Title: Go the Distance
Author: hull1984
Pairing: Ron/Draco, Ron/Hermione (minor)
Rating: PG13
Genre: Mystery, Angst, Humour
Warnings: None
Word Count: 26,500

Summary: Over the past couple of decades, Ron had grown to hate his mother’s kitchen table. Every empty seat, every absent face was a bitter reminder of what had been lost. Sunday lunch at The Burrow had become a hideous mockery of the once loud, happy affair it had used to be, now it was a penance, a thing to be dreaded and got through as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Fred's death has had a devastating and lasting effect on those that had loved him. Ron doesn't know how to make things right. Until he hears a voice...

Author's Note: This is based on the film Field of Dreams and is my attempt to deal with the aftermath of Fred's death. I originally set out to write a Ron/Draco fic but it quickly became much more a story about Ron and Harry's friendship. The Ron/Draco story is told mostly in the form of flashbacks which are marked by //+italics.

I'd like to thank some people. First off the mods who have done such a fantastic job running this first Ron Big Bang. Also alwayswithabook and harpsiccord who offered their beta service. Although RL meant that neither of them were able to follow through with their offers, I still really appreciate that they offered in the first place. Most of all I would like to say a huge thank you to softobsidian74 who came forward at the eleventh hour to help me out. With a week to deadline, 20,000 words in and not one word of feedback, it would be fair to say I was in full panic mode. Then Soft stepped up and not only did a great beta job but her kind words and encouragement gave me the boost I needed to finish this. Thank you, Soft, you really are a star.

Finally, thank you to the amazingly talented glockgal who created the art for this story. I love everything about it. You totally exceeded any expectations I may have had and I'm really looking forward to seeing your wonderful piece posted. Thank you!


Title: "On the Pitch"
Artist: glockgal
Pairing: Ron/Draco
Rating: all ages
Media: photoshop
Artist’s Notes: OMG this brought back so many fond memories of the
'fire and ice' pairing!



Ron first hears The Voice in a dream.

Brushing the wetness from his eyes, he slowly gets out of bed. He knows Hermione has already been up soothing one of Rose’s own bad dreams, so he’s careful not to wake her. Grabbing his robe from the end of the bed, he quietly opens the bedroom door and slips from the darkened room.

A little while later he’s downstairs, sitting at the dining room table, sipping coffee and trying not to remember. Alone, in a room full of shadows and too much quiet, he quarrels with the dream and thoughts of his dead brother.

These are the worst times, when not even sleep can keep the memories at bay. He’ll try, for Hermione’s sake, but he knows this oppressive feeling will plague him for days now. It always does.

He thinks of his children sleeping upstairs in their room. If he focuses on them it helps somehow; knowing Fred and the others hadn’t died in vain, that the peace that they’d fought and died for had lasted, had proven after all to be something worth their sacrifice.

It hadn’t always been so.

Once, he’d found his comfort in another place.



//Malfoy had somehow managed to worm his hands under Ron’s shirt and his sharp nails scraped across Ron’s back. Ron hissed in pain.

“Shut it, Weasley. Or do you want me to stop?”

Ron bit down hard on his lip.//



Ron laid in bed and stared up at the ceiling. He’d glanced at the clock earlier, so knew it was still a few hours before he needed to get up for work. He was trying to avoid thinking; thinking about The Voice and what it could mean (oh yeah, and that was another thing - when exactly had he started thinking of it in capital letters and italics?).

If you build it, he will come.

Build what? And who would come?

He sighed and knuckled tiredly at his eyes. Clearly the avoiding thing wasn’t working out too well. To be honest, he was starting to feel like he was going mental. This was the third night that he’d lain there, in the dark, wrestling with that annoying bloody voice. A voice that sounded so familiar -- and yet, not familiar at all.

He should probably tell someone. Merlin knows, he needed to tell someone, tell them all about the crazy that was currently his life. Then maybe he could get some sleep. The problem was who? Who could he tell?

Just then, Hermione shifted next to him and mumbled something in her sleep, and Ron was hit by a sudden wave of guilt. Hermione. He should tell Hermione. Yeah, he should probably tell his wife. Right? Surely he could trust Hermione with this? Except, Merlin help him, he didn’t. Or couldn’t. They just didn’t have that sort of relationship. They never had, which was pretty weird and a little sad now that he thought about it.

You’d think after fifteen years of marriage that he’d finally trust her with his secrets. But of course he couldn’t. Secrets were something he had because of Hermione, not just in spite of her. He didn’t really know if it was the same for all couples. His parents had always seemed to have nothing between them.

Ron sighed and tried to will the next thought away. He failed miserably.

Until Fred.

There’d been nothing between his parents until Fred.

Now they had that. That terrible wall of silence and grief between them. But then Fred’s death had pretty much silenced them all. And none more so than his twin.

Ron closed his eyes, trying to ignore the burn behind the lids. He hated thinking of George now. George who had once been so alive, tipped to the brim with life. George, his favourite if the truth was known. He’d loved them both, but George was George, and just had a way of making every thing okay. Or at least he had.

George wasn’t quite George after Fred died.

At least that’s what everybody said.

It made Ron want to do irrational things like hit someone, or maybe scream for a long, long time. The truth was George was so George after Fred died that it hurt to be in the same room with him. It made Ron angry that the others couldn’t see that; couldn’t seem to see what was right in front of their eyes, the true abomination of it all.

It wasn’t that George wasn't George anymore, but that he wasn’t George and Fred anymore.

Ron really didn’t know how to say it any better, didn’t have the words. George was just less somehow, without Fred he’d become worn, thinned out. And he seemed to diminish a little more each day. Ron lived with the constant fear that one day George would fade away, just disappear like Fred. And how would Ron find the words for his parents then? Words for George, when he was still looking for the words for Fred.

Loud, obnoxious, annoying Fred. Who still came to him in dreams.

The silly git had done that at the start too. In those first awful months when every day was a place Ron didn’t want to be. When sleep came but only at a cost.

Then Fred had been playful, happy, his big brother. And so, so painfully Fred. Ron would wake full of laughter, of Quidditch games behind The Burrow, of old pranks gone wrong, of teasing and taunts.

And above all of Fred.

Alive.

Only to open his eyes to find the awful, obscene truth looking back at him.

Of course, back then there’d been arms there, quick to pull Ron close. To hold him through the worst of the tremors and then, when the tears had stopped, soft lips and gentle, knowing hands, bringing comfort and warmth in their wake.

Well, several things had changed since then.

The dreams.

Fred.

And that warmth.

Ron couldn’t help but feel that if he could just sort out one of those things then maybe, just maybe, he’d be getting somewhere.

After twenty years he thought perhaps it was time.



//Ron sat at the back. He knew Hermione would give him hell for it later but right now he really didn’t give a shit. There was no way he was sitting up near the cof-- Fred. He didn’t want to sit anywhere where he’d be able to see that.

He was an idiot. A grade A fucking idiot.

Because who forgets about the coffin?

He felt so stupid. It’s not like it hadn’t been discussed. He was meant to be a bloody pallbearer for fucks sake, what did he think he’d be carrying?

And yet, when the carriage had pulled up and they’d lifted it out, it had suddenly hit Ron like a hex to the gut.

He couldn’t do it. He hadn’t even been able to move. As the others stepped forward to lift their brother and friend, Ron had stood frozen in horror. Harry, of course, had seen it, been the first to realise and he’d walked quickly to Ron’s side.

“It’s okay, Ron,” he’d spoken softly in Ron’s ear. “You don’t have to. I’ll do it.” And with a last squeeze of Ron’s arm, Harry had joined Ron’s brothers and Lee, to heft their burden on to their shoulders and move forward.

Ron still hadn’t been able to make himself move. He hadn’t really seen the other people there, was only vaguely conscious of the crowds moving past him into The Great Hall. No one stopped to speak to him and he was just aware enough to be grateful for that.

