The Ron Identity

THE RON IDENTITY

CHAPTER ONE

It was his father's fault, really, bringing that strange thing home. Ever since Sirius had died the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix had had to clear out from 12 Grimmauld Place, and while its new location was being kept secret from all of the younger wizards and witches, the Weasleys had moved back to the Burrow. Things had gone back to as normal as they could have hoped, seeing as the Dark Lord was, indeed, back, and Sirius was, indeed, dead, and everybody was, indeed, more or less acting as though the Apocalypse had already started. And then, in the middle of all the gloom and tension, Arthur Weasley had brought home a Thingy.

"Don't show your mother," was the first thing he said, tiptoeing into the kitchen at half past midnight and almost falling over at the sight of Ron and Ginny at the kitchen table, looking befuddled at the huge box in his arms. Mr Weasley put it on the floor and beamed proudly at his children. "It's a Thingy," he whispered conspiratorially. "One of those listen-to-music thingies. Only I can't really figure out how it works."

Ron and Ginny stared at him, and then at each other. "Dad," Ron said, after a moment, "is it just a cardboard box, then? Cos if it is, I reckon you've been working a bit too hard."

"No, no," Mr Weasley said indignantly. "It's inside the box, of course. Think it runs on eckle-tricity though. Where am I going to get some eckle-tricity?"

Ginny was already lifting open the many flaps on the top of the box. "Where did you get it, Dad? From work?"

The disappointment at not having electric cables in the Burrow disappeared from her father's voice. "Oh no, no. Tonks picked it up somewhere and thought I might like a look." He took out a small circular chunk of metal and plastic that had a wire dangling from a corner, and what appeared to be earmuffs attached to the wire's end.

"Pan-ah-sun-ick?" Ron read out hesitantly. Then he peered at the earmuffs. "What do these do?"

"You're supposed to wear them," his father said, expertly pulling the earmuffs around his neck so they dangled there. "And then you press a button, and music's supposed to come out."

Ron pressed a button. Absolutely nothing happened.

"Who told you that?" Ginny asked.

Mr Weasley looked cheated. "Mad-eye."

"He's off his chump," Ron pronounced, pressing another button. The chunk suddenly opened like a box, revealing a shiny metal disc that was spinning slowly to a stop. "Ooh," Ron and Ginny went together.

"Ron? Ginny?" a voice came from the stairs. Hurriedly the three of them packed the Thingy away into its box. "Is your father home?"

"Molly, dear," Mr Weasley said, just as his wife walked sleepily into the kitchen. "Just got back." He stood and kissed her on the cheek, missing the smirks exchanged between his youngest son and daughter, the smirk that said how's he getting out of this one?

"Well, I'll be off to bed now," Mr Weasley said quickly, yawning for emphasis. "Come on, children, let's all..."

"Arthur," Mrs Weasley said. The word had begun with a question in the first syllable, and dragged out the second to include suspicion and annoyance. "What is that?"

Ron and Ginny looked at each other. "Night, Mum, Dad," Ron said, and they bolted.

Later on, when the Thingy had been tucked away in the garage where his father kept all his oddments and gadgets - Mrs Weasley disliked him bringing work into the house, after all - Ron had gone over to have a look. It was a curious thing, and the disc fascinated him. He took it upstairs to his room, the one that was all his at the top of the house, and lay it on the floor. It was a dull Thursday morning, with plenty of promise of rain, and Ron figured that it wouldn't pay to lie around waiting for his OWL results anyway. He'd much rather take his mind off the impending doom.

He sat there on the carpet for a moment, staring at the Thingy and thinking about Hogwarts. He wondered how Harry was getting on at that awful hole in Privet Drive. He'd sent Pig over a couple of times, but the replies had been short and closed. Hermione, in her lengthy letters, had mentioned she suspected Harry was falling into depression over Sirius' passing. Ron wondered vaguely if Hermione had ever considered visiting Harry. He had, but after that wonderful mistake with the telephone before the Quidditch World Cup, and knowing what the Dursleys were like in general, he was better off not trying. It was sad, though. He missed Harry, and he bet his head Harry missed him and Hermione too.

He turned his attention back to the Thingy, and pressed the button that flipped the lid open. There was an inscription on the centre. PRESS HERE. Ron did, and the disc popped out. It was shinier on the underside than on the top. Ron put it gingerly on the floor next to him, and looked at the earmuffs next. Well, if they looked like earmuffs then shouldn't they be for ears? Ron put them on, and adjusted them to fit his larger-than-normal ears. He shut the lid and flipped the Thingy on its back. There was a small compartment that looked like it might fit batteries. Maybe it was missing some. Ron opened the compartment, but there were already batteries in it.

