get more than my fair share of horror in the last few years. Why'd you do it to me?"

Very quietly, Lee replied, "Because I'm in love with you."

Ron didn't have time to react, didn't know what he would have said if the mediwizard hadn't come in at that moment, Percy just behind him, to tell them they could visit Arthur now, that he was exhausted and deluded, but he'd been sedated and they were going to keep him in for a while.

"Ginny's collecting Mum," Percy said. "And Charlie's on his way back home."


Yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.


They closed the shop on the day of the Lupins' funeral. There were so many funerals these days that when you found a shop locked up in the middle of a working day, you expected the hand-written sign which said Closed for personal reasons and knew exactly what it meant.

Tonks and Remus were laid to rest together in a shared coffin. Harry, looking nervous, held their baby as his grandmother collapsed into her sister's arms. Ginny stood with him.

"What the fuck are they doing here?" George growled under his breath, glaring daggers at the Malfoys. "We all know what they think of Half-breeds and Half-bloods."

Lucius Malfoy stood stiffly upright, leaning on his cane. He looked a little less strong than he once had, but his expression was still one of aloof disdain. His son, in contrast, barely seemed to be present. He made no attempt to maintain a facade of family pride, slumping listlessly at the graveside.

Lee stared into the hole in the ground, fixated. He had worked closely with Lupin on Potterwatch.

"If it hadn't been for him, it would never have happened," he sniffed at one point to nobody in particular. "He was a great man."

Ron remembered him at Grimmauld Place, begging to join them and escape his pregnant wife and the responsibilities of family. He remembered Harry's response to that. Then both he and his wife had leapt into battle with their helpless infant only newly born. It was tragic and there was a heroism to it all, but Ron couldn't help but wonder just how great a man Lupin had actually been. He kept his thoughts to himself, though.

Hermione wept gently beside him. While the grave was being filled, she slipped her hand into his and they watched for a few minutes together.

Lee stayed for the wake, so Ron went back to the shop. As he was cashing up, Harry and Ginny came in.

"You're here?" Ginny asked, although she could see that he was. There was an accusation in her tone.

"Somebody needs to be," Ron said.

Harry nodded. "Well, George and Lee are still at the wake. They're rat-arsed."

A jolt of fear ran through Ron. He needed Lee to be in control of himself. He tried to tell himself that nothing bad had ever happened here and Lee had been drunk before. Nonetheless, he dreaded being around when Lee staggered in tonight.

"We wanted to tell you there. We told a few other people." Ginny looked to Harry as though she were asking for permission to speak. That wasn't like the Ginny he had once known. His little sister had defied everyone. Love had changed her. Or maybe the war had. He didn't spend much time with her these days.

Harry said, falteringly, "Let me." He looked at Ron.

He looked very serious and Ron was afraid that he was going to start to talk about his feelings or something like that. Ron was tired and stressed and scared; he wasn't up to difficult conversations, not today.

Then Harry's face split into a grin and Ron knew he was safe. "You wanna be my best man?" he asked.

"Cool!" Ron grinned back. Then he remembered Ginny was there too, realised what Harry meant. "As long as you're not marrying her," he teased.

Ginny smacked him on the arm and she looked like Ginny again; Harry laughed and it was like a memory come to life.

"I know we're a bit young," said Ginny with a shrug.

"No. You're right for each other. Why wait?" It felt like the right thing to say, but Ron hadn't thought about it, didn't really know whether that was how he felt or not.

"Come for a drink with us?" Harry asked. "To celebrate?"

Ginny tucked herself in tight to Harry and Ron realised that they would rather be alone together than have his company. He wondered whether he was going to lose his best friend. Thinking back over the past few weeks, he thought that maybe he already had.

"Thanks, but there's the banking and a load of restocking to do."

Neither of them looked disappointed.

Ron worked until exhaustion obliterated emotion, and then he went straight to bed without eating anything.

Bright sun filtered through leaves. Dry earth clattering onto the coffin. Bare wood on bare skin. Ron heard the monster's breath. He started to shudder. He wanted to wake up.

Then it pounced the way it always did in these dreams; it pinned him down. Sometimes it had claws, sometimes it was slimy. Tonight there were hands, Lee's brown-backed hands. They held him, touched him everywhere. Ron tried to scream, but his voice wouldn't work. He looked down to find that he had no legs. Ron was twisted round, his face to the floor. He fought for breath against the rising dust. He couldn't stop Lee.


CHAPTER FIVE: Change our Vile Body that it May be Like to his Glorious Body.

... Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile body that it may be like to his glorious body, according to the mighty working ...


They took it in turns to open up. They each got to sleep late a couple of mornings a week that way. Being on the sofa meant that Lee was disturbed by the other two getting their breakfast anyway, but he still enjoyed Wednesdays and Fridays.

Once they were downstairs, he knew he wouldn't be disturbed. He had a good hour to spend with his left hand and his fantasies. He spat into his palm. The sexual frustration was driving him mad. He wished Ron would get ugly or be mean or prissy or something unattractive, but the only thing Lee didn't like was how much Ron hated him. And he deserved that.

He concentrated on his magazine, on the curves and glistening folds of the witches displaying themselves provocatively in it. As soon as he closed his eyes, though, to concentrate on the warm sensation of the pressure of his hand's movement, the willing witches disappeared and Ron's wary scowl replaced it. Lee's imagination smoothed the features into those of desire.

Lee's other hand slipped down to fondle his balls and his perineum, further back towards his hole. He ran his thumb over the head of his prick, and then pulled back his foreskin. He tried to think about breasts, about the feel of them in his mouth. It was no good; he couldn't concentrate.

He thought about the one time he had fumbled with a man — a Muggle man in a strange town he had visited only once for Potterwatch. He couldn't remember the man's face, though. It kept being over-painted by Ron's.

He pressed his finger inside himself and his hand sped up until he released onto his magazine. The come splattered onto the different skin tones of three curvaceous women. It did nothing for Lee. He lay back as the orgasmic glow faded, feeling increasingly hollow.

He got onto the shop floor just as the owl delivered the Prophet. George had opened up, and so he got the paper first. He sat down on the stool behind the till, while Ron talked a new father through the safest way to ignite indoor Pink Cascade fireworks in his wife's room on the Maternity Ward at St Mungo's.

Lee checked which shelves needed restocking. He was just about to suggest to George that he go upstairs to get some more Canary Cremes when he saw the expression on his best friend's face. He was staring at an article in the newspaper, looking bloodless and horrified.

"George?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"I didn't mean that," George muttered. His hands fluttered uselessly.

"George?" Lee went up to his friend and placed one hand gently on his shoulder. George pulled back.

"That's not ..." George shook his head.

"Tell me."

"I need a drink." George picked up the newspaper, clutched it to himself and staggered back out of the shop, upstairs, away.

When Lee glanced back, he realised that Ron had been watching George's departure too. Briefly they looked at each other and a silent question passed between them. It was the first look they had exchanged since Fred's funeral.

Ron completed his sale, and Lee nipped out of the shop and down the road.

"What is it?" Ron asked anxiously when he returned.

"Don't know yet." Lee laid the Prophet out over a table displaying copies of Spells to Turn Your Poo Blue and Other Harmless Amusements.

Ron spelled the door locked and the sign to Closed at the moment, we'll make you laugh later.

"You reckon we need to do that?" Lee asked.

"You saw his face."

"Fair point."

They didn't touch each other, but they did stand close as they scanned the paper for the story which had triggered George's unhappiness. Silently Ron pointed and Lee read the headline: Malfoy Heir's Suicide.

"Shit," Ron whispered.

"Well, he didn't look right," Lee reasoned.

"Then George yelled at him."

They nodded and read on.

"... couldn't cope with being rejected by the Wizarding community ... " Lee read out. "Shit."

They both moved for the stairs at the same time, running up and finding George with the cork from a Sloe Sake bottle in his mouth. He spat it across the room and took a deep drink.

"It wasn't your fault," Ron said firmly.

George ignored him, asking Lee instead, "You got anything to smoke?"

"How could I have got hold of anything? I've been here the whole time."

"Your boss is a slave driver," George observed emotionlessly. He tipped back his head and drained the quarter-full bottle in one movement.

"Is that a good idea?" Ron asked. He looked helpless.

"It's a brilliant fucking idea, actually, Bumfluff!" George snapped. "What the fuck do you know about anything, little hero?"

"Don't turn this onto Ron, George," Lee said softly. "Come on, sit down. I'll get the mead out."

"We finished it," George reminded him. "I wouldn't have been drinking that paint-stripper otherwise."

"I'm going to crack open my secret supply. Now, sit down."

George sank down onto the sofa muttering, "Sneaky bastard." He still had the copy of the Prophet clutched to his chest. Ron tried to pull it away from him; George gripped it tighter. He turned his mournful eyes on his brother. "He was a little shit, wasn't he?" he asked. "We never liked him, did we?"

Ron shook his head. "Cowardly, arrogant suck-up."

"And now he's dead."

Ron sighed. "Give me the paper, George."

"I didn't mean for him to kill himself."

"He had a shit war. The dark stuff that was going on at Malfoy Manor... it was the Death Eater HQ. He lived through stuff that..."

"Too many deaths already. I lost my temper with him, sent him away..."

"That's not why he killed himself," Lee said, handing George a glass. "That's what Ron's saying. He would have done it anyway." He looked at Ron. "Right?"

"Yeah. Nobody ever topped themselves because they weren't allowed to buy a Puking Pastille." Ron tried to laugh, but it sounded false. He and Lee were wearing the same worried expressions and watching George.

Lee sat down beside George on the sofa — his bed — and poured alcohol into two more glasses. He handed one up to Ron.

"Bit early for me," Ron said.

"Get it down you!" George ordered.

Ron took the glass from Lee. Their fingers brushed and Lee tried not to notice. Ron looked lost and scared, like he hadn't seen George in this mood before. Lee knew this state all too well, knew George's only way through it was drunken oblivion followed by a hangover.


CHAPTER SIX: The Lord Giveth, and the Lord Taketh Away.

WE brought nothing into this world, neither may we carry anything out of this world. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Even as it hath pleased the Lord, so cometh things to pass: blessed be the name of the Lord.


Hermione had plans. A big white wedding, a house, a career, babies (one of each called Rose and Hugo) and a househusband to look after them all. Since she was twelve she had known that these plans involved Ron.

Ron was her friend. So was Harry, but he was a liability and anyway, she planned on being the achiever in her relationship and Harry simply had too much going for him. Let Ginny be the power behind that throne. Also, Ron had grown up to be better looking than Harry. He had outgrown his gawky phase and now he was nicely proportioned and a pleasure to be seen with.

She had been furious with Lavender. Luckily that liaison hadn't lasted long. She hadn't failed to notice that someone else had been jealous, too. He still hadn't declared himself, but he was still around; in fact Lee was getting closer to Ron than he had ever been.

It was time for her to make her move. Ideally, Ron should have been the one proposing to her. He was too lazy, or emotionally unintelligent or something. She kept expecting something to happen, but it never did. Even when Harry and Ginny had announced the date of their own wedding, it hadn't spurred him into action.

Two bridesmaids in pale blue: Ginny and Luna. A Muggle blessing in her village church and a big do in the Weasleys' garden like the one Bill and Fleur had — but without the dramatic ending. Percy could do one of the readings; she needed to narrow down exactly which Shakespeare sonnet she wanted.

Ron had only kissed her the once, after the Battle. She had expected more kisses after that. She didn't need them, though; that had made his intentions plain enough as far as she was concerned. Fred had died soon after that, they had all been in mourning.

It was time, now, though, to bring hope to the Wizarding world. A marriage was a promise of a future. Harry's wedding day could be the start of the healing. Their own nuptials would mark an end to the grieving period.

She had drawn up the guest lists some time ago, now it was time to book the venues and start writing the invitations.


CHAPTER SEVEN: MAN that is Born of a Woman hath but a Short Time to Live, and is Full of Misery.

MAN that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower; he flieth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.


"We're out of booze," Lee announced.

Ron watched him warily. He seemed to be in control of himself, though.

Lee stood up. "I'll get down the Leaky, pick up some gin."

"No, rum. We never have rum anymore," George whined. He was lying on his back on the floor beside the sofa.

Lee and Ron looked at each other in a sudden move neither of them had any control over. They looked sharply away again.

"When was the last time we had rum?" George asked.

Warily watching Ron for a reaction, Lee replied, "Fred's funeral."

"Fuck." George closed his eyes. "Yeah."

"Didn't you bring most of yours back up again?" Lee asked. "Surprised you want to relive that."

"Nah." George pulled a face. "Gin is fine. Firewhiskey, too."

"You want Butterbeer?" Lee asked Ron in that soft, careful way he always spoke to him now.

"He wants a proper drink!" George spat.

Lee was right, though. Ron didn't want anything stronger than Butterbeer. He hated that Lee knew him so well. He bit his lips together and shrugged. Lee nodded as though he knew exactly what that meant. Then he left through the back door, letting in the sounds of the street and a brief blast of sunlight. It was a shock. Ron had forgotten that it was only afternoon.

Ron was squatting on the floor next to George. When Lee had gone, he relaxed and laid his head back on the sofa seat, let his bum slip down to sitting.

"He's a good man, is Lee," George said.

Ron replied with a noncommittal grunt.

"He is. I don't know how I would have coped. We needed him, me and Fred. It couldn't be just the two of us. We would have fallen out. Me and Fred, we both needed him." George paused. "I need him now. You as well. You've been brilliant and I think the world of you, and we both know I'd never say that sober and you're not to repeat it."

Ron laughed. "You expect me to say that back?"

"No. You're not as pissed as I am. I know you love me, too. Don't need to say it. I know how much you admire me."

"Like fuck I do!"

"But Lee, seriously now, I don't know how I would have coped without Fred if it wasn't for Lee."

"I know," Ron admitted reluctantly.

"Not just that. He's a hero. You know what he did in the war?"

"Potterwatch?"

"Yeah. You ever hear it?"

"All the time. It kept me going. Everyone else as well, I know." Ron looked over to find George staring at him. "What?"

"How did you manage that? You had to have the first code to start listening to it and you'd gone before we —"

"Oh, I was... Bill showed me, told me about it."

"When did you see Bill? During that time you were off with Harry and Hermione?" George was frowning and he didn't look quite so drunk anymore.

Ron wished his brother was a bit less sober. "Yeah. I hid out at Shell Cottage for a while."

"Mum was worried sick about you; why didn't you come home?" "I was ..." Ron stood.

"I was ashamed, actually." He walked into the little kitchen and got himself a glass of water so that he wouldn't have to see George's face while he told him the story of how he had lost his temper and deserted his friends.

When he'd finished telling George, he came back out into the sitting room. He was surprised to see George sitting on the sofa and just nodding.

"I never had many regrets," George said. "One of them involved your teddy and a spider."

"Thanks, mate." Belated and not exactly an apology, but it was more than Ron had ever hoped to get.

"When you're a kid, you don't think things through. But even as an adult, you can lose your temper, let your emotions get the better of you." George paused. "Can't always make it better." He lay down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. "You got back to them, Harry and Hermione, and you made things right. What I said to Malfoy, how I treated him, there'll never be a chance to make that right."

Ron nodded. "Things build up, you say something or do something ..." Ron wasn't thinking about the Horcrux hunt anymore. He wasn't thinking about what he'd done, but about what had been done to him.

"We all make mistakes," George said.

"We do," Ron replied thoughtfully.

"Hope we get to be forgiven, get another chance." George paused. They were both lost in their own thoughts, thinking about quite different things. "You forgiven us for the teddy bear incident yet?"

"I'm still scared of spiders."

"Sorry."

"Ok. You weren't to know how badly I'd react. You were just kids."

"We didn't think much about other people, me and Fred. That's why we needed Lee, I think."

There was a noise on the stairs and Lee himself walked in levitating several bottles including a six-pack of small Butterbeers. Ron forced himself to look at him, to really look, as clearly as he could.


We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.

Ron managed to visit his father at St Mungo's a couple of times a week. He ought to have gone more often, but it depressed him too much and anyway, while Arthur did just about recognise him, he was so doped up that he never knew what day it was. According to the mediwizards, Arthur's problem was a perfectly natural excess of stress and grief which he had failed to deal with adequately at the time when his bereavement had occurred. Bed rest seemed to be their main prescription, but Ron wasn't convinced that it was helping.

His father's movements were all slow and uncoordinated. Sometimes he wept, but mostly he just gave Ron unfocussed smiles and muttered inanities. They never talked about Fred. Ron looked into his familiar features and tried to find his father in this strange imbecile. Ron sat with him for an hour on the morning of Draco Malfoy's funeral. He handed him some Muggle magazines as he left, but he didn't know whether they would ever be read.

"Ah, you can go in, now," he heard a Healer say as he walked out into the corridor. He was surprised to see that it was Lee she was talking to. Lee sat on the bench which ran under a notice-board full of advice about wand cleanliness. He stood up.

"You're visiting Dad?" Ron asked.

"Mr Jordan is your father's most frequent visitor," the Healer said. Ron might have imagined the criticism in her tone, her implication that his own children ought to have been there more often.

"Really?" he asked Lee.

Lee shrugged. "Most days," he said. "Like I told you before, I like him."

"Thanks," Ron replied.

Then Lee went into the hospital room and Ron sat on the bench. He did some thinking, unaware of the bustle of the ward around him. He was trying to extract the Lee Jordan who had enough patience and compassion to spend time with Arthur from the creature of his nightmares. He tried to trace back his recollections to the point where those two people converged. There was a boy with a smile and a sonorus commentating on school Quidditch in there somewhere. He remembered being watched sometimes and not understanding, he remembered things which Lee had said since.

He only woke from his contemplation when the door clicked shut again and Lee left Arthur's room. Ron stood up. He cast a tempus and realised that he had only just enough time to get to Malfoy Manor and meet up with Harry as he had arranged.

"Look, Lee," he said.

"You're still here?"

"I've been thinking things through. I think I've been a bit harsh, unfair on you." Lee shook his head.

"I don't. What I did was unacceptable. I don't ever expect you to forgive me for that."

"I think I do forgive you, though. Emotions can be like that, reactions. You know?" The locket might have pushed him to the point where he lost his temper and ran away, but it had only had to relax his self-control to make it happen; missing Fred and taking drugs had done the same to Lee. "I'm not explaining well. And then something goes wrong and you live with it. You know?"