By the time he became sensible of his surroundings again, he was alone. He took a shaky breath that really didn’t help at all. Leaning over he vomited violently, bile burning his throat and tears burning his eyes. He stood back up and wiped a shaking hand across his mouth. Taking his wand out he whispered a cleaning charm to quickly clear up his mess. Running both his hands through his hair, he fought back the sob that was battling its way out and forced his legs to move. Ignoring the turned heads and pitying looks, he quietly took his place in the back row.

~~~

It was late. Ron couldn’t even see the goal posts anymore. But kept on flying back and forth between where he knew they were. It had started to rain at some point and he was soaked through, water streaming down his face, dripping off his hair. He didn’t notice.

He thought he might have heard someone call his name earlier. Or it could have been the wind.

Ron paused before turning to fly back the other way. A movement below caught his eye. A figure was walking slowly across the field. Ron sighed and closed his eyes. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? He pulled on his broom and flew upwards. Maybe they’d take the hint.

Ron was heading back towards the furthest set of goal posts when he heard the voice.

“Weasley cannot save a thing. He cannot block a single ring.”

He stopped dead in the air. The voice was moving closer.

“That’s why Slytherins all sing. Weasley is our king.”

Ron peered into the gloom and gradually his eyes began to make out a shape flying slowly towards him. He already knew the voice, so the blond hair and mocking sneer came as no surprise.

“Useless as ever, Weasley. No opponents and you’re still a loser.”

Malfoy reached out to take hold of Ron’s hand. Ron let him. Malfoy pulled him gently forwards and Ron went. As Malfoy drew him close, hand in his hair, something broke. And Ron cried, choked sobs into Malfoy’s shoulder, the hand on his neck and lips at his temple, the only warmth on his otherwise freezing body.//



Harry frowned across the table. Ron looked awful; dark rings shadowed his eyes and he had that distant look again, as if his thoughts were a million miles, a million years away. Harry understood why Hermione was concerned. What he didn’t understand was what she expected him to do about it.

Sighing loudly, he looked around the dimly lit pub and once again wondered what on earth he was doing here. If Hermione thought Ron had the emotional range of a teaspoon, then she was in for a hell of a shock with Harry. Expecting the two of them to discuss feelings and…stuff. Well. It wasn’t going to be pretty.

Rubbing sweaty hands along his jean-clad thighs, Harry took a moment to consider his next words, then with one last deep breath, he set his mind to the task at hand.

“Ron, you all right, mate?”

Ron took a long moment to respond. Then, with narrowed eyes, as if he was seeing Harry for the first time, he mumbled, “Huh?”

Harry shook his head. If Hermione ever came near his door again he was going to Stupefy her, and then, very carefully dispose of the body.



It really, really hadn’t been pretty. And, after three embarrassingly awful minutes, Harry had been forced to admit defeat and come clean. Feeling all of twelve years old again, he’d confessed to Ron about Hermione’s earlier visit, and her ardent promise to make Harry's life unbearable if he didn’t find out what was wrong with her husband.

He and Ron had spent the next few seconds considering exactly what Hermione’s idea of ‘unbearable’ might encompass, before turning to each other with wide, horrified eyes.

“Drink?” Harry had asked, and Ron had nodded frantically in approval.

Once armed with a bottle of Firewhiskey, they’d Disapparated back to Harry’s house (Ginny and the kids had been spending the night at The Burrow).

The hours that followed had been bleak. Harry and Ron had talked through the night - well, Ron had talked, Harry had listened - all the while absently passing the bottle back and forth between them. And between the snap of the seal breaking, and the hollow echo of the empty bottle as it hit the table top one last time, Harry had learned a lot.

More than he was comfortable with if he was honest. More than he’d wanted. And certainly more than he would ever share with Hermione (or Ginny for that matter).

The first thing he’d learnt was how it felt to lose a brother. To lose two.

Helplessly, Harry had listened to the words tumbling from his friend’s bitter mouth. Words that told of watching as a brother was lowered into the earth in a hard, wooden box. Quiet, desperate words that told of the pain-filled years after. Years spent standing by, watching still, as another brother died in front of you, piecemeal, every day. Watching, as the unbearable grief smothered one, just as surely as the dark, rich soil had smothered the other.

In a voice barely above a whisper, Ron had taught Harry a new lesson then. Something about how it felt to watch your parents age in a day. Something about the pain of watching every day as your mother set one place too many at the table; watching as your father quietly cleared her mistake away, never speaking of it.

Watching, as your family home became nothing more than a house. A hollow, empty, filled with people house.

Watching. Watching. Always watching. And, never knowing what to say, what to do.

The shadows in the room had gone from black to grey by then, and as the first breath of day ghosted across the window, Ron had closed his eyes and shared with Harry his final lesson.

Harry had known about Malfoy, of course. Known, and while he’d never entirely understood it, he’d understood something of Ron’s need back then and that had been enough. So, he’d turned the occasional blind-eye and even created a distraction or two when the need had arisen. And he and Ron had never spoken of it.

But that night, Harry had been taught something more; he’d been taught something of the why. The why of the start and the why of the end. And a little of all the whys in between. He’d been taught about guilt and responsibility. Of failing and missing. The regret of words never spoken. Of need and of want.

By the end of the night, by the end of it all, Harry had been tired and sad, and just holding on to his best friend.

And for the first time in a very long time, Harry had thought that maybe he’d been the lucky one after all.



Ron awoke to a pounding headache and too much light. Wincing and fighting against the roiling of his stomach he forced his eyes to stay open. Slowly the room came into focus. It was familiar and welcome; he couldn’t have faced Hermione feeling like this, but Harry was a given.

He took a moment to regroup and think back on exactly why he was waking up on his best friend’s sofa rather than in his own bed, next to his wife. And then he remembered.

Oh, boy. In screaming neon colours and with added screeching violins.

He only barely made it to the downstairs cloakroom, retching violently into the toilet; the alcohol still swirling through his system only partly to blame.

Finally, with his throbbing head resting on the cool toilet seat (he’d worry about that later) he let the uncomfortable memories roll over him. And gradually, grudgingly, let the truth seep in…there was no way he would have told those things to Harry if he hadn’t wanted to, if he hadn’t needed to tell him. His head might be pounding and his stomach churning but there was something else too; something had finally uncoiled in his chest, and for the first time in a long time, Ron felt like he could breathe.

He wasn’t sure why now. Why after years of keeping it all locked inside, pretending that he was coping, that he didn’t hurt from it all. Why in one night it had all come pouring from him. Maybe the added strain of dealing with a bloody disembodied voice telling him to build fuck knows what had proved too much, and Harry had just been there when the stopper had finally come out.

Poor Harry. Ron must have scared the shit out of him, probably traumatised the poor bastard. All those emotions and feelings - urgh - coming rushing at him all at once. Must have been quite a shock (the closest they’d come to emotional support in the past was a punch to the shoulder and a rueful grin). Ron made a mental note to find some way to make it up to his friend. He wondered what Harry would tell Hermione. He wasn’t going to try to stop Harry, that wouldn’t be fair and besides Ron trusted his friend to keep his confidences. Ron suddenly realised that he wanted Harry to tell Hermione, at least some of what they’d talked about, or even just that they had talked. It might stop her worrying (it would be even better if it stopped her constant nagging) and that would be one less thing for Ron to worry about.

Of course, the irony was, The Voice was the thing that was the real cause of Hermione’s concern, the thing that was actually keeping Ron awake night after night and Ron hadn’t even discussed that with Harry.

Perhaps, it was time he did.

Fuck.

The tiny room echoed with his groan as Ron lifted his weary head to retch once more into the waiting bowl.



Molly Weasley’s kitchen table had been made of magic once. Not Wizard magic, but plain old regular magic. It had no unicorn horn at its centre, no phoenix feather ingrained in the wood. But it had a heart, a heart that had drawn people to it.

During the War, at the darkest times, Molly’s kitchen had provided, if only for a little while, a protective bubble against the world outside, that long worn table and its tattered chairs, a buffer against the corruption and destruction that raged beyond The Burrow’s walls.

Even after Fred, the magic had seemed to linger, and in that first shocked month, the empty seat next to George hadn’t seemed so empty after all. They had gathered as before, and amongst all the talk of marriages and imminent births, they had talked of Fred; laughed at the memories and raised a glass in his name.

All had been fine, or was going to be. Fred hadn’t been gone, merely absent, and the day was surely going to come when he would wander in again and take his seat, winking at George, as he teased Ron about a certain bushy-haired witch.

But then, a month had become months, and something cold and sickly had seemed to settle over the table.

And, before long, anger had come to sit amongst them.

It was about then, that Charlie had brought home a girl. A girl who had taken her seat at the table before Charlie could stop her. A girl who had taken a seat that wasn’t ready to be taken. A girl who had left very soon after.

No more girls had come home with Charlie. But then, Charlie had rarely come home himself.

A couple of years had gone by then, and the harsh words had faded, leaving only a hollow echo to mock the laughter and smiles that had gone before. Anger, no longer feeling like an honoured guest, had slipped from the table to make its way around the house, to lurk in silent rooms and dark corners.

Quiet, bitter grief had soon taken its place. And Ron had found himself missing anger and the spike of heat and feeling it had brought to the cold, dead table. More and more, he had found himself leaving, rising from his chair to wander the rooms in search of more than one absent guest; to find only one, the last to leave the table, waiting for him.

Ron sighed now, as he looked at his refection in the bathroom mirror, the thought of that day’s upcoming visit to The Burrow making something sharp and painful twist in his stomach. Over the past couple of decades, Ron had grown to hate his mother’s kitchen table. Every empty seat, every absent face was a bitter reminder of what had been lost. Sunday lunch at The Burrow had become a hideous mockery of the once loud, happy affair it had used to be, now it was a penance, a thing to be dreaded and got through as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Bill and Fleur rarely made the trip from Shell Cottage to join them, preferring like Charlie to stay away. Ron didn’t blame them, lucky gits. If he could have avoided it, then he would have seized the chance too. But Hermione was always adamant that they should go, even on days like today when the two of them weren’t even talking to each other, an unpleasant addition to an already miserable prospect.

Ron sighed again as he ran a comb quickly through his hair (no point in giving Hermione something else to complain about) and thought back over their argument the previous evening.

It hadn’t been a long fight. Their arguments never were. They were always short - spectacular - but short, usually brought to an abrupt conclusion by the slamming of a door, or the crack of Disapparition. Ron had never been good at deflecting Hermione’s words, all too likely to get tied up in logic before suddenly finding himself blindsided by guilt. So, these days he generally went for the tried and tested Weasley method - bellow in self-righteous anger, then beat a hasty retreat.

Usually, he’d go to Harry’s, or down the pub, his anger quickly lost amongst talk of Quidditch and work. By the time Ron returned home, it would be with bowed head and contrite heart; Hermione, ever gracious in victory, would forgive him and soon all would be forgotten.

But this time, Ron had still been angry when he’d returned. So, instead of seeking out his wife and begging for forgiveness like a good boy, Ron had chosen to retire to the spare room and risk permanent damage to his spine by spending the night on the futon. And, while Ron’s back may have regretted his decision, he couldn’t honestly say any other part of him did.

He was still cross with Hermione for speaking to Harry. Apart from the lingering feeling of betrayal, it simply wasn’t fair on their mutual friend. Ron hated when she did that, put Harry in the middle. And she knew it.

So they’d quarrelled.

Again.

It was becoming quite the habit. And the scariest thing was, Ron couldn’t really bring himself to care.



If Ron had awoken that morning filled with a feeling of foreboding, then the evening surely proved his instincts right. He shifted restlessly on Harry’s sofa (at least it was more comfortable than that bloody futon).

Ron should have trusted his feelings; listened when every fibre of his body was screaming ‘don’t go’. But no, like an idiot, he’d listened instead to the quiet, not-quite-there voice that had whispered ‘you have to go’.

So, he’d called a chilly truce with Hermione, helped her hurry the children as they dressed in their Sunday best, and Floo’ed to The Burrow. Things had pretty much gone down hill from there.

Looking back, Ron grudgingly admitted that perhaps he could have handled the whole Quidditch pitch incident better.

Or, maybe not.

The problem, of course, was how did you suddenly tell your wife that you finally understood what the mysterious ‘voice’ you’ve been hearing wanted you to do?

Ron could very well imagine how that conversation would have gone.

Oh, did I forget to mention that, dear? Yeah, funny thing, I’ve been hearing a voice. Talking to me. No, just me. No, nobody else can hear it. Why yes, I can give your love to Neville’s parents during my stay in St Mungos.

Ron let out a nervous giggle. Merlin, he was done for.

He knew that telling Hermione about The Voice certainly would have clarified why he had stood up in the middle of dinner, walked outside and proceeded to build a Quidditch pitch in his parents’ garden.

But, he also knew that it would have led to other questions, such as why hadn’t he bothered to mention this ‘voice’ before.

And that, of course, would inevitably have lead to the whole truth coming out.

That he had in fact told someone.

Just not her.

Ron suspected Hermione already had certain issues regarding his friendship with Harry. He was pretty sure that this wasn’t going to help her resolve them. But Ron couldn’t regret it, couldn’t regret having chosen Harry to be the one he’d told.

Up to that day at his parents’ house, Ron had felt completely alone in this unasked for and unwelcome quest; unable to tell Hermione about it, he’d become increasingly withdrawn from her and the rest of his family. When he’d been forced to talk to Harry, it had released some of his burden. Harry had listened to him pour out his heart and not thought less of Ron for it. More than that, Harry had held him up and seen Ron through that long, painful night.

Earlier today, when Ron had taken those handful of steps from his mother's kitchen table to the field outside, he’d been in the thrall of the vision that was playing across his mind. Distantly, he had heard the concerned voices of his wife and mother and had ignored them, moving forward to something else, something beyond what could be explained. But even as Ron had lifted his wand and spoken the words that would conjure his vision, he had been aware of something else, aware that his life was about to change and nothing would ever be the same.

The Voice had set Ron on a journey, the first steps of which had taken him to his parents’ field and out beyond the world where words offered meaning. Ron had been pretty sure even in that moment, that Hermione wouldn’t follow. He hadn’t expected her to; hadn’t wanted her to.

But Ron hadn’t realised how much he needed his best friend with him until Harry was there.

Ron smiled now as he remembered. He'd been completely caught up in his spell casting when he'd felt the light touch to his arm. Turning, he’d found Harry standing next to him. Harry had smiled at him, inclining his head slightly, and then, two wands, not one, were weaving shifting patterns in the twilight as the pitch grew up around them.

Ron nodded to himself. Whatever the outcome, he wouldn’t trade that, the surge of love and gratitude he’d felt towards his friend in that moment. Rolling onto his back and gathering the blanket further up his body, Ron sighed and looked up at the ceiling. Sometimes, he couldn’t help feeling that his life would have been a whole lot simpler if he’d married Harry. And really, what did that say about his life? Shaking his head in the darkness, Ron closed his eyes and willed sleep to take him.



//Hermione sucked on her thumb nail and stared out of the train window. She refused to look at him. Ron really wished Harry would hurry up and get back. She didn’t know, she couldn’t possibly know (there’d be more blood if she knew). But it didn’t stop the sick feeling or the way his tongue wanted to move, to form the words ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I didn’t mean’ and ‘I’m done’.//



“So, what now, Ron?”

Hermione’s voice was hard and unforgiving. She was glaring over at the kitchen window. She couldn’t possibly see the Quidditch pitch from where she was sitting, but no one was in any doubt as to what she was referring.

Ron didn’t know what to tell her. It had been three weeks since he’d stood shoulder to shoulder with Harry and created the pitch seemingly from the wind that had been blowing around them in the closing light of day. In the twenty-one days since, The Voice had not spoken to him. Or maybe it had and Ron had just slept right on through it, because thank Merlin, finally he could sleep.

Unfortunately, Ron suspected holding up the Quidditch pitch as a cure for his insomnia wouldn’t really satisfy Hermione at this point (or probably ever). But beyond that, he didn’t know what to say. Ron didn’t have any answers. He honestly didn’t know why he’d done it, what had compelled him. It had just seemed to be the right thing to do. He also had no idea what was going to happen next.

But then, looking into Hermione’s stern face, Ron didn’t think she was going to like any reply that he came up with. Ron shifted uneasily in his chair, but before he could say anything, his mother stood up from her place at the end of the table and walked around to stand behind him. Leaning down, she kissed Ron on the cheek, then pulled him back into her chest and hugged him tightly.