He took one out and peered at it. Being a wizard meant knowing nothing of basic physics, which in turn meant the positive and negative signs gave him no clue about the batteries. Ron thought a moment, then reversed one of the batteries and closed the compartment. Then he thought again, and put the disc back inside, and holding his breath, pressed the same button he'd tried to get the sound out.

For a moment there was nothing, and Ron expected with a sinking heart that maybe it didn't work after all, but then there was music, music like Ron had never heard in his life. There were - what were they? - guitars, and strange rhythms, and a man was singing in a most peculiar language. Hang on, this sounded familiar, like when the captain of the Barcelona Bulls was talking on the Wizarding Wireless Network. But the music... Ron had never heard music like this before. It was fascinating.

He climbed onto his bed and lay back, pressing the triangle button again and letting the song wash over him. It made him think of big hats with corks on... sombreros? No, those were Mexican, not Spanish. At least those bullfighters were Spanish, with the flapping red blankets and the tight pants. Ron rather liked the idea of being a bullfighter, but the tight pants disturbed him somewhat. He could be in his own movie, and it'd be about bullfighting and beautiful sad women. What would he call it? Ronald Weasley and... the Something of Somewhere. Yes, that sounded like a winning formula. Then he'd get rich, and they'd plaster his face all over Teen Witches' Weekly, and he'd make Malfoy eat his hat. No, bugger that, he needed his hat. He'd make Malfoy eat slugs. Ron cringed at the memory of his botched attempt to force a slug diet on Malfoy in second year. What an embarrassment that had been, spending the subsequent hour throwing up slugs in Hagrid's house. And Hermione tell! ing Hagrid she'd been called a Mudblood... Oh but Hermione got her revenge, slapping Malfoy in third year. That had been brilliant, really. Ron pondered the effects of revenge on the skinny arrogant Slytherin. Perhaps when they got back to school a little transfiguration a la Mad-Eye Moody was in order.

A moving shadow at his window nearly startled him off the bed. He pulled off the earmuffs and opened it to a bleary sky and a cold wind that blew in an irate looking post owl, which stuck out its leg and bit him as he tried to remove the scroll attached to it.

"Ouch!" Ron snapped. He stuffed a Knut into its bag and resisted the urge to smack it. "Stupid bird. Get lost. Shut up, Pig," he added, in response to his owl's frenzied hollering. The official-looking seal on the scroll was unnerving him. Ron felt ill, and sat down, still clutching the unopened scroll. If his grades were rubbish he'd never hear the end of it from his mother, who was still a bit sore about the twins not doing NEWTs. Come to think of it, he'd never hear the end of it from Hermione either.

He took a deep breath, and opened the parchment.

***

About two hundred miles away, on a quiet street, in a much more normal and boring house, a dark-haired bespectacled boy's scroll unrolled in his hands.

Dear Mr Harry Potter [it said],

Please find enclosed the results of your Ordinary Wizarding Level examinations. Your name has automatically been entered into the NEWT-standard classes, for the subjects in which you have scored A and above. For classes in which you have not scored at least an A, but wish to appeal, please approach the teacher in charge.

Also enclosed is the list of all necessary books and equipment for your sixth year. Please be reminded that the new school term starts on 1 September.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Harry stared blankly at the paper. The letters were swimming gaily around on the page, refusing to line up properly and make sense for his tired mind. He turned to the next page, which proclaimed his OWL grades, and stared at that too.

Defence Against the Dark Arts O

Transfiguration E

Charms E

Astronomy A

Care of Magical Creatures O

Potions A

Mr Harry Potter, your NEWT-level classes are as follows:

Defence Against the Dark Arts

Transfiguration

Charms

Astronomy

Care of Magical Creatures

Potions

From the midst of the murk of empty that was currently resident in his mind a weak thought struggled to the surface. Oh God not more Potions. Harry looked up listlessly at the window, which was being beaten by the relentless rain. Now, on top of everything he had to look forward to - summer with the Dursleys, not seeing his friends, and - that - he had more of Snape when the school term began. Harry didn't want to be in sixth year. Harry wanted to die.

He'd been feeling so tired lately. Nothing seemed to help anymore, not the visits every three days from Lupin and Tonks and Mad-Eye - which Aunt Petunia at least graciously bore, even if Uncle Vernon spent hours yelling at him afterwards for it - and every time Harry thought about Hogwarts, he was torn over wanting to return, and hating the place.

He tossed the letter on his desk and lay down on his bed, listening to the rain thunder overhead. He wondered where Hedwig was hiding, waiting for a drier moment to return. She hadn't been back for days, but Harry was ashamed to realize he had only just noticed her absence. He stared at the crack that was forming in the ceiling just above him. Something dripped onto his face.