"Of course I know," Lee replied gently. He looked at Ron with a softness which Ron thought he had probably always misinterpreted before. "You alright?"

"Look, I haven't got long now. I'm going to the funeral."

"Which one?"

"Yeah. Too many bloody funerals." Ron sighed. "The Malfoy one. You'll look after George, right?" George would know where Ron was, and it would eat away at him, even if he didn't say anything. "Of course."

"Of course." Lee always looked after George. Ron turned down the corridor, ready to move to the exit. Then he stopped himself again. He wished he had more time to make sense of everything he had been thinking about. "Lee?" he asked with his back to him. "You know you said you were in love with me?"

There was a pause, and then a hesitant, "Yes?"

"Are you still?"

A longer pause. A quieter, "Yes."

Ron turned and looked at Lee. He took a couple of steps back towards him.

"Can't be late for a funeral," Lee said, looking worried.

"I know," Ron replied. "I just want to ..." He took another step towards Lee. He was thinking hard in rapid, confused, thoughts. Abruptly, all thinking stopped. He looked at Lee's face and all he could see were his soft, wet lips and he wondered what it would be like to kiss them.

The next thing he knew, he had done it. He was touching Lee's cheeks and their mouths were pressed together. There was a shocked moment where Lee stiffened, and Ron thought he was going to pull away. Ron moved his lips, though, and Lee relaxed against him, moving his own lips with a slow, light pressure.

Then Ron let go and stepped back. He touched his lips with his fingertips. He was stunned, unsure about anything any more.

"What was that for?" Lee asked in a choked whisper.

Ron didn't know the answer to that one. "I just wanted to," he replied. "I think."

"I'd better get back to George," Lee said quickly. "See you after?"

Ron nodded. Then he walked away, aware of Lee's eyes on his body as he went.


And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another.


The summer of funerals had been an inappropriately glorious one. Even now, in early September, an Indian summer lit up the flower beds of Malfoy Manor. Inside the family mausoleum, however, the sunlight disappeared. The Malfoys had managed to buy the fitting chill which Fred's funeral had lacked.

Much good it did them. Lucius Malfoy's face wore its usual expressionless mask, but he leaned heavily on his cane as he followed the procession of dark-ragged house elves levitating the white gold coffin through the marble tunnels down to the crypt. He stared straight ahead of him, acknowledging none of the mourners.

Ron spotted Mrs Figg among the crowded pews. Again. Why did she go to all the funerals? Perhaps she was actually some distant, barely recognised squib relation of the Malfoys or Blacks. He was related himself, of course, though he tried to forget it.

"Do you think we ought to be here?" Harry asked Ron quietly.

"Kingsley said you should, didn't he?"

Harry nodded uncertainly. "Something about an expression of forgiveness and unity or solidarity or something."

"And at least we actually knew Malfoy. Bet half the people here never even met him," Ron whispered.

"Thanks for coming with me."

"Couldn't let you face it on your own."

"Thanks. No offence, but I don't think I could have coped with Hermione's over-piety."

Ron suppressed a snort of laughter and wondered why Harry thought that might have offended him. Just then Narcissa Malfoy staggered in and all humour was killed instantly. She was leaning heavily on Andromeda, who looked barely able to cope herself. Narcissa shook and wept pitifully, displaying none of her husband's reserve.

Once the two women had passed them, Harry whispered to Ron. "She only saved my life because she loved him so much."

"Huh?"

"When I died. I'll explain later." Harry sank into his own thoughts.

Ron was left to his own. The service was in Latin, which he didn't understand. Hermione would have made a better job of that. Ron tried to remember sharp-featured, blond, acid-tongued Malfoy, but his mind kept drifting to the corridor at St Mungo's.


He didn't know why he had kissed Lee. It had been a horrible thing to do, really, knowing as he did that Lee was in love with him. Was he trying to punish him for Ron's fears and nightmares, for the horror of that evening in the tree house? That just didn't seem like the sort of thing Ron did.

Ron wished he was more in touch with his own emotions. Hermione was always urging him to get in touch with his feelings and to express them. Well, he'd managed the second without the first. Had he? But that would mean that he had wanted to kiss Lee for the most obvious reason. Really? Ron thought of himself as a straightforward person. So had he kissed Lee because he fancied him?

He had liked the kiss. He relived it over and over as a white-robed Elder anointed the coffin with oils and ran his wand over it in symbolic shapes. Ron was certain that he had liked kissing Lee, but he couldn't decide whether it had been the right thing to do, nor what he ought to do next.

There was a lavish feast laid out in the Manor. Luckily it wasn't in the room where Dobby had been stabbed and Hermione had been tortured. Ron wondered where that one was. He was a little ashamed at himself for it, but found that he was starving hungry and the food was delicious.

When he returned to the shop, George grinned at him.

"Sly or just coy?" George asked.

Ron decided to ignore the question because it made no sense. "I'll just grab a cup of tea, then I'll get behind a till. Either of you want one?" He looked around for Lee and saw he was in a dark corner, with his back to the shop floor, keeping his head in a box of stock. The set of his back was carefully stiff.

"Or maybe something stronger?" George winked."Champagne?"

He disappeared quickly up to the flat. Ron really wanted a cup of tea.

"He been inhaling fumes again?" Ron asked Lee.

Lee didn't answer. Ron walked over to him. He was shuffling Puking Pastilles around, pretending to fill up Skiving Snackboxes, but the brightly decorated packaging piled up next to him was empty.

"Lee? Alright?"

"She asked me to DJ the evening do." Lee's flat voice echoed into the cardboard box. "Congratulations."

Ron sighed. "You being deliberately cryptic?" he asked.

"You didn't have to tell me. I'll be fine. It's a good idea. Much better. I just need a bit of time. To get used to it. Don't think I'll be able to work the reception though. That would be too much. I'll think up a good excuse. I just need a bit of time."

Ron ducked down so he could look at Lee's face. "What?"

Lee looked into his eyes and Ron saw misery. "I just wish you hadn't kissed me," Lee whispered. "It makes it all harder."

Ron jerked back — shocked. "I thought you wanted me to. Sorry. I don't read things like that well. That's what Hermione tells me. I'm sorry."

He had intermittently regretted that kiss himself, so it was a shock to find how much Lee's words hurt him.

"I did," Lee said. "You know I did." He sniffed, then looked sharply towards the stairs. George was not there. "But I didn't know you were about to get married."

Ron really needed a cup of tea now. "I'm not."

Lee looked at him sharply and then stood abruptly. He marched over to George's desk and Ron scampered after him. Lee picked up a piece of card which was propped against the till and shook it at Ron. "Yes, you are," he said, and his voice sounded angry. Ron put out his hand.

"Can I see it?"

Lee handed it over. It was burgundy with gold edging and gold writing. Ron blinked and read it again. It still made no sense:

Mr and Mrs Douglas Granger request the company of GEORGE WEASLEY and one guest at the marriage of their daughter HERMIONE to Mr RONALD WEASLEY at The Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole, and afterwards to a Blessing at ...


Ron stopped reading. It was ludicrous. Something felt like a relief, too, though and he couldn't tell what that was. "Someone's having you on, mate," he told Lee. "This looks like one of George's. Glad to see he's up to his old tricks again. Just hope he hasn't shown this to anyone else."

"She came in, gave it to him herself. I told you, she tried to book me to DJ the reception."

Ron looked at Lee's hurt face and realised what he'd found reassuring. Lee only regretted their kiss because it made it more painful for him to see Ron marrying somebody else. With that realisation came the knowledge that Ron wasn't sorry that he'd kissed Lee, either. He was glad. He wanted to do it again.

He looked up towards the stairs, saw George coming down them with a bottle in his hand and three glasses levitating in front of him.

"You'll have to put that away I'm afraid," Ron called up to him. "She's delusional!"

"Who is?" George asked. "Hermione."

"Then why'd you propose to her?"

"I didn't!"

Lee and George both eyed him doubtfully.

"I would remember if I had. We're not even going out together."

"Yes you are," George said slowly, confused. "She always calls you her boyfriend."

"Not to my face, she doesn't!" Ron snarled. "I thought we were friends, but this ..." he still had the wedding invitation in his hand, so he waved it at them. Then a surge of fury ran through him and he cast Incendio on it. Pain shot along his fingertips before he remembered to let go. He put his burnt fingers in his mouth. "I need to go and talk to her!

" "Maybe you should calm down a bit first," George advised nervously.

Ron Apparated away.


CHAPTER EIGHT: In Sure and Certain Hope.

The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.


Ginny and Hermione were comparing fabric swatches in Hermione's neat little Muggle studio flat. It was so much more peaceful there than at the Burrow, not as nice as the cottage Harry was rebuilding in Godric's Hollow, of course, but nice.

Ron Apparated into the room. Ginny hadn't seen much of Ron in the past few weeks. Well, she hadn't seen much of any of her brothers, really. George and Ron had been at the shop all the time, Charlie had gone back to Romania at the first chance he had got, Bill was spending time with Fleur and Percy was so annoying that she tried to avoid him. She was mostly with Harry, anyway, and when he was busy then she was planning their wedding.

She was really happy to see Ron again before she saw the look on his face.

"What the fuck is going on?" he yelled.

Hermione looked a little flustered, but not all that surprised.

"Er, hello, Ron," Ginny said carefully, wondering whether he didn't know that she was there and whether they normally had screaming rows when nobody else could see them.

"Oh, hi, Gin," he replied without looking at her, clearly focussed on his girlfriend — well, fiancée now. "Hermione? Say something?"

"Don't I get a kiss?"

"No, you fucking don't! What the fuck are you trying to do to me?"

He was incoherent with rage: red-faced and shaky. Ginny wasn't used to seeing Ron like this. She stood up quickly. She didn't want to get caught in the middle of this.

"Oh, do calm, down," Hermione said. "Isn't it bad enough that I've had to organise everything myself because as usual —?"

"What are you going on about? What the fuck is the meaning of ..." he looked into his hand, clearly expecting to see something there but it was empty. Ginny noticed some dark singeing to his fingertips.

Her feet stopped moving towards the door and she waited to see what would happen next; her curiosity overcame her fear. Ron looked about him desperately. Then he focussed on Ginny herself. He dived over and snatched something out of her hand. It was her invitation. She had forgotten that she was holding it.

"This!"

Ron waved it in Hermione's face.

It made no sense. Surely he had seen the invitations before they'd gone out to everyone. What could be his objection? Why was he so angry? She and Harry had spent hours together trying out different fonts, colours, wording. Ron and Hermione must have done the same. She had listened to Hermione saying "We decided ..." and "we chose ..."

"You're so busy these days. I knew it was what you wanted." Hermione looked surprisingly calm. She still sat at the kitchen table, covered in pieces of ivory and cream satin.

"Knew what was what?" Ron stalked towards his fiancée . Ginny didn't think she would have been that composed if he had been approaching her in that way.

"When you held my hand. At the funeral. I knew that was the sign."

"You put your hand in mine and I didn't pull away. It was a bloody funeral, 'Mione! What's wrong with you?"

Ginny was starting to wonder the same thing.

"There's nothing wrong with me!" Hermione replied primly. "I'm not the one who has been prevaricating. One of us needs to be organised otherwise this marriage won't function efficiently."

"What marriage? I'm not bloody marrying you!" Ron yelled.

Ginny heard her own gasp of shock, but neither of the other occupants of the room reacted to it.

"You're not even my girlfriend. We kissed once. In strange and emotional circumstances. That's it! What the bloody hell made you ...?" Ron ran out of words and looked down into his hand where he was still holding Ginny's invitation. He pointed his wand at it and it burst into flames. Ginny understood the scorch marks on his fingers.

Hermione was shaking slightly, but she still managed a superior tone of voice as she said, "Don't be such a silly boy. We can change the date if you're busy that day. It's a fairly simple spell to alter all the invitations so that —"

All of the energy had drained out of Ron and his shoulders slumped as he said quietly, "Don't you get it, Hermione?"

The fireplace issued a warning "whoosh" just then, which startled all three of them. Bill's head appeared in the flames. "Three at once!" he said happily, oblivious to the atmosphere in the room. "Guess who's at The Burrow!"

Ron and Ginny just stared at their brother, unable to think rationally. It was Hermione who asked, "Who?"

"Dad!" Bill replied with a laugh. "He's out of St Mungo's."

Ginny shook herself. "That's brilliant!" she said. The rest of the world began to come into focus again. "We'll be right over. Yeah, Ron?" she asked tentatively.

"Oh, yeah, Ron, Hermione. Congratulations," Bill said before his head disappeared.


CHAPTER NINE: Of Whom May We Seek for Succour?

Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not
thy merciful ears to our prayer; but spare us, Lord most holy,


The monster's breathing was loud in the dark; it echoed off the wooden walls. The monster moved slowly. A naked body lay helplessly curled in the corner. It wasn't Ron; Ron was the monster, and he moved towards the darkest place, rejoicing in the whimper which rose from there. He paced, watching the dark, bare body writhing in fear. He pounced. Ron woke in the dark of George's bedroom, with his heart hammering in a familiar way. The dream had been different this time. Half awake, he lifted his fingers to his lip as though he could feel an imprint of Lee's mouth there still. He ran through his actions in the hospital corridor in his mind and he wanted to repeat them.

Lee was on the other side of that door, sleeping on the sofa. He had already been asleep there when Ron had finally made it home from the Burrow after celebrating his father's return with the rest of his family. If Ron listened hard and filtered out George's snores, maybe he would be able to hear something of Lee.

Lee was kind and brave and handsome. He was also sane and honest, unlike some. Lee was in love with Ron, he had said so. Lee had made one mistake once when he'd been drunk and full of grief.

But what a mistake! Ron tasted his own fear again, his horror. The two moments ran concurrently through his thoughts: his kiss in the corridor and Lee's pounce in the tree-house.

Lee was in the next room and Ron wanted to kiss him again. Ron slipped silently out of his bed and tiptoed out of the bedroom. Once in the sitting room, he stood still — letting his eyes adjust to the low light and listening for Lee's breathing. On this side of the door it was easier to discount the sounds made by George. After a moment he caught it: the steady inhale and exhale of air passing through Lee's lungs.

He walked softly to the sofa and, as he did so, the shape of Lee's unconscious body became clearer. Ron squatted down beside him, still not sure what he was going to do. For several minutes he just watched and thought and tried to work things out. He couldn't merge the two Lees into this body, though. The man who had held him down and groped him could not be the same man he worked with every day; neither of them were this sleeping peaceful form of warmth.

Eventually he realised that Lee's eyes were open. It was too dark for Ron to see them in detail, but he was surprised to find that he could remember exactly what they looked like.

"Huh?" Lee asked sleepily.

"Been thinking," Ron whispered.

"Uh?" Lee swallowed and blinked heavily.

Ron didn't think that he would have been as polite as Lee was being, to anyone who had woken him in the middle of the night. Lee had never struck him as being a particularly happy waker — one of those dreadful chirpy sunshine people who leaped out of bed without a grumble — so perhaps this was a proof of just how much he really did like Ron.

"About kissing you," Ron explained.

Lee's eyes flew open and his mouth made a little 'Oh' shape.

"I don't know why I did it," Ron said. Lee's face fell a little, but in a guarded way. He closed his eyes.

"But I want to do it again."

Their eyes met. They stared at one another and Ron's heart thudded loudly in his chest. He moved forwards slowly, hoping that Lee would move a little in his direction too, to help him out. It made sense, though, that Lee would not dare to approach Ron at all. Not even now.

Ron kissed Lee. At first he just made one dry, soft little butterfly of contact on unmoving full lips. Even that felt comfortable and right. Then he placed a hand on each of Lee's shoulders to steady himself and opened his mouth slightly. He pecked at Lee's lips with his own, finally eliciting a responding movement.

Fluttering tentatively, Lee's hands came up to rest against Ron's chest.

Their mouths moved together. Ron didn't know who had initiated it, but the stroking of their tongues against each other felt very right.

He wanted to feel Lee's body against him, so he moved up and began climbing onto the sofa without breaking the kiss. He lay down on top of Lee, with the quilt and their nightclothes between them, but the heat of Lee's body was apparent. Lee's hips bucked up underneath him and Ron realised that he was hard. He ground down onto Lee's thigh.

Then suddenly it was over. Lee had moved away, was pushing him off, sitting up.

"What?" Ron asked, ridiculously devastated.

"I don't think this is the right time," Lee said. "Look, I don't want something to happen tonight, and then in the morning you regret it. I know you think you want this now. I'm not going to take advantage of that. Can't do that to you." He took a deep, shaky breath. "Can't do it to me, either. Not get this close and then have you hate me again."

"I won't hate you. I want to do this," Ron whined.

"Look, you've had a weird day." Lee stood up. "It's not the right time."

"Lee, I — Look, I finally worked out what I want. I want you."

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," said Lee before going into the bathroom and shutting the door.


He cometh up and is cut down like a flower;


Breakfast the next morning was quiet. George never talked much in the mornings, especially when he had a hangover. Ron wasn't sure when he had managed to get drunk. They had been with Arthur until late, welcoming him home. The whole family had sat around the kitchen table and enjoyed Molly's cooking together for the first time in months. He had been sober when they had got home.

Eventually, George shuffled downstairs to open the shop. Ron looked into Lee's face then, at his angular cheekbones and soft nose — but mostly at his full mouth "I still want to kiss you," he said.

Lee took a deep breath. "I don't know why you've changed your mind," he replied. "I don't understand. I can't let myself believe in this. I'm scared that I'll end up being hurt. More than that, though, I can't trust myself. I've been lying awake for the last few hours trying to think this through."

"I don't know either." Ron tried to order his thoughts. It didn't happen. "I just like you. A lot. I think I want to ... I don't know. Be your boyfriend?"

Lee grinned. Immediately, he tried to stop himself, but that just made things worse. "Boyfriend?" he asked. "You think? You don't know?" He managed to bite his lips together.

"I do know. I think. Can we try it? It all makes sense. It makes even more sense when I'm kissing you."

Lee's face split into another smile. "I suppose we'll just have to do some more kissing then. You want to tell George or should I?"

Ron sighed. "We'll do it together. In a bit. After the kissing."


In the midst of life we be in death: of whom may we seek for succor but of thee, O Lord, which for our sins justly art displeased?