“Don’t worry, Ron,” she said softly. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” And standing back up, she smiled widely around the table, before turning to walk quickly across to the sideboard to collect the dessert dishes.

Ron felt tears stinging the back of his eyelids and he had to swallow around the lump that had suddenly lodged in his throat. He glanced around the table and saw that he hadn’t been the only one affected. Arthur was using his napkin to blow his nose (Molly would kill him if she turned around and caught him), while Harry and Ginny were smiling at each other over their clasped hands.

Hermione threw down her napkin and huffed out an annoyed breath. Ron flinched guiltily and turned his attention back to his wife. Narrowing her eyes at him, Hermione stood abruptly, pushing away from the table, she walked swiftly from the room.

Ron turned from watching her retreating back and looked across the table at a grinning George. In spite of Hermione’s obvious distress, Ron couldn’t help returning his brother’s grin, they were such a rare sight these days. George grinned wider and then winked.

And he couldn’t help it. Ron started to laugh, thinking all the while that George’s grin was quite possibly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.



Things changed after that. Not all at once and not hugely, but a change definitely came over The Burrow and those who lived there.

To those that had known Molly Weasley before the War, her words and actions on that memorable Sunday would have come as no surprise. But for those who had been witness to the terrible change that had come upon her following the death of Fred, those handful of words, that embrace, were nothing short of miraculous.

For, if George seemed faded by the loss of his brother, then Molly had been hollowed out, as if every thing that made her Molly Weasley had been lowered into the grave along with her son. Since then, an empty husk had wondered around tending dutifully to husband, family and house. Molly's smiles, few as they were, never moved beyond a forced upward twitch of her lips, never reaching her eyes; her capable hands still baked and cast her wand as skilfully as before, but no longer gentled to stroke away the tears of her grandchildren, to hug them close as Molly whispered hope and promises, as she had with their parents before them. She was never unduly harsh or angry, didn’t snap and scold. And Merlin, how Ron missed it.

Arthur was the most affected by her grief. He couldn’t bear to see her so changed, his beautiful Molly grown so cold, so numb. Unable to face his wife, Arthur retreated. More and more he took refuge in his workshop, hid himself away. Surrounded by his Muggle things, Arthur became increasingly removed from the world of magic, almost as if he blamed it for what his family had lost.

He hadn’t returned to The Ministry following the end of the War. As a War hero, Arthur had been granted a generous pension (the medals thrown into a drawer to rust), which allowed him to stay at home, shutting out all the rest and pulling his little world around him like a cloak. One day, some six or seven years after Fred’s death, Arthur had put down his wand and had simply never taken it up again. He no longer even knew where it was (Ron had it, was keeping it safe until his dad was ready to take it back).

But since the Quidditch pitch…

Molly had found her smile and Arthur had found his Molly.

Now, when Ron Floo'ed to The Burrow he would often find his parents standing by the back door, arm in arm, staring out at the pitch, matching smiles on their faces. Ron didn’t know why, didn’t understand what drew them to it, but it seemed to do them good and that was all he needed to know.

George was different too. It wasn’t that he was happier exactly, but that he was more awake. He’d taken to tending to the pitch, keeping the grass down and evicting the gnomes that tried to invade it. The Quidditch pitch seemed to have given George a purpose, an anchor to the here and now.

And well, maybe that was it. Maybe that’s all the pitch was ever supposed to do. If that was true then it’d been worth it. It was enough.

It was even worth the wedge that it had driven between Ron and Hermione. Because, if Ron building that Quidditch pitch had helped his parents’ marriage, then Dumbledore help him, it had definitely put a huge bloody dent in his own.

Not that he and Hermione didn’t have their problems before. There’d always been cracks. Ron knew he’d never be the man that Hermione had hoped he’d become. To be perfectly honest, he’d never really understood why she’d married him in the first place, why she’d settled for the consolation prize he’d always be in her eyes (but that was unfair, after all, hadn’t Ron settled for her too?).

Ron supposed it wasn’t such an unusual marriage at that. And time and life, the passing years, children and grandchildren, would most likely have pasted over the cracks, until they were just hairline scars on the walls of their little lives.

But then The Voice had happened.

Now, neither of them seemed able to forget. They were unable to put the past behind them, to lay the ghosts to rest. Now, it was as if the very ground they were standing on was shifting beneath their feet, crumbling underneath them a little more each day.

The day that Ron looked out of his parents’ kitchen window and saw Fred standing on the pitch, the late spring light slowly fading behind him, Ron had a pretty strong feeling that it wasn’t going to improve matters between him and Hermione. Complicate perhaps. Help? Definitely not.

Thankfully, Ron was alone at the time, no one else appeared to be home. Ron wasn’t even sure what had brought him to The Burrow that day. There’d been no voice this time, just a compulsion, something telling him to get his arse over to The Burrow as soon as possible.

And now he knew why.

Fred looked all of eighteen and was dressed in his Quidditch uniform, his old tattered broom clenched in his hand. Ron couldn’t move at first, frozen to the spot. He couldn’t even get his voice to work, that bloody lump was back again and he was finding it impossible to swallow past it.

Then, Fred grinned, and twenty years fell away. Ron ran out the door and across the grass into his big brother’s open arms and before he knew it, he was sobbing, making the material of a Quidditch top that shouldn’t even have been possible, wet with his tears.

Ron had no idea how much time had past when he finally pulled away from Fred’s arms. The light had faded considerably, the fields surrounding The Burrow bathed now in the artificial lights surrounding the Quidditch pitch. He looked into Fred’s face, his soft smile. Ron had a million and one questions but sensed that now wasn’t the time.

“Hey, little brother,” Fred said fondly.

“Hey,” Ron’s voice was husky with emotion. A big part of him just wanted to gather Fred to him again, to hold on and never let go, but he knew he couldn’t do that.

Fred nodded at the goal posts. “Can I have a go?” he asked.

Ron smiled, “yeah,” he said, nodding. “I built it for you,” realising the truth of it as he said it.

Fred let out a loud whoop of joy and leapt onto the broomstick. He swooped up into the dusk sky, and headed towards the posts. A quaffle appeared from nowhere heading straight for his head and with a triumphant shout Fred thumped it away and through the waiting hoop.

Ron walked over to the stand and took a seat. He let out a shaky breath and settled back to watch his brother play.

Ron didn’t know how long he watched Fred parrying the quaffle. He would have happily sat for longer, but Fred stopped abruptly mid-flight and lowered his broom to the ground. Approaching Ron in the stand, he stopped at the white line that marked the boundary of the pitch and looked down at his feet. There was something slightly wistful in Fred’s face when he raised his head again and looked beyond Ron to the door of The Burrow. It made Ron’s heart clench.

Suddenly, Fred tilted his head as if listening to a voice, then smiled and nodded happily. He turned to Ron and grinned.

“Can I bring others?” he asked.

“Of course,” Ron replied, wondering who would want to come and play Quidditch in his parents’ back garden.

Fred waved a hand and turned. He walked to the far edge of the pitch, and with one last smile at Ron, walked into the long grass and disappeared.

To his surprise, Ron didn’t feel sad. He knew Fred would be back.

This was only the beginning.



A week later, Ron was sitting in the stand again, watching a Quidditch match between two teams made up of his dead brother and thirteen other dead people.

It wasn’t the strangest thing Ron had ever seen but it was bloody close.

Then again, it had been a strange week.

Ron wasn’t alone this time. His parents, George, Ginny, Harry and the kids were all with him, cheering on Fred’s team.

Hermione had stayed at home.

She’d made no secret of the fact that she thought that they’d all gone completely mental. Getting her to agree to Rose and Hugo joining them had been a major battle, and Hermione had only conceded when Molly had made a direct appeal to her daughter-in-law. (Hermione’s horror when her children had pointed out the players on the pitch to her had been considerable, and the way in which she’d looked at Ron afterward, left him in no doubt that she blamed him for passing on the insanity to them).

The problem, as far as Ron could tell, was not so much that they could all suddenly see dead people - not that much of a shock in the Wizarding world after all - so much as Hermione was the only one who couldn’t see the dead people.

Ron didn’t know why. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to see them. Who knew? Whatever the reason, it wasn’t exactly helping the already strained state of affairs between her and Ron. Hermione had clearly decided it was all Ron’s fault, almost as if she thought he could control the situation. Ron would have found it hilarious if it hadn’t been breaking his heart.

In his despair, Ron had turned to The Voice, whispering desperately into the night, imploring it and any other deity known to Muggle and Wizard alike, to just please let her see what they saw. For Hermione’s sake. For their children’s sake. For his sake. But if any of the fuckers were listening they weren’t letting on, and they certainly weren’t coming through for him. Fred seemed like the only one Ron could appeal to face to face, but he’d just shrugged apologetically and told Ron there was nothing he could do.

While Ron was sad that Hermione couldn’t see Fred and his friends, there was no denying that he’d been bloody relieved that he wasn’t the only one who could see them. The whole 'voice' thing had certainly made Ron doubt his own sanity, so it was nice to know he wasn’t now seeing things as well as hearing them.

Ron was also relieved that he’d been spared having to witness the others own undoubtedly emotional reunions with Fred. He’d discovered earlier that all of them had been ‘called’ to the pitch at some time during the previous week; each of them given their own pocket of time with their lost son, brother or friend. Now, they were all there together to share this moment, to share their joy at seeing Fred again.

Ron supposed the only thing that should have felt missing from this moment was Hermione’s presence.

Instead, it felt like a relief.

(And, it was another presence that he longed for).

That night he dreamed again, and The Voice whispered to him once more.

Go the distance.



//When Ron was fifteen he’d punched Draco Malfoy in the nose. It was the singularly most satisfying moment of his young life.

It had happened in Diagon Alley. Or well, in a small, narrow lane off Diagon Alley.

Ron had come to Diagon with the rest of his family for the annual school supply run. He was heading back to meet up with the others having just completed a couple of errands for his mum.

Humming happily to himself as he ambled back towards The Leaky Cauldron, Ron was garnering quite a few odd looks from the people he passed. He was aware of the surprise, and in some areas, suspicion, that his cheerful demeanour was probably exciting amongst his fellow shoppers, but Ron couldn’t tamp down on the feeling of elation that was currently coursing through his body to produce the huge grin on his face and the spring in his step.

Taking in the grave faces and hunched, hurried figures of those milling around him, Ron conceded that he probably stuck out like a Dementor at a kid’s birthday party. But frankly he didn’t give a fuck. Yes, Voldermort and all his little minions were back, poor Cedric Diggory was pushing up the daisies and the whole Wizarding World was teetering on the edge of chaos. But - and this was the important thing to remember - Ron was finally out of that bloody house!

No disrespect to Harry’s godfather or anything, but bloody hell, had he never heard of decorating spells? In a different colour than black? Or dark grey? Ron had spent the last few weeks longing for the bright, cheeriness of The Burrow. On warm days like today, all the windows would have been thrown open, the sweet smell of wild flowers filling the house as dust motes danced in the rays of the sun that cut across the rooms. The dust motes in Grimmauld Place were too depressed to dance.

Sirius had given in when Ron’s mum had insisted they at least be allowed to clean the house (and oh yeah, cheers for the that, mate), but had been resolute that no other attempt be made to lift the gloominess of its dank interior (or to get rid of that manky smell), declaring that ‘its current state matches my mood perfectly’ (bloody emo git).

Ron would be the first to admit, that in normal circumstances, the interior décor of a house wouldn’t exactly be amongst his top concerns, but after a month in that hell hole, even he had started to long wistfully for a touch of sunflower yellow (or even magnolia ).

No wonder then, that being out of that oppressive tomb of a house, had had such an uplifting affect on his spirits. Ron was just wondering if his mum would let them go to Fortesque’s, when he felt someone grab hold of the back of his jacket and he was yanked to an abrupt stop.

“Weasley, are you bloody deaf? How many times do I have to shout your hideous name, you ignorant oaf?”

Bloody brilliant. Ron knew that voice only too well. He turned around, knocking away the arm that was still holding onto his coat, and sure enough there was Draco Malfoy, wearing his usual sneer.

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Ron spat out. “How many times do you have to be ignored before you take the bloody hint and piss off?”

Actually, Ron hadn’t heard Malfoy’s shouts but he was buggered if he was going to admit it to the smug git. Ron was all too deeply aware of how uncomfortable Malfoy’s sudden appearance was making him and just wanted to get Malfoy to leave as quickly as possible.

Malfoy didn’t reply, he just stared at Ron, as if now that he’d stopped him, he couldn’t decide what to do next. Ron waited impatiently, hot prickles running up and down his spine at Malfoy’s intense gaze. Finally, when he couldn’t take it any longer, Ron gave a disgusted huff and turned away to start walking again. He got no further than two steps, however, before he found himself once again spun around to face Malfoy. But before Ron could say a word this time, Malfoy leapt towards him, pushing Ron back until he collided painfully with the wall behind.

Ron closed his eyes instinctively, anticipating what he was sure would be a painful blow to some part of his anatomy, probably his face. He felt Malfoy move closer until he was pushing his entire body up against Ron. Bloody hell, how close did the stupid git think he had to get to throw a punch? Ron opened his eyes and brought his hands up to push Malfoy away, only to drop them abruptly again, when Malfoy reached up to grab hold of Ron’s head so that he could pull it down to smash their mouths together.

Shit. No, no. Not again.

Ron fought back the sudden wave of panic - he couldn’t do this again, he just couldn‘t - and forced his arms to reach for Malfoy’s shoulders and shove him backwards. Before Malfoy could react, eyes still slightly glazed and chest heaving, Ron reached back his right arm and punched the little bastard right on the end of his pointy nose.

Malfoy tottered backwards from the force of the blow before landing in an ungainly heap. His hand flew to his nose as the blood began to gush from it. His eyes were streaming, whether from tears of distress or simply from the impact itself, Ron didn’t know, didn’t care.

Ron looked down at the boy sprawled on the ground. He noted with satisfaction, the blood and snot seeping from between the pale fingers. Maybe, if he committed this unappealing sight to memory Ron might stop the other thoughts. And maybe now Malfoy would leave him alone.

Ron walked over and leaned down towards Malfoy.

The bleeding boy looked almost hopeful for a moment, as if he thought Ron was going to help him up, apologise perhaps, maybe kiss it better. The thought made Ron even angrier.

“Stay the fuck away from me,” he growled into Malfoy’s blotched face.

Then, with a last vicious kick to the crying boy’s ribs, Ron turned and walked quickly away, hands shaking and heart beating loudly in his chest (trying his best to smother the thought that if he’d met up with Malfoy a couple of days earlier, then, he probably would have been the one doing the kissing).

Their timing had always been crap.//



Harry didn’t rush making the tea. He needed some time alone to think about Ron’s latest dream and what it could mean for them all. He knew Ron needed his advice, had come to Harry hoping for his help and probably some reassurance, but Harry wasn’t entirely sure what he should say to him.

Harry sympathised with Ron, he really did. In no small part because Harry had been having some peculiar dreams of his own the past few nights (no 'voices' so far, thank goodness).

Ron hadn’t told Harry all the details of the dream, but he had shared what The Voice had said, and they’d already spent some time pondering on what it could mean.

Go the distance.

Ron had seemed to think that it meant he should go on a journey, and had told Harry the almost overwhelming compulsion he had to go somewhere called Dunkeld. When Harry had asked him where that was, Ron had confessed that he had no idea. He had gone on to tell Harry that he’d never even heard of the place, but when he’d woken from the dream the name was buzzing in his head and Ron felt like he was being pulled towards it.

In the end they’d had to look it up on a map to find out exactly where it was. When they’d realised it was in Scotland, Harry had wondered if it had something to do with Hogwarts perhaps, but Ron hadn’t thought so, though he hadn’t been able to say why.

See? All very perplexing and well, let’s face it he and Ron weren’t exactly known for their deciphering skills.

“That was always Hermione’s department,” Harry had said without thinking, wincing a moment later as he’d watched Ron’s face fall.

That was when Harry had decided to escape to the kitchen, pausing briefly to bang his head on the wall, before filling the kettle.

Harry sighed now and shifted uncomfortably. He was worried. And not just for Ron’s sanity. Actually, to be honest Harry had never really been concerned for Ron’s sanity. If Ron was hearing a voice, then Ron was hearing a voice and that’s all there was to it. Harry didn’t understand why Hermione didn’t see it that way, didn’t understand why her very first reaction had been to doubt Ron.

And that was the real problem, that was what had Harry so worried. This thing, this 'voice', was having a devastating affect on Ron and Hermione’s marriage.