"Urgh," Harry muttered. At the rate the storm was going he'd be swimming in his room by nightfall. He decided to go downstairs and find a bucket, or perhaps even one of those groundsheets Uncle Vernon had bought during his camping craze.

The corridor outside his room was darkness, as though it wasn't actually two in the afternoon. "Lumos," Harry whispered, and the tip of his wand cast a faint light over his feet. He stumbled to the top of the stairs, wondering why on earth the house was in darkness, and how come his uncle and aunt were perfectly calm about it. "Uncle Vernon?" he called. "Aunt Petunia?"

There was no one upstairs, and the hallway was empty, just like the kitchen and the living room. Had they gone out for the day and not told him again? Anger flashed briefly in Harry's heart, but vanished almost immediately. He knew it was no use being angry at the Dursleys. It wasn't really their fault they had been blessed with perfect stupidity. He went back into the kitchen and began poking around for a candle.

Thump.

Harry looked around. It sounded like there was someone home after all. That pig's arse Dudley. "Dud!" Harry yelled, irate. "Oi, Duddikins!" There was no reply, and a small cold feeling began to travel from the depths of his stomach to the back of his neck.

Thump. The light on his wand-tip flared, and went out.

Harry backed into the dining table and almost fell over. The sound was coming from an upstairs room directly above him, and it was getting louder. In a brief flash of purple light courtesy of the storm, Harry could see the chandelier swaying unsteadily.

Where are they they said they'd protect me

Harry held his wand upright, shaking slightly. "Lumos!" Immediately the wand-tip came alight, but shining it all around he could see nothing out of the ordinary.

Where is everyone oh God am I alone in this place

Thump. Harry tried to swallow his growing panic without success, trying to think of where the noise was coming from, and then just as he remembered how the tree outside Dudley's window was constantly banging on it and giving Dudley nightmares, and how Lupin and Tonks and Mad-Eye couldn't possibly rush over just because he was alone in a house during a thunderstorm, there was a deafening rumble of thunder overhead. And to Harry's ears it was the sound of his own heart breaking again, for in remembering that he was alone he remembered that his last hope for a relative who loved him had died when Sirius had fallen, and without Sirius it was as if the door to happiness had been rudely shut in his face. It hit him with the force of the wind outside, and he sank to the ground, dropping his wand and hiding his face in his hands, struggling to breathe. He could hear the howling of the wind, a lost awful sound, a cry of wretched loneliness, and it was only much, much later ! that he realized it was the sound of his own tears.

***

Dear Ron,

Well done for your OWLs! I was so excited to hear you passed Potions -

Ron let out an angry growl. Ginny giggled and kept reading.

- because after all Professor Snape put us through you still pulled an A. Have you heard from Harry yet? I think he's still depressed over Sirius. Ron, we have to do something. Harry really needs us right now, and depending on his results, he might be even more depressed.

This time Ginny stopped of her own accord. "Is it just me or does that sound extremely callous of Hermione?"

Ron gave her a grim smile. "It's not just you."

Mum and Dad are really pleased with my straight Os, so they're allowing me to come down to the Burrow and stay with your family the week before term starts. Since that's next week already I thought I'd better write and ask whether it's really alright, and whether Harry can come: I can call him on the telephone - not fellytone, Ron - and maybe we could even go down together.

Let me know soon. The quicker we get Harry out of there, the better.

Love,

Hermione

Ginny looked up at her brother, who was picking idly at a loose thread on his coverlet. The storm of the past few days had finally let up, and there was a feeble light masquerading as sunshine that floated through the open window. Pigwidgeon was zooming in and out of it, chirping gleefully. "Ron," she said, handing him the letter, "aren't you glad Harry and Hermione are coming to stay?"

Ron held out his hand so that Pig could land in his open palm. "Course I'm glad," he said, but the fact that he was trying to avoid Ginny's gaze made her persist.

"What is it? You're nervous and don't know what to say to Harry about Sirius? You're nervous and don't know if you miss Hermione more than you should? You're having a stomach ache from that awful omelette Fred tried to cook without magic?"

Ron stared at her. "What is it with women and complicated emotions?"

"What complicated emotions? They're really quite simple, especially the bit about the stomach ache." Ginny held out her hand and the little owl flew from her brother's grasp. "Come to think of it, I think I might be having a stomach ache myself."