It should have been sunny for Ginny and Harry's wedding day, but instead there was a thick mist and the first chill of autumn. Ron stood at the front door next to Harry and greeted the guests with a handshake. Everyone told Ginny she looked beautiful — and she did. They congratulated Harry. Then they got to Ron and most of them didn't know what to say. Most of them had received invitations from Hermione, which had subsequently disappeared in black smoke. Gossip had got round as to why that had happened and, while it was delicious to discuss it behind his back, it was daunting to be actually faced with him.

Ron was just grateful that Harry and Ginny had changed their minds about including the bridesmaids in the formal line-up. It was going to be difficult enough sitting at the top table with Hermione. One day, he hoped, they could be friends again. It was too soon now.

Molly had tried to balance being supportive of Ron, with being sympathetic towards Hermione, but in the end had settled for concentrating on Arthur instead. Ginny and Harry had been torn and apologetic; Percy had bundled Hermione off to talk to some Mediwitch he somehow knew, called Audrey, but had been too embarrassed to mention the situation to Ron; George had been struck dumb, but then had laughed like a drain. He was the only one who had teased Ron about being so irresistible that he could drive a girl mad. When he'd been told who Ron actually was seeing, that had rendered him speechless again. He was still the only person who knew.

Aunt Muriel was never one to be lost for words, however. She told Ginny that she was revealing far too much cleavage and that she was getting married too young; she warned Harry not to go getting her Great Niece in the family way at the first opportunity the way his parents had done things; then she told Ron to make the most of being best man because he had just thrown away the only chance he had ever had of getting married himself.

"I ... I might do!" Ron spluttered indignantly. Harry nudged him, and he did know full well that he should just ignore her, but he couldn't help reacting.

"Nonsense! Or have you found some other silly girl willing to take you on?" she asked cynically.

"Actually, I have got a partner!" Ron snapped.

Muriel raised an eyebrow. "Really?" She looked around. "Little boys shouldn't tell lies. It just goes to show that you are far too immature to be wearing that formal dress robe. Such positions of responsibility shouldn't be given to foolish children."

Ron reddened at being called a liar. How dare she? She might have lived longer than he had, but she hadn't seen or done as much as him, had never been through the things that he had. "Yes really! You think it's impossible for someone to fall in love with me? You think I'm that pathetic?"

"Where is this fantasy girlfriend of yours, then?" asked Muriel.

"What if it's not a girl? Why would it have to be a girl? Actually, he's ..." Ron searched the approaching guests for Lee's dreadlocks.

Slowly he became aware of the stares of everyone else in the room. His mother had paused half-way through settling his father into his seat at the top table. Arthur looked confused. Of course, he often did these days.

Hermione was the only person not looking at him. She was staring at the floor, chewing at her lips, while Luna — dressed identically and looking completely different — pressed a glass into her hand. Hermione snatched it and downed it; Ron realised that he'd never seen Hermione getting seriously drunk.

"Ron? Mate?" Harry asked. The two words asked a dozen questions.

Ron felt cold and hot all at once.

"Arthur!" Muriel called out in her ringing voice. "Why didn't you tell me you'd raised a pooftah?" She turned back to Ron. "I don't believe in these homosexual civil partnerships, so I wouldn't attend even if you did manage to get your nancy boy to agree to commit to you."

"Well that's all right!" Ron found himself shouting. "Because we wouldn't invite you!"

"Ron, calm down," Harry said, but Ron was too angry to hear him.

Muriel looked terribly pleased with herself; Ginny looked furious at being upstaged.

"It's all pure fantasy," Muriel remarked loudly to the person behind her, who, Ron suddenly realised to his horror, was Hermione's father. "Nobody in their right mind would be prepared to take him on. Just look at him." Douglas Granger looked like he wished he knew how to hex.

"He looks perfect," boomed a sonorused voice over the hubbub. Ron knew that voice; it was calming him and warming him already. The crowd parted and Lee's dreads came bobbing through. He opened his arms and (to a collective gasp of shock) hugged Ron with them.

"We'll be back in time for the speeches," Lee reassured Harry at a normal volume.

"You? What?" Harry asked.

"I'll just go and calm him down for a bit," Lee explained.

Ron rested his head on Lee's shoulder. He allowed himself to be steered away from the house, from the chatter, from all the people. They stopped on the other side of the garden. The mist was beginning to lift and watery sunshine cast some little light on them, but no heat. Lee turned so that he faced Ron again.

"You alright?"

Ron shrugged and let himself relax into the embrace. "I think I just outed us to everyone we've ever met."

"Gets it out of the way," Lee purred.

"Come on." Ron pulled back far enough to take Lee's hand and walk him across the garden. "I was going to take you here later tonight, but as we've managed to sneak off, it might as well be now."

"That's how you do sneaking? You were our great hope against Voldemort? Glad I didn't know how inept you were at avoiding notice at the time."

"That was nothing! We snuck out of Gringott's on a dragon's back."

When Lee realised where they were going to, he stopped and said, "No."

"Yes," Ron insisted. "Make it right again."

"I don't ever want to go up there again. I'm surprised you do."

"We've got to exorcise it. I want to stop being afraid of the tree-house." Ron pulled on Lee's arm. "Do things right this time." He let go of Lee's hand and climbed up the rope ladder. He sat on the bare wood floor and waited for his boyfriend to join him.

When Lee's head emerged into the space, Ron crawled over and kissed him.

"I need a drink," Lee said.

Ron shook his head. "Doing things right this time," he repeated. He dragged Lee over to the window. The wedding guests were beginning to filter out onto the dewy lawn. So many people. They were all at a bit of a loss, because this was the time which had been scheduled for the photographer, only with the low visibility and the loss of the Best Man, she wasn't able to herd them into positions and record the happy day.

"I don't know what possessed me. The last time," Lee said. "I didn't think you'd ever forgive me. Every time you looked at me I could see you reliving it."

"That's why we're here. This is going to become our happy place; I need to take it out of my nightmares." Ron kissed Lee. "You're not a monster."

"Am I not? I don't deserve you," Lee mumbled.

They melded together into a deep kiss in full view of any of the guests who might have chosen to look up. Then they broke apart as Ron took Lee into the darkest corner. "I think it was here," he said.

"I don't know." Lee was shaking. "I can't —"

"Yes, you can." Ron held Lee's upper arms firmly. "Now. Properly. Lee, please can I kiss you?"

Lee nodded, shakily, his eyes closed. "I don't like the smell of this place," he muttered.

Then his mouth was covered by Ron's. They kissed softly. "Lee?" Ron whispered.

"Uh huh?"

"I want to make love to you."

Lee pulled back sharply. "Here?" He looked around them. "Now?" he asked. "You mean, actually do it?"

"Do it?" Ron raised his eyebrows in mock horror. "How romantic you are!"

"No, come on, Ron. It'll be the wedding feast soon, and the speeches, there's all those people ... We've got a nice soft bed and a bedroom door we can close at home. Well, George's place. We'll send him to the pub, make him sleep on the sofa."

"I thought you wanted to."

"You know I do. Merlin, boy! It's been killing me for years how much I want you!"

"Then let's make love. I want it, too, Lee. Now. Here." He looked into Lee's doubtful face. "Otherwise I'll make you wait another week."

Lee ran his hands down Ron's sides. "You look fantastic in formal robes. We don't want to get these all mucky, do we?"

"Better take them off, then," Ron murmured into Lee's ear. The hard, warm shell played against his lips.

Lee stepped back and stared at Ron as though hypnotised by him. Slowly, he reached out a shaking hand and touched his fingertips to one of the gold buttons on his red cloak. "You didn't mean it, did you?" he said, his gaze fixed on the lion engraved into the button. "It was just temper, wasn't it?"

"What was?"

"You're not going to marry me. This is just a short term thing. I'll have to learn to live without you again, won't I?"

"Oh, that." Ron grabbed hold of Lee's collar and pulled him close, kissing him to buy time to think through what his reply to that was. "Too early to say," he said eventually. "But I can't imagine being with anyone else. I'm not playing, if that's what you think. This isn't an experiment. I know how strong your feelings are and I wouldn't mess about with that."

"Do you think you're serious about me?"

"I do think that."

"Good enough for me."

"Now, hurry up and get these robes off me. You said we'd be back in time for the speeches."

"We'd better go back now." Lee stepped away.

"I don't want to," Ron said calmly. "It's up to you, but I really want our first time to be here, to make this place something different for us."

Lee nodded slowly and looked around. "Ok." His voice cracked a little. "So, you undress me."

Fingers shaking, Ron unfastened all the complicated catches on Lee's robes. "You couldn't have decided to do this when we were in jeans and T-shirts?" Lee asked with a laugh, getting to work on Ron's own robes. "

We should have just turned up in pyjama pants," Ron replied.

Lee laughed again. "That would have gone down really well!"

He stepped out of reams of velvet and used his wand to raise both of their outfits to hang in mid-air above their heads. They looked at each other in their underwear.

Lee's body was hard and smooth and dark. It was everything that Lavender was not. Ron had never even looked at photographs of naked men, and he hadn't spent a lot of time assessing his own body. He could see that Lee was different to him, though. It wasn't just because he was a different colour. His shapes were broader; he was more muscular and hairier. Ron put out a hand and ran it down Lee's chest, over his belly, towards the place where his underpants stuck out. He wasn't sure what he was going to do next.

Lee moved closer, slowly and gently. Then he said, "Ron, can I kiss you?"

Ron nodded.

The kiss started out gentle and loving but soon became heated. Their half-dressed bodies pressed against each other and Ron stopped worrying about what he was going to do next and just let it happen. His hands slid down Lee's bare back. He surprised himself by taking hold of the waistband of Lee's underwear and pulling it. The fabric slid easily over Lee's tight buttocks, but caught at the front.

Ron took a deep breath. This was it; he was going to touch another man's cock. He thought it was what he wanted, but he was scared, too. His belly clenched and fluttered with something like stage fright. He ran his thumbs round easily to the front of Lee's body. He could feel Lee freezing and tensing against him.

Ron's left hand pulled the elasticated cotton forwards, his right palm turned to touch Lee's cock. Still their mouths were together and their eyes closed. He wrapped his fingers round and gripped it. Lee moaned. It felt warm and solid; not like his own but not so different either. Ron stroked upwards.

Their mouths fell away from each other as their hands explored each other's bodies. "I love you," Lee gasped, then "Please can I touch you? I want to hold your cock."

"Uh huh," Ron responded as reply to both things.

The fire rose up in him as they stroked each other. It felt natural and good. There was none of the awkwardness which he had expected. He shucked off his own underwear.

"I want to be inside you," Ron found himself muttering.

"Yessss," Lee hissed in a whisper full of hot breath against Ron's throat.

They fell to the floor. It didn't feel harsh and dusty as he had felt it in his nightmares. He was only aware of Lee's body beside him. Lee rolled onto his front and Ron's erection nestled between his buttocks. Ron's hips jerked.

"Not yet!" Lee said in a panicky voice.

"I know," Ron replied. "I'm not."

Lee gripped Ron's fingers and rubbed them against the puckered skin of his hole. Ron couldn't stop his pelvis from thrusting again. He had been planning this; he had remembered to bring along the lubricant, but now he couldn't remember where he had put it. He struggled away from the intoxication of Lee's flesh. He couldn't remember where his wand was either.

Ron tugged on the hem of his dress robes, where they swayed above them. He shook, in blind faith. The vial clattered to the floor. As he retrieved it, Ron thanked his Magical luck.

Lee was looking up at him. His deep, dark eyes were warm with love and lust. His dreads fell haphazardly over his face which — Ron realised with a jolt — was the most beautiful thing in the world. Ron squatted down to brush the hair back, to stroke that lovely face. He knelt and kissed Lee's cheek.

Lee firmly took hold of Ron's hand and placed it back between his buttocks.

"I know, I know," Ron said softly.

He used plenty of lube and both of them used their fingers inside Lee to stretch him for what felt like a long time. Finally Lee said hoarsely, "I'm ready."

Ron knelt between Lee's shining thighs and Lee lifted his arse towards him. It was all too glorious. Ron pushed inside.

Of course, neither of them lasted long that first time. Lee had been waiting for years, thinking and dreaming of it and not believing, most of the time, that it would ever happen. Ron had never penetrated anyone before, had never felt heated flesh clenching round his cock, the rub of anyone's inner walls against him. They both came at almost the same time, panting and grunting, then falling together onto the bare wood floor.

They were lying there — breathing, cooling, not yet thinking — when the gong from the house announced the feast.


I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, From henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord: even so saith the Spirit: for they rest from their labours.




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No Longer the Lost by ellie_kat89

Title: No Longer the Lost
Author: ellie_kat89
Pairing: Ron/Hermione/Harry
Rating: NC17
Genre: Angst/Romance
Warnings: Mentions of PTSD, angst, and smut
Word Count: 3688
Summary: If the war has taught Ron Weasley anything it’s that falling in love comes in all forms, even if its for your best friends.
Author's Note: Title comes from the Breaking Benjamin song “Give Me A Sign,” the song inspired this little fic idea of mine. Thank you so much to triomakesmehot for making this fic readable for the rest of you ;).


Artist: deathjunke
Title: "Untitled"
Rating: G
Media: pencil sketches colored in photoshop.
Artist Notes: n/a




No Longer the Lost

It’s funny sometimes how things brew beneath the surface, almost there, so very close but still untouchable. It’s strange too how people will exchange a look or a touch that speaks volumes about the true state of things, but never act on it. Ron knew that in a way he loved Harry; in a way that wasn’t just best mates, or even brothers. The protective urges towards the man he was closest to boarded on obsessive. The desire to keep Harry safe and warm from the cold hard realities of the world they lived in would creep up on him during odd hours. Ron wanted to wrap him up, to shield him, even while his mind, heart, and body he knew that he loved Hermione in the same maddening way. It was almost enough to drive him spare. He wanted to touch them, run hands over bodies and memorize every dip, curve, and plane until all that was left in the world was them.

He loved them together, as one entity. Ron didn’t pay much attention to differences in anatomy; they were the way they were, and he loved and wanted them equally. But knowing that, and actually doing something about it, were two very different things. It was scary to Ron, the things that he wanted late at night when Hermione had already snuck out of his room after a particularly intense round of snogging. Being with Hermione was everything he’d ever imagined, and more, but it always left him empty, like there was supposed to be something else, someone else. He would wonder during these times if maybe Hermione ever felt the same.

--

The war was over, a full three months passed, but very little felt different. Sure, they weren’t out in the middle of nowhere living in a tent anymore, but the feelings still remained. Many nights, Harry would wake screaming into his pillow, or Ron would wake from a nasty dream, half expecting a Snatcher to be standing over his bed. Hermione wasn’t sleeping well either, too full of nervous energy, she said. She confided in Ron that sometimes she forgot that the war had ended at all.

Ron would hold Hermione while she cried into his shoulder, the both of them stretched out on his childhood bed. God, how he wanted to fix it all, but there was nothing he could do. It ate away at him that the only comfort he could offer was to hold her. Sometimes when he’d succumb to tears himself, he’d wish that there were someone on the other side of the bed to wrap arms around him, too.

--

Everyone was asleep when it began, except for Ron, who was wide awake and staring up at his ceiling. Hermione had just left; his lips were still tingling from her departing kiss when he heard a faint noise, a stirring on the other side of wall in Harry’s room. First there were mattress springs creaking and then a faint, pained cry. Ron had been playing this same role for so long that he didn’t even think as he hurriedly rolled out of bed and grabbed his wand. It was probably just Harry like it always was, but Ron was never sure after what they’d just been forced to live through.

Ron didn’t consciously remember opening his door but, before he knew it, he was standing in front of Harry’s door. When the Burrow was hastily rebuilt after the war, the Weasleys had added rooms for Harry and Hermione, and Harry’s was right next to Ron’s. Reaching out, Ron grasped the knob and turned, the door swinging open silently. In the dim room, Ron could just make out Harry, twisted in a painfully unusual position on his bed, the covers bunched and coiled around him. He was clearly in the midst of a nightmare, straining against his mattress, huge handfuls of the sheet beneath him held tight in his fists as he struggled against an invisible enemy.

Ron’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. He went forward and stood beside Harry’s bed, reaching a freckled hand out to lay it comfortingly on the other man’s bare shoulder.

“Harry, mate—,” but before he could finish, Harry startled awake and clearly panicked. Ron had no time to react before Harry grabbed a painfully tight hold of his wrist and twisted, at the same time pushing him facedown on the bed. Harry straddled Ron’s back, all his weight bearing down and a hard, unyielding arm pressed incessantly into the back of Ron’s neck.

“Whoa! Harry, it’s okay it’s just me, it’s Ron!”

Harry didn’t seem to hear him as the blood rushed through his ears and his heart pounded. Harry’s grip changed too, fingers becoming buried in the length of Ron’s red hair, tightening hard and then pushing down. Ron’s face was smashed down firmly against Harry’s pillow.

Ron, surprised at the sudden swell of arousal coursing through his belly at the feeling of Harry’s fingers in his hair, stopped struggling. Once he’d become limp and still, compliant, it took only a few short seconds for Harry’s grip to loosen in his hair.

“Wha’ – Ron?” Harry asked, his chest heaving and his speech slurred with exertion and panic.

Now able to do so, Ron lifted his head, voice soft and careful as he spoke. “It’s alright Harry, it’s okay, you’re safe.”

Ron could feel Harry shaking against his back. “Fuck, I’m sorry, fuck….”

With another shudder, Harry clambered off of Ron, leaving him free to move. He rolled his neck back and forth, letting the tension go. Harry was only a foot away from him, hands covering his face, whole body quaking violently.

Ron swallowed and reached out to touch his shoulder again, but Harry shied away at the first feeling of Ron’s fingers.

“It’s alright, mate.”

Harry’s head shook back and forth, and his hands lowered, fingers curling into fists in his lap. His eyes were red-rimmed and shiny with tears.

“It’s not okay, Ron.” His voice was hoarse, but loud in the room and Ron flinched. “There’s… there’s something wrong with me.”

Ron grappled for words, his mouth opening and closing. “There isn’t anything wrong with you….”

Harry’s flash of anger was sudden. “Yes there is!” His head dropped and he ran unsteady hands through his hair. “There is,” he murmured softly.