Hermione just seemed so angry about it. And Harry didn’t get it. If she’d been scared or even unhappy, Harry could have understood, and there might have been a way to talk her through it, help her understand. But her fury and resentment were implacable. Ginny had returned shaken and tearful after her one failed attempt to reason with Hermione. She had refused to try again. Harry didn’t blame her; he’d had to face Hermione’s rage himself several times in the last few weeks, as all his own attempts to talk with her had been similarly rebuffed.

Harry hated thinking it, felt disloyal and shameful, but he couldn’t stop the thought that Hermione’s reaction was a symptom of their marriage problems, not the cause of them. Ron and Hermione shouldn’t have married. It was as simple as that. Harry had thought it then, and he continued to think it now.

They’d been infuriating as kids, constantly circling each other, bickering and flirting in equal measure and totally failing to do any thing about it. Harry had wanted to strangle both of them at times. But his feelings of frustration then, had been nothing compared to how Harry had come to feel watching them over the years since.

If they’d just been able to hook up as kids, play at being in love for a few months, (like Harry with Cho and Ron with Lavender) then things probably would have worked out fine. They’d have gotten over each other as fervent feelings inevitably burnt themselves out, to cool back in to a steady friendship. But no, the stupid little buggers had danced around each other for years instead of months, turning their childish crush into some sort of epic romance, until marriage and kids seemed the only possible outcome. When, of course, in reality, two more unsuited people you would be hard pressed to find. Well, if you didn’t count Ron and Malfoy - and Merlin’s balls, didn’t that thought open up a whole new messy can of worms.

Harry shook his head, loaded up the tray with the tea things, lifted it and headed for the door. He stopped abruptly, turned around and walked back to the counter. Reaching for the packet of biscuits lying there, he added them to the packet already on the tray. He had a feeling that this was going to be a two-packet problem.



Two hours, and a tray of biscuit crumbs later, they were no closer to a solution. Ron remained convinced that he needed to go to Scotland. He knew the where, but the why still eluded him.

Harry had been firm in his support, assuring Ron that he would be there for him no matter what Ron decided he had to do, but he’d also urged Ron not to do any thing rash, warning him that Hermione wasn’t likely to react well to this latest revelation.

Ron had been quick to agree with Harry, he was well aware that the last thing he and Hermione needed was for him to run off on some fool errand to the other end of the country.

“It’s difficult though, Harry,” Ron said, as he sipped the fresh cup of tea that Harry had handed to him. “I just feel I really need to go to Scotland.”

Harry nodded sympathetically. “I know, Ron, but you’d be risking your marriage if you went.”

Ron knew he was right, but it was hard to ignore the feeling gnawing at him day and night. “If only I’d stop having the dream,” he said. He looked up and grinned ruefully at Harry. “I swear to Merlin, Harry, I’m beginning to see bridges everywhere I look.”

Harry paled visibly at his words. “A seven arched bridge leading to a town of white buildings,” he said, eyes round in wonder. At Ron’s nervous nod of agreement, he took a deep breath before continuing, “and a figure in black.”

Ron nodded again slowly, butterflies swarming in his stomach and shivers running the length of his spine.

“We’re going to Scotland,” they both said at once.



Three days later, Harry was surprised and a little worried to find himself sitting in a Muggle car driving north.

The last few days of his life had taken on a somewhat surreal quality. Discovering that he and Ron had shared the exact same dream was pretty unnerving but also strangely reassuring. It felt like a confirmation. Harry had never doubted Ron, had always been happy and willing to go along with him wherever he needed to be, but Harry sometimes doubted his own judgement. What if he was wrong? What if Ron needed help of another kind like Hermione said? What if Harry was failing him by encouraging him to listen to this ‘voice’? The shared dream had silenced those doubts. Now, Harry knew he was doing the right thing and he was exactly where he should be - right by Ron’s side.

He glanced briefly to his left. Ron was leaning against the passenger door, head cushioned by his rolled up jumper, sleeping. Harry suspected that his friend hadn’t been getting much sleep lately, not between the dreams and The Voice.

He wasn’t sure why Ron felt it was essential that they travel to Scotland by car rather than magical means, but he’d been insistent. Harry was just relieved that they’d both decided to learn to drive a few years back.

Ginny had been great about it, of course. Harry had told her that Ron needed him to go to Scotland with him and she had immediately started helping him to pack. Harry had always known he was lucky in his choice of wife, but never more so than that very morning when he’d had to watch from the car, as Hermione had turned her back on Ron and stalked back into the house. Harry knew that she was struggling to understand and was probably still cross about the whole Quidditch pitch situation, but it had still been painful to witness.

The Quidditch pitch.

Harry took one hand off the steering wheel and quickly rubbed it across his tired eyes (they’d started out early and even though lunch was still a long way off, he’d already been driving for hours). Placing the hand back on the wheel he turned to shake his head at his friend.

“You certainly don’t make things easy for yourself, do you Ron?”

Or your friends Harry thought wryly as he suppressed yet another yawn.

He sat up straighter in his seat in an attempt to loosen the knots in his shoulders and return some semblance of feeling to his numb backside. Ron owed him big time. This thought cheered Harry, and feeling happier than he had all morning he turned his thoughts towards the enormous amounts of food and coffee that he was going to make his friend buy him at the very next Services that they came to. Harry threw one last, slightly evil, look in Ron’s direction, then pressed his foot down a little harder on the accelerator.

Ron slept on.



It was late afternoon when they finally crossed the ancient, seven arched bridge into Dunkeld. An accident just outside Hamilton had added an hour or so to their journey, but all in all Harry thought they’d done well; they’d practically driven from one end of the country to the other and only hit one major tailback, practically a miracle in itself.

As they drove slowly over the bridge, the whitewashed buildings that flanked the road ahead seemed to almost glow in the fading daylight, as dusk settled gently on the town. Their hotel, The Athol Arms, stood on the right side of the road at the end of the bridge. Harry heaved a sigh of relief as he pulled into the narrow lane that led to the car park; it had been a long day and he was looking forward to a shower and an early night.

They signed in at the reception quickly and without fuss, assisted by a young woman with a lilting Scottish accent and eyes only for Ron (she seemed particularly taken with what she called his ‘lovely celtic colouring’). Harry teased him about it all the way to their room, until Ron slapped him on the back of the head and threatened to tell Ginny that it had been Harry she’d been flirting with. Harry shut up after that.

Once in their room, Harry quickly picked the best bed and called dibs on the first shower. Ron conceded on both counts with barely a shrug; seems sharing ten hours driving brought its own rewards after all.

After his shower, Harry unpacked his few belongings while Ron took his turn in the bathroom. Ron had been vague about how long they’d be away, unsure himself how long it would take. In the end Harry had packed enough clothes for a couple of days, trusting Ginny’s Floo’ing skills or the local Muggle launderette should the trip last longer. He smiled as he thought of Arthur’s joy if he was able to return home with a tale involving Muggle washing machines (Ginny had drawn the line on her own tolerance when Harry had admitted that the laundry didn’t fold itself, and frankly he’d always lacked the courage to discuss the whole ironing issue with her).

After Harry had divided his clothes equally between the dresser and wardrobe he lay on his bed and closed his eyes. The bed was comfortable and he began to drift off as he listened to the muffled sound of the shower. It was comforting knowing Ron was only a door away and Harry was suddenly glad that he’d agreed to them sharing a room.

When Ron had first mentioned it the previous morning, Harry had totally misread the situation; he’d thought Ron had been worried about the cost of two rooms and had felt vaguely appalled that his friend had thought that Harry would expect him to pay for both. Harry’s rather pathetic attempt to suggest otherwise had been drowned out by Ron’s sad shake of the head and a mumbled “please Harry…maybe I’ll sleep.”

Harry heard the shower being turned off and the soft sounds of his friend in the other room. Smiling, he slipped into sleep.

He was woken a little while later by a pillow to the head.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Ron was grinning at him, “time for dinner.”

Harry yawned as he slid into a stretch. There weren’t many things that could have tempted him from the comfort of the warm bed but dinner was definitely one of them. It had been a long time since they’d stopped at Gretna Services, and despite the impressive amount of food that Harry had managed to demolish then, his stomach still growled in sympathy at Ron’s words.

After a satisfyingly hearty dinner that had them both reminiscing fondly about The Great Hall at Hogwarts, they retired to the bar to discuss strategy. And were rather depressed a short while later to discover that they didn’t have one.

“Go the distance.” Harry frowned. “That’s it? You’re sure there was nothing else?”

Ron shook his head. “No, nothing, and trust me Harry I’ve really, really, thought about this.”

“Well,” Harry said. “In a way, it’s obvious isn’t it? We’ve travelled nearly five hundred miles to get here. So we’ve definitely ‘gone the distance’ by anyone’s calculation.”

Ron sighed. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But how does it help us now?”

“Maybe it’s not meant to.” Harry stood up. “Maybe, it was just meant to get us here and the next dream will provide the next clue. Same again?” And he nodded at Ron’s nearly empty pint glass.

“Yeah, why not,” Ron said with a shrug.

Harry walked over to the bar and Ron looked around the room, half-heartedly hoping for inspiration. He didn’t find it. He still had no idea why they were here. The only thing Ron was really sure about was that he’d been right about the Quidditch pitch. It was that conviction that had brought him this far.

Unfortunately, Ron was no closer to understanding what it all meant than he was the first time he’d heard The Voice. This latest vision had left him as baffled as before, although he felt sure that he was here to help someone. But who? Ron could only hope that Harry was right and that once again something would happen to show him the way.

Sitting in a hotel bar, five hundred miles from home, he had to admit to feeling a little silly. Up to five days ago he had never heard of Dunkeld, hadn’t even known it was in Scotland. But when he’d woken the morning following the last dream, it was to two unshakeable truths: he was meant to go there and it had to be by Muggle car. Something else struck him about the same time – Hermione wasn’t going to be happy about it.

Well, Ron had certainly been proven right on one count.

At least he had Harry with him. Harry, who was just as confused as Ron. On the upside, he wasn’t looking at Ron as if he was a total nutter, always a desirable quality in a best friend.

Just then, Harry returned to the table with their drinks and sat back down.

“Go the distance,” Harry said, his brow furrowing into a frown. “Are you sure, we couldn’t just build another Quidditch pitch?”

Ron threw a peanut at his head. “Ha ha, fucking, ha.”

Harry smiled. “Don’t worry Ron, I’m sure it will come to you. Finish your drink and then it’s bed for you.” He grinned at Ron. “You don’t want to keep The Voice waiting.”

Ron rolled his eyes and kicked him in the shin.



Of course, Harry was right.

It seemed that he’d only just closed his eyes and Ron was dreaming. But there was no Fred this time. Just a lone figure standing in the middle of the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts. A figure dressed all in black. Lank, greasy hair falling across a pale face. Cold, dark eyes no longer able to hold back the tears. A loud, heart wrenching sob.

And suddenly Ron was sitting up in the dark. His heart was racing and the sweat on his back was already cooling to a chill. But all he could think of were the words still echoing in his head.

Ease his pain.

And Severus Snape.



//Malfoy was positively evil when he returned to Hogwart’s in fifth year. Ron reckoned Umbridge and all her decrees and cruelty must have been an absolute gift to the little bastard, matching Malfoy’s frame of mind so perfectly as it did.

He knew the encounter in Diagon Alley was probably a big factor in Malfoy’s vile behaviour, and dearly hoped that Harry and Hermione never found out about it. Ron had actually felt quite bad about it afterwards, feeling pretty ashamed at how he’d acted. But well, having to deal with the little shit's taunts and bullying since they got back to school was definitely making him feel a lot less bad about it. Some nights Ron lay awake and fantasised about going back to that moment - and giving the evil git a right good kicking.

The first time Ron ran into Malfoy alone that year, he was walking along one of the old upper corridors that few people ever used. He groaned when he saw Malfoy sauntering towards him, sneer already in place. Ron just couldn’t face the other boy, couldn’t trust what he might do if he got too close to Malfoy. So, he threw Malfoy the most contemptuous look he could manage at short notice, turned on his heel and headed back the way he’d just come. It probably looked like he was running away (probably because he was) but Ron didn’t care. He just needed to be away from Malfoy.

Malfoy, of course, had other ideas.

Hearing the other boy’s footsteps speeding up behind him, clearly intent on catching him up, Ron increased his own pace. Unfortunately, Ron wasn’t familiar with this part of the castle (he’d been scouting out possible places for the DA to meet) and instead of retracing his earlier steps, he made a hasty decision to turn left instead of right and found himself at a dead end. A grime covered window offered the only exit. He could hear Malfoy in the distance, perhaps seconds from turning the corner. Looking out of the murky window, Ron grimaced in dismay at the sheer drop to the courtyard below. The chances of him suddenly spouting wings were pretty slim.

Just then, Malfoy skidded around the corner, coming to an abrupt halt when he saw Ron.

If Ron looked hard enough past the dirt, he could see Malfoy’s reflection in the window, the look of momentary surprise, quickly turning to smug as the git realised that Ron was cornered. Ron’s shoulders slumped; it looked as though he was going to have to face Malfoy after all. But well, Ron was fucked if he was going to make it easy for the tosser. Placing his hands on the windowsill, Ron leant forward until his forehead rested on the cold glass; he was determined not to turn around, whatever the provocation.

“Out by yourself, Weasel?”

Merlin, how Ron hated that voice; the lazy arrogance that dripped from every word. He leant a little closer to the window, trying to block out Malfoy, concentrating on the distant shapes below instead. He heard Malfoy’s shoes clipping on the stone floor as he moved closer.

“Aren’t you afraid Umbridge will catch you?”

Cruel humour this time, laced with something else that Ron couldn’t quite put his finger on. ‘Ignore him’ he told himself ‘look, who’s that down there, hurrying toward the east tower?’

Malfoy had taken another couple of steps, Ron could feel him at his back. ‘Ignore him, don’t react.’

“Aren’t you even a little afraid?”

Ron could feel his warm breath on his neck, couldn’t help the flinch at his nearness.

“Scared that she might punish you like she punished Scarhead.” Malfoy’s arm reached around Ron’s body, fingers ghosting over the back of Ron’s hand where it rested on the windowsill. Ron shivered despite the voice screaming in his head.

“It must have hurt.” The fingers were still tracing his skin, light as a feather, painful as a quill point.

“Your skin would scar beautifully, Weasley.” And to Ron’s horror Malfoy leant forward the scant few inches he needed and sucked Ron’s earlobe into his hot mouth.

And Ron just had a moment to think ‘oh fuck’ before he was pulled around. He grabbed Malfoy by the upper arms and met him as the other boy surged forwards. The kiss was vicious, nothing tender in the bruising pressure as they fought with teeth and tongues and spit. The taste of copper spilled into Ron’s mouth and a feeling a little like triumph, a lot like defeat, raced through his body.//



The next day, Ron didn’t need the early morning wake up call they’d requested. He’d not been able to get back to sleep following the dream, finding himself wide-awake and staring at the ceiling throughout the long night.

By the time the call came through, he was torn between relief that he could finally justify getting up, and horror that he would have to get through the day on only a couple of hours sleep. As he sat up, Ron winced at the pounding in his head; his eyes ached and his whole body felt weary to the bone.

“Crap night, huh?” Harry was looking at him, face filled with sympathy, from the next bed.

Ron nodded tiredly.

“Come on,” Harry said, in what Ron felt was a far too cheery voice. “You can have first shower. Then we’ll grab breakfast and you can tell me all about it.”



Harry was as good as his word, peering over at Ron expectantly as soon as the waitress had set down their plates.

Ron felt marginally better since his shower but still felt woolly-headed and a little detached from the world around him. He looked over at Harry and started to bite worriedly at his bottom lip. He wasn’t looking forward to the upcoming conversation. The problem was, Ron really didn’t know how his friend would take the news that it was their former Potion’s master that they were there to help (especially as the bloke had been dead for the past twenty years).

Ron really didn’t feel comfortable mentioning Snape to Harry. Not after that thing with Snape and Harry’s mum. Or at least how Snape had felt about Harry’s mum. To be honest, Ron still couldn’t wrap his mind around the whole Snape saving Harry because he’d been in love with Lily thing. He wasn’t sure how Harry felt about it, they’d certainly never discussed it, but he had a fairly good idea how he’d feel about it if it was his mum. Oh Merlin, what if all this led to him having to have a great big heart to heart with Harry about how he felt about Snape perving over his sainted mother. Ron’s already nauseated stomach plummeted because seriously, there was no good way for that sentence to end.

“So what did The Voice have to say this time?” Harry’s words broke into Ron’s turbulent thoughts.

