The Quick and the Dead

January 16th, 2000

Ottery-St. Catchpole

In a darkened room on the top floor of the Burrow, orange sheets churned and twisted around a body in a bed. The form beneath the sheets thrashed from side and side, gave a cry, and sat up, gasping. Ron Weasley stared into the close darkness of his bedroom, trying to catch his breath. He rubbed his hand over his chin, feeling the scratch of stubble.

"A dream," he whispered to himself. "Only a dream." But he didn't believe his own words, and in his mind's eye, he still saw the closed white face and streaming red-gold hair of his sister. He sat motionless until dawn stained the sky pink outside his window. Then he rolled out of bed.

"Harry," he hissed urgently into the fireplace. After several minutes, Harry's head appeared, his dark hair even more tousled than normal and his eyes heavy with sleep.

"Hmm-nnhh?" he mumbled, rubbing his nose.

"Harry, wake up. Splash some cold water on your face or something-"

"Ron?" Harry's eyes opened fully for the first time. He turned around and squinted at something behind him. "D'you know what time it is?" But he asked the question easily, as if he and his best friend from Hogwarts had last spoken yesterday, instead of six months before.

"I don't know. Early. It doesn't matter. I have to talk to you. Hermione too. And don't tell me you have class."

"It's--mmmm..." Harry seemed to lose track of what he was saying in the middle of the sentence. "Sunday. No. I don't. Hermione neither. I'll call her. She has a telephone now--"

"Good. Then get here as quick as you can, both of you."

"Well--" Harry said uncertainly. "All right. But what is it, Ron?"

"I'll tell you when you get here."

"Is it about--" Harry's voice became quieter. "Does it have something to do with Ginny?"

"I think so. Yes."

Harry was silent for a long time. "We'll be right over," he finally said.

After Harry's head disappeared, Ron sat staring into the dying embers of the fire for a long time.

Ron could hear Hermione's footsteps clattering briskly up the stairs long before she impatiently flung the door open. In spite of the emotions tearing through him, he had to smile wryly. Only Hermione had a step like that. And then there were Harry's footsteps, firmer but softer, more deliberate, yet still with a hint of tentativeness, as if afraid that his approach would be rejected. Ron wondered just how many times he had heard both sets of footsteps coming towards him in the past two years, and just how many attempts there had been to pull him out of his misery as he locked himself in his childhood room, obsessing over his lost sister. Enough so that they got good and bloody sick and tired of trying to pull your lazy ass out of that bed, as Fred would say, he thought. And he'd be right, I suppose. I've asked too much of them really... and I'm going to ask even more today. Expecting them to believe in my sanity, for a start. Well, no time like the present. Ron had been lying flat on his back, staring at his old Chudley Cannons posters that plastered the ceiling, but he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The door opened, nearly banging on the opposite wall.

"Ron," said Hermione, in tones of carefully controlled worry. "Harry called me and said you needed us desperately, and I came right over even though I was planning on going out with Tonks today--what is it?" She cocked her head at Ron, looking at him keenly.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked soberly behind Hermione, standing in the hall. She kept eyeing Ron.

Ron felt a bolt of irritation when he saw that. He pushed himself up from the bed. At least I'm not lying about the way I was all last year was the retort that sprung to his lips, but he squashed it firmly. He needed their help. He needed for them to believe him. He already knew that it would be an uphill climb. No sense in starting on the wrong foot before I've even opened my mouth. "Let's talk in the kitchen, all right?" he mumbled.

They sat at the kitchen table, all looking down at the teacups in their hands. All three of them sipped tea as if its consumption were the reason that Ron had dragged both Harry and Hermione from bed at an ungodly hour of the morning on one of the rare free days either of them was allowed during Auror training. Hermione glanced up, and then quickly down again. Ron, catching her eye, knew that she had seen the clock on the far wall. Ginny's hand almost, but not quite, pointed to "Dead." For two and a half years, it had hovered there as if awaiting an hour that never arrived.

"So, how are you, Ron?" Harry finally asked. "Still working for Fred and George?"

"Off and on," said Ron.

Hermione picked at her nails in the awkward silence that followed. "So... you've been at the Burrow all through the holidays?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

Ron wondered if she was dying to ask him if he ever planned on leaving, and to remind him that he wasn't doing his mother any favors by wallowing in grief. But she hadn't talked to him that way in a long time, and neither had Harry. They had both learned that it didn't do any good.

"So," said Harry. "Er..."

"What's this all about?" Hermione asked briskly, with a resolute air.

Harry leaned over the table, looking at his friend. His voice was softer. "Have you found out something new, mate?"

"Yeah, I reckon I have."

Hermione gave a little gasp. "Ron, what have you learned?"

Ron took a deep breath. "I think I know where she is."

Harry sucked in his breath sharply. "What?"

"Where?" asked Hermione in a quavering voice. "Near here? In a wizarding house, or with Muggles, or--or--"

"I don't know," Ron admitted.

"But, Ron," Hermione said carefully, "I don't quite understand, then. How did you learn where she was?"

Ron squirmed in his seat slightly. "Well, I didn't exactly learn it. I--uh--saw her."