Ron wished fervently that he could think of something he could say, something he could do to convince Harry that there wasn’t anything really wrong with him. Hermione had pointed out something in one of her books a few days before… something about traumatic stress with a long, detailed explanation, but Ron wasn’t really listening.

He may not know what to say, but he figured he knew what to do, if Harry would let him. Carefully, Ron lifted his arm and lowered it around Harry’s shoulders, feeling the muscles tense in Harry’s body before they suddenly relaxed. Harry’s whole body seemed to sag and without further conversation, Harry laid his head on his best friend’s freckled shoulder.

Ron’s breath caught in his chest, but he tried to let it out as casually as possible. The silence became tenser the longer they sat there together, but neither moved to change their position. Ron, no longer able to look at Harry without doing something stupid (like kissing the top of Harry’s head where it rested against his cheek), glanced around the room instead.

Their long, edgy moment continued until Harry’s head suddenly moved. “Thanks,” he whispered.

When Ron felt Harry’s lips ghost tantalizingly across his skin just below his clavicle, he thought it might be accidental. When Harry’s tongue traced the same path, Ron inhaled sharply and felt himself harden. His heart pounded and he jumped to his feet, running his hands nervously up and down his pajama trousers.

“I’ll, uh let you go back to sleep now,” Ron said quickly, wincing at the scared squeak in his voice. “I’ll see you at breakfast.” Ron hurried out of Harry’s room and back to his own, not daring to look back in his haste to prevent Harry seeing that he was so painfully turned on he couldn’t breathe properly. It never occurred to him that Harry’s tongue on his chest had to be intentional.

Ron closed his bedroom door and shakily sat on his bed, his erection pressing against the front of his trousers. And he couldn’t help himself when he shimmied out of his pajamas to wank, fantasizing all the while about Harry’s tongue on his skin.

--

Hermione noticed something was wrong with Ron the next day, but even if he wanted to explain, he didn’t think he would know how. Whenever the house became too crowded, or too loud, he and Hermione would go for a short walk. The weather had started turning cool but it wasn’t so cold yet that they couldn’t enjoy the outdoors. Holding hands, they walked through Mrs. Weasley’s garden and then out the back.

“Did Harry have a rough night last night?” she asked, glancing up at him.

He stopped abruptly, surprised at her question.

“There’s clearly something wrong, and I want to know what it is.”

Ron ran a hand down his face. “Yeah, he did.”

Hermione nodded and they sat down on the old picnic table directly behind the house. She seemed nervous all of a sudden, with her knee bouncing up and down, and he waited for her to say whatever it was she was going to say. He didn’t have to wait long.

Tucking a lock of bushy hair behind her ear, she glanced at him, her gaze holding his. “Do you ever feel like there’s something missing, you know, with us?”

Ron sighed, and glanced away, staring out towards Fred’s grave. “Yeah.”

She rested her head on his arm, the almost exactly as Harry had the night before. He turned and kissed her the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. So many things had changed in the three months that they’d been together and now that he’d gotten his chance to love her, he never wanted to go back. What if this ruined them, made it too weird?

Hermione reached out and took his hand then and squeezed it tight. “It feels like there’s an empty spot to me, that Harry’s supposed to fill.”

Ron knew it made sense, Harry had always been there, closer than any friends had ever been. It only made sense that Harry should be with them, in every way.

“Hermione, what are we going to do?”

She sighed. “Do you want to ask him?” Her voice became small here, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. “Maybe he could watch.”

“Watch?”

She nodded.

His mind moved back to a conversation that they had more than a month ago, about only taking the next step when they were ready, she’d been very adamant about it. “You said you weren’t ready.”

She lifted her head and kissed his cheek. “I am now. Are you?”

He grinned. “I was born ready.”

Hermione rolled her eyes towards the sky and smacked his arm. “You’re such a man.”

“Yeah, but that’s one of the main reasons why you love me.”

Her cheeks flushed. “That is true.”

--

Harry was more than just Ron’s best friend, he was one of the most important people in Ron’s life, but that didn’t make asking Harry to join him and Hermione in a sexual encounter any less weird. It didn’t matter how often it played in his mind, or came out in his dreams, Ron just couldn’t imagine the words to let Harry know how they were feeling. He thought about it for several days, the multitude of imaginary conversations making him dizzy, but he knew would have to be the one who asked. He had to make sure that Harry wanted this, too.

Late one night, when he felt like he could really, finally do it, Ron snuck into Harry’s room. Harry was still blessedly awake, saving Ron from having to wake him. Quietly, Ron shut the door behind himself, aware that the rest of his family were already asleep and that this would be the wrong time for anyone to come investigating.

Ron shuffled his feet, and Harry glanced up, green eyes intensely focused on the red head.

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” Harry stated, going back to the Quidditch book he’d been flipping through.

Ron shrugged and took a deep breath. “I have to talk to you about something.”

Harry’s eyebrows quirked upwards but he remained silent. Ron’s breath shuddered in his chest and he felt a weight pressing down on him. Sometimes the war, the things they had seen, felt like a brand, a burning thing pressing into his body. Being with Hermione helped that feeling, but Ron was very aware that Harry didn’t have that to help him. Ron desperately wanted to give his best friend something to chase away the demons and the nightmares that visited him regularly. Voldemort was dead, but the memory remained, and the memory was almost as damaging as the man himself. In that moment, it became clear to Ron how much Harry had changed, how much more he’d withdrawn into himself.

“Hermione and I,” he stressed, “actually need to talk to you.”

Harry looked at him quizzically but nodded anyway, following Ron out the door and up the stairs. Hermione’s room was at the very top now, and it had more privacy than probably any other place in the house.

They reached the top of the stairs and Ron opened the door to the sight of Hermione in nothing but a thread-bare t-shirt of Ron’s and her knickers.

Harry walked in behind Ron and his eyes widened. “Er… what’s going on?”

“Uh… we need to talk to you,” Ron answered.

“Talk to me about what?” Realizing that he was staring, Harry averted his gaze from Hermione’s breasts.

“Well Harry, we were thinking that we have a special situation, you know, with us. And we were wondering if you wanted to watch,” Hermione explained, strangely business like for the conversation.

Harry stilled as realization dawned on him. “You want me to watch you two shag? Are you crazy?”

“Yes, that’s what we mean, and no, we’re not crazy.”

Harry, clearly not knowing what to think sat down heavily in the chair and stared at his two best friends. “Why?” he asked, puzzled.

“We wondered if maybe you felt the same way we did… that something was missing?” Hermione asked carefully.

Harry visibly swallowed and then nodded.

Ron felt like he should say something, verbally agree with Hermione in some way, but he couldn’t find the words for what he wanted to say. Harry was looking at him, seeking confirmation, but Ron could only nod.

“What if…” Harry paused and looked down at his shoes.

“What Harry?” Ron finally spoke, before Hermione.

He scratched the back of his neck, putting off, even just for a moment, what he wanted to ask. “What if I wanted to participate?” Red crept farther up Harry’s neck.

“That’d be okay,” murmured Ron at the same time that Hermione did.

Green eyes flickered between the couple inviting him to become part of a threesome. “Any way I wanted to?”

Heat skittered up Ron’s spine at the scenarios that ran through his mind; there were so many possibilities. “Yes.”

Harry took in a nervous breath. “Alright then, I’m in.”

Hermione nodded, hands suddenly shaking with nervousness. “Okay, I guess….” Her fingers pulled off the t-shirt she’d been wearing and tossed it aside; then she hooked her thumbs in her panties and pulled those down too, leaving herself naked in front of them.

She laughed nervously. “Er, it would be good if you both took off your clothes, too.”

Both Ron and Harry were quick to comply. While they shed their clothing, Hermione climbed up on her bed, laying down on her back and waiting.

Now that they were all there, finally at that moment, Ron was suddenly unsure. What if Harry wanted to go first? Ron knew it made making love sound like throwing a Quaffle back and forth, but it had suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t know how this was going to all work.

Hermione solved the problem easily. “Come here, Ron,” she bade, patting the spot on the bed beside her.

Ron climbed up and settled next to her, reaching out to run a hand over her stomach and up to her breasts. His finger circled her nipple, watching it harden. He was acutely aware of Harry watching them, but it was okay; it felt right.

Hermione turned on her side and kissed the side of his neck, lips moving up towards his ear. “Trust it,” she whispered. “It’ll all work out.”

For a time they just snogged, like they’d been doing for the past three months, but it quickly went much further. When Hermione wrapped a small hand around his cock and started to experimentally stroke him, Ron looked past Hermione to where Harry was sitting with an excellent view of what was going on. He was stroking himself, his expression full of awe and desire… he’d been wanting this, too.

All too soon, they were there, at that moment where Hermione’s legs were spread and Ron lay between them. Supporting himself with his right arm and reached down between them. He touched her again, finding her wet and slippery and ready. He took hold of his cock and guided himself until the tip was resting at her opening.

“Ron…” she moaned, hips shifting, trying to take him in.

Distantly, Ron heard a chair scrape across the floor behind him and then soft footsteps. When he felt Harry’s hands on his hips, he jumped.

“Anything I want?” Harry asked, thumbs running over the sides of Ron’s arse.

His hands slid inward, and his fingers softly touched the inside of Ron’s cleft. Ron moaned and his cock twitched. If he didn’t do something soon, he was going to come before he even had the chance to slide inside Hermione.

“Merlin, Harry,” Ron moaned, head sagging and Hermione took that opportunity to kiss him. Her hips bucked up again and the head of his cock popped inside her.

“Anything?” Harry prompted again, voice husky.

“Anything,” Ron gasped in answer, thrusting all the way inside the tightness that enveloped his dick as Hermione’s fingers dug hard into his shoulders while she winced in pain.

He cleared the dazed longing in his brain long enough to glance down at Hermione. She reached up and brushed the hair away from his eyes. “You alright?” he asked softly.

“Fine.” She smiled. “Never better.”

Carefully Ron began to move, pulling out nearly all the way before sliding back in. Harry continued touching Ron, then reached around to touch Hermione where Ron’s cock thrust in and out of her.

“Fuck, Harry,” Ron groaned, dizzy from the feeling of Harry’s fingers against his slippery cock.

Harry’s hands slid back up and squeezed. “Hermione,” Harry began, and then paused for a moment, “I’m not going to hurt him am I? I’ve never….”

“It should be okay, just use plenty of lubricant and go slow,” Hermione replied.

“Is there a charm for that?” Harry asked.

Ron, too busy reveling in the feeling of Hermione meeting his thrusts, didn’t hear her answer. When he felt Harry’s first lubed finger push into his arse, Ron knew that the spell had worked. When Harry started working a second finger in, Ron stilled, gasping for breath as sweat began to slide down his body.

Hermione, seeking a more comfortable position, shifted down and hiked her legs up higher so that her knees were at Ron’s sides. Harry pulled his fingers out and Ron heard the softly muttered spell this time as Harry spread the lube over his cock. Harry spread Ron’s cheeks apart and then lined his cock up with Ron’s hole, watching himself as he started to push forward.

Ron groaned and he fisted the sheets near Hermione’s head, clenching his eyes shut at the stretching, tight pain in his arse. Hermione peppered kisses across his face, her tongue tracing the line of his lips before Ron kissed her. Once Harry had slid in to the hilt he began to thrust, pulling Ron onto his cock by his hips. His in and out movement caused Ron to begin moving in and out of Hermione again. She moaned and tangled her fingers in Ron’s hair.

Harry, so quiet during the whole exchange, suddenly began to talk, lost in the sensation of being buried in Ron’s tight arse. He mumbled how much he loved them, needed them. His hands went from Ron’s hips to Hermione’s legs, caressing her thighs, and completing the connection. Harry rested his forehead against Ron’s sweaty back and pushed into him, pushing him more deeply into Hermione.

Ron felt Harry’s teeth on his skin and finally lost it, groaning out as he emptied himself inside Hermione. Harry came soon after, slamming home twice before orgasming.

Ron collapsed to the side, breathing hard, and Harry followed him. They lay still for several minutes before anyone moved. Ron, in the middle, grinned when Hermione threw her arm over his side and Harry did the same, trapping him in a three-way hug. All three were touching in some way.

“I think I needed that,” Harry mumbled into Ron’s skin.

Hermione laughed weekly. “We figured that.”

“Did you now?” Harry asked.

“Yes.”

Harry smiled and tightened the hold he had on Hermione’s hand. Everything would be all right now, as long as they had each other.

Yes, the war had changed them, changed that way they thought about life and the world around them. It had even changed the things they wanted, and the way they wanted them. Their love had become precious, and it always would be, no matter what form it took.







Thank you for reading! We encourage you to share your thoughts about this piece with the author and artist. You can show your appreciation by leaving reviews here.

The One Who Loves You The Most by EruditeFics

Title: The One Who Loves You The Most
Author: eruditefics
Pairing: Genfic about Ron and Rose with a side of Ron/Hermione and Rose/OMC (sort of)
Rating: R
Genre: Genfic
Warnings: Possible triggers, some violence, also some serious sap
Word Count: 17550
Summary: Ron struggles with fatherhood and raising a daughter while Rose struggles with demons no young woman should have to face in this chronicle of Ron and Rose’s relationship.
Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! This is the first and only genfic I have ever written, and I hope it is up to par. I think we can all understand what Rose is going through in this story, if not to that extreme, at least in spirit. Thank you to A for the beta, and to OtterandTerrier for the lovely piece of artwork. Lyrics by Brett Dennen


Title: "You Were Made To Shine On"
Artist: otterandterrier
Characters: Ron and Rose
Rating: G
Media: Photomanipulation





The One Who Loves You The Most:

When the sky is falling from above you
And the wind is raging from the coast
And you want someone who truly loves you
I will be the one who loves you the most

They say the moment you first hold your child in your arms, your life changes. Not true. For Ron Weasley, life changed the second Hermione got a positive pregnancy test and he found out he was going to be a father. Everything he had ever said and done took on a whole new meaning, and every plan…every endeavor became infinitely more important. After all, he was going to be somebody’s parent.

Ron spent ten months (he was shocked to find out it wasn’t really nine) trying to prepare for the arrival of his first child. He went with Hermione to all of her unsettling and graphic healer appointments, he learned construction spells and enlisted the help of every wizard he knew to build a perfect nursery, and he even mastered the art of warming up a bottle using boiling water instead of magic, which could scald the baby.

When he found out that they were expecting a girl, Ron was excited and scared. Girls were barmy creatures, full of tears, wonder, and likely wild hair. When he asked his father and Doctor Granger what he could expect, they both just shook their heads and laughed.

“Having a daughter will make you forget everything about yourself. Your world will revolve around her and her smile before you even know what hit you,” Dr. Granger said, upon seeing the ultrasound that showed the gender of their little bun.

Ron steeled himself against the additional warnings from Bill and George about temper tantrums and tea parties, and prepared to welcome his own flesh and blood into the world. When Hermione woke up in a puddle of something Ron didn’t want to examine more closely, he was ready for whatever the world wanted to throw at him. They rushed to St. Mungo’s in an air of excitement and panic.

Rose, they named her Rose, and she was perfect in every way. When he and Hermione brought her home, they just sat on their small sofa in their modest living room and stared at her with smiles on their faces. Hermione fed her and put her to bed, barely making it to their room herself before she collapsed in exhaustion.

The first time Rose woke up crying in the middle of the night; Ron leapt from his bed and ran to her. He knew that she was going to be doing this a lot, but the sound of her pained wails coming down the hall had him rushing to scoop her up before Hermione could even stir in bed. He took her up from the tiny cot they had put in her perfect little room and pressed her to his chest.

“It’s going to be alright, love, you’ve got me. Everything will be okay because I’ll always be here,” Ron whispered, pressing his cheek to her perfect, hairless head. She quieted for a few moments and Ron’s large hands held her close and warm against him. After a while, she stirred and fussed again, and Ron went down the hall to wake Hermione for Rose’s 2 am feeding.

His whole life changed when he found out he was going to be a father. But he lost a humungous chunk of his heart the first time her big blue eyes looked up at him, and the cries quieted in her throat. Ron knew that he would never stop protecting her, and he’d do everything in his power to make sure she cried as little as possible.

***************

“What’s Alpaca?” Ron asked, thoroughly confused.

“An Alpaca is a llama-like creature raised for the wool its fur produces. Alopecia is what our daughter has,” Hermione said, sadly. “I’ve tried every healer and every doctor, but they can’t grow her hair back. We’re going to have to talk to her, and look into getting her a wig.”

There was silence in Harry and Ginny’s sunny, well-appointed living room as Ron felt his stomach fall into his feet. What she had sounded like a real disease, something muggles like Hermione’s grandfather died of, not his magical little girl. He looked over to Harry pleadingly, but he just put his head in his hands.

“But she’s got ginger eyebrows and hair on her arms and legs!” Ron said, still confused how his daughter could have a hairless disease and still have hair.

“It’s specifically called Alopecia Totalis, and it’s the loss of all head hair. Some think it’s an auto-immune disease, but the cause is still relatively unknown,” Hermione explained, looking sadly out the window.

“Auto-immune? Is she sick?” Ginny spoke up, her eyes wide with worry. Ron’s throat clenched at the prospect.

“No, the cause is thought to be that the immune system, usually designed to go after foreign invaders and harmful bacteria, actually attacks hair follicles,” Hermione said, thumbing through one of the three books she had already bought on the subject.

“So will it ever grow in?” Harry asked, taking Ginny’s hand.

Hermione shook her head sadly, and Ron’s shoulders slumped. He imagined all the ways in which she could be teased, made to feel like an outcast and resent herself, and he wished mightily that he could take her place. He’d gladly go bald if it meant his little girl wouldn’t have to go through an ounce of pain or uncertainty.

A whimpering cry echoed from the second story of Harry and Ginny’s country home, and Hermione jumped up to fetch Hugo from his nap. The silence left in Hermione’s wake was deafening. Harry and Ginny looked about to speak at various turns, but Ron just turned away from them and watched the kids play out the window. He smiled sullenly as Rose ran from James, who was making a strange face and shouting in a made up language.

“She’ll be okay, Ron. She’ll just be a bit different,” Harry said, moving to sit next to him on the arm of the chair.

“Yeah! We can get her some wigs, make sure they stay on with some clever charms, and no one will know,” Ginny said, sitting on his other side.