Ron looked up hesitantly. He couldn’t avoid this any longer. He studied his friend’s face for a moment. Harry looked nothing but concerned and suddenly Ron felt slightly ashamed for doubting him. After all, Harry had stuck with him this far.

Taking a deep breath Ron blurted it out, “Snape. It wants us to help Snape.”

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise but at least he didn’t look totally horrified.

“Er, Ron, you do realise the bloke’s been dead for twenty years, right?” Then realisation spread across his face. “Fuck. He’s the figure in black.” Harry stared across the table at Ron. “From the dream.”

It wasn’t a question but Ron nodded slowly in response anyway.

“Right,” Harry licked his lips and sat back in his chair. “So, what is it we need to do?”

Ron’s face brightened and he broke into a grin. He couldn’t quite believe that it was that easy with Harry. Which was pretty ridiculous after all these years, all the adventures, and insane situations that they’d shared. If there was one thing Ron really should have learned in all that time it was never to doubt Harry.

“You’re fucking amazing, Harry,” he said, shaking his head in wonder.

Harry just looked confused.



After breakfast they decided to split up. Harry was going back to the room to check in with Ginny, then he planned to explore the shops along the high street. He’d ask around, see if anyone knew the name ‘Snape’ and try to find a link to their old Potion’s master and the town.

Ron was going to go farther afield. They’d been able to get a map of the town from the reception desk and discovered that there was a cemetery nearby. Gravestones always provided a good history of an area and maybe they’d be able to find a connection with Snape in there. With nothing else to go on, it was worth a try. Of course, Harry had been quick to suggest Ron be the one to check it out (Ron couldn’t blame him; the poor git did have some pretty shitty past associations with graveyards).

The cemetery hadn’t been hard to find, neat little signs pointing out the way. Sadly, after a couple of hours studying hundreds of names written on crumbling gravestones, Ron had conceded defeat. The most recent date he’d been able to locate had been 1870, and he hadn’t come across any names that could be linked to Snape. He’d left the cemetery feeling increasingly disheartened.

Walking along a narrow lane that led back into the town, Ron kicked a stone absently in front of him. Hands deep in his pockets, he stared down at the ground. This whole trip had been mental. What was he even doing here? Searching for a man who’d been dead for twenty years. He was definitely heading for a bed on the long-term ward at St Mungos (he vaguely wondered if Lockhart was still there; knowing Ron’s luck he’d end up in the next bed to the bloody useless git).

He thought of Harry and the conversation he would have had with Ginny back in their hotel room. Ron couldn’t help wishing for that; wishing he could have talked to Hermione like Harry had probably talked to Ginny. But Ron knew that was impossible. Hermione had made it very clear before he left that if he insisted on continuing with this, then he would do so without her support or approval.

It hurt. There was no way Ron could pretend otherwise. Hermione had followed Harry on all his quests. She may have sometimes questioned Harry’s decisions or argued with his reasoning, but in the end she’d always supported him. Even when Ron had given up on Harry during that awful search for the Horcruxes (Ron hated to remember that, had never really forgiven himself for it), Hermione had stayed, bolstering Harry up, helping him all she could.

But she couldn’t give that to Ron. The sudden sharp jolt of jealousy took his breath away and brought tears to his eyes. He stopped walking and leant against the low stone wall that bordered the fields next to the lane. Why couldn’t she trust Ron, have as much faith in him as she had always had in Harry? But that was the problem. Hermione had never held much faith in Ron. Every time he did anything brave, or clever, there was always that look of surprise, the disbelieving shake of the head. In truth Hermione Weasley didn’t have a very high opinion of her husband. In a final act of resignation, Ron acknowledged that if Hermione had gone along with his current fixation, then she would have done so only because Harry had gone along with it. He wondered if the fact that she hadn’t, meant that she was now questioning Harry’s judgement too, or if she’d just completely given up on anything to do with Ron. He supposed he’d find the answer to that once he returned home.

A noise up ahead interrupted Ron's thoughts and made him lift his head. Just as the road started to turn to the left, the lane came to an abrupt end, a white fence marking the boundary of a small, neat garden. The house the garden belonged to was a two story, brick building, remarkable only in that Ron could have sworn it hadn’t been there two minutes ago. He wasn’t quite over the shock of the sudden appearance of the house, when Ron realised that there was a man in the garden. He had his back to Ron, but Ron could see that he was tall, with long, greasy-looking black hair. The man was mumbling crossly to himself, and if Ron had tried to fool himself that he didn’t recognise the hair, then there was no way he could pretend he didn’t know that voice.

“Dumbledore fucking save us,” Ron mumbled, probably louder than he’d intended.

The man - Voldemort’s left bollock - Snape - turned around at the sound of his voice. He was younger than the Snape Ron remembered, but there was no mistaking those beady little eyes or that hooked nose. Ron suddenly felt very weak at the knees.

“And what, exactly, do you think you’re staring at?” The contemptuous curl of the lip and raised eyebrow that accompanied the man’s words, were equal parts achingly familiar and absurdly disconcerting.

Ron felt hysterical laughter bubbling up from inside him and it took every ounce of control he possessed to sit on it as he answered with simple honesty, “I’ve no fucking idea, mate.”

An hour later, Harry walked into the hotel to find Ron slumped at the bar, looking slightly wild-eyed.



“Whoa, Ron. That’s. That’s_" Harry really couldn’t find the words.

“Fucking insane?” Ron said, giggling into his pint.

Yeah, Harry thought, that kind of fit the bill nicely.

“Though,” Harry bit his lip thoughtfully. “Really, no more insane than building a Quidditch pitch in your parents’ garden ’cos a mysterious voice told you to do it.”

“Huh,” Ron nodded. “Good point, Harry.”

“Or,” Harry lifted his empty glass pointedly in the direction of the barman. “Your dead brother turning up to play Quidditch on the pitch in your parents’ garden. With a bunch of other dead people.”

Ron frowned. When you put it that way, one dead school professor seemed positively tame. Ron’s expression brightened considerably. Briefly.

“But, Harry,” Ron’s shoulder’s slumped as he spoke. “He told me all that stuff and then just disappeared. So, why did we even come here?”

Harry shrugged, “Honestly, Ron, I have no idea.”

When Ron had told him earlier about finding Snape, Harry hadn’t even been that surprised. It had been a very peculiar couple of months after all. But when Ron had told him about the conversation he’d had with their former professor, well, that had definitely been a bit of a revelation.

Of all the lifelong ambitions Severus Snape might have harboured, playing in a professional Quidditch team would have been pretty low on Harry’s list of possibilities. No one - Dumbledore, Sirius or even Snape himself - had ever given the smallest hint that the man had entertained any peculiar interest in the game. Granted, Snape had been pretty passionate about the Slytherin team winning when they’d been at Hogwarts, but Harry had just put that down to Snape’s determination that Slytherin should win at everything. But from what Snape had told Ron, Quidditch had been the second love of his life. Well, until James Potter had come along. Again.

Harry had long come to accept that his father’s treatment of Snape hadn’t always been kind or even fair. It had been a hard lesson to learn but he had learnt it. He knew that when James had stolen Lily’s heart it had destroyed a little of Snape’s soul, had been the final punch to the gut that had pushed him towards The Dark Lord. Harry hadn’t known about the Quidditch thing. He was glad he hadn’t known about it (perhaps Snape’s Occlumency skills had been stronger than Harry thought, allowing him to shield that part of himself away from Harry’s prying mind).

Snape had told Ron that James Potter’s love - and success - at Quidditch had driven a knife into the heart of Snape’s own passion for the game; robbed Snape of the joy and freedom that he’d only ever felt when he was soaring through the air towards the snitch. And Harry got it, knew that feeling all too well himself. Harry could well believe that by the time the two were opposing seekers, Snape had probably already lost the will to compete against James.

Now, thanks to Ron, Harry knew details; knew that the day Gryffindor had defeated Slytherin in Snape’s second year (with a spectacular catch of the snitch from James Potter), Snape had stopped playing Quidditch and had never played again. It left Harry feeling sick and numb. He tried not to think how James, and especially Sirius would have reacted to that. Tried but failed. Snape’s accusing words came back to him “arrogant like your father”, and painful as it was to think it, Harry felt the truth of it deep in his bones. Sirius and James would have gloated and swaggered and never let Snape forget it. Harry couldn’t help but feel ashamed for them and sorry for Snape. He’d never before had to think of Severus Snape as a little boy of maybe ten or eleven years old, dreaming of playing for Puddlemere United or The Chudley Cannons. Why would he have? But now Ron’s words were painting a poignant picture of a small boy watching helplessly as each of his dreams were snatched and destroyed one by one. And Harry was suddenly very glad that he’d come along on this trip with Ron, thinking if they could restore just one of those dreams, then maybe it would go some way towards making amends.

Of course, what was even more surprising than the revelations themselves, was the fact that Snape had been willing to share them with Ron in the first place. The surly, taciturn man they had known would never have talked so openly with anyone, let alone an apparent stranger walking past his house.

“I don’t get it,” Harry shook his head as he turned to look at Ron. “Why on earth would Snape tell you that.” He grinned. “No offence Ron, but you were pretty low on his list of favourites.”

Ron returned his grin. “Yeah, I remember. I was probably just above you on that list. I imagine we rated somewhere between a severe case of spattergroit and vomiting slugs.”

He paused to pay the barman for their pints. They were in a local pub, The Perth Arms, having decided that a change of scenery might help them think (it hadn’t, but the beer was better than at the hotel, and at least here Ron didn’t have to dodge flirting receptionists).

“So,” Harry continued, once they were settled at a table with their drinks. “Why do you think he was willing to speak to you?”

Ron took a sip of his beer before answering. Placing the glass back on to the table, he frowned. “It was weird, Harry.” He thought back to earlier that day and the time he’d spent inside Snape’s neat cottage. “He didn’t recognise me, which okay isn’t too surprising considering that he was clearly a lot younger than when we knew him, but I swear he was expecting me.”

Frankly, Ron had been astonished that he’d even been allowed past the garden gate let alone the front door, but he’d found himself being hurried across the threshold before he could say a word. And then Snape had just started telling him stuff. All sorts of stuff. About his childhood and school and Quidditch.

Ron had been too awestruck to interrupt and well, really it was almost like Snape had forgotten he was there anyway. Until towards the end. Snape had been telling him about that final Quidditch match, when he’d watched James Potter snatch away yet another one of his dreams. Ron had been positively squirming in his seat by then. He’d felt awkward and embarrassed, eyeing up the front door and calculating his chance of making it, when Snape had suddenly looked up. He’d stopped talking, frowning at Ron as if he didn’t understand what he was still doing there. Then, shaking his head, he’d nodded as if to himself before addressing Ron again.

“You’re still here,” he’d said.

Ron hadn’t been able to deny it, so he hadn’t said anything.

“Well,” Snape had continued. “You can go now. You’ve heard all I’ve got to tell.” And he’d gestured meaningfully towards the front door.

Ron hadn’t needed to be told twice. He’d positively raced for the door. There'd been about a hundred and ten questions chasing themselves around his head in that moment but there'd also been something about the whole situation that had been freaking Ron the fuck out. And out was exactly where he'd gone.

He’d felt a lot better once he was outside and after taking a couple of deep breaths he’d turned to face the house. Which was now a wide-open expanse of wheat.

Ron hadn’t waited around to ask questions of the swaying stalks of cereal.

It was only when he had arrived back at the hotel, that it had occurred to Ron that he hadn’t even asked Snape about coming back with him and Harry, hadn’t mentioned the Quidditch pitch or the compulsion that had sent him there.

He frowned now at Harry. “Honestly, Harry,” he said. “The horrible git was annoying when we were at school and I have to say he hasn’t got any better after twenty years of being dead.”

Harry nodded sympathetically. “I never doubted it, Ron. Never doubted it.”



//They’d held hands once. In sixth year. That was the first time he’d seen Malfoy cry too (well, when it didn’t involve blood and pain). That had been a very strange year. Ron had felt increasingly left out, Harry and Hermione chumming it up with Slughorn and his cronies, and even knowing it was all done to find out stuff that might be useful to the Order hadn’t helped make Ron feel any less hurt by it.

Ron knew he had a selfish streak in him, a side that didn’t always care for the greater good or the bigger picture. A side of himself that just wanted what he wanted for a change and to hell with the consequences. It’s probably why he’d ended up tangled with Malfoy in the first place. Like called to like after all.

After, he’d felt ashamed. That there he’d been clamouring for attention, while Malfoy would have given anything to be under the radar, to not have the weight of The Dark Lord’s eyes upon him.//



They bought a bottle of whiskey on their way back to the hotel.

Ron raised his eyebrows when Harry stopped at the off-license and suggested it, but Harry just grinned and said, “Come on, mate, we are on holiday.” And well, after the day he’d had, Ron could certainly see the attraction of a nice single malt.

Back in their room they retrieved the two glasses from the bathroom and Ron poured a generous measure into each, as Harry dug out a pack of cards from his bag.

Half way through the bottle, and on their fifth game of Go Fish, Harry looked up from his cards and said, “Tell me about Malfoy.”

Ron’s head shot up from his own cards and he looked over at Harry in shock. He and Harry had never discussed that side of Ron’s life. Well, apart from the little bit that Ron had confessed that one night a couple of months ago (in fact, until that night Ron hadn’t even been entirely sure Harry knew about Malfoy).

Harry started laughing. “Oh Merlin, Ron, you should see your face right now.”

And, suddenly Ron was laughing too.

Their little fit of hilarity didn’t last very long though, and as the last giggles died away Ron really hoped that Harry had forgotten what had induced the fit in the first place. No such luck.

“So,” Harry said, as he poured them another drink. “Malfoy?”

Bugger.

Ron took a sip of the drink Harry handed to him, then shook his head. “Really? You really want to know?”

Harry smiled. “Yeah, Ron, I really want to know.” He sat up from where he’d been lounging on the bed. “You told me a little bit about why you two got together,” he paused. “And a lot about why you gave him up.”

Ron felt a sudden rush of affection, recognising the genuine sympathy in his friend’s voice as he said those words.

“But,” Harry continued. “You didn’t really tell me when it started,” he paused again, but this time it was to give Ron a wicked grin. “Or how,” he finished, with a seriously scary waggle of his eyebrows.

Ron threw his pillow at him, shaking his head in disgust as Harry dodged it easily.

“Okay,” Ron said, a minute later. “I’ll tell you, but only if you promise to never, ever bring this up again, and afterwards we will both pretend very, very hard that we are in fact thirty-six year old men, and not the thirteen year old girls,” he looked up from where he’d been playing with the bed cover and rolled his eyes, “that we have quite clearly become.”

Harry raised his glass and nodded. “Agreed,” he said, with a grin.

“Oh,” Ron added. “And I’m not going to be going into any graphic detail, you perv, so don’t get your hopes up. You’ll have to rely on your own imagination to supply the gory details.”

Harry tried to pout but his giggles got the better of him and he had to give it up.

Ron took a large swallow of his drink and thought about what he should tell Harry. It was difficult; sometimes Ron wasn’t sure himself when the whole thing with Malfoy had started. There’d always been something between them, but whether that was attraction or hatred, Ron had never been entirely sure; those two feelings had been so closely bound up in his whole relationship with Malfoy that they’d become blurred over the years, and Ron wasn’t always able to tell the one from the other.

“Fourth year,” he said, with a sudden determined nod of his head.

That was the year when Ron hadn’t been able to pretend anymore, when he had to finally admit that it wasn’t all antipathy; the year that other passions had come to the fore, and Ron had finally been forced to face his mixed up feelings for Malfoy.

“It was in the middle of the Triwizard Tournament. In fact,” Ron looked up and frowned at Harry. “It was all your bloody fault.”

“Really?” Harry looked highly amused. “And how do you come to that conclusion?” he asked, with a grin.

“It was that stupid bloody second task,” Ron replied. “I mean come on, Harry, everyone else picked a girl as their thing that they’d miss the most. Why the hell did you choose me? You bloody needy git.”

Harry sat up at that and frowned. “Actually, Ron, you may recall that I didn’t choose. The Goblet did.”

Ron just raised his eyebrows.

Harry immediately reached down to where his shoes were lying next to the bed. Picking one up he threw it at Ron’s head, but Ron was too quick and ducked out of the way.

“Cocky git!” Harry said.

Ron laughed. “Yeah, yeah, we all know you couldn’t live without me, Harry. The whole school knew it, the Goblet knew it, the Giant Squid probably knew it. I was the person you’d miss the most,” and he pointed proudly at his chest.

“Clearly, I didn’t get out much back then,” Harry replied with a roll of his eyes. “So what, Ron? Malfoy wasn’t happy with the second task?”

Ron flopped back onto the bed. “You could say that,” he said.

Something changed after the second task. Suddenly Malfoy was everywhere, pushing, pushing, always pushing. The taunting had taken on a new intensity and it was all aimed at one thing - why was Ron what Harry would miss the most?

“Why would you be the top of anyone’s list, Weasel?”

