Traveling Alone

Ronald Weasley, Diagon Alley, July 30^th

Notes for Traveling without a Wand(Working Title)

It would be terribly hard, but if forced to choose, I would pick love over magic. Maybe it's just my upbringing; love thy neighbor, love your family (No matter how much Fred and George tease you), and love your friends because you never know when they'll leave you.

Magic, even though I've grown up with it is not really a necessity. Harry and Hermione did complain about not having it lots before they knew about Hogwarts, but they did say everything was possible without charms and spells. Just that it involved a lot more 'elbow oil' or something along those lines.

In my school years I wasn't really a hard worker, you could say, but I got by with the rest of them. All the evil and other things (that I really shouldn't be mentioning) were far too time consuming to be thinking about N.E.W.T's. It was only after a couple of years afterwards that I found the real enjoyment from writing and the world outside magic.

That's mainly why I've decided to travel, sample the world and visit some of my old friends.

I'm planning to write a book, hoping I can get it published. But I was told it had to be something earth shattering to catch people's attention. That's where my Idea came from; travel the world for a year, in-between jobs, but the whole time not use a single spell.

Now sat at a table in the corner of Diagon Alley's new coffee shop, I slump here, quill in hand scratching noisily across the leather bound parchment book. Looking up I see a plethora of wizards and witches walk past, oblivious to the muggle world, just a couple of meters away.

Short and dumpy, tall and lean, large noses and golden eyes they walk past amazing and unique in their mystical faces. Anyone not born of this would be entranced by the elves and hags that walk past, even Hagrid would be amazing in his own respects.

Tomorrow I leave my wand at the burrow, take a quarter of all the money I own from Gringotts, and head off on a Barge to some town in the north of France.

I believe it was the last place Hermione was said to be living, as a journalist or something otherwise exciting. Sometimes I really do miss her and her quick wit; she got me out of a lot of fixes.

The rain has just started and as usual it's just a little British dribble. Masses of dark grey fog sweep in and the wind blows like a thousand liquid shards of ice, yet the rain is still a pathetic pattering.

~*~

Standing up Ron yanked his hood up, fiery red hair flopping over his eyes. Wrapping his cloak tighter he slung a backpack over his shoulder and shoved his hands under his armpits. Taking one last longing look across the crowded streets he lowered his head and slowly, solemnly walked away.