“But she’ll know, won’t she?” Ron answered, anger and bitterness tingeing his voice. He didn’t want to imagine his children feeling different, feeling out of place in their own skin, and always questioning their own worth. The thought broke his heart. He stormed out of the house, slamming the back door and breaking the glass in his wake. He didn’t stop to repair it.

Ron heard his daughter’s pained cries from the copse of trees off of the yard. He found her sitting below a large oak tree, branches tangled in her clothes and sticking out of her shoes. She was curled in a ball and crying as quietly as she could.

“Rosie?” Ron said, kneeling down in the dirt next to her. “Are you hurt? Where?”

She rolled over, her large straw hat falling off of her head, and revealed a giant gash across her knee. She had angry tears streaming down her cheek and her fists were clenched. Ron summoned the dittany from Harry and Ginny’s downstairs bathroom.

“You have to be quiet, Daddy! They’ll find me,” Rose whispered urgently.

“Oh, were you playing hide and seek?” Ron said, cleaning the wound with a spell that made her cry out. He kissed her little knee gently, and she wiped her tears away.

“No, I was running away. But if you make too much noise, everyone will know!” She said, looking panicked.

“Doesn’t it defeat the purpose if your dad knows you’re running away?”

“No! You can come with me! I just don’t want Roxy and Vicky and them to find me out,” She said, playing with the hem of her shirt and beginning to cry again.

“Did they say something mean?” Ron asked, rubbing the dittany gently over her sore leg. She sighed a little in relief.

“No,” she mumbled.

“Did they chase you?”

“No.”

“Well then why would you want to run away from your cousins?” Ron said, pulling her onto his lap in the grass.

“They are too pretty. Vicky has all of this long, pretty hairs. I don’t have nothing!” Rose said miserably.

“Even Hugo has hair, Daddy. He has pretty curly hair like Mum. Vicky has yellowy hair, Roxy has curly black hair…everyone has hair but me. I just think running away would be a good idea,” She crossed her arms and looked away from him.

Ron’s heart shattered into a million pieces, and he had to swallow back a lump in his throat. He pulled Rose against his chest, like he used to when she was a baby, and pressed his cheek to her warm, bald head. He ran his fingers down the back of her head and over her neck, patting her gently on the back.

“Rosie! You’re very pretty. You are a special little girl. You’re smart, you’re funny, and you shine like the sun,” Ron said, at a complete loss for how to comfort her the right way. How do you tell a child that the reason she cries will never go away?

“The sun?” Rose said, squinting at the sky.

“Oh yes! The first time you smiled, I almost went blind!” Ron said, smiling down at her.

“What about my head?”

“I’ll buy you whatever hair you want, as long as you promise to always shine.”

“I will,” she said, standing up and twirling in a beam of sunlight coming through the trees.






**********

Though this potion is said to work wonders for temporary hair growth related to costuming, it like all other potions and tonics, will not replicate the lustre and color of natural hair…

The spell is only temporary, and no wizards or witches yet have been able to take off the time limit on this particularly conjuring of hair…

Despite theorizing and researching, top wizarding minds are still far away from growing and replicating human hair in any quick, permanent fashion hair. The advances in orangutan hair on the other hand…


Ron threw the overbearing textbook against the wall of Hermione’s study with alarming force.

A few days ago, he and Hermione sat Rose down and offered her any wig she wants, anything she chose to take the place of her own absent hair. Rose’s face lit up brightly, turned to Ron, and smiled and excited, hopeful smile.

“I want hair just like Daddy’s.”

Since then, Ron had been finding a way to grow his own hair, to make the perfect replica for his daughter to wear…to feel less out of place in the world. He was hitting dead end after dead end. Nowhere in any of Hermione’s vast expanses of useless facts, or her collection of books, or even his mother’s knowledge of home remedies did they find a solution for permanent and good quality hair growth. Rose would either end up having to drink a potion every day, or he would have to cast a spell on her smooth little head.

Ron sighed and slammed his head against the thick wooden desk.

“You know, you’ll still be her hero, no matter what you do,” Hermione said with mirth in her voice, tip toeing around the tossed book to set a steaming mug of cocoa down in front of him. Chocolate, in this case, was more appropriate than tea.

“Maybe now, but what happens when someone makes fun of her? What happens when they stare too long at her and she realizes how different she really is?” Ron said, thinking of all the ways his daughter could be hurt by the world.

“We’ll never let her feel that way, Ron,” Hermione said, her dark eyes so steeled with determination that Ron felt instantly more hopeful than he did a few moments ago. He kissed her soundly, lingering long enough to taste the whipped cream on her lips.

He knew what he had to do.

***************

“I can’t take much more of this! Every time I go to cast a spell, it gets caught. I swear I’m going to catch fire one of these days and George will laugh his arse off!” Ron said, braiding his waist-length hair.

“Oh stop whining. It’s a good thing you’re doing,” Ginny said, taking over his ministrations with deft fingers.

“I know, but do you think it’s enough? I just feel like this is a poor replacement for her.” Ron said, scratching his head and watching his daughter run and play out the window.

“Ron, even when she’s older, and she feels like it’s all hopeless, I’m sure she’ll remember what her father did for her and understand that there’s always someone out there,” Ginny said, staring fondly at her hands, as if lost in a memory.

“You know, Dad came to Hogwarts once, that year you were gone,” She started, sitting down at Ron and Hermione’s light oak kitchen table by the window.

“No, I didn’t. The Ministry let him in there?”

“No,” she smiled. “He was supposed to be patrolling Hogsmeade for Muggleborns, but he snuck up to the castle. McGonagall let him in by the greenhouses. He had to walk the whole way to the school in the cold, wet snow we got that November.”

“Bloody hell! He could have been killed!” Ron said, shocked by this new information. “Were you in some kind of trouble?” Ginny shook her head.

“He got to Gryffindor tower, and collapsed at my feet in front of the fire, shaking and cold. When I managed to cast a drying spell and warm him up he just grabbed me and held me for what felt like ages.” Ginny murmured, had her arms wrapped around herself and was smiling slightly.

“Why was he there, though?”

“That’s just it, Ron. He didn’t really have a reason. When he was getting ready to leave, he pulled away from me, healed a bruise the Carrows had given me on my cheek, and brushed some hair behind my ear. I couldn’t talk. I wanted to beg him to stay, but I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t brave.”

Ron put a hand on Ginny’s shoulder, his own throat growing tight. “He said ‘I just needed to see you. I needed to look at you for a moment, Ginevra. It’s all…it’s becoming too much.’ And then he just walked away, a slight hopeful grin on his face.”

“Ginny…I…”

“Neville, Luna, and I tried to steal the sword that night. I just had to do something,” She said, clenching her fists. There was a hot streak of tears running down the side of her face.

That evening, Ron went over to Luna’s house and had her cut his hair. She shaped it into a wig fit for his Rosie.

***************

By the time Rose Weasley was 11, she had five different wigs. She kept them all on stands complete with random doodles and oddly contorted features that she and Hugo would often paint when they were feeling particularly creative and fun. They lined her mother’s study like an odd array of modern art in her stately, wood-trimmed library. It didn’t matter how out of place she felt, Rose loved her hair.

She had a wig from her Aunt Luna. It had shoulder length, wavy blonde hair that shimmered almost unnaturally on a cloudy day, as opposed to shimmering on a sunny one. She said it was to “add some brightness to the gloomiest days”. Grandma Weasley got her the most perfect, curly black wig, found at a special shop while she and Grandpa Weasley were on holiday. It was long, shiny, and very curly like her mum’s. Her dad said she looked like a black haired version of Hermione Granger in that wig. Her cousins all chipped in and got her a Mohawk complete with green tipped spikes last year for her birthday, along with a written promise from each of them that they would keep her secret at Hogwarts. And Teddy had given her a cropped, bluish green wig that he took from shaving his own head.

But her favorite was the one her father had made her, the first wig she ever got, the first time she felt like a normal, pretty little girl. When she spun around, and that long red hair flowed around her, Rose finally knew what it was like to shine. Her mother had found a way to make her hair look so real, and to stay so well, that Rose immediately went and played with her cousins, reveling in the glory of her ginger locks.

Facing the first day at Hogwarts tomorrow, Rose knew which hair would become her permanent look for her educational career. The decision didn’t even take much thought. She felt like her ginger wig was the only real piece of her, partially because it was also a piece of her father.

“Have you packed your trunk for tomorrow, love?” her mother said, making Rose jump.

“Only like five times, mum!”

“Just making sure. You should get to bed; you’ve got a big day.”

Rose nodded, and before she could tell herself she was too old, she followed her mother out of the study and wrapped her arms around her. Rose was already taller than her mum, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t scared, that she didn’t need a little reassurance from her parents right now. To her credit, her mother didn’t make a big deal out of the rare display of affection, and Rose went up the stairs grinning.

She doubled checked her trunk, taking out every piece of clothing, books, and supplies and putting them back in; first by alphabetical order and then by function. When she was convinced she had her things in the best possible way, she finally changed into her pajamas and crawled in between the covers. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but she had to keep up the façade.

After she watched the lights fade across the hall, signaling Hugo was fast asleep; Rose turned her eyes up to the moon. She wondered if it looked bigger in the Scottish Highlands, if being higher up in the mountains would make her closer to the sky. The concept gave her comfort, and calmed the niggling fears that were hiding below her excitement.

Rose started when she heard the soft creak of her bedroom door. She looked up to see her father squinting at her through the shadows. She lifted her hand and waved shyly at him, hoping he wouldn’t reprimand her for being up too late.

“I knew you’d still be up,” Ron said, pulling up the chair from her desk and sitting beside her bed. “Are you nervous?”

“So much!” Rose exclaimed, breathing a sigh of relief that she didn’t have to put on such a brave front.

“I’m not going to give you all that talk about doing your best, never giving up, and knowing you’re special no matter what. You know all of that. Just remember to trust yourself. That was always my biggest problem in school. I never thought I was good enough,” Rose couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as though her father looked a little stormy there in the darkness.

“I’ll try, Daddy,” she whispered.

“Do you think you’re too old for a story?” He asked, his eyes sparkling as he grinned at her.

“Well it depends on the story. I don’t think I need to hear Babbity Rabbity again.”

“Fair enough, how about I tell you about Hagrid and Norbert?”

“Oh I love the Hagrid stories!”

Rose sat in rapt attention, laughing hysterically at the thought of that big old giant’s partially singed beard. When the story ended, and Norbert had to leave Hogwarts, Rose couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the Professor, and vowed to visit him as soon as she got to school. She hoped he had a secret pet for her to meet as well.

“And I’ll make a deal with you. If you can come home with good marks, I’ll be sure to take you to Uncle Charlie’s to visit Norbert. Or should I say Norberta?” Her father winked, kissed her forehead, and shuffled out of the room comically, making her throw her hand over her mouth to keep from giggling.

Rose knew this was going to be her best year yet.

***************

Rose couldn’t believe that someone as old as Professor Slughorn was still able to get up the energy to teach, but there he was, yammering on about something she couldn’t even begin to understand. She was beginning to feel overwhelmed, and suspected that she’d flunk out of Hogwarts before her first year was done. She bit her lip and tried to pay attention when suddenly a piece of paper obscured her own.

It’s alright, my brother told me this stuff gets much less confusing after the first week.

Rose looked up to see her dorm mate, Imelda Hall, smiling at her. She winked when Rose smiled back in relief and they both went back to taking notes. When it came time to create their first ever potion, a simple giggling draught, Imelda proved to be quite adept and helped Rose along in the process. Their potion was perfect by the time Professor Slughorn came around to inspect it.

“This is perfect, just perfect. But I wouldn’t expect anything less from the daughter of two war heroes!” The professor smiled. Rose shook her head.

“Imelda did a lot of the work, she had to help me,” Rose said, blushing. She hated having so much attention drawn to her.

“Nonsense. I knew your mother. You’re bound to be brilliant. Ten Points to Gryffindor!” Slughorn proclaimed.

Rose looked desperately over at Imelda, but the other girl was looking away from her. When class was dismissed, she followed Imelda into the Great Hall and sat next with her at lunch. She wanted to make amends. She didn’t want to lose any new friends on her first day of class.

“Listen, I’m very sorry about that. I promise, I wasn’t trying to steal credit,” she said to the other girl. Imelda looked up at her, anger still in her eyes, but Rose pressed on. “I’ve got some pumpkin pasties left over from the train. Did you want to meet in the common room tonight for a snack?”

“That would be great!” Imelda said. “You can call me Melly. All of my friends do.” She stuck out her hand and Rose took it hungrily.

Rose knew that her life was finally changing. She could be Just Rose, without the specter of her unique disease hanging behind everyone’s eyes. She finally had a real friend, one who wasn’t a cousin, and she knew that if she tried hard enough, other people could like her for who she was as well. She gathered her things and walked down to Professor Longbottom’s class with excitement.

When the masquerade and burlesque balls
Become too ordinary to boast
You complain about the parade and curtain calls
I will be the one who loves you the most
Yeah, I will be the one who loves you the most

“Okay, what does it mean when that symbol comes up in your runes?” Rose asked briskly.

“That it will be a…um…triangularly squiggly day?” Hector answered, smirking at her. Rose couldn’t help but giggle.

Hector Marks was a hopeless case, but Rose felt sorry for him, so when he walked over to the Gryffindor table and asked her to help him with his Runes homework, she said yes. The rest of the third year girls had been glaring at her all day. Hector may have been slow, but his sandy hair, tanned skin, and green eyes made many girls even in hears above him blush and swoon. She was uninterested, so she didn’t see the harm in some tutoring.

“I think you’re going to fail runes, Marks.” Rose said, smirking and gathering up her books.

“Oh come on, Rosie Shmosie, at least I’m trying!” Hector whined, stuffing his books in his bag before looking back at Rose and grinning.

“Oh….so it’s Rosie now, is it?”

Imelda sauntered out from in between the stacks of books in front of them with an odd and angry look on her face. Rose shuddered, knowing that look, and fearing it. Imelda had been her best friend since their first day at Hogwarts, when they got beds right next to each other. Imelda was everything Rose was not: Pretty, perky, popular, and a variety of other P words that Rose could probably come up with if she had the time.

“Melly, I don’t know what you mean,” she chuckled nervously as Hector walked away. She was definitely not into Hector, or any of the boys knew for that matter. It wasn’t that she didn’t like boys, she dreamed about the new drummer for Amorous Arachnids sometimes, she just didn’t really feel like getting caught up in that awful mess of school relationships.

“You know exactly what I mean, Rose! You know I like him and you are fucking stealing him from under my nose!”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Rose said, rolling her eyes. She was hoping she could just laugh off Melly’s anger.

“I’m being ridiculous? You’re the one throwing yourself at him when you don’t have anything worth throwing, Rose. Who are you kidding?” Melly said, following Rose out of the library.

“Melly, really. I’m not interested in Hector. He’s all yours.”

“Oh sweet Rose! How generous of you to just give him to me! Who would have thought that your nonexistent curves and knobby knees would make you queen of all? I’m ever so grateful that you could just give him to me!” Melly fake swooned and then stormed away down the hall, her heels clicking on the stone floor.

Rose’s own soft, sensible shoed steps slowed down to almost a standstill. She was at risk of losing her best friend, and she didn’t really understand why at all. Melly did have one thing right though: Rose was not a pretty girl, and she had nothing to offer the other boys even if she did like them. She paused in front of a mirror, viewing her too tall form; excessively thin legs, and flat chest with harsh scrutiny.

She didn’t even hear the heavy footfalls approach.

“That mirror will talk back if you spend too long in front of it,” Andon Krum said over Rose’s shoulder.

“Oh, were you primping, and it yelled at you?”

“Kind of. I was trying to get rid of these bushy eyebrows, and when I felt a cool breeze on my forehead, I had realized the spell backfired. The mirror mocked me awfully,” He said, smiling.

Andon Krum was the famous Viktor Krum’s son, and one of Hogwart’s most famous students. He was quiet, with dark hair, smooth tawny skin, and unfortunately pronounced eyebrows. He was her cousin Al’s best friend, so they often said ‘hi’ to each other in the hallways. Rose mused this may have been the most Andon had ever spoken to her or anyone else. When she looked up to catch his eyes in the mirror, however, he was gone.

The next few days were odd for Rose. She usually spent her free hours and the study time after dinner next to Melly, helping her with her homework and talking about the latest gossip. She had just seen Emily Harris and Rodd Flagg having a huge fight complete with drawn wands behind greenhouse 3, and she couldn’t wait to tell Melly. However, today, her best friend ignored her, didn’t sit next to her, and even went right up stairs when Rose set about to study.

Rose was writing a potions essay on Draught of Living Death when Melly came down. Rose tried to catch her eye, but she sat at a table across the room and focused on her work. After some time, Melly let out a frustrated growl and slammed her books on the thick wooden table.

“I can help you with that, you know,” Rose said as gently as possible.

“I don’t need help from the famous Rose Weasley! Besides, if it weren’t for me, you’d be failing potions. Of course, ickle Rosie can do no wrong. No one would even believe me if I told them!” Melly said, stuffing her books back in her bags. “I guess I won’t be doing any homework tonight, something smells awful in the common room.”

Rose waited until it was curfew, not wanting to face Melly’s wrath, before she went back to Gryffindor Tower. When she went up to bed, she was relieved to find everyone asleep, and got ready for bed in peace. She slid between the covers and sighed contently.

“You are such a slag, Rose,” Melly whispered. Rose’s heart clenched in her chest but she said nothing.

“Yeah. It’s bad enough you’re the daughter of famous war heroes, now you have to have all the guys too?” Christy Lane spoke from the bed closest to the wall. Rose sat up abruptly, shocked to hear her amiable roommate saying that to her.

“Christy, I swear, I’m not interested…”

“Oh don’t give me that tripe! You’re playing hard to get and its working! What happens when they get you, huh? You gonna give it up?” Christy answered back, rolling over.

“I still can’t believe anyone would want you, Rose Weasley. You’re gawky, you look like a boy, and you have all of that hideous ginger hair!” The last roommate, Jenny Riley, spoke up from next to Christy. Rose was without an ally at all.

Rose closed the curtains around her bed, cast the silencing spell her mother taught her, and stroked the soft hair of her favorite wig. She wished she could just write her mum and dad and tell them everything, but she was a woman now. As an alternative, she put her hands over her face and cried herself to sleep.