Hermione and Harry exchanged glances. "But, Ron," Harry asked, "how'd you do that?"

"In a dream." The moment the words left his mouth, Ron could have kicked himself. Stupid! How thick can I be? I shouldn'tve just said it straight out like that. I should've led up to it somehow--or maybe talked a bit more before we ever got on the subject, so they could see I wasn't half out of my mind the way I was a year ago--oh Merlin, they're looking at each other in that same old way, like they were five seconds away from tossing me into the loony bin at St. Mungo's--

"I know what you're thinking," Ron said tightly. "Believe me, I know. But, listen to me. Please. Just listen!" He could hear his own voice rising towards the end of his sentence, and fought to keep it under control. His bitten nails dug into his palms under the table.

"We're listening," said Harry. He didn't return the look Hermione gave him. "I'm listening," he corrected himself.

"I'm listening as well," she said.

That's the best I'm going to get. And I suppose I don't deserve any better, when I think of the past year, realized Ron. "I've never put much stock in dreams, or reading tea leaves, or spreading out sheep entrails and trying to see the future in them," he continued, as calmly as he could. "Remember us in Trelawney's class, Harry?" He forced a chuckle.

Harry nodded, his eyes wary.

"But I don't think divination--or dreams--can just be ignored," Ron went on. "I stayed awake enough in History of Magic class to know that. Remember that three-foot parchment you helped me write, Hermione?"

"Which one?" asked Hermione, rolling her eyes a little. "There was that one about the Delphic Sibyl in sixth year, I suppose. And even Trelawney had her moments. But--" She hesitated. "You were talking about a dream, Ron. That's not the same thing as divination."

"I know it's not," said Ron. "But remember when we learned about precognitive dreams? Remember that story about that Muggle American president, Abraham Lincoln?"

"I do," said Harry slowly. "He dreamed that he was going to die a few days before he was assassinated, and he told his wife about it. I do remember hearing about that, Hermione. Seventh year, I think it was."

Hermione's brow knitted. "Well--yes, I suppose I do as well, now that you mention it. It wasn't in any class any of us took, though--it was from that odd Endings specialization. But I did hear about it. The same thing happened to Mark Twain--the nineteenth century author who was a Squib, you know. He dreamed that his brother died, and within one day, he did."

"So you see," said Ron, "that it can happen."

"I suppose so," said Hermione. She looked directly at Ron for the first time. "What exactly did you dream?"

"I saw Ginny," said Ron, wondering how to spin out this story so that it sounded like--well--Something. Something more coherent than what actually happened, anyway. "She was lying on a little bed. A cot, I think. There was a blanket over her, and her hands rested on her chest. Her eyes were closed, and her hair sort of streamed out behind her, and on her shoulders. Then a hand reached out and touched her. Her chest seemed to go up and down then. And, er- that's all," he finished rather lamely.

Harry and Hermione exchanged another look. "That's all," Hermione repeated.

"Yes. But, er, it felt so real. It honestly felt as if I were actually hovering above her at the top of the room--a little room, like a closet. And I woke with an awful feeling of, well, urgency. I could feel that she needs my help. I'm sure of it." Ron prayed that he sounded more rational than he felt.

Hermione did not respond. Harry gave a long, soft sigh that sounded completely unconscious.

"You don't believe me," Ron said flatly. "Do you."

"Of course we believe you," said Hermione.

"I don't mean that you think I made it up. I mean that you think I've snapped. Or d'you think it's too late for that?"

"We didn't come here for this." Hermione's eyes flashed. "I won't have these fights with you anymore, Ron. I told you I wouldn't. It's why--"

"You left off talking to me?" Against his will, Ron felt the old familiar irritation with Hermione rising in him.

"Well--yes! Yes, it was."

"Oh, really," said Ron, a hint of iron creeping into his voice no matter how hard he tried to keep it out. Dimly, he was aware that this was going all wrong, that it wasn't at all what he had wanted their next meeting to be. "Or was it because you'd moved on to your exciting new lives as Aurors-in-training, and you didn't want to bother with me anymore, or with Ginny? Must be nice to be able to forget all about that." He swung on Harry, who hadn't said a word in several minutes. "What do you have to say about it, mate?"

Harry lifted his head. His brilliant green eyes were miserable. "You're not being fair, Ron."

"Oh? How much time have you spent thinking about Ginny in the past six months?"

"Do you think I could forget her? Forget what happened?" asked Harry in a voice that was no more than a whisper.

"Easy to say," sneered Ron. "But what have you been doing about it?"

"Everything we can," said Hermione. "We haven't found out anything, that's all. Or we would have told you. But what about you, Ron? What have you been doing?"

Ron looked back at her bright brown eyes, and the hot biting words that wanted to spill out of his mouth died before they made it past his lips. He had been riding a tide of anger, and it had felt good. But it had ebbed away without warning, and he had crashed back to earth. I've been lying about the house, Hermione, he thought. Or passing out drunk in some pub or other. That's why George got me the Muggle cell phone... so that someone can call him, or Fred, instead of just dumping me into the alley... Every once in a while I make it to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and do a bit of what my brothers are kind enough to call help. And every night I lay awake, staring at the ceiling until dawn, running over every scrap of evidence, every guess, every idea, every crazy thought about where Ginny might be, and what might have happened to her. She haunts me, more than you could ever know. The rest of the family grieves, Merlin knows, but they've gone on. I can't. But maybe... maybe there's a reason why.