"I don't know what to say to Harry," Ron admitted. His voice was quiet, and he was staring out the window at a perfect sky which matched the clear crystalline blue of his eyes. He thought of all the letters he'd written over the holidays, sometimes a clumsy effort to comfort, sometimes about nothing at all - none of which Harry had replied. "I don't know what to say, and he's my best friend, and I've tried but..." Ginny watched his gaze drop to his hands, something he did when he conceded defeat. "Anyway. I replied to her yesterday, told her Mum and Dad would be thrilled if they came, so she'll call Harry tonight." He looked up at her, and there was an odd look in his eyes, like there was something he wanted to do, or say, but it would be a pointless task. "Yeah, they'll come. Hermione'll probably hex the Dursleys all with boils if they don't let Harry out."

Ginny smiled, releasing Pig so that he resumed his frantic zooming. She liked having Harry and Hermione over. It was probably because they were nice people and in a way, also her friends, but somewhere inside a small rather nasty voice was saying that it was a comfort Ron had real friends because they'd all been worrying.

Ginny blinked. Real friends? Worrying? Perhaps the omelette in her stomach was growing a voice. "Ron," she said, going to his table, "have you figured out how this works yet?" She picked up the Thingy and went to sit by her brother on the bed.

Ron looked apprehensively at the Thingy, then at Ginny. "Er," he said, then gave in. "Here, you wear it like this." He fitted the earmuffs on her head, adjusted it around her locks of scarlet fire, and pressed the triangle button. Ginny stared at him, then looked around her wild-eyed for a moment, relaxing when she saw him point to the Thingy, then to her ears. After another moment she was bobbing her head to what he knew was the rhythm: hearing it fifteen times every night had served to emblazon it in his mind.

"Wow," she said, when the song ended and she had pulled off the earmuffs. "Aren't you going to tell Dad? He'll be thrilled!"

Ron was staring at the Thingy, with that odd look in his eyes again. It made Ginny wonder. "Yeah," he said, finally. "Maybe you should go tell him. Go on. I never said I was fiddling about with it, anyway."

"Ok," Ginny replied. She stopped at the door and turned back to look at him. "Ron?"

He was not looking at her, but out the window. Ginny tried to think where she had seen that look before, that caged look that belonged more on a wild bird than on her 16-year-old brother. It was rather unnerving, since Ron wasn't usually given to longing after anything.

"Yeah?" he said, still not looking at her.

Ginny decided not to say it. "Nothing."

***

"Huh-ooh? Durshey hur."

Hermione was alarmed. She thought for a wild second she had copied the wrong number, even though she had double-checked with Harry so many times he'd gotten rather annoyed about it. But what she heard on the other end was in fact Uncle Vernon speaking through a mouthful of mashed potato after having had a bad tooth extracted.

"Hello?" she ventured. "May I speak to Harry Potter, please?"

Somewhere on the other side of the country Vernon Dursley lowered the receiver from his ear and turned to glare at his nephew, who had been sitting in the armchair by the window and staring outside in morose silence.

"I thought you don't have any friends," he whispered nastily, before going back to the phone. He swallowed all the mashed potato and tried to sound a bit more dignified. There was, after all, a young lady on the other end. "Hello, I'm sorry, Harry seems to be indisposed at the moment. Who is this?"

Harry swiveled his head around to fix his catatonic gaze on Uncle Vernon. "Herm... I'm sorry, could you repeat that? Herm-eye-own-nee?"

Something made Harry get up and hold out his hand for the receiver. Uncle Vernon shook his head, but Harry merely took his wand out of his jeans pocket and pointed it steadily at him. Uncle Vernon dropped the receiver, glaring daggers at him, but he waited until his uncle had retreated back to the dining table where his wife and son were busy eating. Then Harry picked up the phone.

Hermione was stunned by the sudden loss of sound. "Hello? Hello, can you hear me?"

"Yes," said a familiar, tired voice. "Hey, Hermione."

"Harry!" she cried. Harry noted with dim interest how happy she sounded to hear his voice. "How are you?"

"Terrible," he replied honestly. "How have your holidays been?"

"Oh, you know, they've been alright. We went to the Lake District, it was beautiful. Oh Harry." Harry couldn't resist a grin. Hermione was funny when she went all teary on him. Mind you, sometimes it was more than a little frightening, but mostly funny.

"Hermione, I'm all right, really. Lupin and Tonks and Mad-Eye have been round to check on me." Harry scuffed the carpet with his battered sneaker. This seemed to be the first time in his life he was using the telephone, but it didn't feel at all special. Perhaps he was just getting - what was the word? - jaded. "How's Ron?"

Hermione sighed. If he had to ask it probably meant he hadn't been paying attention to any of Ron's letters. "He's alright, he did well for OWLs. Haven't you been writing to him, Harry? He misses you." There was no reply. Hermione wondered if Harry had chosen to ignore that as well. "I'm going to the Burrow to stay for a week, before term starts. My mum and dad can come and pick you up, and we can go together."