Hogwarts was never the same after that awful night. None of her roommates spoke to her except to deride her. In Herbology, all the girls threw things when Professor Longbottom wasn’t looking. She would have to pick seeds and pods and pus out of her hair every other day. She ate lunch alone, or next to Al, quietly eating and avoiding making eye contact with anyone, lest they say something awful to her.

Months after ‘The Incident With Hector’ Rose noticed more people than normal pointing at her and laughing. She figured Melly and her band of merry bitches just made up another rumor about her, like the one they started that she was having an affair with a house elf since no real people would want to snog her, until Al met her eyes and swiftly looked away.

“Al, what’s going on?” Rose asked anxiously. Al just shook his head, blushing, and signaling for Roxy and Victoire to come over to the lunch table.

Rose was happy to see her two older cousins, whom she rarely saw since it was their seventh year and they had N.E.W.T.S to study for. She smiled at them, but they had red, angry looks on their faces. Rose looked around the Great Hall to see that everyone was bent over their lunches, papers in their hands.

“Rose, I think you need to get out of here,” Roxy said, taking her elbow and leading her out to the lake. It was a warm April day, but there was a gray mist falling from the sky. Slowly, and cringing as she did so, Victoire handed Rose a piece of paper.

“Top Five True Facts About Rose Weasley
5. She picks her nose and wipes it on her nightstand.
4. She wears ratty white pants with holes in them.
3. She only showers once a week.
2. She’s a lesbian…
1. And she fucks herself with her wand every night.

At the end of the flier was a hand drawn picture of Rose, her finger in her nose, in holey underwear, stink lines coming off of her, a picture of Celestina Warbeck on the nightstand, and her wand animated to disappear between her legs.

Rose vomited in between her wracking sobs.

After that, her cousins and even her brother formed a tight circle of protection around her to make sure that no one ever did something so cruel to her again. Melly suspiciously came down with exploding boils on her face, and no one so much as looked at her sideways. In fact, no one but her family looked at her at all. And while she appreciated the help, she had never felt more alone. She couldn’t remember a night she didn’t cry herself to sleep to the whispered threats of her roommates.

“In two years, James, Roxanne, Victoire and Fred are going to be gone. We’ll be able to get to you then.”

Even writing her parents was an awful experience. She didn’t want them to worry, so she would write sugary sweet letters filled with lies. She hoped she wouldn’t be found out. When she was little, she promised her dad she would always shine like the sun. She was scared to death he’d discover how dull and miserable she really was.

Rose didn’t think she could handle seeing her father disappointed in her.

***************


Dear Ron and Hermione,

I know we just saw each other at dinner a few weeks ago, but I’ve been trying to find a way to put my thoughts in to words on this for a while now. So I’ll just come right out and say it:

I’m very worried about Rose.

I don’t want you both to come rushing down here like I know you were planning to do as soon as you read that sentence, but I am very concerned. While she’s never alone, always with one cousin or the other, she seems so lonely. She never speaks anymore, it looks as though her grades are slipping despite spending all of her free time in the library, and she seems to have gotten even thinner. It looks to me like she’s under a large amount of stress, and for a while I couldn’t figure out why that was.

I finally managed to get Albus to sit down and talk to me. I pause in telling you this because it’s Rose’s business, but worrying has gotten the best of me. He says she’s being bullied, mercilessly, by the other girls in her dorm. He’s not sure how it started, but the stuff they’ve been doing to her makes Malfoy look like a peach (well…maybe this is an exaggeration).

I’m going to do my best to keep an eye on her, and to try to put a stop to anything I see. Her cousins and Hugo are doing well to form a tight circle of protection around her, but that doesn’t lessen the sharp words. I hope that this can be worked out over the summer.

Hannah says that she went through something similar, and it takes a lot to recover from it. The bullying stopped for her when her mum died, and then we had that awful year and Death Eaters to contend with, so she never really had to face how cruel some of those Hufflepuffs were. But she says it was a horrible thing to deal with, and if Rose is suffering, I hope there is something you can do to help her.

I’ll do what I can.

Always with love,

Neville


“Are you sure we can’t go there and get her right now?” Ron said, pacing anxiously across the kitchen, Neville’s letter clutched in his fist.

“Yes, Ron. Unfortunately, it would likely just exacerbate things,” Hermione said. Ron looked over at her to see tears rolling down her cheeks. “What are they doing to her that could make her act this way?”

“And why didn’t she say so in her letters home?” He asked, walked up behind Hermione and putting his hands on her shoulders. “Is that why she didn’t come home for Easter hols?”

“She’s probably scared of what we’ll think,” Hermione whispered.

“How can she…”

“Shhhhhhh, she’ll be home soon, Ron. All we can do now is wait for her and trust that Neville will make sure she doesn’t get hurt.”

“Yeah…yeah.”

Ron leaned over and kissed Hermione on the cheek before resting his head on her shoulder and holding her tightly. He let his hands splay over her stomach and found comfort in how warm she always felt against him. They would get through this with Rose, they had to.

***************

When Rose got off the train for summer holidays, Ron’s heart shattered. Her bright long hair framed a sunken, gaunt, and pale appearance. She had a frown etched on her face and she looked like she had been through hell. Ron ran to her, heedless of Hermione’s warnings not to make her feel overly self conscious and giving away the fact that they knew what had been going on, and pulled her close to his chest. She let out a small, hollow chuckle.

“Dad, what’s gotten into you?”

“Just happy to see you,” he smiled, trying not to give himself away.

Rose tilted her head and gave him an odd, calculating look, the exact same look Hermione got when she was figuring something out. Ron shrank away. He saw Hugo’s curly head bobbing in the crowd and ran toward him, hugging him fiercely and messing up his hair. When he turned around, Rose had her face in her mother’s hair, and Ron could see tears going down her cheek. Hugo bit his lip and Ron tried not to stare. Obviously Rose didn’t want him to see her cry, though he didn’t quite understand why.

After their things were unpacked, they all sat down to a lovely supper of roast chicken and mashed potatoes, Ron’s specialty. Rose smiled at him as he handed her a plate, but the smile never reached her eyes and he could see the hard mask over her features. He tried to smile back in a way that said “Don’t worry about it, love,” But nothing changed about her expression. The conversation at the table was light. Rose and Hugo asked him about some of his Auror missions, and he tried to describe the funnier ones with a storytelling flare that was sure to light up her face, like it did when she was little. However, her eyes remained passive and resigned. Finally, after some time with Hugo at the chessboard and Rose and Hermione in books, the kids were sent up to bed.

Ron didn’t sleep that night. He tossed and turned, kicking himself for not seeing the trouble his daughter was having when she came home for Christmas. The fact that she didn’t want to talk to him about it just clarified his belief that he had failed her. Ron resolved he would spend the entire summer making things right, making sure Rose went back to school without the specter of cruelty chasing her everywhere.

Ron’s resolve was quickly dashed over the next week, when he would wake to Rose missing from her bed and outside wandering their lawn sadly, turning away from any attempt at conversation. She spent her time drinking tea with her mother, and cried herself to sleep at night. She barely looked at Ron, barely acknowledged him beyond a fake smile at his failed attempts to cheer her, and his countenance was getting weaker every day.

His daughter was slipping away, she was in pain, and there was nothing he could do to make it better. This wasn’t a cut on the knee, or a cousin picking on her, this was a painful betrayal by her peers. Ron was completely lost, and after a few weeks of trying to break through to her, gave up and turned his back on his oldest daughter.

Ron spent the rest of the summer teaching Hugo the finer points of chess, and trying to get him onto a broom. Hugo had an unshakable fear of flying just like his mother, and Ron found this fact hilarious. His son was much happier indoors, studying chess, and to Ron’s horror, History of Magic. But he had to admit, his son was developing a wit and a sense of humor that would rival Fred and George at that age.

Rose went flying, but she never asked for his company. She no longer played quidditch like she used to, even when her cousins were all gathered for a pickup game. She just drew lazy circles in the sky with her broom, consumed more tea with her mother, and slept more than was normal for a teenage girl. Ron longed to jump on his broom and chase her through the sky like they used to, dipping in and out of each other’s paths and laughing loudly and wildly until the sun set. He swallowed back the urge to fly, keeping his feet on the ground and giving Rose her space.

When it came time to say goodbye for another year at Hogwarts, Ron found he couldn’t maintain his self control. He held Rose tightly again, stroking her back and refusing to let go. She clung to him, her hands clenched in the back of his robes, and Ron felt the urge to cry rising up from his throat. He didn’t want to send his daughter back into the wolves, and he hated himself for not being there for her like he should have. Rose pulled away with misty eyes and got on the train. She doesn’t turn around to wave at her parents.

***************

When the women with their stolen graces
Don’t invite you to play host
To their daughters with fake faces
I will be the one who loves you the most

“I guess I’ve gotten a reputation for tutoring,” Rose says quietly, pulling out her book and taking up a seat next to Andon. “I didn’t even know you needed help.”

“Oh yes. I hear you’ve got this new potions material down. Al won’t stop talking about how brilliant you are in that class, so I figured you’d be the best to help me,” Andon said, getting his own books and notes out. He smiled shyly at Rose, and she was shocked to feel a blush creeping to her face.

Andon was a Hufflepuff, so he had a different potion’s class than she did. Hufflepuffs took potions with the Slytherins for fourth year, and they were only a chapter behind the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw class. This made it very easy for Rose to explain the lessons to him, and they ended up meeting every Friday in the library to go over what she learned last week, and he was learning this week.

More than just lessons, Andon and Rose became very good friends. Eating lunch with Al didn’t feel so much like a pitiful excuse to not be alone, and felt more like a warm group of friends. She, Al, and Andon would joke and laugh like the world wasn’t against her, and when she was with Al and Andon, it wasn’t. The whispers and taunts in the hall seemed less important, and no one had done anything particularly awful to her. By the Christmas hols, things were looking up.

Rose suspected that Professor Longbottom had done something; there were rumors he had called Melly into his office and she had come out in tears. At first Rose was embarrassed, but now that she finally had a friend, Professor Longbottom’s interference was feeling like a relief. She got off of the train for Christmas and waved vigorously at Andon, who pulled a ridiculous face before running off with his mother.

When Rose saw her father waiting to pick them up at King’s Cross, she gave him a broad grin. He echoed her gesture, his face lighting up as he saw her. Christmas was looking promising, and she longed to jump on her broom and race her dad like they used to.

***************

“He’s way too good for you, you know,” whispered Christy.

“Yeah, Rosie, he’ll never want you in that way. He just feels sorry for you,” Jenny said menacingly. Rose knew they were talking about Andon. She knew she could never win no matter how hard she tried.

“Yeah I heard Al paid him a lot of money to be your friend,” Melly seethed next to her. “Think about it, you know Al’s family has a lot of gold. Did you really think Andon just suddenly wanted to be your friend this year, especially with how pathetic you are? I have it on good authority Al Potter paid him.”

Rose didn’t want to believe them, but they were right. Al did have a lot of money, and Rose was pathetic. The next day, she ate alone and canceled all of her tutoring sessions with Andon.

“Why don’t you want to hang out anymore, Rose?” Andon found her tucked away in a corner of the library.

“I just…I’m really busy. I have to focus on my studies.”

“You’re brilliant!” Andon whispered loudly, earning him an admonishment from the ancient Madame Pince. “You don’t need to study that much that you can hang out with me and Al. Come on, we were going to go camping this summer!”

Andon put a hand on her arm and Rose flinched away. She knew then it had to be some sort of scheme. Why would anyone want to touch her? Even without knowing she had no hair, she was still all long limbs and freckled skin. She dropped her books and stormed out of the library.

Rose found herself lost in an unfamiliar corridor as she ran away from Andon. She was happy to be lost, and hoped the castle would just swallow her whole. She crouched down in front of an ornate tapestry and began to cry. She didn’t know how long she was there, but when she looked up at the window some time later, it was dark.

“What’s the matter, Weasley, wig not on straight?” Melly’s voice echoed in the hallway. All of the blood drained from Rose’s face. Melly just smiled fiendishly.

“A little birdie had some very interesting things to say about that awful ginger hair, though why you’d choose to be ginger is beyond me.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about. “

“Admit it!” Melly shouted, her screams bouncing off of the walls. “Admit that you’re an even bigger freak that we thought you were! You would keep a secret from your own roommate.” Her voice took on a falsely sweet tone toward the end.

Rose just shook her head, and when she looked up, Melly was gone.

The next morning couldn’t come soon enough; she was going home for the summer and didn’t have to face Andon, or Melly, or any of her tormentors for three whole months. She snuck back into Gryffindor Tower as quietly as she could, and slip between her sheets for one more sleepless night.

Rose had slept in that night. She woke up to the light far too brightly streaming through her window. She glanced over at her clock and saw she had missed breakfast and only had 15 minutes to pack up her things and get down to the carriages. She sat up only to feel something like spiders crawling down her bare shoulders. She looked down and saw clumps of red hair gathering around her pillow.

She didn’t even have time to mourn or cry the cruel act that had befallen her. She only had moments to rush down to the carriages. She pulled an old wool cap out of her trunk and stuffed it over her head. She cast ‘locomotor’ on her trunk, shoved in the rest of her belongings, and rushed out of the tower.

She had no doubt all three of the girls in her room were in on the plot against her, that much became clear as they looked at her with taunting sneers and threw their heads back in laughter. “Nice Hat!” they shouted in unison as she took a carriage with a few second years she didn’t know. She allowed herself to cry, telling the kids that she just had a headache.

When she got off the train and saw her parents smiling at her, she broke down, sobbing into her father’s shoulder and refusing to tell them what was wrong. She’d have to tell them soon enough.

***************

“Why won’t she just tell us what happened?” Ron said, pouring himself two fingers of Ogden’s and plopping down at the kitchen table. Rose and Hugo were asleep, and he needed something stronger after such a trying day than tea.

“We can guess ourselves who’s responsible. It’s those same girls Neville mentions in his letter. Who else could have gotten into their room?” Hermione said. To Ron’s shock, she fixed herself a neat glass of whiskey herself.

Ron opted to pour another shot of whiskey, hoping he’d be tired enough to get some sleep with enough alcohol in his system. They had a long day tomorrow. They had to go out and find a similarly colored wig for Rose to wear so that her secret wasn’t revealed.

Ron and Hermione moved to their living room, sat in front of the fire, and immersed themselves in the silence of their own thoughts.

The summer progressed on with a return of the Rose they saw last summer. The happy, hopeful girl they had seen over Christmas was replaced with a sullen, undetermined young woman who looked up at her parents with lifeless, dull eyes. Ron tried hard to engage her, making funny faces, bringing her sweets, and tempting her with a new broom, but she preferred to sit in her room, reading her textbooks and napping.

Hermione had managed to get Rose out every once in a while, and they went to various tea shops to talk. Hermione said that Rose was opening up about her year, but whenever Ron tried to talk to her, she turned away from him. He was hurt and worried, wondering if he’d ever have his little girl back again. He doubted she even wanted him around.

When it came time for the planned trip to the seashore, Ron wasn’t surprised to find out that Rose didn’t want to go. Hugo’s spirits sank, saying he was really looking forward to the museums and the fresh air. Not wanting to let another one of his children be disappointed, he agreed to go with Hugo while Hermione stayed home and tried to crack Rose’s rough shell.

The seashore was perfect, and he and Hugo had the time of their lives. Ron couldn’t help but laugh as Hugo ogled the various Muggle women that sauntered by them in bathing suits, and the week was spent with good natured ribbing and rousing games of chess in the sand. Ron headed back home sporting even more freckles than before, and Hugo had a deep tan that reminded Ron of Hermione when she came back from Australia.

While waiting for the Portkey to take them back to London, Ron looked over at Hugo. His son looked happy and contented, and on the verge of becoming a fine man. Ron felt a stab in his chest when he thought about Rose, and while he was thrilled Hugo was doing so well, he didn’t feel like he’d be able to rest again until he got through to Rose. He resolved to take Rose on a little adventure when he got home.

***************

“Get up, we’re going out,” Rose’s father said, far too loudly.

Rose rubbed her eyes and tried to focus on the dim light in her room. There was light coming from her father’s wand, but other than that, the room was pitch black. Rose thought her father must have gone mad while he was at the beach.

“Dad, it has to be the middle of the night, what is going on?”

“We’re going camping.”

“What? What about mum and Hugo?”

“Hugo had his trip. Your mum knows we’re going, don’t worry. Do you honestly think I would just take off at 4 in the morning without clearing it with her?” Her father asked, summoning a suitcase from another room. When she sat up and looked out the door, she saw her grandfather’s old tent and a sack full of supplies already piled in the hallway.

“Sweet Merlin, you’re serious.”

“Course I am, Rose,” he said, sitting on the end of her bed. “I know you’re having a rough time. I’m not going to pretend I know what you’re going through…but…well that’s just the thing! You won’t talk to me, you won’t look at me! I just…” He paused, running his hands through his hair. Rose had never seen him look so frustrated. “Try avoiding me when we’re alone in the woods.”

With that, he left the room, and Rose reluctantly got out of her bed. She knew better than to question her dad further. When he got an idea in his head, there was no stopping him. There was evidence of that all over the house, from the Quidditch Pitch in the backyard, too small to actually have a real game, to the microwave in the kitchen that could work instantly with one spell. If she were being honest with herself, Rose had to admit, she was a little excited at the prospect of an adventure with her dad. She couldn’t remember the last time she was excited for anything.

When Rose followed Ron out into the garage, she let out a small yelp. Parked where her parent’s cars usually were was a shiny, old looking motorcycle with a round sidecar attached. The bike looked like it was in perfect condition, despite also appearing as though it was made in the forties. She could feel the magic buzzing all around the motorcycle, and couldn’t help but put her hand out and run her fingers over the rounded fenders above the wheels.

“Fancy, isn’t it? It’s Harry’s. Well it was Sirius Black’s, Then Hagrid’s, then my dad got a hold of it and tweaked it a bit, then it was Hagrid’s again…and now it’s Harry’s. I’m sure James already has his eye on it, but I asked Harry to borrow it for now. Thought we could travel in style!” Ron said, smiling brightly. He shrunk down their things and put it in the small case behind the seat.