“So, Potty, misses his little Weasel the most. Why’s that, Ron? What does he get from you that he can’t get elsewhere?”

“Are you boyfriends then, Weaselbee? Do you hold hands under the desk?”

“You been slipping in to Scarhead’s bed at night, Ron?”

The harassment had grown more violent too. Each taunt accompanied by a shove, a kick, a punch, and, on one particularly memorable occasion, a bite.

“A bite?” Harry was leaning forward, clearly intrigued.

Ron groaned, grabbing the remaining pillow on his bed, he put it over his head and mumbled into it.

“What, Ron?” Harry was laughing now. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

Ron groaned again, then threw the pillow at Harry, missing by a good few feet. He sat up with a loud sigh. “I said,” he turned to glare over at a still giggling Harry. “A bite that quickly turned into a kiss.” He blushed as he said it, which just seemed to make Harry laugh more. The git.

Damn, but it had been a good kiss. Even thinking about it all these years later made something warm bloom low in Ron’s stomach. The bite that had preceded it had been pretty interesting too.

Ron was returning from The Great Hall after dinner. He was one of the last to leave. Snape hadn’t liked his attitude during his Potions class and had forced him to stay behind to clean out all the cauldrons. The greasy haired git’s determination to make Ron’s life miserable had, of course, made him late to dinner, and now he was going to have to stay up even later to finish his bloody homework.

To add to Ron’s already foul mood the staircases had decided to play silly buggers with him on his way back, turning him around on himself several times. He was stomping his way back down the same corridor for the third time when Malfoy stepped out in front of him.

“Well, well, well,” Malfoy sneered. “Out without Potter, Weasel? What will the poor freak do? Won’t he be lost without ‘the most wonderful boy in all the world’ by his side?” (annoying git even did quotation marks in the air).

Malfoy had carried on walking as he spoke, until he was chest to chest with Ron, smirking in his face.

It was the final straw for Ron. All week he’d been cornered by Malfoy, flanked by his cronies. He’d been shoved and taunted, laughed at and goaded. Well, he’d had enough. And now finally, Malfoy was alone.

Ron put both his hands on Malfoy’s chest and shoved with all his might. Malfoy, taken by surprise, immediately fell backwards onto his arse. But before Ron could truly enjoy the sight, his own legs were kicked out from under him and he landed with a loud thump on his back.

For a moment Ron couldn’t move, fighting to get his breath back, then, suddenly what little breath he had left was forced from his lungs as Malfoy climbed on top of him, straddling his thighs and resting his weight on Ron's stomach.

“You fucking Muggle-loving bastard,” Malfoy leant forward and screamed in Ron's face. “How dare you fucking touch me!”

And before Ron could react, Malfoy had grabbed hold of two handfuls of Ron's hair, yanking his head up then banging it violently back down onto the floor. He repeated the action twice in rapid succession until Ron was seeing stars dance before his eyes.

Ron tried to push the enraged boy off him, but it was all he could do to stay conscious as his head met the floor for a fourth time with a loud resounding smack. Little shit was stronger than he looked. Fucking heavier too.

And bitier.

“Bitier?” Harry snorted. “Ron, is that even a word?”

“Shut up, Harry.” Ron had run out of pillows to throw, so he chose to ignore Harry, and carry on with his story.

Feeling a bit on the dazed side as he was, it took Ron a moment to realise that Malfoy had let go of his head. This would have come as a relief, if it hadn’t coincided with the realisation that the deranged lunatic was now biting Ron’s neck.

Clearly, Ron had hit his head harder than he thought, because mixed in with the sharp pain, the warmth of Malfoy’s wet mouth on his skin was sending shivers of pleasure down Ron’s entire body. He was actually a little disappointed when the other boy stopped the biting to pull at his hair some more, especially when Malfoy leant forward to rant in Ron’s face again.

“I am so fucking sick of this,” Malfoy spat at him, which Ron thought was a bit rich considering he was the one being sat on and abused. If Malfoy was so bloody sick of it, all he had to do was get up and piss off back to his dorm, Merlin knows Ron wouldn’t have objected…Oh Merlin’s balls he was biting him again.

Ron sucked in his breath and tried not to squirm but it was bloody hard (ha, Ron fought the urge to start banging his head against the floor himself). He opened his mouth to yell at the other boy, but his words were stopped as Malfoy suddenly crashed his mouth down onto Ron’s. And well, if Ron had thought that it had felt good on his neck, then there really were no words to describe how it felt pressed against his lips.

As Malfoy’s tongue licked at his bottom lip, Ron reached up to grab Malfoy’s shoulders and pull him closer (he couldn’t help it, Ron was about to fall off the world and he had to hold onto something). He didn’t know when he’d opened his mouth or the exact moment when Malfoy had slipped his tongue inside, but Ron was definitely noticing it now.

“Merlin on a crutch!” Harry stood up and pointed at Ron. “You told me you’d slipped on the stairs and banged your head.”

Ron sat up on the bed. “Well, yeah,” he said, sheepishly. “It seemed like the best option at the time.”

Harry thought about that for a moment. “Good call,” he said with a nod.

Harry leant forward to pick up the whiskey bottle from the bedside table and refilled his glass. He then held the bottle out to Ron, who took it gratefully.

“So, let me get this straight, ” Harry said. “Malfoy had over-powered you and was forcing his unwanted kisses on you, all the while you were trying your utmost to dislodge him, on account of not enjoying the whole ordeal in anyway whatsoever.” Harry winked at Ron. “Did I miss anything out?” He added with a smirk.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Sarcasm is very unattractive on you, Harry.”

Harry sniggered.

“No, really,” Ron continued. “It makes you look old and fat.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said. “So, how did you manage to fight the big, strong Slytherin off?”

Ron eyed the chair next to the desk and wondered for a moment if bopping Harry on the head with it would be over reacting.

“Actually,” he said, resignedly (it was a long drive home and he didn‘t want to do it all himself). “Filch walked around the corner and caught us.”

“Bloody hell,” said Harry. “What happened then?”

Ron began to chuckle. “Malfoy whipped out his wand, Obliviated the git and we both scarpered.”

Harry started laughing with him. “Aah,” he said. “A romance for the ages.”

“Hey,” Ron sniggered. “You wanted to know.”

“I did,” Harry conceded, still laughing. “I really did.” Wiping the tears from his eyes he stood up from the bed and made his way into the bathroom.

When Harry came out a few minutes later he looked a lot more serious.

“So,” he said, sitting down on the end of Ron’s bed and squeezing Ron’s foot. “That must have made things pretty awkward for you, you know, afterwards.”

The expression on Harry’s face was pained, as if he was only now beginning to realise how embarrassing it must have been for Ron in the aftermath of his encounter with Malfoy.

Ron frowned as he thought about it. It should have been awkward and there were certainly many sleepless nights lost to the memory of it. But well, if Ron felt embarrassment back then it had been for other reasons. For the way his body seemed to flood with warmth whenever he thought of Malfoy’s weight above him; for the way he couldn’t seem to stop himself from licking his own lips whenever he remembered the feel of Malfoy’s chapped ones moving over his hot skin.

He supposed Malfoy could well have made things more difficult for him, but then, Ron could have done the same to Malfoy. Instead, they seemed to come to an unspoken mutual decision to just keep out of each others’ way. And with everyone still obsessed with the Triwizard Tournament it was easy to deflect any attention away from themselves. Rita Skeeter and her poison quill had been a great distraction too. It was hilarious really, there the silly old bat was busy making up imaginary romances between Harry and Hermione for her nasty little gossip column, when the most unlikely of romances had been starting up right under her ugly nose. Not that Ron would have called his and Malfoy’s encounter back then 'romantic', but then, he also never expected it to be repeated, or to last.

Ron shrugged looking over at Harry. “Actually, Harry, it wasn’t that bad. Malfoy was surprisingly decent about it, didn’t throw it back in my face or anything.” He grinned wryly. “Although, I suppose that had more to do with him thinking that I might do the same.”

Harry tilted his head thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you? Normally you would have used any thing to get at him.”

Ron shrugged again and lowered his head. “It just didn’t seem right to use that.” He looked up, he could feel his cheeks burning and knew his face was probably red. “Maybe if I’d been sure about my own part in it. If I hadn’t…” He lowered his head again and scratched the back of his neck. He could sense Harry’s eyes on him but didn’t know what else to say.

“Yeah,” Harry said, softly. “I wish…”

Ron raised his eyes curiously, wondering why Harry had paused.

Harry let out a loud sigh. “I wish things could have been different for you, Ron.” He smiled sadly at his friend. “They should have been different. And if I ever added to--if I ever made things more difficult for you, then I’m really sorry.”

Harry stood up and walked over to the whiskey bottle to refill his glass.

Ron watched him, thinking about his words. He couldn’t honestly say being Harry’s friend hadn’t made a difference, but he’d never blamed Harry, or wished that he hadn’t met him. He hoped Harry knew that.

“You’re here now,” he said, hoping Harry realised how much that meant to him.

“Yeah,” Harry smiled, nodding slowly. “I am.”



//“Does she know she’s wasting her time, Weasley?”

Ron shifted his head to look at Malfoy. “Huh?”

Malfoy continued to look up at the ceiling. “Granger. Does she realise that she’s never going to get you?” He sounded casual but Ron could see where he was tensing the muscle in his jaw.

They were lying on the bed the Room of Requirement had been kind enough to provide.

Ron didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what Malfoy wanted to hear. So instead he leant over, shifting his weight until he was lying on top of the other boy. Lowering his head he sucked Malfoy’s bottom lip into his mouth and sucked until Malfoy took the hint and opened his mouth. Ron slipped his tongue inside and curled it around Malfoy’s, pressing his weight down, trying to answer Malfoy’s question the only way he knew how.//



The next day they started out later then they’d planned; not surprising considering how late they’d gone to bed the previous night and the amount of alcohol they’d consumed. Harry had said they would probably both need liver transplants if this quest went on for much longer and Ron had had to agree (it was probably a blessing that they’d been too young to drink during the Voldemort years).

Checking out was fairly painless. Ron did have to endure a lingering hug from his admirer, who’d swapped shifts so she was sure to see him before he left, but after that they were soon on their way.

As they drove out of town with Harry at the wheel, Ron felt quite sad. Apart from the unnerving encounter with Snape, he was surprised to discover that he’d actually enjoyed the time he’d spent in Scotland. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d needed a break from Hermione’s angry disapproval. It was different with Harry; Ron didn’t have to pretend, didn’t have to censor what he said. It had been relaxing.

And now they were heading home. Ron couldn’t wait to see Rosie and Hugo again. He’d missed them. He sighed softly thinking about how quiet (and chilly) the house would be without them in it when they went back to Hogwarts. Ron would have to make the most of the few weeks they still had left together. He hoped that he and Hermione had done a good job so far of shielding them from their arguments, but he wasn’t sure how much longer they’d be able to do so. Ron had a strong feeling that things with Hermione were soon going to come to a head, and sadly the thought of seeing his wife again didn’t bring the same warm glow as the thought of seeing his children.

But there was nothing he could do about it at the moment, so he decided to enjoy the peace and quiet while he could. Ron turned his head to look out the window, watching the hills and mountains passing by.

They had only been driving for about fifteen minutes when Harry nudged him in the side. “What do you think?” he asked, nodding his head toward the windscreen.

Ron sat up and looked out. There was a figure hitchhiking at the side of the road a short distance ahead of them. It was a boy, probably about fifteen or sixteen years old.

Ron shrugged. “Why not?” The kid looked harmless enough. “We need all the good karma we can get,” he said.

Harry slowed the car and pulled over. He came to a slow stop, then reversed back to the boy, who was looking slightly apprehensive now that someone had actually stopped.

“Jump in then,” Harry shouted out of his lowered window.

The boy smiled, picked up his backpack and climbed into the back of the car.

Ron turned in his seat to look at their new passenger. As he’d thought, the boy couldn’t have been older than sixteen. He had dark, untidy looking hair and a pale, thin face.

“Hi,” Ron said. “I’m Ron, and this is Harry,” he cocked his head in Harry’s direction. “Where are you heading?”

The boy leant forward, brushing his hand through his messy hair. “I’m going South,” he said, a sudden grin lighting up his face. “Going to have a try out at one of those professional Qu--I mean, football teams.” He looked slightly embarrassed, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

Ron felt a sudden surge of adrenalin run through his body; something wasn’t quite right. The kid had started to say something else, something two blokes in a Muggle car wouldn’t understand.

He tried to keep the excitement out of his voice as he asked, “So, what’s your name?” Ron was pretty sure he knew the answer.

“Sev,” the boy said, sitting back in his seat. “Sev Snape. Nice to meet you Ron, Harry,” and he turned his head to stare out the window.

Ron and Harry shared a quick look of wonder before Harry returned his eyes to the road. Ron rested his head on the back of his seat and closed his eyes, smiling.



//“Don’t go.”

Ron jabbed his wand viciously into Malfoy’s neck. “Shut the fuck up, Malfoy. We’re going to help Harry and there’s nothing you and your pathetic little Squad can do about it.”

“I don’t care about--they can go,” Malfoy swallowed loudly. “They can do whatever they want but you…” He was looking intently at Ron now, searching Ron’s face as if he’d find something there that he needed to see.

It made Ron angrier. What did Malfoy want from him, for Merlin’s sake?

“Shut up,” Ron raised his wand ready to cast the Body Bind spell.

Malfoy grabbed hold of his wrist. “Please, Weasley, you don’t know--it’s a -- just don’t go.” His eyes were pleading and Ron had had enough. He raised his wand.

“Chiroptera Bogies!”

Ron looked over his shoulder in surprise. Ginny had beaten him to it. Ron backed away from Malfoy quickly as green wings flapped frantically around the distressed boy’s face.

“Come on, Ron.” Ginny ran for the door.

With one last glance at Malfoy, Ron followed her. //



It was a few hours more before Ron and Harry were able to find some time alone to discuss their hitchhiker. It wasn’t in the best of settings.

“Ow, fuck!” Harry rubbed his elbow. He’d knocked it against the metal toilet roll holder.

“Sssh!” Ron hissed in his ear. “I think someone just came in.”

They were squeezed into a toilet stall at Gretna Services. They’d left Snape in the coffee shop, finishing his drink. They’d come in to the toilets to get away from the boy, so they could talk without him overhearing. Their current location was Harry’s idea, of course. Ron didn’t see why they couldn’t just talk outside the stall but Harry had insisted (Ron sometimes thought Harry missed the old days a little too much).

They heard the other occupant of the toilets leave and listened carefully to make sure that no one else was about to come in. Once they were satisfied that they were alone again, they resumed the conversation they’d been having just before Harry - apparently suffering a sudden rush of blood to the head - had shoved them both into the stall (why did he think anyone would even care what they were talking about?).

“So, what do you think is going on?” Harry asked. “Alternative Reality? Hole in the Time/Space continuum? We’re really, really, drunk?”

The absurdity of the situation seemed to hit them both at the same time and they started to giggle.

“Oh shit,” Ron gasped out, brushing away the tears that were rolling down his face. “Hermione’s going to kill me if on top of everything else I get myself arrested for cottaging.”

That set them both off again. A door a couple of stalls down banged shut loudly. Ron stuffed his sleeve into his mouth. Harry’s eyes widened comically at the sudden noise and Ron had to bite down on his hand to stifle his laughter. They waited until they heard whoever it was walk out again.

“Eew,” Harry grimaced. “Dirty git didn’t even wash his hands.” He and Ron shared a disgusted look.

Harry leant up against the door, facing Ron. “Right then, so back to Snape,” he said, bouncing slightly on his toes. “Care to share your thoughts?”

“Really, Harry,” Ron said, with a shrug. “I’ve no fucking idea. It’s definitely not just some sort of shift in time. Snape - older Snape - told me he never played Quidditch after his second year at Hogwarts, but Sev is at least sixteen.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed nodding. “And the teenage Snape I saw in the Pensieve all those years ago, was definitely a damn sight different to this one.”

Ron ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “Besides, I don’t think putting a name to it is going to help us to figure out what’s going on.” He sat down on the closed toilet seat.

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “I say we just go with it and see what happens.”

Ron looked up at him, open -mouthed. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got. The sum total of twenty-five years of experience of dealing with the unusual and spooky, and that’s it? Harry, how the hell did you even live this long?”

Harry was peeping out the stall to check the coast was clear and turned back to shrug at him. “Ron, as I told you at the time, it was all dumb luck.”

Ron stood up and shoved him out the stall. “Yeah, well, I’m beginning to believe you.”

They were still bickering - “did you really just use the word ‘spooky’?” - as they climbed back in to the car.

Sev looked up from the magazine he was flicking through, glancing from one to the other.

“I know I already asked this, but are you sure you two aren’t married?” he asked with a smirk.

And once again Ron was struck by how much he liked the cheeky little git. Severus Snape. Yeah. He shook his head in wonder and made a mental note to pick up no more hitchhikers (he had a sudden terrible fear that they were going to come across a teenaged Tom Riddle wearing eye-liner and needing a ride to band practise).



They didn’t go straight home, driving to The Burrow instead. Ron just felt that was the place Snape needed to be. When he saw the kid’s eyes light up as he took in the Quidditch pitch there, Ron knew they’d made the right decision.