"Er," said Harry. He wasn't sure why, but the thought of going to spend time with all the Weasleys and Hermione - minus of course Percy - was suddenly an ominous one. "I... I don't know, really. My aunt and uncle..."

"Harry," said Hermione, surprised. He never made excuses not to be with them. "It'll be alright, my parents will be less of a shock than the Weasleys..."

"But," Harry began.

"It's really fine, look we'll come get you on Friday alright? That's five whole days away. Enough time to pack and everything. What's your address? We'll be driving down to get you, then up to London where Mr Weasley's coming to pick us up after work. Is ten okay for you? Too early? Harry? Are you still there?"

Harry was trying very hard to decide which of Hermione's strongest characteristics he hated more: her bossiness or her ability to simply out-talk him. Finally he gave up.

"Ten-thirty," he said. "But only because Dudley sleeps in and I want to embarrass him."

***

He was asleep, he was sure of it.

Then he was dreaming.

He was standing alone in the centre of a forest, a clean and green forest where the trees lined up perfectly and there were flowers of every colour on the forest floor, which was odd considering there wasn't enough light for all of them to bloom so fastidiously. Well, this was a dream after all. He turned, and suddenly it looked like the flowers had all but vanished. He blinked, and decided to walk.

There was no sound in this forest. Even the fallen leaves, which were a uniform shade of sepia, folded under his bare feet without a hint of noise. He walked slowly to the end of the row of trees, but once he reached there another row started which looked exactly like the first, so that it was like not moving at all. The forest stretched out endlessly before him. There was a strange feeling in the air, like something was alive that shouldn't be, and he felt unnerved.

He turned around. He could have sworn someone had been right behind him, watching.

And then the music started. It wasn't the Spanish song - that would have been bizarre, in addition to the existence of the dream being bizarre to begin with - but it was a haunting melody, one he had never heard before which he realized with irritation would be stuck in his head for weeks.

He looked around for the source of the music. It sounded rather like a cello, had he ever heard a cello before, but played on the higher strings. But there was no one in the forest except him. He opened his mouth to say, hello? But there was nothing, no sound but the music, no one but him.

And then -

"Ron," said a voice sharply. "Wake up, Harry and Hermione are here."

He opened his eyes one at a time, peering blearily at his sister, who stood over his bed with arms crossed. "You've been sleeping forever!" she complained. "Come on, they just got here, Hermione's been asking for you."

Ron pulled himself out of bed and followed Ginny downstairs. His mind was dwelling on her mention of Hermione wanting to see him. What about Harry then?

Harry, it seemed when they reached the kitchen, didn't look like he wanted to be there at all. "Hey, Hermione," Ron said, allowing her to fling her arms around him. "How was the Lake District?"

Hermione flushed. "You've asked me that already," she replied. "And anyway it was good. Thanks Ginny," she added, and Ginny rolled her eyes with a grin.

"If you hadn't come when you did he'd be glued to his bed," she teased. Ron waved an impatient hand, and giggling, Ginny went back upstairs. He looked at Hermione, whose expression was pleading. Then he looked at Harry, who hadn't moved from his seat at the kitchen table.

"Hello, Harry," Ron said quietly.

Harry forced himself to look up. "Hey, Ron."

There was a brief moment of silence in which they shared a general awkwardness.

"So..." Harry tried. He was feeling guilty but he wasn't sure what for. "Had good hols?"

Ron motioned Hermione over to the kitchen table, where he sat down beside Harry. "Yeah, it's been alright. Dad's been promoted but he doesn't get paid more. But the twins are doing well with the joke shop, so that's good."

"Promoted?" Harry said faintly. Someone had said something about a promotion floating in Arthur Weasley's direction. Had it been Lupin? He didn't remember.

"Yes, Harry, to Head of the newly formed Muggle Relations Office, don't you remember?" Hermione supplied. Ron looked surprised.

"I wrote it in one of my letters, didn't I?" he said, sounding confused. "In fact I've told you everything that's happened, right after it happened too. Of course I had to speak in code, so I was referring to Hermione as Bushy and..."

"Bushy?" Hermione said, in a deadly tone. "What bushy?"

Ron looked alarmed. "Okay, well maybe not so bushy, but Harry would've known who I was talking about, right Harry?"

They turned to look at him, but he was staring at the whorls in the wood of the table, tracing the lines with a pale finger. He looked to Ron like he hadn't eaten or slept in a long time. "Harry?" he said. It was a question, as well as a statement, but Harry responded to neither.