Now, Rose was smiling for real. The prospect of taking a motorcycle out in the early morning with her dad was such a delicious escape that she could feel the weight already lifting from her. She just hoped he didn’t make her talk too much about what’s been happening at school. She couldn’t face disappointing him any further than her sullen attitude already was.

They took off from their quiet suburban street and headed toward the countryside. The moment they were out of the city, her father looked over at her, grinned, and pulled a lever. Rose shouldn’t have been surprised that the bike could fly, but she found herself trying to catch her breath as they soared through the sky. She wanted to laugh and scream and cry all at once against the maddening rush of cool, cloudy air. She felt free and a little more fearless in this circular sidecar next to her dad.

The landed an hour later in a dense forest. She could not see a single light or house anywhere, and the prospect of seclusion seemed brilliant to her. She was suddenly mournful that she hadn’t thought to pack her broom. Rose hadn’t ridden her broom in ages, but out in the forest, the thought was creeping up on her and seeming appealing again.

After her father set up the tent and lit the fire, they went about getting dinner together. He was very excited to be using the hot dog roasting sticks that he had bought at a Muggle camping store, and Rose had to laugh as he explained to her how a toasty worked. His excitement over it all was charming and put her at ease.

While she was munching on her hot dog, doused with mustard the way she liked it, she caught her dad looking at a rock in their clearing with a haunted expression on his face. It wasn’t a remarkable stone, but it bore burn marks as though some sort of magical battle was fought there. Her curiosity piqued.

“Dad? Where are we at exactly?”

Ron cleared his throat and took a second before answering. “We’re in the forest of Dean, love.”

“Have you been here before?”

“Yeah…yeah. I was here once,” he shook his head and shed the dark look from his face. “Hey! Let’s go on a hike. There’s a pond just over head, and I’m curious to see if it’s more beautiful when it’s not frozen over.”

After a relaxing swim and a nap on the shore, her dad made them a dinner of toasted cheese sandwiches and crisps. He also reluctantly ate some carrots and asked her to do the same. She had a feeling her mum may have made him to that, but she found herself smiling as he took each bite with a sour look on his face.

“I left your mother once,” he said suddenly, throwing the carrots off to the side. His blue eyes were sharp as he looked at her, and Rose found herself speechless.

“But you and mum said that once you finally got around to it, you were inseparable.”

“This was before we got our act together, while we were fighting the war with Uncle Harry. Harry and I got into a big fight, Hermione stepped in, and I walked away from them and from the mission. I left them in the woods while I skulked away with my tail between my legs.”

Rose was speechless; she had no idea how to respond to her father’s confession. She had heard many tales about the war, from the hunt for the horcruxes to the story of Teddy’s parents, but she had never heard about this. Her father’s shame was etched across his face.

“You remember us telling you about the horcruxes?”

“Yeah, dad, don’t remind me.”

“Well, there was one. The first one we had to destroy. It was a locket, and while we were in hiding we all took turns wearing it. When I wore it, it would make all of the awful thoughts in my head come to the surface, all of my fears would magnify. I was convinced your mother would never love me and that she would choose Uncle Harry because…” He paused long enough for Rose to interrupt.

“Uncle Harry? What?”

“I was being poisoned by my own thoughts. What I did, leaving them, it still haunts me. I can still hear Hermione screaming for me to come back.”

Her father got up and walked over to the charred up rock, running his hands over it lightly. He clenched his fists and turned his back from her for a moment. Rose got up from her spot by the fire and reached out for her dad, trying to figure out a way to comfort something she didn’t really understand.

“But you did come back. I remember that much about the stories to know you were there at the end.”

“Yes, I came back. I followed them in the forest until finally Harry broke away from the concealing spells. I’ll tell you how I found them, but that’s a story for another day. Suffice it to say, I came back and faced all those weeks of dark thoughts in one terrifying moment.” He turned back to the rock, seeming to play out something in his mind.

“What did you do?”

“I took a sword and I fucking destroyed that locket! Even as it was mocking me, putting all of my thoughts out there for Harry to hear, I destroyed it. Nothing felt better, nothing felt more right than piercing the center of that thing and letting the evil drain from it.”

“But how? How could you stand something like that, playing with your head and eating away at your soul? How did you manage to destroy it?” Rose said, finding herself shaking.

“I just did. I thought of your mum, and of Harry, and I realized there were bigger things than me. If I was ever going to survive, Rose, I had to have faith in myself,” Her father turned to her, a soft look on his face.

Rose began earnestly sobbing. Her father saw right through her, like he knew all of her secrets, and the fear that he would hate her if he knew how much of a failure she was overwhelmed her. When she looked up, her dad was kneeling in front of her.

“You’re just like me. I can see it. You doubt yourself all of the time. But you have to understand, you’re amazing. And the more faith you have in yourself, the better things will be. I promise you that.” He said, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping the tears from her face.

“They cut my hair, dad! Someone told them, and they came at me at night and when I woke up it was gone! It’s been like this since third year. Something about me…they hate me!” She cried out, trying to push her dad away.

“Why didn’t you tell us? We could have helped you through this.”

“Because I promised you when I was little that I would always shine. How would you feel to know that I’m a freak at school? That I’m spit at and whispered about? You should see the things they write about me! You’d hate me,” she said desperately.

Seeing her dad look at her with watery eyes, hearing her fears exposed, Rose could see the error. Her parents loved her, her family cared, and she had turned away from everyone in fear. The thought added another layer to her own self-loathing.

“Look at me, Rosie,” Her dad whispered. She reluctantly lifted her head.

“You’ll always shine to me. You’re funny, you’re a damn good flier, and you have a heart that could rival your grandmother’s with its capacity to love. You never have to hide from me or your mum,” he said, pulling her close to him.

For the first time in ages, Rose felt safe.

***************

When all the debutantes desert you
And all the doorways are all closed
And all the harlequins have hurt you
I will be the one who loves you the most
I will be the one who loves you the most

Rose, Al, Andon and Trudy were gathered by the lake on a rare sunny April day when Headmistress McGonagall approached them. All four immediately stood up and brushed themselves off; worried they were getting in trouble (though for what was unclear). She cleared her throat, looking grave, and asked Al and Rose to join her in her office. Rose's heart pounded in her chest as Al's hand grabbed hers tightly.

When they arrived at the office, Rose saw Hugo and immediately ran to him. Lily was standing there, looking lost and afraid and Al walked over to her to wrap an arm around her shoulders. The Headmistress signaled for them to sit, expanding the chairs into one long sofa for the family to sit upon. Hugo cleared his throat.

"It's our dads isn’t' it?"

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Weasley. There was an incident while they were on an Auror mission. They are both in critical condition at St. Mungos." Rose thought that McGonagall had never looked nearly so emotional before.

"Please say that we can go and see them!" Lily piped up, clutching at her brother's side.

"That is my intention, yes. I'm just opening up a secure floo connection now," The Headmistress said, gesturing toward her fireplace.

The children took the floo one at a time and found all of their grandparents waiting for them at the other end. Even Rose's mother's parents were there, wringing their hands anxiously and looking a little out of place and lost among the sparking evidences of every day magic. Rose fell into Grandpa Granger's arms easily, holding tightly to something solid through her fear.

Grandma Weasley told them that their dads had gotten badly injured in a potions raid, and were both currently unconscious. Uncle Harry had suffered a head injury while her father was dealing with a curse that sliced across his spinal column. The outlook was good, as long as both men could wake up and their healing monitored. Rose felt only a slight relief at that news. She wanted to see her father, but the vast collection of teenagers and children in the waiting room were told to do just that…wait.

Rose sat in between Hugo and Al, resting her head on her brother's shoulder. While she was still taller than the thirteen year old boy, he had very broad shoulders and his biceps were already thickening. He looked like Uncle George but with their mother's hair. He was warm, and shaking with grief and Rose found a good spot to lay her head while they waited.

Sometime later, it could have been hours or minutes, her mother and Aunt Ginny came out looking tired and careworn.

"They are going to be okay. Ron's awake and Harry is starting to regain consciousness! You all will be able to see them soon," Aunt Ginny said, a smile cracking her exhausted features. Her mother came over to her and Hugo and pulled them into a tight hug. She was now smaller than both of them. She murmured words of comfort to them and smoothed over Rose's hair until the healers called her back into the room. Rose sat back down next to her Grandma Weasley.

"Hang in there, love," Grandma Weasley said, patting her lightly on the knee. "Your father is a strong man; he'll back to normal before you know it."

Rose didn't answer. It was hard to take comfort when she hadn't seen her father yet. She just nodded slightly and looked forward, grabbing her grandmother's hand.

"We need a distraction! Tell me all about boys you like," Her grandmother smiled and whispered in her ear conspiratorially. "And there's got to be at least one."

Rose blushed. She didn't want to divulge any information, but she was as grateful for the distraction it provided as she was nervous over spilling all of her hard kept secrets. Her grandmother seemed like the least likely person to torture her about her feelings.

"Okay well there is this one boy. He's Al's best friend, and I feel like he's my best friend too. I don't want to ruin our friendship, but he just…I don't know," she tried to find a poetic and mature way to finish her sentence, but she just ended up blushing even harder. Her grandmother smiled knowingly.

"I don't think I have to tell you that your parents were best friends before they got together, but in hindsight, one wonders if they'd ever been friends at all, or if they were always in love," she said happily.

"Don't get me started! I've heard the story enough times, Grandma."

"Well, I bet you didn't know that your grandfather and I were also best friends," Rose shook her head and she could have sworn her grandmother was blushing worse than she was. "Yep. We used to play pranks on each other all of the time. The day after a Hogsmeade visit was the worst, because we'd both fill our arms with stuff from Zonkos, and I'd wake up with exploding wands in my bed (though how he got them there I'll never know. And of course I would cover him in super sticky slime in retaliation. It was a great game, and always good for a laugh. But whatever you do, don't tell Uncle George we were such tricksters. We'd never hear the end of it!"

"Ha! I promise, Grandma. But what changed?"

"Well I had been feeling pretty differently about Arthur during our fifth year, and wanted to write him a letter telling him how I felt. I was never one to shy away from a challenge, I tell you what! So I mustered up the courage, and went to find my owl, when I saw that she already had a letter for me. It didn’t' look like Arthur's hand, but I held out hope," she took a breath and a sip of her tea before continuing.

"Well, it was a love letter from the Game Keeper, Ogg. I was scared, frightened, and refused to go out onto the grounds even to watch the Quidditch match. Imagine! Thinking that great old oaf was in love with me! Finally, headmaster Dipped called me into his office and told me that one of my roommates had found my letter. He called Ogg in there too!" Rose gasped, imagining the awful humiliation.

"Ogg was beside himself, swearing he didn't write it and begging to keep his job. I couldn’t' do anything but cry until suddenly someone was pounding madly on the Headmaster's door."

"I think I can see where this is going," Rose said, imagining her grandfather's face as he realized his prank had backfired.

"Well you're cleverer than me in that respect. Arthur came barging in and confessed to the whole great mess. Ogg sighed in relief, the headmaster laughed and gave Arthur two night's detention, and I was left crying outside of his office door."

"Oh grandma, I'm so sorry!"

"It was a might big heartbreak. I had hoped Arthur and I had turned a corner. He came over to comfort me, but I was having none of it. I spent five minutes telling him how much of an insensitive jerk he was treating a girl who loved him like that…"

Rose actually laughed despite their grave circumstances.

"Well, I won't tell you the rest. But you can understand how it all turned out."

"I don’t' know if I have the guts you have, Grandma."

"Sure you do! You're just like your father. You fear your ability to do something until you do it," She said matter of factly. "So when you finally bring your young man home, and I do mean when, go easy on your father's temperament. You have the same."

With those final and cryptic words, Molly Weasley rose to meet Rose's mother and aunt, and she was finally able to go in and see your father.

The tall and imposing figure Ron Weasley always cast was not diminished as he lay in bed like Rose feared it would. His long legs took up so much space that he still looked large even when lying down. He was shockingly motionless, but when her blue eyes met his, she saw all the life that bubbled in her father. As her and Hugo fell over his chest, she knew that things were going to be alright. As long as her family was together, the larger problems of her world seemed less significant.

***************

Rose Weasley was only a few months into her sixth year, and already her days were filled with promise. She had her small group of friends, including Andon, and even though she was nowhere near mustering up the courage to tell him how she felt, things were looking up. Rose Weasley, as it turned out, was a prodigy with potions.

Her Potions professor told her that she could do a summer internship in between this and her final year, and she was currently looking over the pamphlets. The prospect of being away from home for 4 weeks made her nervous, but the idea of her own little adventure trumped any nerves she had. She was excited to find something she loved as much as quidditch.

Rose felt like her and Andon were growing closer, and taking to heart what her grandmother told her last year, she was finally plucking up the courage to tell him how she felt. By the way he was around her, she was starting to hold out hope that he felt the same way. One night, at dinner she resolved to make her move.

"Andon, can I talk to you?" Rose asked, trying to keep her blush at bay.

"Sure, yeah. I needed to talk to you as well." She said, guiding her over to a darkened corner outside of the Great Hall, she shuddered at the feeling of his hand on the small of her back.

"You first." They had spoken simultaneously.

"I have a girlfriend," he smiled. Rose felt dizzy, but she tried to swallow it down.

"That's great, Andon!"

"It's Imelda Hall," he said, looking nervous. Rose began to speak up, but he cut her off. "Now she's really changed! She's grown up, and she's sorry for everything she did to you! Just give her a chance, will you?"

Rose had no choice. She realized he would never love her, so why would she care who he was with? Melly hadn't said a word to her this year, so Rose thought that maybe Andon could be right. She half-heartedly congratulated him before sulking off down the hall. She was glad she had homework to do, that way she could avoid seeing Melly's perfect hair, her perfect body, and her perfect face. She just didn't think she could handle knowing she'd never be good enough.

***************

After four weeks of Melly’s cooing and pawing at Andon, Rose didn’t even eat lunch in the Great Hall anymore. She couldn’t stomach the sight. Trudy joined her in the library most days, but she had her own boyfriend to spend time with. Al stuck by Andon like glue, and Rose suspected that he was trying to pick up tips.

Things only got worse when it was announced that there would be a Christmas Ball to commemorate Headmistress McGonagall’s retirement. Apparently, she had a passion for dancing, and the other professors thought this would be a fitting send off for her. Christmas was the perfect time because it didn’t interfere with OWLS and NEWTS.

Rose didn’t even want a dress. She didn’t want to go. She wanted to go home and sit by the fireplace, drink her father’s way- too- much –chocolate- that- it’s- no- longer- liquid cocoa, and waste away her holiday in peace in obscurity. It came as no surprise that irony decided to torture her, and her parents were invited to attend.

The ball seemed to whip everyone into a frenzy, even the first three years who weren’t allowed to attend were holding hands and giggling furtively at each other. Rose had just about enough, and withdrew even further from her classmates than she had in recent weeks. The abandoned classroom next to the Potion’s room was the perfect spot to prepare for her internship.

As Rose was walking out of the dungeons and making the long trip back to Gryffindor Tower, she heard a grunt and an angry ‘smack’ against the cold brick wall. She knew that sound well enough, her brother and father made it enough times during chess and while listening to the wireless. Someone was angry. Rose decided to go the other way.

“No, Imelda!” It was Andon, and he sounded somewhere near anguished.

“Just give me another chance!” Melly’s voice was sickly sweet, and it sounded grating against Rose’s ears.

“You were snogging Marks! I knew you hadn’t changed. I should have listened to Rose,” Andon said, but Rose felt no victory. He sounded so hurt that she just wanted to comfort her best friend. She had accepted that Andon could never love her, but in this moment Rose felt like a terrible friend for not standing by him anyway.

“That freak? I bet she snogs a picture of you every night!” Melly shouted. Rose slunk away; there was nothing she could do for Andon now.

When your suitors sneering swank beside you
And leave you hollow like a ghost
And you just want somebody to confide to
I will be the one who loves you the most
I will be the one who loves you the most

"Why in the world is there a bloody ball?" Ron said, tossing the invitations onto the table. He and Hermione had received beautiful pieces of parchment with their names inscribed on it that requested their attendance at a ball. Hogwarts was going to see Headmistress McGonagall off with a bang, and he remembered how fondly she smiled when she spoke of the Yule Ball.

"I expect because it hasn’t been done in a while, Ron," Hermione answered, not looking up from the letter she was writing.

"Well the last one was such a disaster, why would they want to do it again?"

"It was only a disaster for you and Harry. I, for one, had a lovely time," Hermione answered haughtily, calling pigwidgeon over to deliver a letter she had just sealed.

"Of course you did," Ron said, feigning grumpiness. Hermione looked up at him ready to argue, but she must have seen the smirk on his face, because she smiled in answer. "All that fun with Vicky…I'm sure you and Vicky still chat on a regular basis about how wonderful that ball was."

Ron prowled toward her side of the kitchen table. He grabbed Hermione and she squealed as he picked her up from her chair. Instead of fighting his show of force, she wrapped her legs around his waist, throwing her head back and laughing. He bit at her neck lightly before carrying her over into the living room and throwing her down on the couch.

Sometime later, lying on an old quilt in the sun of their picture window, Pig came back, so excited by a job well done that he was unaffected by his owner's naked state. He dropped a letter right on Hermione's chest and nestled himself on their window sill to watch her read it. Ron recognized Hugo's handwriting and tried to read over her shoulder.

"What is he doing up this early on a Saturday?" Ron asked. "And how did he write back so fast?"

"Hugo is nothing if not prompt, a trait he doesn’t get from his father."

"Duly noted…What does he say?"

"Well, he is already very excited for the dance. Apparently he wants to wear a suit from George's shop. I swear, he is asking for trouble," Hermione said, scanning the letter. Ron was excited about the idea of picking a modified suit from George and even adding a few more things to entertain dance goers. He was suddenly happier about attending the ball.

"Is Rosie as excited? I don't know if I am going to be able to tolerate a bunch of randy little tossers pawing at my daughter," Ron said, horrified.

"Hugo says she's not going…" Hermione sighed. "I thought things were better."

"I thought so too."

Ron's relief about Rose not going to the ball was overshadowed by his worry behind the reasons. He was certain that life had improved for her, and his stomach sank at the notion that she may have been hiding her hurt from him again. He resolved to spend his evening with her while they were at Hogwarts. He wanted to get to the bottom of why she wasn't going to the party, but there was an added bonus of not having to make an arse of himself on the dance floor.