"I'm sorry," mumbled Ron. Then he almost jumped in surprise when he felt Hermione's small, soft, warm hand placed over his, and Harry's larger, rougher palm overlapping hers.

"I'm sorry too," she said.

"And so am I," said Harry.

There were no more words to say for a long time after that.

When the three of them finally began to speak again, the birds had begun to chirp outside the kitchen windows. Their voices were soft and low, and they all talked as if there had been no break in their friendship, or at least not one that could ever have been important.

"Moody's been a great help," said Hermione. "He used every scanning method he knew, though, and never found a trace."

"But there's something odd," added Harry. "I don't know if you know this yet, Hermione--I only spoke with him again yesterday, after Tracking class. He said that he'd tried some very difficult new methods, and he didn't find any trace of her at all. I mean--er--living, or..." His words trailed off, awkwardly. "I was going to tell you, Ron," he added. "I was going to try to talk to you. I figured we'd spent long enough not talking to each other, yeah?"

"Yeah." Ron smiled faintly.

Hermione's brows knitted. "That's very odd, though. I wonder what it can mean?"

"Maybe she was taken to another country," Harry suggested.

"I've heard something about these new methods, though. They were based on experimental research in the Department of Mysteries, I think. They ought to have been able to find out some information about Ginny no matter where she was. So maybe..." Hermione tapped his fingers against the table. "Maybe the real answer is that she's in a place that's protected by some sort of magical shield. There are such places, no doubt about that."

"I remember," said Ron. "Stonehenge is one." His face tightened as a thought struck him.

"What is it?" asked Hermione.

"You know bloody well who lives in Wiltshire, near Stonehenge," Ron said darkly.

"The Malfoys," sighed Hermione.

"And I don't need you to tell me that I'm on about them again," said Ron, but there was no real rancor in his voice. He didn't feel shut out from the tight little Harry-and-Hermione circle, as he had before.

"There isn't any 'them,' not anymore," said Harry.

"And the world's a better place," said Ron. "Unfortunately Draco Malfoy's still in it." He leaned forward so that the hanging light over the kitchen table fully illuminated his face. "I want to find out more about what's going on there. Yes, yes--" He raised a hand, forestalling Hermione's protests. "I know. There was never any evidence at all to link either of them with Ginny's disappearance. But I have a feeling that Malfoy Manor is the key. And since my dream, that feeling's stronger than ever."

"Did you actually see anything in the dream that made you think that?" asked Harry.

"What, you mean like a sheet with the Malfoy crest on it?" Ron sighed. "Wish it was that simple. No, it's just a feeling. But I think it's worth paying attention to."

Neither Harry nor Hermione spoke for a moment. But, thought Ron, at least they're not trying to shoot me down anymore.

"Then we'll just have to find a way to learn what's going on in there," said Hermione, resolutely. "What do you think, Harry?"

"There is one way," said Harry. "Maybe. There's one person--well, one being-- we know who lived with the Malfoys for dog's years."

"Dobby!" exclaimed Ron.

"Right," said Harry.

"He's still at Hogwarts, isn't he?" asked Hermione.

Harry shrugged. "He certainly was the last I heard."

Ron rose, scraping his chair against the flagstones of the floor. "Then what are we waiting for?"

There was a permanent Portkey set that installed just outside the village. Although it was used by all of the wizarding families there, it existed because the Weasleys had used it almost daily at one time, meeting with Dumbledore or various Aurors in the desperate search for news of Ginny. An old bare automobile tyre led to Twelve Grimmauld Place, a beer can led to the newly re-established Auror college, and a large rock spraypainted "HEATHER LOVES RYAN" led to the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, just outside the wards around Hogwarts. Harry, Ron, and Hermione clustered around the rock, waiting for the next scheduled journey.

"I-" Ron began uncertainly, turning briefly to face his friends. "I want to thank you. Both of you."

Hermione made a dismissive, embarrassed motion with her hand. In that moment, Harry disappeared. "Ooh, we missed it," she said.

"Another one'll be along in five minutes, right?" Ron continued to look at her steadily.

"Yes. Of course. And you don't have to thank me. I mean, it's nothing. You'd do the same for either of us."

Ron grinned. It was the flashing smile that lit up his rather plain freckled face and turned it into something almost beautiful. "I knew I could count on you, Hermione," he said. "You always pull through when the chips are down. Too bad you made such a rotten girlfriend, ay?"

Her mouth twisted into an unwilling smile. "If you're going to be like that, Ron, I could just as easily say that you were a rotten boyfriend."

"I was," he said simply. "Before Ginny ever disappeared, even. I know it."

"You were," she replied, just as simply. Then she reached out and entwined her fingers with his. "But I'll always be your friend, Ron."

Something leaped painfully in his chest. "Yeah. My friend," was all he said, and then the Portkey took them.