“You’re wizards.” Snape tore his eyes away from the pitch long enough to give Harry and Ron a quick look of surprise.

“We are,” Harry confirmed with a grin.

“But…” Snape nodded at the car in the driveway. “That’s Muggle. Why didn’t you just Apparate or Floo?”

Ron stepped forward. “Why didn’t you?”

Snape ducked his head, looking embarrassed. “We couldn’t afford to have the house connected to a Floo network and I’ve not got my Apparition license yet.”

Well, Ron supposed that explained why he’d been so sure that he and Harry had to take the car. Doubtless Snape didn’t have the money to go by Muggle public transport either, or to pay for a portkey, hitchhiking had been the only option.

While Ron had been considering what the boy had said, Snape had edged closer to the pitch. Ron smiled, the kid was looking at it hungrily, his hands twitching restlessly at his sides. Oh right, he’d need a broomstick. Ron jogged over to the little equipment shed he’d set up at the side of the pitch. He grabbed a broom and ran back. He held it out to Snape, grinning as the boy’s eyes widened in wonder.

“You mean I can_” Snape turned his eyes back to the pitch.

Ron laughed. “Yeah. You can,” and he pushed the broom into Snape’s waiting hands.

Snape needed no further invitation. He ran onto the pitch and launched himself and the broom into the air.

Ron didn’t blame him, remembering his own eagerness at that age to get up in the air to chase quaffles and snitches for hours on end. He did admit that it felt pretty weird to be seeing that same youthful enthusiasm in Severus Snape of all people, but then, Ron was actually having a hard time associating this affable kid with the obnoxious professor that he had known.

It actually made Ron ache a little, seeing the boy that Snape had been before life had changed him so completely. It made him realise that Snape hadn’t always been a bitter and disappointed man. Ron felt bad about that, felt guilty for the hasty judgements that he’d made in the past. He winced remembering his own very grudging acceptance of Snape as a hero following the War, how for so long he’d clung onto the memory of the villain, refusing to acknowledge the achievements of the man. At least now, perhaps he could make it up to Snape, maybe this was a way to finally atone.

As he watched a laughing young Snape swoop past on his broom, Ron thought perhaps he’d made a good start.



//“So, it’s agreed. Thursday at 8pm.”

Ron nodded curtly and turned to walk away.

“Oh, and Weasley.”

Ron stopped and turned back, eyebrows raised questioningly.

“Wear your Quidditch uniform.”

Ron started sniggering, he couldn’t help it. Malfoy looked like he wanted to kill him, Ron didn’t care. “Really?” he said, smirking.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes dangerously. “Shut it, Weasley.”

Ron smirked wider. Oh, Malfoy was definitely going to kill him.//



As Ron had feared, it wasn’t the most pleasant of homecomings.

At least the kids were thrilled to see him, and they chattered away for the hour left before they went to bed, wanting to hear all about his and Harry’s adventure in Scotland, and just as eager to share with him what they’d been up to while he was away.

He and Hermione danced around each other while the children were still up, giving only the briefest of answers to each other’s queries and comments. But once the children were safely tucked away in bed, they sat down to talk.

“So, Ron,” Hermione looked up from her tea to stare across the table at her husband. “Would you care to explain to me what was so important that you felt it necessary to go to the other end of the country, even though I begged you not to?”

Ron sighed, surely begged was a little strong. He looked down into his own cup, as if he’d find the answers in there.

“Hermione,” he looked up again. “I swear the last thing I ever wanted to do was to upset you. If I’d thought there was any other way…” his voice trailed off. If Hermione was determined to see this whole thing as a personal vendetta against her, then there really was nothing Ron could say to persuade her otherwise.

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione’s voice broke on his name and to Ron’s astonishment she began to cry.

Ron was by her side in an instant. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her to him as she sobbed into his shirt. As her tears began to subside, Ron gently urged her to her feet and they made their way into the sitting room. Once they were settled side by side on the sofa, Ron took hold of her hand and waited.

It may have made him a shitty husband but Ron was relieved. Hermione had been angry at him for so long now, that he’d begun to despair of ever seeing any other emotion from her. It actually felt nice to see a more vulnerable Hermione, it helped to remind him why he’d fallen in love with her in the first place. Maybe there was hope for them after all.

“I’ve been so scared,” Hermione’s voice was shaky. She sat up straighter but to Ron’s relief she still leant in to his side and kept hold of his hand.

Ron put his other arm around her and hugged her close. “I know,” he said. “Me too.”

“I--I thought I was going to lose you,” Hermione looked up at him as she spoke.

Ron smiled down at her, shaking his head. “Never, Hermione, never.”

She smiled back, before tucking her head into his shoulder. “I’m so relieved, Ron. We can put all this nonsense behind us now and go back to normal.”

Ron felt his whole body grow tense.

“Now that you’ve come to your senses, we need never speak of it again.”

Ron didn’t know what to say. He felt like a fool. He should have known that it wasn’t going to be that easy. It wasn’t Hermione’s fault, he understood that now. She was clearly as scared and lost as he was, even if it had come out as anger. Ron hated himself in that moment because he knew he was about to shatter Hermione’s delusions once again. But he also couldn’t lie.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione,” he looked down at where she was looking up at him hopefully. “I don’t want to put this behind me. To me, it’s never been nonsense and I have every intention of seeing it through. I’m not ready to give this up.”

Hermione sat up, pulling away from him at his words. “But, Ron_”

“No,” Ron interrupted her. “No, Hermione you don’t know, you don‘t understand. This is important to me. Please, if you just come to The Burrow you’ll see_”

“No,” Hermione cut in. “That’s just it, Ron. I can’t see anything.” She stood up and walked over to the window, arms wrapped around herself.

Ron sighed. “I know,” he said softly. “And I swear, Hermione, if I could change that I would. I don’t know why you can’t see what the rest of us can.”

“It’s like some sort of cruel joke.” Hermione still had her back to him. “At first I was terrified, Ron. When it seemed to be just you, I thought you were losing your mind. I wondered if it was maybe an old curse, something that had hit you during the battle of Hogwarts and had lain dormant all these years.”

She turned around to face Ron. “But then, everyone else was suddenly talking about F--Fred. And watching dead people playing Quidditch. Even the children.” She’d started to cry again.

Ron desperately wanted to go to her but something held him back.

“And--and I began to think maybe it was me. Maybe I was the one that was going mad.”

“Hermione, no_” Ron made to stand up, needing to comfort her.

But Hermione shook her head. “No, Ron, please let me finish. I have to say this.”

Ron reluctantly settled back down again, feeling utterly helpless.

“I felt so left out, Ron.”

The tears were falling freely now and she looked so miserable that Ron was almost tempted to chuck the whole thing in right there and then. To tell her he was wrong and they really could put it all behind them and never speak of it again. But he knew it was too late for that now. For better or worse, they both had to see this thing through.

“When I found out about your shared dream with Harry…”

Ron couldn’t help his gasp of surprise at that. He hadn’t told Hermione about the dream, too worried about how she’d react.

She smiled sadly at him. “Ginny told me, after you left for Scotland. I think she thought it might help me to understand why you’d gone.”

“Did it?” Ron asked hopefully.

Hermione shook her head. “No. If anything it made me feel worse, more angry. I felt betrayed.”

“Hermione_”

“I know,” she held up her hand. “I know he’s your best friend, Ron. You can tell him anything.” She hugged her arms tighter around herself and looked down at the floor. “Unlike me.”

“Oh, Hermione.” This time Ron did go to her. He pulled her into a hug and she collapsed into him, wrapping her arms around him and holding on tight.

“I was so jealous, Ron.” She pushed her face into his neck. “I wanted it to be me. I wanted you to tell me, wanted you to share dreams with me.”

Ron just hugged her closer and let her cry it out.

When the storm had broken and Hermione was sniffling quietly in his arms, Ron nudged her gently. “Come on ‘Mione, I think we both need something a little stronger than tea.”

Once they were both settled on the sofa and on their second Firewhiskey (seriously, he was so headed for liver damage), Ron took Hermione’s hand back in his and decided that it was time he was honest with his wife.

“Okay, so if you ever mention this to Harry, then I will deny it fervently.” Hermione looked up at him in surprise. “Come on, Hermione, all that The Boy Who Lived, Saviour Of The Wizarding World business, don’t you think he’s big-headed enough?”

Hermione knew he was joking and smiled back at him.

“So, yeah,” Ron continued with a wry grin. “I was jealous too. Also of Harry,” he rolled his eyes. “See? Harry must never know.”

Hermione shook her head and laughed. “Definitely. We mustn’t encourage his messiah complex.” Hermione didn’t drink very often and the Firewhiskey was clearly having an effect.

Hermione suddenly looked thoughtful. “ But why were you jealous?”

Ron paused before answering. He chewed on his bottom lip nervously. This was where it could get tricky. But he owed it to Hermione to be as honest with her as she had been with him.

“You--you always believed in Harry more than you believed in me.”

Hermione sucked in her breath and Ron felt horribly guilty seeing the look of distress his words had put on her face. But he also knew the truth of what he’d said and Hermione’s silence told him she did too. Ron squeezed her hand and pulled her in closer, needing to let her know that he wasn’t angry or upset.

“I wanted that, Hermione. And I’m not trying to make excuses, but I think that was one of the reasons I didn’t tell you about The Voice for so long. I knew you wouldn’t-- couldn’t give that to me.”

Hermione pulled away from him then and Ron feared the worst.

“I’m sorry, Ron. I_,”

“It’s okay_”

“No, Ron,” Hermione shook her head sadly. “It’s not okay. I’m your wife and I should have supported you.”

She reached up to touch his cheek. “You should have been able to trust me with this.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “And, I should have been able to believe in you.”

She lowered her hand to take hold of his again and gripped it tightly. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You can’t tell me things, Ron. And I'm too quick to doubt you.”

She sat back, resting her head on his shoulder. “There’s more here than voices and dreams, Ron. It’s time we faced the truth. We’re just not meant to be together.”

Ron leant his head back and took in a deep breath of his own, before letting it out slowly. He could feel the tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. But, he knew she was right. Always the bravest, always the strongest, his Hermione.

They didn’t say anything after that. Not for a long time. Just sat holding onto each other and the last of what they’d had, holding on as hard as they could, for as long as they both could stand it.



Hermione was the one to finally break the silence.

She sat up, reaching forward to cup Ron’s face in her hands and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth.

“Goodnight, Ron, ” she whispered softly. Then, she stood up and walked to the door.

“Please come to The Burrow tomorrow.” Ron’s voice sounded rough even to his own ears.

Hermione paused at the door, before nodding slowly. Then she walked from the room without another word.

Ron remained where he was, listening to Hermione moving about upstairs, the sounds of her preparing for bed as familiar to him as the ticking of the clock on the dining room wall. He ached to go to her, to somehow make things right again, while all the time knowing that there was no going back. He almost wished for a time turner, but no time turner could fix this (and well, if he had one, then, there were other times he’d go to, other wrongs he’d undo).

Ron sighed before getting slowly to his feet and making his way to the door. At the top of the stairs he paused. As he stood there, the strip of light at the bottom of their bedroom door winked out.

“Sleep well, Hermione,” he whispered in to the silence.

He quietly opened the door to the spare room, not surprised to see that the futon had already been made up.

Hours later and Ron was still wide-awake. He was thinking about other decisions he’d made in his life, wondering what would he do if he had them to make again? Would he still make the same choices? What if his life had gone a different way? He rarely allowed himself this indulgence but he needed it now. It hurt to remember but in the sweetest of ways.

His thoughts eventually came back to the present; to his wife lying in the next room, to his kids sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the turn their lives were about to take, and Ron suddenly realised something. While he may have felt weary and sick at the thought of where his steps were taking him, there was a bigger part of him that wanted to run as fast as he could towards it.

It was his final thought before he drifted into sleep.



//“We both knew this day would come.”

Ron looked up and pinned Malfoy with his glare. “Did we?” he asked.

Malfoy shook his head, looking exasperated. “Stop being so impossible, Weasley.”

Ron stood up quickly, throwing the bedcovers to the floor in his anger. “It’s not impossible,” he shouted. “The war’s over--”

“So fucking naïve,” Malfoy spat the words out around his curled lip. “Don’t you get it, Weasley?” he asked, sneeringly. “The war will never be over for anyone with the name Malfoy. Do you think your side will ever forget what my family did?”

Ron shook his head. “But that wasn’t you. That was your father.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Was it?”

Ron paused, eyes searching the other man’s face.

Malfoy smirked knowingly. “See?” he said. “Even you’re not sure.”

Ron’s eyes widened in horror and he opened his mouth to deny it but Malfoy reached out quickly, pulling Ron’s head forward to meet his lips in a hard, painful kiss that felt like a knife twisting in Ron’s gut.

Pulling away, Malfoy shoved him backwards until he fell back on to the bed.

“Goodbye, Weasley,” he said, his voice even.

“I hate you.”

Malfoy paused at the door. “Good,” he said and walked out.//



Ron didn’t sleep well that night and it was a relief to finally get up and Apparate to his parents’ house. Hermione and the children were still sleeping when he left, so he left a note reminding Hermione of her promise to come to The Burrow.

When he arrived at the house, his parents and George were already seated in the Quidditch stand and a lively game was underway. Snape was playing Seeker for Fred’s side and looked positively gleeful as he flew from one end of the field to the other in search of the elusive snitch. Ron joined the others on the bench and allowed himself to just enjoy the game for a while. There would be time enough to worry later.

By the time Hermione turned up with the children, the teams were on their third game. Fred’s team had won the first game, already 30-0 up when Snape had spotted the snitch hovering next to the other side’s goalpost and had easily beaten the opposing Seeker in his flight to catch it. Cederic’s team had equalled the score forty five minutes into the second game, when their Seeker, a very young looking Susan Bones, had slid sideways off her broom while dodging a bludger and had accidentally caught the snitch in her hair (untangling its' flapping wings from it afterward had delayed the start of the final game).

Hugo ran ahead of his mother, Albus quickly jumping down from the bench to meet him and they both ran off shouting and laughing. Hermione walked up slowly smiling uncertainly at Ron. Rose immediately ran from her side to sit down on the bench next to Harry.

“Who’s the new seeker on Uncle Fred’s side?” she asked, excitedly, eyes following the path of a bludger as it flew past Fred’s head.

Hermione turned to face the pitch, her eyes desperately scanning the sky.

And Ron knew right away. She couldn’t see anything. Nothing except sky and clouds. He rushed to her side, gathering her shaking hands in his and pulling her into a hug.

“Thank you for coming,” he whispered into her ear.

Hermione just nodded against his neck. Then she stood back, took a deep breath and led Ron back to the bench. Sitting next to Rose she pulled Ron down to sit next to her. She leant into his side and squeezed his hand.

“You’ll just have to tell me what’s happening out there, Ron,” she said, her voice only shaking a little.

Ron looked down at where she was curled into his chest. He didn’t think he’d ever loved her as much as he did in that moment. He squeezed her hand back.

A cheer went up from the bench, drawing Ron’s attention back to the game.

“Severus Snape has just caught the snitch for Fred’s side,” Ron whispered into Hermione’s hair.

He smiled at Hermione’s startled response. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s what I wanted you to see. He’s sixteen, Hermione, and the sweetest kid you could hope to meet.”

Hermione looked up at him, frowning. “I don’t understand, Ron. How_”

“I don’t know,” he interrupted her. “I really don’t know. But we picked him up hitchhiking on our way back and it just…makes sense in some crazy mixed up way. He’s why I had to go to Scotland.” He reached for her hand that had fallen from his when she’d moved back to look at him. “I swear Hermione if you could see him, you’d know I’d done the right thing.”

Hermione bit her lip, as if deep in thought.

Just then, there was a terrible scream from behind them and Ron jumped up from his seat and ran to see what had happened.

At the back of the small stand, Albus was standing frozen in place, looking down at where his cousin lay convulsing on the ground.

Ron rushed to Hugo’s side, lifting the stricken boy’s head into his lap. Hugo was trembling all over and foam was starting to form at the edges of his mouth. Something red caught Ron’s eye and he looked down to his son’s right hand. The palm was stained red and several small red berries had fallen from his outstretched hand. Ron looked around frantically, trying to see where the berries had come from, he was sure he’d never seen anything like that growing in his parents’ field before. Then he saw it. A bush, bursting with ripe, deadly berries. Shit.

“We need a bezoar. Now!” Ron screamed desperately.

“Accio first aid box!” George was the first to get his wand out and the box was soon flying through the air towards them.

Molly caught it easily and ripped off the lid dropping it to the ground and searching frantically through the contents inside. “Where is it?” she mumbled. “Oh Merlin, where is it? I’ve had one in here for years. I’ve never used it.” She looked up, tears in her eyes. “Arthur, it’s not here.” She was looking at her husband imploringly but there was nothing he could do except gather her up in his arms and try to comfort her as he too looked helplessly on.