Later that day, Hermione had Hugo's measurements and they were on their way to Diagon Alley to pick up supplies for the ball, which was only two weeks away. Ron wasn't looking forward to a fitting of formal dress robes at Madame Malkin's, but Hermione insisted. She was right, his old robes were very out of style and ragged looking, but that didn’t make the task any less boring.
Hermione sent him over to Weasley Wizard Wheezes while she was fitted, saying hers was going to take a bit longer anyway. She needed to find the perfect fabric to offset her hair or some barmy nonsense.

Roxanne was working behind the counter, learning the tricks of the trade to one day take over the Hogsmeade shop for her father. She looked up at Ron and smiled, fishing the suit they had set aside for Hugo from a rack behind her. The vibrant purple hurt his eyes and made him grin.

"Uncle Ron, this is the most incredible suit Dad has made, I swear it! I wish I could go to the ball just to see Hugo in it!" Roxanne said, draping the purple concoction across the sales counter. She quickly pointed out the spinning tie, complete with the Non Burning Weasley Wizard Wheezes Whiz-bang Wonders that shot of from the knot, the animated sign on the back that would read things like "Back off She's Mine," with the flick of a wand, and finally the automatic awesome dancer shoes which would give the wearer "moves like you would only find with the world's premier rug-cutters." Ron was absolutely thrilled he'd be able to watch Hugo in action in this perfect suit.

"Roxy, your dad's outdone himself again. Where is he?" Ron asked as she took Hugo's measurements and made the necessary adjustments.

"He's in the potion room. He says you can't go in there, and I wouldn't if I were you. There have been weird smells and loud noises coming from that room all morning," She said, looking warily at the door. Ron just nodded. After working with George for two years when he was younger, he understood all too well never to interrupt the evil genius in that state.

"Is Rose going to the ball?" Roxanne asked casually.

"No, she reckons she's just going to stick it out in her dorm. She doesn't fancy dancing," Ron made up a lie, because he didn't have a very clear reason why Rose wasn't going in the first place. Roxanne looked troubled at the news.

"I thought…oh…um…never mind."

"Would this have more to do with her tormenters than she is letting on?" Ron asked, worried about the answer.

"I don’t know. She hasn't written me in ages. Her last letter seemed happy enough, but she did mention that Andon was dating Melanie," Rose said, attempting to look busy all of a sudden.

"Andon is one of her best friends, but who's Imelda?"

"Well, she's one of the Gryffindor roommates."

"The one that has been torturing my daughter for most of her educational life?" Ron said, leaning against the counter to try to get Roxanne to make eye contact.

"The very same," she finally answered sadly.

Ron's heart broke a little for Rose. He couldn’t imagine if one of his best friends would have suddenly begun dating Malfoy or something. To top it off, What Rose had endured for years was worse than any school yard bullying Ron suffered at the hands of that blonde ponce. He hoped she was okay, and made a point to make her evening perfect even if she wasn’t going to the ball. Ron thanked Roxanne, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and made his way back to Madame Malkins.

When he walked into the robe store, he saw no sign of Hermione. He went to turn around and walk right back out, purposely forgetting his dress robes, when he was struck by something golden yellow in the window. There was a set of dress robes on a stand in the side window of the shop that caught the light of the sun so perfectly that it seemed to shine. He immediately thought of Rose, and reached out to run his fingers over the fabric.

It was a long set of dress robes, and the material was some sort of see through shimmery yellow that was layered to cancel out the opaqueness. The layers on the bottom made it flow, and look like waves. The fabric was spelled to flutter around the bottom of the stand, and Ron thought about the light, quick way his tall and lanky daughter moved. He pictured her feet dancing across the Great Hall, peeking out from beneath these yellow robes, and he couldn't help but smile.

The top of the robes had straps that Ron immediately thought were far too thin, but knew that most girls wore things like that. There was a strip of sheer red and orange around the middle that wound down into the skirt part piece like a flame. The flower on the right strap looked more like a fire than a plant. Ron thought of their camping trip, and then of his little girl twirling in the sun, and he couldn't help himself. This dress was Rose's dress, and even if she refused to take her broken heart to the ball, someday she would wear the dress and know how perfect she really was.

Ron jingled the gold in his pocket, thought of the deposit he was about to make at Gringott's, and knew he could afford it. He asked the sales clerk to get the dress robes down for him, and reluctantly also gave his name to pick up his own robes. When the pieces were in a safe container, he paid. He turned to find his wife staring at him with misty eyes.

"It's beautiful. It's perfect for her," She whispered. She had on a pair of flawless blue robes stuck with pins as Madame Malkin herself fussed with Hermione in the middle of the sales floor.

"Just in case, y'know?" Ron said, blushing slightly under her gaze.

"I know. I brought her measurements with me," Hermione said, holding out a small bit of parchment. He kissed her on the forehead and exited the store before she decided he needed a second set of robes or something.

Hermione had the perfect pair of shoes, something vintage by someone whose name Ron couldn't pronounce. She magically altered them. Then, she shrunk down Rose's dress and Hugo's suit, putting them in miniature boxes that could be carried by Pig. Ron felt the dress needed an explanation, so he spent the rest of that Saturday afternoon in his study, trying to figure out what to say to Rose. By dinner time, he had a version that was passable, and tucked it inside the tiny box.

Rose,
I know you're not going to the ball, but on the off chance you may change your mind, here is something to get you there. Listen, I know that the world is against you, and I understand that your school years have been painful…trust me, I do. But I also know who you are. You glow. You're so driven and clever, and you are kind to a point that is almost unimaginable. I told you to hold your head up high, and if that means not going to the dance, then you'll just have to let me beat you at chess in the common room.
But…well…I think that you would look amazing dancing in this, and that is the best revenge: proving to them that nothing they can do will affect you.
Save me a dance, or save me a game. I'll see you in a week.
Dad

With that, Ron sent off the packages with Pig and hoped that he wasn't pressuring Rose, but that she might feel like the choice was hers instead of out of her control.

***************

Rose sat on her bed, alone in Gryffindor Tower, and pulled a long box out of her trunk. She disguised it as a broom box, just in case her roommates would see what she had and do something vicious to her. She pulled out the long, fiery dress robes and laid them on her bed, setting the shoes next to it. She sat in a chair and gazed at the dress robes, tears falling down her face. She was so uncertain and frustrated that she was actually weeping.

Her parents had come up and said that they had arrived. Her dad said they had to go down and grease a few palms, but he would escape as soon as he could and play chess all night. She tried to read his face for disappointment, waited for any mention of the dress robes, but he just smiled at her warmly and led her mother and a glowing, flashing Hugo out of the common room.

Now Rose sat, having a nearly literal fight with the beautiful piece of clothing and hating her own cowardice. If she were honest with herself, she longed to go to the dance. She wanted to twirl and spin in front of everyone and show them just how unbruised she was. She wanted to feel powerful and beautiful. She could have a perfect night; she knew she had it in her.

Rushing over to her bureau, she pulled out a shining amber jeweled hair clip. She spelled her wig into an elegant twist, the way her mother had shown her for special occasions, and curled little ringlets to fall. She powdered her face to take away some of the nervous shine, but left her freckles there for everyone to see. If she was going down, she was going down as Rose Weasley…not one of Them. Finally, when she had put on her favorite bra and panty set, she walked over to the mirror. She ran her hands over her flat stomach, around her only slightly rounded hips, and up her long arms. She was still skinny, but she was looking at a woman, and she tried to embrace that notion as much as she could.

She slipped on the dress over her head, snapped the shoes in place, and deliberately ignored the mirror as she made her way out of her dorm. She wanted to enter the arena with her head high, and fight off the lions with everything she had. A mirror would only make her doubt her own bravado, and she needed all of it just to make it down the steps.

Rose paused at the entrance of The Great Hall and gasped. The entire room had been changed to not only reflect the ancient beauty of the Scottish castle, but was also covered in thistle, heather and lavender floral arrangements. There were tartan cloths over the tables, and natural candles hung from the ceiling. Everything gave off a natural, ancient air. It looked like the medieval castle that Hogwarts had once been, and it was gorgeous. Professor McGonagall was being honored in the exact way that would suit her, and Rose couldn't help but smile.

She didn't realize she walked into the room until she caught a few curious if slightly gawking glances her way. Her heart began to race, but she just smiled and looked around for someone familiar. She saw her parents deep in conversation with Professor Longbottom. Her mother lifted her head and caught Rose's gaze. There was such a warm, inviting answering expression on her face that Rose rushed over to hug her mother. She didn't realize how much she missed her mother when she was at school.

As he made her way over to her parents, her father turned around, beamed at her, and swept her up in a quick hug. "I wouldn't want to embarrass you, Rosie, having your old fart father taking up all of your attention."

"Oh Viktor! I didn’t know you were going to be here!" Her mother exclaimed. Rose perked her head up to see Andon and his father standing next to Professor Longbottom.

"Hello Hermione. I believe you are familiar with my son, Andon? Are our children not friends?" Mr. Krum said, gesturing toward Andon.

Andon didn’t acknowledge the introduction, and the chattering words slowly faded into the background as she locked eyes with her long time friend. His dark gaze penetrated her, and Rose felt chills go down to the soles of her feet. He offered his hand wordlessly, and she took it as if it was the only possible thing she could have done, above thinking and breathing.

"Andon Krum?" She heard her father say, confused as she floated with Andon into the center of the dance floor.

Before she knew it, Andon's large hand was on the small of her back, and the other one was wrapped around her long, pale fingers. She finally took a deep breath just as he swung her around another dramatic curve. The music was undetectable as her heart pounded in her ears. All that time of quiet longing and resignation seemed to burst out of her, and she pressed her body closer to his. Andon breathed in and pulled her tighter.

"You look astounding," he whispered in her ear. "I've wanted to hold you like this for months."

"Months?" Was all Rose's dry mouth could manage. He delicately kissed her cheek and spun her around again.

The crowd wasn't there. The music wasn't playing. They weren't in the Great Hall. She was in a universe that consisted only of her and Andon. She knew him, she knew his heart, and it wasn't this dress that was pulling him toward her. He wanted her; she could feel his affection in every bend of his hand and breathe from his lips. She hoped give her the first kiss that she never thought would happen.

Suddenly, there was a loud scream and a bang. Rose looked up to see Melly, her hair coming undone, and her new dress robes disheveled. Her wand was pointed at Rose. Andon pulled her in more tightly.

"You bald lying backstabbing nasty little cunt!" She shouted. With a flick of her wand, every single stitch of Rose's clothing flew off of her. The breeze on her head indicated she was completely uncovered. Before anyone could so much as move, Rose flew out of the room, grabbing a tartan tablecloth, heedless of the breaking glass she left behind. All she heard was cackling laughter.

She ran with the tartan cloth wrapped around her until the cold of the stone floor had made her bare feet sting. She collapsed into the first empty classroom she could find, holding her herself and sobbing on the floor near an unused fireplace. She wanted to die, and couldn't imagine how her soul could recover from the blow.

She was embarrassed about being nude in front of the whole school, certainly, but what really terrified her was that everyone knew her secret. Sure, she was done with school for her sixth year, but what would happen when she came back for seventh year? Rose tried to imagine getting a private tutor and taking her N.E.W.T.S early, but she was worried about how her career prospects would measure up if she left Hogwarts.

Her head spun with visions of Andon. She didn't see his face when she was cursed, but she didn’t have to. Even someone as kind and good as him could never be attracted to a woman with no hair. She clawed at her skull until she actually hurt herself and broke the skin. Then, she fell to the floor and cried.

She felt the cooling of a healing charm on her head and looked up to see her father standing over her, holding the dress he had bought her and looking so concerned that she couldn’t help but cry harder. He knelt down to her and took her into his arms like she wasn't nearly six feet tall, but the little girl he had grown his hair out for. She clung on to his robes like she would drown without him.

"In front of everyone, dad. .They all know!" She managed through the tightness in her throat.

"So what if they do?" He said, sounding harsh and determined. "Are you any different? Are you any less a person?"

"No. I know I'm not."

"Then what are you worried about. You can handle anything that comes your way. You're a Weasley," he smiled, brushing her tears from her face.

"I can't…I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize to me, Rose Weasley! It's my job to always care about you no matter what. You couldn't do anything that would make me love you less. I am your father; I'm supposed to protect you. I'm supposed to make you feel safe," He said, clenching his fists.

"And you do, but they are just so cruel. I can't handle it anymore. I tried so hard after that camping trip, but this…how is he going to love me now?" Rose asked, not even caring if her father knew the details of her absent romantic life at this point.

She looked up to see comprehension dawn on him. "You continue being who you are, and he will. I saw the way he was looking at you…trust me, it made me want to hide you back in the tower."

"But he knows now," she said, the sad thought notwithstanding, she finally felt good enough to rise up. She took her wand and fashioned her tablecloth into a robe.

"No, Rosie. Put the dress back on. We'll go home now, start vacation early. But you're going to walk out with your head held high. I know you have it in you," he said, thrusting the yellow robes back into her hands.

"What about mum?"

"Oh, your mother is raining vengeance down on that crazy little bint. She'll be occupied with motherly rage and that temper of hers for hours," Her father smiled as he stepped out of the room and shut the door.

The thought of her mother, hands on her hips and hair wild in all directions, bringing down her wrath on Melly was enough to cause Rose to get up and put her dress on. She walked over to the dusty mirror in the corner of the classroom and spelled away the grime. She forced herself to face her reflection, and what she found there was unexpected.

She saw a beautiful, glowing woman, standing tall and narrow, with shining blue eyes and pale skin. She saw her bald head, but didn't hate it. She saw her bony frame, but embraced it. Rose looked at herself and saw the Real Rose. It wasn’t a reality based upon viewing her bare scalp. This Real Rose was looking back at her because she knew herself. For years she had been lost in this fog of uncertainty, barely gaining moments of clarity. But as she addressed her form in its rawness, she was aware that however painful things had gotten, she survived and thrived.

She stepped out the door and took her father’s arm. They walked in front of the double doors of the Great Hall, smirking slightly at the sound of her mother's yelling echoing from the headmistress' office. Her father opened the door for her, and she stepped out onto the grounds. She spread her arms out, faced the setting sun, and breathed in.

Rose and her father shared two fingers of firewhiskey and a chicken sandwich before her mother and Hugo showed up in their kitchen, red faced and accomplished.

"She is not being expelled, because I just can't…but since she is of age, I have brought about formal charges. I'll be handling this vile little girl's case in The Ministry," Her mother said, sitting down and taking a shot her father had offered without being asked. "How are you?"

"I'm honestly okay, mum. I will be…" She said, taking her mother's hand for a moment.

"Oh man, Rose. You should have seen Andon. The moment someone started laughing he threatened them…with his fists! I have never seen him lose his cool like that!" Hugo said, reaching for the firewhiskey. Ron took it away before he could get a good grip, and he pouted in mock indignation.

"He what?" Rose said, shocked that Andon wasn't hiding in embarrassment for being seen with her.

"Yeah. He went with Al to look for you, but Dad found you first. Don’t know where he got to after that," Hugo said, winking at her and spinning his tie. Tiny sparks fell around her in vibrant colors, and Rose smiled. "Nice look by the way."

The whiskey had made Rose feel tired, not to mention the serious amount of crying she had done that night. She got up, bowed to Hugo, and then floated up to her room like a haughty princess, the laughter of her family echoing behind her. She slept that night more soundly than she had in ages, not caring about the horrors of tomorrow. None of it seemed so horrible any more.

When Rose woke up the next morning and went down for breakfast still in her pajamas, the house seemed empty. It was a Saturday morning, so she assumed everyone was still sleeping. An explosion and raucous laughter suddenly erupted from Hugo's room, and she knew that Fred was already over and working on singlehandedly destroying everything they owned. She summoned the short, colored wig that Teddy had made her and settled it on her head before fixing some tea and toast and going onto the front porch.

"I like it. The color goes well with your eyes," Andon said, causing Rose to jump and drop her teacup. He immediately waved his wand to repair the broken china.

"Yeah…um…thanks," Was all she could manage to murmur as she avoided his gaze.

"Rose, I-"

"What are you doing here?"

She couldn't help but wait for the other shoe to fall. Even if she had a new perspective, she was still wounded and heartbroken. She didn't know what another break would do. There was a long and awkward silence.

"I wanted to continue our dance," He finally whispered. He stood up and took the cup from her hand, setting it down. This time, he wrapped both of arms around her waist and pulled her tightly against his chest. "I'm so sorry."

"What for?"

"For being with her…for not paying more attention to what she could do…for not telling you how I felt years ago." He said, his eyes never leaving hers even as his face got red.

"Years?" Rose had to bit her lips to keep from pulling his against her.

"Can I see you?" He asked shyly.

"Yes," she said, finding it an odd question. Of course they could date.

"No, I mean," he traced his fingers along the hairline of her wig and Rose shuddered. She panicked. She didn't want to scare him off. She didn't want him to see her up close in such a vulnerable way. She clenched her fists and breathed deeply. She didn’t want to hide, didn’t want to be scared any longer.

She cast the spell to loosen her wig and slid it off of her head.

See, when you forgive your imperfections
And you’ve auctioned all your clothes
And look to see your true reflection
You will be the one who loves you the most

Ron threw the last gnome out of the garden and walked toward the front of the house. He didn’t want Hermione to throw a fit about him tracking mud, so he opted to leave his boots on the front porch. He needed a day off in the sun, and having his kids back home proved to be the perfect excuse. As he rounded the corner he heard his daughter's delicate sniffles and his heart sank.

He looked up on the porch to see her friend Andon holding her closely as her shoulders shook. The young wizard was kissing long the crown of Rose's exposed head; her wig lay forgotten on the wooden floor. He whispered 'You're beautiful' in her ear and continued to press his lips to her pale skin. Ron bit his lip and moved to back away. The movement caused Andon to look up, but Ron pressed his fingers to his lips and backed away.

He wanted to run back out there and tell them to separate or feel his wrath, but Ron just trudged to the back of the house. He put his boots in the grass, took off his shoes and socks, and felt the grass against his feet. In a few years, his house would be empty, devoid of the noise of his wild and brilliant children. He decided that the snogging on the front porch and the odd explosions from upstairs were just fine with him. He leaned against the house and tried to get in a nap before Hugo and Fred burned the place down.


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