Hermione placed a hand on his arm. "Harry, are you all right? You haven't eaten anything since you left the Dursleys."

"What time did you leave?" Ron asked.

"Quarter to eleven," Hermione said promptly. "My parents tried to be nice to the Dursleys but some people just aren't worth the conversation. We drove up to King's Cross so your dad could pick us up, then when we got here your mum made some waffles for us, before your dad took her to see a doctor."

"Waffles?" Ron said indignantly, then realized his priorities were slightly maladjusted. "Oh no, they went to a doctor? Mum hates doctors. Doesn't trust them. Did they say where they went?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, but your father said they'd be back soon. They only left when Ginny went to wake you up."

Ron looked at the plates on the table. Harry's waffles were untouched. "You want those, mate?" he asked.

"Ron," Hermione said warningly. To Harry she said kindly, "Harry, you've got to eat something. You're starting to look really off-colour."

"So?" Harry said, not looking at her.

"Mate, if you're not having those, I am," Ron said, and reached out for the plate, but Hermione smacked his arm.

"Ron!" she snapped. "Can you think of anything but food?"

Ron retracted his arm, glowering. Harry looked up at Hermione. "I'm tired," he whispered. "I think I'll go lie down for a bit."

Hermione nodded encouragingly, and Harry got up and headed for Ron's room.

Ron grabbed the plate and started to eat with a vengeance. "Ron," Hermione said severely, "can't you be nicer to Harry? Think of what he's been through. He needs your support right now."

"No he doesn't," Ron said fiercely, but the effect was dampened by the mouthful of waffle. "He's not even talking to me. What am I supposed to do? Does he even want to be here?"

Hermione looked stricken. "Ron! Of course he wants to be here!" Ron ignored her and continued shoveling waffle into his mouth. "He's depressed and upset, and he can't go back to normal until he's dealt with what's happened, don't you see that?"

Ron stopped abruptly, and fixed such a look of anger on her that Hermione shrank away from him. She'd never seen Ron look like that. Ron, who was usually easy-going and good-natured, rarely got angry unless he was provoked. She had to admit that Harry, in his despairing state, was hard to deal with, but if she could manage it, surely Ron could too. She'd always reckoned Ron had more patience for Harry than her, or anyone else, for that matter.

"No, I don't see it," Ron said coldly, when the last of the waffle was swallowed. "Perhaps it's because I have the emotional range of a teaspoon, like I remember you saying before. But I don't see it."

Hermione looked at him. He looked back. Finally she sighed.

"Would you at least try to talk to him?" she asked wearily. Ron's expression turned doubtful, and she put her hand on his arm, just like she had done with Harry previously. It was a comforting yet coaxing action, and Ron felt oddly unresisting against it. "Come on, Ron," she said quietly. "He needs you. He doesn't act like it, but he needs you. This sadness is never going to leave him, but he'll learn how to handle it. And when he's handled it, he won't want to turn around and find that he's driven you away in the meantime."

Ron looked at the empty plate, then at Hermione. He was trying to decide which of her strongest characteristics he hated more: her logical, rational mind or her persuasive way of talking. Finally he gave up.

"All right, fine," he muttered. "But only because I'm nice."

***

The week that passed turned out to be the longest week of Ron's life. His mother was recovering from her bout of flu, but that meant he and Ginny had to cook for everyone, since his father and the twins were working and Harry and Hermione were guests. Ron couldn't even boil an egg, let alone cook for eight people, which meant Ginny had to shoulder most of the work. Hermione tried to help when Mrs Weasley wasn't looking, and made Ron look after Harry. Well that was what she called it. Ron called it babysitting.

"Honestly, Ron," she said to him on the morning of the last day, for what seemed to be the millionth time. Lately all the sentences Hermione addressed to him were heralded with 'Honestly, Ron'. It soured Ron's mood every time, this insinuation that he was so exasperating. "How many words have you said to Harry this past week? I could count them on my fingers and toes!"

Ron glared at Ginny, who glared back and pointed to the pan of beans on the stove. Ginny was going to have to be witness to this argument.

"I've tried," he said to Hermione, through gritted teeth. She gave him one of her looks, and continued peeling the shell off the boiled eggs. "I have, Hermione, he's just not interested."

"Fine. What did you do with him yesterday?"

Ron looked lost. "Yesterday?"

"You were supposed to go practice Quidditch with him," Ginny said helpfully. Ron narrowed his eyes at her.

"Yeah, so I was," he muttered. "I did. Well, I brought him out to the field, at least."

Hermione, now industriously buttering toast, fixed a beady eye on him. "And?"