“Ron, Ron, please do something.” Hermione was kneeling on Hugo’s other side now and was hugging her son tightly to her, tears streaming down her distraught face.

“I can help.”

Ron turned to see who’d spoken. It was Snape.

The game had stopped, Ron had no idea when, and all the players had crowded up to the edge of the pitch to watch the terrible drama being played out on the sideline.

Snape was standing next to the white line that marked the boundary of the pitch and Ron suddenly knew what crossing over it would mean for the boy.

“But you won’t_” he started to say.

Snape held up his hand. “It’s okay,” he said and stepped over the line.

And suddenly the Severus Snape Ron had known at Hogwarts was striding towards them, complete with billowing cloak and dark scowl. Ron heard Hermione’s gasp of shock and realised that she could see him too. Her gaze drifted from Snape to the pitch behind and the way her eyes widened told Ron that Hermione was finally seeing what they all had for so long.

Snape knelt down by Hugo’s side and reached into his cloak. He drew out a small, grey, shrivelled stone and gently prising Hugo’s mouth open, he pushed the stone into the boy’s mouth. Seconds later, Hugo opened his eyes and started to cough. Ron helped him to sit up. The terrible purple hue had left his skin and his normal colour was quickly returning. The boy blinked around at all the people looking anxiously down at him.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, eyes wide and guileless as a new born’s.

Everyone started to laugh in relief and Hermione reached out and pulled Hugo back into her chest.

Once he was sure that his son was safe in Hermione’s arms, Ron stood up with Snape and walked back to the edge of the pitch.

“Thank you,” Ron said. He wanted to hug Snape but it felt awkward now that he looked like their Snape again.

Then Snape smiled and Ron realised he’d never seen any Snape smile like that.

“I’m sorry,” Ron continued. “Sorry, that you had to do that. That you had to give up_”

But Snape stopped him with a raised hand and a shake of his head. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. I should be thanking you.” He took a step closer. “Thank you for giving me back one of my dreams.”

And to Ron’s surprise Snape pulled him in to a hug.

It should have felt uncomfortable, but it really didn’t.

Releasing Ron, Snape turned to raise his hand to the others before stepping back over the line and disappearing into the long grass at the back of the pitch.

When Ron returned to where Hermione had been holding Hugo, the scene was quite different from when he’d walked away. A clearly, fully recovered Hugo was protesting loudly as he was dragged back towards the house by his Gran.

“But I’m not tired,” the boy was insisting as he was pulled along.

“Yes, you are,” Molly told him. “You just don’t know it yet.”

Ron had to smile; it reminded him of so many times when he was on the receiving end of his mother’s bullying solicitude. He turned to Hermione out of habit, looking to her to smile knowingly back at him. But when he saw her face he was reminded of the shock his wife had recently suffered - not just the shock of Hugo’s poisoning but also the shock of suddenly seeing all the players on the pitch and all that it implied.

“Oh, Hermione,” he said, as he hurried to her side.

She willingly let him draw her in and seemed to wilt in his hold.

“Ron,” she said in a small voice. “It’s--it’s Fred.”

Oh fuck. Yeah, yeah it was. And Ron remembered how that had felt, how the rest of them had been allowed that moment alone. This was so unfair on Hermione. Ron suddenly wanted to punch someone. He settled for hugging Hermione in close.



It was late afternoon and the sun was lying low on the horizon. The Quidditch players had finally had their fill for the day and were busily packing up the equipment. Ron had helped his mum and dad clear away the last of the picnic lunch, and Molly and Arthur were now enjoying a pot of tea in the sitting room.

Hermione had taken the children home. They’d agreed that it would be best if Ron stayed at The Burrow, at least for now, they’d sort out something more permanent at a later date.

Earlier, after Hermione had recovered from the worst of the shock, she and Ron had taken a walk up in to the hills at the back of the house.

“Do you remember how we used to sneak up here for a secret snog?” Hermione had asked, smiling softly.

“And a bit more than that a couple of times,” Ron had replied with a sly wink.

Hermione had blushed, giving him a quick push and they’d both laughed.

When they had reached the brow of the highest hill, they’d sat down on the grass and looked down onto the pitch.

“I’m sorry, Ron,” Hermione’s voice had been quiet, almost a whisper.

Ron had turned his head to look at her but she’d kept her eyes on the pitch.

“I feel terrible that I doubted you.” She had turned to look at him then. “That I doubted you all.”

Ron had reached across for her hand and squeezed it. “It’s okay, Hermione. It must have been hard for you, being the only one who couldn’t see them.”

Hermione had nodded slowly, but Ron had known that it would probably be a long time before she really forgave herself.

“I think we should separate.”

Ron had flinched, even though he’d known it was coming. He’d wrapped his arm around Hermione’s shoulder and had hugged her into his side.

“I know,” he’d said.

And they’d sat quietly side by side watching the players below, until Hermione’s need to make sure that Hugo was still alright had brought them back to The Burrow.

After Hermione and the children had left, Ron went to where Hugo had collapsed. He intended to pull up the bush with the berries, determined to make sure no other accidents happened. He also made a mental note to replace the bezoar from his mother’s kit tomorrow.

But when he reached the back of the stand there was no bush. Ron shouldn’t have been surprised. There was no way his parents would have allowed a poisonous plant to grow anywhere where the children were likely to find them. He felt a momentary rush of rage. How dare The Voice put Hugo in danger like that. But the anger soon slipped away; Ron knew that there’d never been any real danger. The Voice was about healing not hurting.

He moved to the bench, sitting down with a sigh. It had been one hell of a day. Ron’s thoughts were interrupted by Harry, who came and sat down next to him. George was helping Ginny gather the children’s jumpers and cardigans that had been left lying around in various spots over the field. Meanwhile, the kids were busy pretending they couldn’t hear their mother whenever she asked them to fetch anything.

“Hey,” Harry bumped their shoulders together. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Ron replied with a quick nod. “It feels weird, knowing I’ll be sleeping back in there tonight,” he nodded over at the house. “But it’s also a relief, you know?” He looked over at Harry who nodded.

“Yeah, I know,” he said.

Ron looked back toward the pitch. “It just feels right,” he said quietly.

“Come on then, Harry,” Ginny called out as she walked up to them. “Quick, let’s go before any of them can escape again.” The children were walking slowly behind her with mutinous looks on their faces, Albus was looking particularly shifty, but George was keeping a careful eye on them all, clearly ready to herd any of them back if it became necessary.

Harry and Ron stood up, but before Harry could make his way over to Ginny, Fred stepped forward to the edge of the pitch and called out to him.

“Hey, Harry,” he shouted. “Why don’t you come with us?” He nodded his chin towards the back of the field where the other players were already disappearing into the long grass.

Harry looked startled. “Really?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Fred said with a grin. “Come and see what’s behind the veil.” He wiggled his eyebrows ridiculously. Then, more seriously, and with a soft smile. “There’s some people waiting to see you.”

Harry turned to Ginny, who was already smiling and nodding her head. “Go, Harry,” she said, rushing forward to hug him. “You have to go.”

Harry pulled back to study her face. “Really?” he asked incredulously. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” she said. “You’ve waited a long time for this, Harry.”

Harry pulled her back in for another hug, then releasing her he kissed her cheek. “I love you,” he said.

“I know,” Ginny said. “Now go, before Fred changes his mind.”

“Right,” Harry said. He turned to give Ron a quick one-armed hug, then followed Fred over to the edge of the field. He paused, slowly reaching his hand into the long grass. Then, grinning, he turned to wave back at them before taking a deep breath and walking forward, disappearing from view almost immediately.

Ron turned to speak to Ginny but was distracted by George on the other side of her. Ron didn’t know what the look on his brother’s face meant but he felt it painfully somewhere deep inside.

Suddenly, Fred’s head poked back through the grass. “Only kidding, George,” he shouted across the field, a huge grin on his stupid face. “Come on, then.”

And George was running over the field and leaping into the grass.

From the sounds of scuffling and the muffled, “Ow, fuck!” that carried across the quiet afternoon Ron suspected that George had made sure to land on Fred.

Ginny’s laughter, sudden and bright, next to him startled Ron. He turned to his sister, her face so full of joy it took his breath away for a moment, then his own laughter was bubbling up out of him. He threw his arms around Ginny and they hugged and laughed together until Ginny started to hiccough.

After awhile, they sat down on the bench to catch their breath and wipe away their tears. Ginny hooked her arm through Ron’s and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I think you’re going to have to help me round them up again,” she said, nodding her head at where the children where off chasing each other round and round the trees, and otherwise generally taking advantage of their mother’s distraction.

Ron huffed out a laugh. “Maybe we should call mum out. She was always pretty good at dragging us in.”

“Yeah,” Ginny agreed. “It’s been so good to have her back, Ron.”

Ron nodded even though Ginny couldn’t see it. He looked across the empty field and wondered what Harry had found out there.

“Aren’t you afraid?” he said suddenly.

“Of what?” she asked, looking up at him.

Ron nodded towards the field. “Of what might happen to Harry,” he said.

Ginny smiled and shook her head. “No, I know Harry will come back. And maybe, he’ll be more at peace.”

Ron shifted so that he could see her better. “What do you mean?” he asked curiously. Harry had always seemed very ‘at peace’ to Ron. In fact, Ron had envied that about Harry, the way he’d seemed to cope so well after every thing that he’d been through.

Ginny smiled softly. “Just because he’s never said anything, Ron, doesn’t mean Harry hasn’t been hurting too.” She looked up at her brother. “ It’s been hard for him, Ron. Putting the past behind him and just getting on with living a normal life.” She sighed. “People still come up to him on the street, wanting to speak to The Boy Who Lived, to be able to go home and tell their own children, wife, whoever, that they met Harry Potter, vanquisher of The Dark Lord. And they write. Owls still come every day. Letters of thanks, of praise, asking what he does now, asking for advice with how to live their lives. And it weighs on Harry. You remember how he always hated the attention even back then.”

She let go of Ron’s arm and stood to walk to the edge of the pitch. “Then, there’s his grief. He feels responsible for everyone who ever died trying to protect him - his parents, Sirius, Mad Eye, Remus.”

“But that’s stupid_” Ron stood up too and walked over to her.

“I know,” Ginny cut him off. “But you know Harry.”

Ron nodded his agreement. Yes, he did know Harry. And he should have known that he was hurting. But maybe Ron had only seen what he’d wanted to see.

Something else suddenly hit him - Ease his pain. Ron had thought that was meant for Snape. But now he began to see that there was more than one person that had been hurting for all these years. Maybe it was Harry he’d been destined to help. It would be ironic if that was the case, because without Harry, Ron would never have made it this far.

“Out there,” Ginny’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “Maybe, Harry will finally be able to put that grief to rest.” She turned suddenly to face Ron, tears shining in her eyes. “Oh, Ron, just think, he might be seeing Sirius again. Or his parents.” She smiled up at Ron. “Perhaps even Hedwig and Dobby.”

Ron pulled her into a hug. “I hope so, Ginny,” he whispered into her hair. “I hope so.”



//“I’m sorry.”

Ron flinched. He’d never said that before. And, Voldermort knows, the bastard had said and done some pretty vile stuff over the years. But he’d never said that. Not with words. Ron closed his eyes and swallowed, trying to find what he needed to harden his heart against the look on Malfoy’s face, the longing in his voice.

Malfoy took a step closer. “Can’t you forgive me?” he asked quietly.

Ron opened his eyes and forced a shrug. “There’s nothing to forgive. You were right,” he said, trying to keep his voice as even as possible (as even as another voice had been all those years before).

“No, no I wasn’t.” Malfoy rushed forward and took hold of Ron’s arms, squeezing almost painfully tight. “That’s just it, Weasley. I was wrong.” He was scanning Ron’s face with desperate, searching eyes now. “I fucked up.”

And before Ron knew it, he’d been pulled forward and Malfoy was kissing him desperately, as if he could erase the last ten years by just wishing it. For a moment Ron allowed it, surrendered to his own need to feel this for just one more time.

Then he was pushing Malfoy away, both hands on his chest. Malfoy let out a cry like a wounded animal as his lips were torn from Ron’s and seeing the anguish in those grey eyes, Ron nearly gave in. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not ever again.

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” he spat out at the other man, finding strength in his anger. “You can’t keep doing this to me.” Ron was shaking in fury now. “You walked away, not me!” he shouted.

Malfoy stood frozen for a minute, then reached a hand up to touch tentatively at his mouth. “I know,” he said quietly. “And I was wrong. Please.”

Ron sucked in a gasp. More words he’d never heard from that mouth.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I have a child now. I won’t walk away from that, Malfoy. Not for you, not for anyone.”

Malfoy took a step towards him again. “But_”

“No!” Ron turned away, walking quickly over to the window. He looked out at the dark sky outside, willing himself not to break. “Go Malfoy!” he shouted as angrily as he could.

Neither of them spoke, the only sound in the room that of their harsh breaths. Then Ron heard it. The soft shuffle of Malfoy’s shoes as he walked away from him. It took every ounce of strength Ron had to hold on, to not turn around and beg him to stay. As he heard Malfoy open the door, Ron spoke one last time, quietly this time, almost a whisper (maybe he hoped the other man wouldn’t hear him).

“And please, if you care for me at all, don’t come back.”

He heard the door close.

Their timing had always been so crap.//



An hour later, Ron was alone, sitting next to the pitch. He looked out across the empty field and thought about all that it had brought with it. He should have felt content, at peace. But something still felt wrong, almost like there was something he’d forgotten to do. He didn’t know why. He’d done what he’d been asked to do and more. He hadn’t just gone the distance - he’d run it, fast and at full tilt, sometimes running away, sometimes running towards, not always sure himself which was which. And finally it had brought him here, back to the start.

He looked down at his hands, at the thin gold band on his finger. He took it off and rested it in his palm. It felt so light. For a moment he thought about putting it in his pocket. He slipped it back on. There would be time enough for that.

If you build it, he will come.

Ron looked up startled. He looked around him but he was still alone.

“I did,” he whispered in to the silence.

And it suddenly struck him. Why was it so quiet? What had happened to the birds and insects? There was nothing except the soft rustle of the leaves. And The Voice.

If you build it, he will come.

Ron shook his head in frustration. What did it want now? He had built it. He’d built it and Fred had come. And so much had changed from that point on. What more could The Voice possibly want from him?

Ease his pain.

Ron stood up and walked on to the pitch. He frowned, looking all around, turning slowly.

“What?” he shouted in to the stillness. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I’ve done it. Done it all.”

He spread his arms out. “Look,” he said. “It’s built. I eased his pain. You meant Harry, right?” he asked frowning.

Ease his pain.

Ron ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the ends. “Urgh!” he shouted.

This was so bloody annoying.

Then he saw him. A figure in the distance, walking towards the field (towards it, not out from the long grass, thank Merlin. Ron wasn‘t sure he’d have been able to stand it if …). He should have been too far away to make out his features, too distant to recognise. And yet Ron knew him in an instant.

Oh.

It hadn't been Harry. Or Fred, or Snape.

A pain so sharp and sudden, shot through his chest almost bringing him to his knees. For one awful moment Ron thought that he was having a heart attack and there was just time to think what a ridiculous way to end this, before the reality hit. This wasn’t new. Or sudden. It was just that Ron had lived with it for so long he’d forgotten how to feel it.

As he began to walk towards the figure, the pain fell away. Ron began to walk faster until he was running, like every awful romantic cliché in the fucking world. And he didn’t care.

They stopped at the same time, within arms reach now.

He was thinner. That was the first thing Ron noticed. Thinner, with less hair and more lines. The hair looked just as soft though, the eyes as piercing as ever. And the mouth, that cruel mouth.

And suddenly Ron couldn’t wait another second. He reached out his hands, grabbing at the stupid dress coat, pulling Malfoy to him. Malfoy stretched up to meet him.

How could he had forgotten how soft his lips were?

It was his last thought for a long time.








The sun had set and the sky was turning a deep inky blue. The lights from the Quidditch pitch were turned down low, bathing the field in a soft golden glow.

Ron and Malfoy were sitting close on the bench, Malfoy almost in Ron’s lap, pale hands in Ron’s hair, lips shifting restlessly over exposed skin, fingers mapping out never quite forgotten dips and hollows, trying to wipe out too many years of not having this.

They were oblivious to every thing around them, completely lost in each other but if they had looked up, they might have seen two very familiar faces looking out from the long grass.

Fred raised his hand in the air and George reached up to slap it.

“Who’d have thought ickle Ronniekins had it in him.” Fred said, with a huge wink at his brother. George waggled his eyebrows furiously back at him.

And for the first time in twenty years, the fields around The Burrow, echoed with the laughter of two identical boys.

The end

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