If You're in Trouble (I'll Break into Your Window)

Ron had written Harry four and a half letters before he thought something was wrong. He scribbled them out at the kitchen table on parchment, dipping a quill into ink but then forgetting and nibbling at the end while he thought of what to write.

"Ronald Weasley!"

He jumped in his seat. "Oh, hiya mum."

"Twelve year old boys do not eat ink!"

"Wha?"

"What's that on your face?" Fred asked. "Someone been kissing the giant squid?"

"What! But I haven't!" He felt himself going red-faced and annoyed. He'd woken up early, during summer, too.

"Do you do this in school?" his mother was saying.

"He does," Fred said, wearing a regretful expression. "He does indeed. We've told him to stop, mum."

"Let the boy live," said George. "He's passed first year. We all know that was the major milestone."

Mrs. Weasley tutted and conjured plates from the cupboard and cracked eggs into a sizzling pan, the work of a moment.

"I don't! I didn't!" Ron cried. "I'm only trying to write Harry."

Mrs. Weasley's expression changed. "Oh Harry, darling! How is he?"

There was a thundering of footfalls, and Ginny came skidding into the kitchen in socks and a knitted pink jumper with the letter G on it.

"Harry?" she said.

"Harry's fine!" Ron said. "Or, actually, I don't know. I haven't gotten any letters back yet, even after I told him about the lawn gnome rebellion."

"You can't rebel if you have nothing to rebel against." Percy had arrived in the kitchen, robes pressed and spectacles glinting.

"Nice curls, Perce," said Fred.

"Tight, like your—"

"Boys!" Fred and George jumped and Mrs. Weasley turned her attention back to Ron. "Maybe the letters didn't get to him, dear. You know how Errol's been fainting."

"You've forgotten a comma here," Percy said. He was leaning over Ron's half letter which so far consisted of only one line. "And does Harry really want to hear about the Chudley Cannons. Isn't he from a Muggle family?" He made tsking noises under his breath and Ron was going to snatch the letter away when he was caught up in Mrs. Weasley's embrace.

"Ronald, you truly are a wonderful boy! A good friend to that poor—" She cuddled Ron to her gigantic bosom and squeezed.

"Mum, I can't breathe!"

"What's this about the Chudley Cannons?" Mr. Weasley said, entering while shrugging into his robes, straightening his hat on his head.

"Now don't encourage them," Mrs. Weasley said. Mr. Weasley kissed her on the cheek before leaving for work, effectively crushing Ron between them for his first life-or-death moment of the day. This was the Burrow, after all; there would be more.

"Can't breathe," Ron said again.

"Oh, hello son, didn't see you against your mother's orange blouse." Mr. Weasley gave a cheery wave to the family crowded in the kitchen and then snagged a piece of toast that floated to him through the air. "Well, I'm off."

He left with a roar of green flames in the floo, and George—maybe Fred—put a worm down the neck of Percy's robes.

The day had begun.

+

"Ron."

"Ronnykins."

Ron woke to whispering. He fumbled frantically for his wand in the darkness and tried to cast a lumos, but he hadn't mastered it yet — what kind of wizard couldn't turn off and on the lights? — and instead he fell out of bed while reaching for the lamp chain.

"Fred? George?" he whispered from the ground.

"We've put some thought to your problem," came an ominous voice.

Ron rubbed his eyes and clambered back up to sit on the bed, still half-asleep. Fred and George cast torchous and fake, cool flames blossomed out of their wand tips.

"My problem?"

George leaned forward, like a ghoul all lit up from below, shadows eerie on his face when he said, "We think Harry's in trouble."

"What!" He was awake now. The school year had been over for two months, but he still had nightmares about flying keys and lifesized chess games and trolls in the dungeon. And now Harry was— "In trouble? What do you mean?"

"Think about it. What else does the kid have to do but write you back? And yet have you heard a peep from him?"

"No you have not."

"And that can only mean—"

"Stolen mail."

"Yours or his."

"Captivity."

"Imprisonment."

"Corporeal punishment of the highest order."

Ron experienced a mounting horror, imagining Harry shackled and wandless. "Bloody hell."

"Now he gets it."

"Which only means—"

"Let's go," said Ron.

He didn't know how they would save Harry, but they were best friends. Ron couldn't last another year of Snape, or Filch threatening to hang them by their ankles, alone, even if it did mean flashbulbs in his face every time someone got excited about Harry's scar.

He put on the first thing he found off the floor, put Scabbers in his pocket, and pulled on two shoes that, only later did he realize, may not have matched, and he followed Fred and George down the windy and rickety staircase of the Burrow at night, tiptoeing and tripping, shushing one another, somehow not waking up the whole house.

Then they were: creaking out the door, stumbling down the walk, sprinting to the Ford Anglia that Ron knew was covered with a moldy oil cloth for when the weather was bad.

+

"Harry."

"Harry."

"Harry!"

Their whispers turned to outright shouting. One of the twin's chucked a shoe, but it bounced off the bars. Ron didn't need it anyway.

A light flicked on, there was movement in the room.

"Ron?" Harry popped his head out, but banged his head on the grating.

"They've got you locked up!" Ron said. "Fred and George were right! Haven't you got any of my letters?"

Harry blinked awake and looked upset. "No, I haven't—"

"Well it's you're lucky day," Fred said.

"We're busting you out," George said.

"I'd," Ron said. "I'd stand back, mate."

They couldn't use magic outside of school, so it was a good thing their dad had a muggle tow-line in the trunk.