"And I got on my Cleansweep and he just stood there like he didn't know what the Firebolt was for. AND I said, come on Harry, let's go, and we were airborne for, what was it, oh FIVE SECONDS before he said he was tired and didn't want to!" The coffee cup he was stirring too vigorously suddenly exploded, startling everyone.

"Ron!" Hermione snapped. "Reparo!" The cup flew back together in front of Ron, whose face was growing darker by the minute. "I hardly call that trying hard enough!"

"You wouldn't," Ron shot back, "since you're not the one trying!"

Hermione slapped the toast down on a plate, making Ginny jump. Ginny was now heartily wishing she'd left the beans to Ron. Sure they'd be burnt, but at least she wouldn't have to endure this. She hated seeing them fight. She hated seeing anyone fight, especially when Harry was the unknowing centre of the fracas.

"I'm going to talk to Harry," she said suddenly, trying not to look at either of them.

"You don't have to," a voice said from the doorway. Harry was leaning on the doorjamb, looking slightly less tired than he had been. Hermione gulped. If he had heard the crossfire between her and Ron, he made no sign of it. "Can I help?"

Ginny looked startled for a moment, then beamed. "Sure, Harry. Here, watch the beans."

He came over to the stove, giving Hermione an uncertain smile, not daring to look at Ron who was fuming into the empty coffee cup. "They look burnt," he whispered to Ginny, who giggled.

Ron stood and left without a word.

Harry looked bewildered. "Is he alright?"

"Urgh!" Hermione said, or something that sounded like it, and began violently laying the table.

"Um, Hermione," Ginny said, "you could do that with magic, you know."

Hermione stopped. "Oh." But she was already done anyway; the table was set, albeit in a slightly haphazard fashion. "I'm going to talk to Ron," she muttered, "and YOU," she said to Harry, "make sure you eat something this time."

She ran lightly up the steps, all the way to the top where Ron's room was. A soft banging noise was coming from inside it. Worried, Hermione threw open the door, to find Ron seated on his bed, staring solemnly out the window. He turned and looked irritably at her.

"What're you going around banging open the door for?" he asked waspishly. Hermione felt silly. It was quite evident now that Ron was not breaking things in a mad fury like she had expected, and that the noises were coming from the ghoul in the attic, on schedule with his alternate-day appearances.

"Oi," she yelled in the direction of the ceiling, glad to have something to pick on. "Shut up already."

Ron had turned back to the window, and was staring out at the endless sky, powder-blue with the infant morning. Hermione went quietly to the bed and sat on its edge. She didn't want to go any closer. She wasn't sure how close he wanted her at that point. "Ron?" she said, a small note of desperation. She didn't know how long she could stand seeing him angry, or Harry depressed, or how much longer she could go on trying to reconcile them both. "Ron, I'm sorry."

"Hermione, don't."

She sighed, a deep weary sound that made him look questioningly at her. The tears were going to start any moment and she didn't want to make him uncomfortable. "Look, Ron, just don't be mad at him, all right? You know when he annoys you, he's not because he wants to."

Ron looked at his hands. "I'm not mad. I'm just tired."

"So am I. But if we don't try, who will Harry have left? He's lost his parents, Sirius..." Her voice cracked, and she got up and walked quickly to his desk so he wouldn't hear the tears under her words. "He can't lose us too. You know that."

Ron looked out the window. It was a perfect day for flying, not soggy and moist like yesterday had been. Maybe that was why Harry hadn't wanted to fly. Then again, Ron couldn't remember Harry ever wanting to pass up a chance to fly. Harry loved flying like he loved his right arm; it was a part of him that he needed and never questioned.

"Should I bring him and Ginny to practice after breakfast?" he asked.

Hermione hadn't heard. When Ron squirmed around he saw she was peering at his Thingy. "Oh that," he said, his question forgotten by them both. "What's that called?"

"A discman." Hermione picked it up and examined it. She had that calculating look on her face, the one that was adding up all the facts she knew about the specimen in her hands. "Where did you get this?"

Ron scrambled off the bed. "Tonks found it and gave it to my dad... Why discman? Is it alive?"

"No, don't be idiotic," Hermione retorted. She looked doubtfully at the Thingy. "It looks ancient. I'd be surprised if it worked."

"Give it to me," Ron said.

Hermione stared at him.

"Er," he mumbled. "Please give it to me."

She gave it to him, but the stare didn't leave her face - the look that was surprised and disapproving and wondering all at once. "Yes," she said. Now it was Ron's turn to stare.

"Bring them to practice," she added.

***

That night, after the Weasley parents had had a lovely dinner with the four of them and the twins, who had come home for the weekend, Harry sat on Ron's bed watching him pack. The Quidditch practice session had gone well, with Harry teaching Ginny some of his tricks on the pitch, and Ron getting a chance to sharpen his skills at saving goals. Once Ginny swung the Quaffle-substitute football at Ron, forcing him to catch it with his stomach and turn loops in the process. When he had returned to an upright posture his face was as red as his hair, and looking equally frazzled. Harry had burst out laughing. It was, perhaps, the most light-hearted he'd felt for the whole of the miserable summer holidays.

"Where's my toothbrush?" Ron mumbled. "I could have sworn it was right here."

Harry uncovered it under a pile of sweaters. "Oh thanks, Harry," Ron said absent-mindedly, shoving the toothbrush into a pocket bag. "Now where's my Book of Spells Grade 6?"

The riffling continued for several frantic moments before Ron's head emerged from under his bed, beaming. "Aha," he said. "Mum got them last week. Must have forgotten them under there."

"Ron," Harry said, vaguely aware he was being tangential. "Thank you."

His best friend stopped beaming and looked bewildered. "For?"

"For..." Harry stared at the bedspread, trying to think of what to say. He wasn't really sure what for, but Ron had made him happy, even if it was short-lived. The nightmares and fear wouldn't disappear just because Ron was amusing company, but at least he was a comfort. "For everything," he said finally. Ron was looking doubtful.

"Can't say I've been much help, mate," he said, plopping down on the bed beside Harry. "Reckon I've been rather short with you actually. Sorry about that. You can be a real pain you know. All that morosity..."

Harry blinked. "Ron, I don't think 'morosity' is actually a word."

Ron looked unabashed. "Doesn't matter. You know what I mean."

Harry considered it. "Yes," he said after a while. "I have been annoying, haven't I? Sorry about that." He looked at Ron, who looked unmoved by the apology. Suddenly he was seized with an unreasonable fear that something or someone would steal Ron from him too. Then Hermione and the Weasleys, and Hagrid and Dumbledore and everyone who had ever made a difference to him... and then he realized that the person who took Ron away could eventually be himself.

"Ron?" he said, afraid.

Ron beamed. "Doesn't matter, mate. Already forgotten it."

He tossed the book on the pile of unpacked things by his suitcase, and admired Harry's badly-packed case next to it. "You know, my mum'll have a fit when she sees our luggage tomorrow."

Harry sniggered. "Yeah, so'll Hermione."

They sat there for a while, relieved and happy, until Ron began recounting incidents of Mrs Weasley and Hermione nagging them, and Harry couldn't stop laughing until Ginny thumped on the door for them to shut up, would they, because Hermione was going into fits trying to pack and could do without the noise. That set them off into a round of silent painful laughter, and when Ron finally got his breath back he said, "Harry, mate, we'd better sleep, we need the strength to face both of them tomorrow."

They crawled into their beds, occasionally exchanging residual giggles, and almost immediately Harry fell asleep, with a faint smile on his face.

Ron rolled over and looked up out the window at the moon, which eyed him with celestial contempt. In a minute he was asleep, and dreaming.

***

Harry was in a dark place. He thought he had seen it before; it had haunted his thoughts the first few weeks after Sirius died, and there was a faint smell of blood and fear surrounding him. He took a step forward, and decided walking was a bad idea when something squelched unpleasantly under his foot.

Why do you smile, mortal boy?

Harry looked around. This was new. Voices in his head that spoke directly to him, at least. "Who are you?" he asked. All around him was pitch blackness. He didn't want to think what he could be standing on. Bugger these nightmares. "Is that you, Voldy Moldy? Trying to get into my head again?"

The voice swirled around him like a mist of death. He would have known instantly had it really been the Dark Lord, but there was no harm in venturing a verbal insult where it was usually deserved. You will never be happy, mortal boy.

"My name, Mr Disembodied, is Harry Potter," he snapped. "Go write it down in your diary."

These are short moments. Your sadness is a lifetime.

A pain like a flaming knife stabbed Harry in the chest. "Shut up."

Mocking laughter burst in his head. "Shut up! Shut up!" he screamed, but it was no use, the voice was everywhere, the sound was drowning him, and he woke up clutching his scar which burned like ice. His head was throbbing, and sweat was pouring down his cheeks. That voice had been new to him. It had been human, that he guessed at least, but the whole possession business was getting really tiresome. "If you want to get into my head," he muttered angrily, "you're going to have to try harder, Volde-hairless-mort."

Over by the window Ron's sleeping form lay undisturbed by his nightmare. Harry felt guilty, and sank back into bed, the last thought on his mind before he fell back into sleep being of Occlumency and hoping he could learn under Dumbledore instead of Snape.